House Of Ghosts Part 25

The waitress returned with a fresh pot of coffee, topping off their cups. Joe poured a splash of milk into the coffee that had the density of roofing tar. "How did you end up in debits and credits? You were supposed to be an attorney?"

Cohen shrugged his shoulders. "Things changed after I came back from the army. I had a wife and son. Going back to school, even at night, would have been impossible."

"What about Sarah?" Joe asked, studying Cohen.

"The Weinsteins really filled you in about the old crowd," Cohen mused. "When I got home at the end of 1945, she had moved upstate and I never saw her again. I heard she took ill and pa.s.sed away a young woman. Tragic."

"You were Paul's best friend and you didn't want to know what happened to his widow?" Joe said, fixing Cohen with a glare. "What about Paul's parents?"

"Abe Rothstein pa.s.sed shortly after Paul and I went into the service. Paul's mom didn't last long after his death."

"I thought all you guys were tight, the old neighborhood togetherness routine. Let's not forget about blowing up the Bund."

The color drained out of Cohen's face. He shot Joe a puzzled look. "The Weinsteins weren't that close to me or Paul to know such things. Where did you get your information?"

The lunch crowd filtered back to work. The Blintz was now three-quarters empty. "I got it from Paul Rothstein's diary."

Cohen choked on a piece of toast. He drank half his coffee. "Paul's personal effects were sent home to his mother after he died in 1944."

"I hate to break the news to you," Joe said, lighting a cigarette. "I found his diary in a pile of trash at an estate sale."

"In Westfield?" Cohen cautiously asked.

Joe edged close to the table. "A matter of fact, it was."

"You don't seem the type to go to estate or garage sales." Cohen white-knuckled the spoon as he stirred his cup.

"I like silk underwear, too." Joe's smart-alecky comment didn't draw a blink.

Cohen drained his cup. He slammed a hand on the table. "I remember. Paul had a buddy in his unit who came from New Jersey. I'm at a loss for the name. Who owned the house?"

It was Joe's turn. They were in a chess match, each skirting the truth. Joe ran through the exchanges. Hitting Cohen with Jake's alias didn't compare to the effect of Paul's diary. "The house changed hands seven times after it was built in the mid-1950s." He considered making up a name, but didn't. "Preston Swedge. Ever hear of him?"

Cohen unconsciously took a deep breath, eyes darting left to right. "No." He pushed his plate to the middle of the table, unfolded his napkin, and then carefully wiped his mouth. "Paul was big on keeping a journal in college," he paused. "I wonder if he kept one during his time in the service."

Joe had gone to the Blintz with Jake Rothstein and or Ted Steele in mind, nothing more. Cohen had just put him on another track-there had to be more than one set of Rothstein diaries. His father's words, uttered at his graduation from the police academy reverberated, "Never let up, keep punching the b.a.s.t.a.r.d in the ribs." Joe kept punching, "Pretty amazing stuff. Paul Rothstein was a hero. I should have brought the four volumes, stupid me."

"I have to use the facilities," Cohen announced. "I'll be right back."

The rest rooms were located down a hallway out of Joe's sightline. He checked his watch-ten minutes had pa.s.sed. Cohen was about the same age as Joe's father who needed time to do his business. At the fifteen minute mark, Joe became concerned, not over the possibility that Cohen had keeled over the bowl, but that he skipped out. Joe made a quick check of the men's room. The pair of feet under the stall were wearing Nikes. Joe stuck Cohen's picture in the face of a Latino busboy mopping the hallway. He pointed to the fire exit. Joe shouldered open the door to face a garbage dumpster in the alley running behind the building. Joe laughed. The old guy had stuck him with the check.

Chapter 30.

WESTFIELD, NJ NOVEMBER 2000 2000.

"I THOUGHT AN AFTERNOON AT THE PLAZA would've gotten you in a better mood," Alenia said, looking at Joe from the corner of her eye. The Mercedes sped through the E-Z pa.s.s lane in the New Jersey Turnpike interchange at Newark Airport.

"I was preoccupied," Joe pouted.

Alenia switched lanes for Route 22. "I could've been with Harry."

Joe opened the pa.s.senger window and lit a Marlboro. "It was the wine."

Alenia laughed. "Maybe you have the diabetes like Harry." She laughed again. "It's alright Jozef. I'm used to old men." She held out her hand palm up, indicating that she wanted Joe's cigarette. "This Swedge business is driving you crazy."

Joe handed her the cigarette, lighting another for himself. "There's no way that Cohen doesn't know what happened to Sarah Rothstein, and I don't believe Jake Rothstein just up and went out west. The guy never ventured outside New York City."

Alenia took a deep drag on the cigarette. "You're being a schmuck."

"I'm hearing Harry."

Alenia zipped past the lake in Newark's Weequahic Park. "Don't you know someone in the the secret police?" secret police?"

"We don't have the the secret police in this country," Joe said, flicking his cigarette out the window. "I know a guy in the FBI." secret police in this country," Joe said, flicking his cigarette out the window. "I know a guy in the FBI."

Mimicking Joe, Alenia popped her cigarette out the driver's window. "KGB, FBI same thing. If they want to arrest you, they arrest you. Your guy will find Sarah Rothstein and the bad man Jake. The KGB would have them in two hours."

Hitting the power b.u.t.ton on the fourteen speaker CD, Joe settled back, wrapping himself in the hand sewn leather. Cla.s.sic rock and roll filled the cabin. "I used Ted Steele as bait for Dave Cohen, but he met me with an agenda. He was ready with his quips and att.i.tude, but not for my possessing Paul's diaries. I'd bet the thing between my legs that Cohen knew they existed but was shocked that I have them."

"Why did he run away?" Alenia asked, pulling into Joe's driveway.

Joe looked at the Swedge house. "Cohen split when he figured I didn't have a second set of diaries." He got out of the car. "We're going across the street. They're in there someplace."

Alenia shook her head in the negative, rolling down her window. "Harry is coming home."

Joe removed two flashlights from the Volvo's trunk. "Let's go."

Sticking out her tongue tongue, Alenia got out of the Mercedes. "It's getting dark. The house gives me the villies villies."

An orange plastic mesh fence surrounded the Swedge property. Joe helped Alenia step over the three feet high barrier. The couple rounded the curve behind the grove of evergreens. The house looked sad as it awaited its fate. A John Deere bulldozer was parked nose to nose with a dump truck. "They're going to bring the old girl down tomorrow. Let's go through the back door."

There wasn't any door. The inside of the house was painted in shadows. Preston's state-of-the-art 1950s kitchen had been stripped. Gaping holes were punched in the walls to strip the copper pipes.

"I feel ghosts," Alenia whispered. "Where do we start?"

"When in doubt, trust a hunch," Joe said, moving toward the bas.e.m.e.nt steps. "The stuff that brought me into this puzzle was in the bas.e.m.e.nt." He aimed his flashlight down the steps, freezing on the landing.

The cat urine smell was still present. "It stinks," Alenia said, squeezing next to Joe.

"Be careful! A few of the steps are loose," he warned, proceeding down. Sweeping the base of the steps with his flashlight, Joe stepped on the concrete floor.

The heating system had been removed, leaving a depression in the floor. Grease stains led across the room to the set of metal doors which opened to the rear yard. Disconnected air conduits hung from the floor joists like curlers in a head of stick straight hair. Joe moved to the middle of the room trying to think like Preston.

Alenia slipped on the second to last step, almost landing on her rear. "Jozef!" she yelled, wiping cobwebs from her face.

"Itsy bitsy spider," Joe sang, crisscrossing the bas.e.m.e.nt. "I don't think the opening has to be much larger than a notebook. The real estate people re-painted the bas.e.m.e.nt. Try to find differences in the contours and colors."

"Everything's the same gray in this light," Alenia said, sweeping cobwebs away from her face. "I want to go home."

Light taps came from the kitchen floor above. "Sssh! Turn off your flashlight," Joe whispered. "Move to the back of the cellar."

"Jozef," Alenia whispered. "The bad man?"

Joe reached for his Glock secured in its shoulder holster beneath his sports jacket. Another step. He aimed the flashlight with his left hand, giving one pulse. Two yellow eyes reflected back. Joe turned the flashlight on. "It's Nelson, Ed Stoval's cat." Giving a sigh of relief, he returned the pistol to its holster. The twenty pound black and white tomcat slinked up the steps.

"He's smart. I want to go with him," Alenia said, breathing a sigh of relief. "Harry's going to be home soon."

Joe moved to the steps. "Six down, three across."

"Crossword puzzle. Jozef, you're crazy."

Joe tapped each step with the five-iron as he climbed. "It was on a sc.r.a.p paper in Preston's satchel," he said from the landing. Shine your light up here."

Alenia moved to the base of the steps, focusing the light at Joe's feet. "You're going to kill yourself."

"Six," Joe counted the steps as he descended. He swung the flashlight to his left. The beam caught nothing but floor joists. He turned to the wall to his right, moving for a closer look. The white painted plaster was intact.

"Jozef, there's nothing," Alenia said, climbing two steps. "The paper is junk like the bag."

Joe tapped the grip end of the five-iron on the wall. "Solid." He shifted three inches to the left, tapping twice. "Bingo, it's hollow." Using the blade end of the club, he smashed the wall, sending gypsum wallboard flying. He reached into the opening and took hold of the same type of twine that secured the volumes found in the upstairs study. He held a bonanza of six books.

Alenia climbed the steps. "Those are your new girl friends," she said. "You don't need me anymore."

Chapter 31.

ITALY, JUNE 1944 1944.

STAZ DI AMENDOLA, TWELVE MILES NORTHEAST of Foggia, Italy was home to the 2nd Bombardment Group consisting of six squadrons, the 429th, 49th , 96th, and the 20th. A tent city had been hastily erected for its initial inhabitants in an olive grove in January 1944. Regular army barracks were planned, but five months later, the tents were still standing and would serve as homes for pilots and crewmen for the duration of the war.

Amendola was in constant motion. The airfield was shared with the 97th and a RAF unit that partic.i.p.ated in British night raids. Two runways were laid just south of the hills where local shepherds grazed their sheep. Occasionally, wayward animals would stray onto the runways.

Before leaving the States, Second Lieutenant Paul Rothstein was counseled that he and the other replacements were going to be considered outsiders by a close knit fraternity which didn't accept newcomers until the pledge had pa.s.sed the test. With the high rate of casualties, new men didn't last long. It was better not to get too friendly, friendships were hard to forget.

Paul was a.s.signed quarters with three other pilots of the 20th squadron. Stenciled above the tent's canvas flap was The Alamo The Alamo. It didn't take thirty seconds for Paul to figure out who was responsible for naming the digs. "Welcome to The Alamo The Alamo and sunny Italy, it's sure nice to have company. Been kind of lonely around here for a couple of days. Take one of the empty cots, ain't anybody using them." and sunny Italy, it's sure nice to have company. Been kind of lonely around here for a couple of days. Take one of the empty cots, ain't anybody using them."

"Liquid sunshine," Paul quipped, shaking water off his rain poncho. Rolled mattresses on the three cots bore an ominous message. Paul evaded a kerosene lantern hooked to the center tent support and a coal burning Franklin stove to drop his duffle on a cot opposite Peterson's. The clapboard floor, resting on pilings driven into the mud, swayed with each step. G.I. olive-drab steamer trunks in front of each cot provided storage. "What happened to the previous renters?"

The slow Southern drawl belonged to First Lieutenant Shep Peterson of Lufkin, Texas. "Foley is in the hospital and is going to be sent home. Crane and Heeler went down in Romania two days ago."

Paul played with the mosquito netting suspended around the cot, wanting to take back the question. It was a rookie mistake. The cardinal rule was never to ask about the missing. He changed the subject. "Nice digs," he said, closing the lid on his trunk. "Uncle Sam sure knows how to spoil us."

"It isn't so bad, kinda reminds me of camping with my grand dad." The big Texan, six-one and two-twenty, took a liking to the kid with the funny Brooklyn accent. For Peterson, anyone not from Texas had a funny accent. "This is sure a first, a fly boy from Brooklyn and a Jew to boot," he whooped loudly. "I reckon you could use some chow."

Paul and the other replacements landed at Amendola just after the noon mess closed. The balance of the afternoon was spent processing interminable forms, taking an umpteenth medical exam, and a pep talk by the base commander. "My stomach is going to sue my mouth for non-support."

"Take off your gold bars so we can slip into the enlisted mess. The quartermaster there barters stuff with the locals-candy and smokes for fresh fruit and vegetables. The dumb a.s.s who runs the officer's chow palace says he won't stoop to deal with the farmers around here."

A short walk of a hundred-fifty yards brought them into the mess and recreation areas. The common area was a sea of mud after three days of rain. "Be careful where you step," Peterson cautioned. "This Italian mud is unlike anything I've ever seen. Back home we have some unG.o.dly earth when it gets soaked, but it doesn't compare. s.h.i.t, a five-ton truck will sink to its axles if it should run off the roads."

Peterson was correct about the enlisted men's mess. It was the best army chow Paul had eaten in months. "Put your bars back on, we're going to pay a visit to the officer's club. The guys spend down time in The Cave The Cave. I guess booze is more important than food, because the liquid served is par excellence par excellence." Peterson sidestepped a mud puddle. "Can't say enough about, excuse the expression, Yankee ingenuity. The Italians have been mining limestone for centuries around here, leaving a slew of excavated caves. They've had various uses. The Italians used the caves as wine cellars, followed by the Germans who housed prisoners and horses. When we got our turn, Chaplain Allen saw their potential. He suggested converting them to enlisted men and officers clubs. Another was adapted into a theater for shows and movies. One of the sergeants hung the name Rock Fella Social Center Rock Fella Social Center on the theater. I kinda like it." on the theater. I kinda like it."

Paul followed Peterson into The Cave The Cave, which was cool as though it was air conditioned. A twenty-foot mahogany bar and twenty round banquet tables were liberated from a hotel destroyed in the ground fighting done by the grunts of the 5th Army. One of the replacement pilots held court in the far corner, regaling his new cohorts of his abilities with a B-17. "Who the h.e.l.l is the hotshot?" Peterson asked. "He hasn't flown one mission and already considers himself top dog. Well, he's going to get his chance tomorrow. The weather guys say this rain is going to lift from here to Ploesti. We've been there three days in a row, and I doubt that we're going to get a break. Grab a seat, and I'll get a couple of beers."

Paul found a table with two vacant seats and introduced himself. Immediately he was asked about the new loudmouth. "That's Jake Graham. He's a legend in his own mind," Paul informed them.

Peterson returned with the brews. "I was telling my new tent mate that tomorrow his buddy over there is going to get his chance to s.h.i.t his pants if we catch what they threw on the past three trips."

Ploesti, Romania, the main oil refinery servicing the n.a.z.i war machine, was the third most heavily defended target on the continent, producing tremendous losses upon attacking formations of Fifteenth bombers. It was on these raids that the former residents of The Alamo The Alamo were lost. were lost.

"Briefing at 04:30," Sergeant Barney Buckley yelled through the flap of The Alamo The Alamo, shining his flashlight on the sleeping faces.

Sleep was difficult most nights for Paul. Before his first mission, it was impossible. He looked at the radium painted dial on his Hamilton-02:00. He hadn't caught more than two hours. The chatter among crews the previous night was Ploesti. A betting pool was giving 1:3 odds that it was still high on the target list. Thinking about flying into the man made h.e.l.l churned his stomach.

Peterson buried his head under his pillow. "I'd like to find the brain who ordered missions times before the roosters get up." He ripped the mosquito netting to the side, swinging his feet into his boots. "The target ain't going anywhere. It'll be there at 12:00."

Paul lit the kerosene lamp. "Make sure you have nothing on you except your dog tags," Peterson counseled. "They're going to check your pockets for personal stuff anyway, but you don't want to look like a rookie." The Texan tidied his cot, carefully tucking in the blanket. It was a ritual among pilots to make their beds, indicating their faith in returning from the mission.

Paul gamely followed suit. The two dressed in silence, hit the latrine and made their way to the officer's mess hall for the traditional pre-flight breakfast of eggs, flapjacks, and coffee strong enough to remove the corrosion on a propeller.

Conversations were short and muted. Paul barely choked down two forkfuls of eggs and a quarter mug of coffee. Getting sick wasn't an option.

Peterson worked on his second plate of eggs. "You better eat something. These missions keep gettin' longer and longer. Seven hours is a long time to go with nothing in your gut."