House Of Ghosts Part 31

Harry was on his way back from someplace Joe heard mentioned in a geography bee Emily partic.i.p.ated in the seventh grade. Harry's plan was to spend a day in Westfield before whisking his bride to Palm Springs for three or four months. Joe had no doubt that Alenia would find a new diversion, someone discreet to pa.s.s the time. "Sugar, I have some business to do." He pinched her under the covers. "Keep things warm, I'll be back in the time it takes for a bikini wax."

"I won't miss this Swedge craziness," she sobbed.

Joe threw on a sweatshirt and a pair of flannel lined jeans that had hung in his closet for four mild winters. This winter was breaking the streak. An acc.u.mulation of eighteen inches of snow from four storms over ten days was on the ground. He stepped into his waterproof Wellingtons, slipped on his all-weather coat and grabbed the five-iron next to the door.

Dodging snowplows and salt spreaders, Joe worked his way to Populopulos's North Avenue Diner at the intersection of North and Elmer. The twenty-four hour eatery's loyal crowd wouldn't miss the $.99 breakfast special if a nuclear attack decimated the eastern seaboard. Joe squeezed the Volvo between a black Mercedes and a rat colored Land Rover in the ice spotted lot.

"Lieutenant Joe," owner Eusebio Populopulos said, holding a stack of menus. Flecks of filo surfed on his thick black mustache. He scoured the packed dining room for a vacant table. Clanking dishes and fifty plus conversations melded into an ear aching din. "There's a seat at the counter."

"Not today Sebi," Joe said, looking down the rows of booths for Driscoll. "I'm meeting an old friend. Six-two, crew cut, and a nose that took a few too many right hands. He should've arrived a few minutes ago."

Populopulos held his finger to his lips. "Let me think. Ah...He's been here more than half an hour. Back room."

Joe unzipped his coat and skirted around the line waiting at the cashier. With a nod to the blonde manning the counter, he aimed for the rear of the rectangular dining room and an archway bedecked with a coterie of Greek G.o.ds. For the past year, Joe rehashed the events leading to being shot at the Westchester, NY FBI safe house supervised by Driscoll. He had prepared a speech and honed it to a rapier edge to cut down the special agent's flippant att.i.tude and gargantuan ego.

With a foot inside the non-smoking area, Joe zeroed in on the tips of a gray flecked crew cut peeking over a copy of The New York Post The New York Post. Driscoll sitting with his back to the corner had a natural field of fire. Flipping the tabloid's pages, the twenty-five year FBI veteran saw Joe slip through the line at the register. Driscoll looked at the five-iron and said, "Playing through? Personally, I use an orange ball in this weather."

"I'm doing just fine, A-one, fit as a fiddle. Thanks for asking," Joe said, taking a seat.

Driscoll lowered the paper and ran a hand across the stubble on his chin. He appeared to have cracked an all-nighter. A master of wringing information from detainees, his sweat-streaked white shirt told the tale of a nasty interrogation. "I've been following your ongoing saga via Manny."

"I appreciate your concern," Joe said, looking at Driscoll's dirty dishes. Toast crumbs, remains of the breakfast special spoke volumes. The meeting wasn't going to be a pat on the back, glad to see you, kiss and make up occasion. "Manny had to tell you that I'm seeing a shrink."

Driscoll folded the paper and took a sip of his coffee. "He's mentioned something."

"I've changed." Joe signaled a waitress for a cup of coffee. "My first impulse was to bend the shaft of this club around your neck. I've learned to control my anger. Now, I'd like to ram it up your..."

"Here you go, Joe," the saucy waitress said, placing a steaming mug before him. She gave him a wink. "Anything else I can get for you?"

"Not now darling," Joe replied with a tap to her bottom. He tore the seal on a creamer, pouring it into the steaming brew.

Driscoll shook his head at Joe's attempt to bait him. "I said I was sorry a million times. What happened at the compound was my responsibility despite the circ.u.mstances. If it's not good enough, you can go to h.e.l.l."

Joe stirred his coffee, dropping the spoon on the table. "Listen..."

"Grow up!" Driscoll snapped, leaning across the table. "s.h.i.t happens and it happened to you. Wipe it off and get on with your life. I went through a period in my life when Jim Beam and Johnny Walker were my best friends. Keep going like you are and you'll be one of the b.u.ms outside Bellevue begging for quarters."

Joe took Driscoll's counterpunch without flinching. "I'll write it down as soon as I get home."

Driscoll popped the latches on his black attache case and placed two 8 x 10 photos on the table. "From Jacob Rothstein's booking in 1947 and his release from Sing Sing 1960."

"He didn't change in thirteen years, but for the gray in the coal-black hair," Joe said, examining Jake's front and profile shots. He read from the weight notation, "Two-fifty when he went in and two-fifty when he stepped into the sunshine. His reputation was a tough guy strong man. He looks the part."

"I found six New York City addresses in his parole records. I don't know where he's living now, not having to report for a long time. His social security checks get directly deposited. The address on the account is a box in a Mail Boxes Etc. The same for his tax returns.

"This stuff wasn't lying around. It's cost me a few favors, and I hate owing." Driscoll put on a pair of readers sold in a dollar store and shuffled through the file. "After the war, Jake became involved with Meyer Lansky the Jewish Mafia wiz who set up the initial operations in Las Vegas and Havana. Lansky took a sabbatical to procure army surplus for the Holocaust survivors in Palestine in their battle to form a Jewish state. Rothstein was his right hand, using his network setup before and during the war. Lansky scoured the salvage yards, buying munitions and airplanes wherever he could find them, while Rothstein's minions drove through Jewish neighborhoods in the cities collecting everything from old army boots and uniforms to souvenir German bolt action rifles. The Bureau was only concerned that he was going to use the weapons in the country and kept its hands off."

The waitress refreshed Driscoll's coffee and placed the check on the table. Driscoll waited for the girl to walk away. "According to memos I've run across, there were serious disagreements between the Bureau and State," Driscoll said, taking a slurp from his mug. "State was determined to prevent the shipments, and insisted that Hoover arrest Rothstein and his crews. Hoover hated the Arabs more than the Jews and ordered Rothstein be let alone."

Joe raised his eyebrows. "The Mafia having the goods on Hoover's cross-dressing and his close relationship with his deputy Clyde Tolson have something to do with the hands off order?"

"Who knows?" Driscoll wet his index finger with his lips and flipped through the papers. "One more thing you will find interesting. If State couldn't stop Jake Rothstein's collections in the United States, then they still could try to interdict the goods overseas. Mercenaries were hired to hijack and destroy the cargo ships. Take a guess who was in charge. I'll save you the trouble, Preston Swedge."

"According to those acquainted with Preston, he was involved with oil issues while at the State Department," Joe said. "What you're telling me, doesn't jive."

"The simple answer is, he was CIA with a diplomatic cover," Driscoll said, tossing the tip for the waitress on the table. "I've got to be going. The stuff between Swedge and the Rothsteins happened a long time ago." He put the doc.u.ments back into his attache case. "This country has new problems, like the radical Muslims who want to destroy New York City. You keep the pics."

Humbled, Joe said, "Thanks for your help."

"A bullet wound is worth only so much. We're all square." Driscoll put on his coat. "Next time you need something, don't call."

Chapter 42.

WESTFIELD, NJ JANUARY 2001 2001.

LIFE CAME DOWN TO WALKING THE AISLES of the reinvented Stop and Get It grocery in the middle of town. Gone were canned fried onions stacked to the ceiling for Thanksgiving green bean ca.s.seroles. Wide aisles with overhead mood lighting, shelves stocked with organic products, display cases of imported cheeses with names labeled in languages only translators at the U.N. would recognize, and employees in uniforms worthy of haute couture haute couture combined to make Stop and Get It a Yuppie destination. combined to make Stop and Get It a Yuppie destination.

After twenty-one straight days of staking out Duke's Deli from 11:00 a.m. to 1:00 p.m. parked in the train station lot on South Avenue, Joe gave up. Playing hunches and trusting his gut instincts never before failed to pay off. He hit the lottery on his lucky numbers and risked his reputation by putting the fugitive homicidal maniac John List on America's Most Wanted. He would have bet the ranch that it wasn't by chance that Jake grabbed a tuna sandwich at Duke's the day Preston died-everyone has a favorite sub-shop, including octogenarian ex-cons. Joe didn't believe Jake was living in Manhattan. The mail drop in Mail Boxes Etc. was a ruse. Jake was living in the area and one day he'd find him.

Dr. Headcase said his depression was understandable given the circ.u.mstances. No Jake equaled no closure, and despite his denials, he missed Alenia. He should go to Arizona to see his daughter Emily and lay it on the line with Elaine. He controlled his future. If their marriage was over, he needed to face it. Did he want to move on or live in suspended animation?

Joe circled aisle two. Six packs of imported and domestic beer beckoned, bringing his salivary glands to peak production. He jerked his hand away from a Beck's cardboard handle. "My name is Joe and I'm an alcoholic" jabbed him in his conscience. It had been four days since the start of AA meetings and his last drink.

Wandering through produce, he cut down aisle five. "My name is Joe and I need some pickles and tuna fish," he chuckled to himself, grabbing four cans of albacore packed in water off the shelf.

"Chunk light, solid white, in water or oil," came from his left. "I never can make a decision, so I go to Duke's for a sub."

Placing the cans in the cart's jump seat, Joe turned to face a silver haired gentleman with the height of a professional basketball player. No coat was in sight on the coldest day of the winter. He wore a heavy beige gabled fisherman's turtleneck sweater and a pair of well worn '60s style desert boots. From the mug shots provided by Driscoll, every crease, pockmark and freckle on Jake Rothstein's face was burned into his memory. "Solid albacore in water is the only way to go," Joe said. In the forty years since his parole photo was taken, Jake Rothstein hadn't changed but for the silver mane. "Mr. Rothstein."

"Jake will do," he said. "You've been looking for me. Freezing your a.s.s off in that Volvo rattletrap had to be fun."

"Ringing my bell instead of playing cat and mouse would've saved me a boatload of trouble," Joe said, gripping the five-iron.

"How about a cup of coffee? I'm buying," Jake said, moving out of the way of a woman with three kids hanging onto her shopping cart. "I'd say we go for a drink, but I know you're on the wagon."

Joe wondered what other personal info Jake had, chasing the thought that he had been tailed by the suspect he was searching for. Jake had the advantage and Joe knew it. "Let's go."

They walked to the coffee bar in the rear of the store. Jake ordered two regular coffees and found a bistro table away from a keyboard player pounding out a Billy Joel song to the delight of the mostly female latte drinkers.

"Why did you leave the sandwich?" Joe asked, carefully taking a sip through the plastic lid.

Jake maneuvered his legs under the short table. "I got rattled." He wiped his nose with a napkin. "Swedge was grabbing his chest, gasping for air, and pressing the b.u.t.ton on the pendant around his neck as the mailman was shoving his delivery through the slot. I knew when I got out the back door, leaving the sub would become a problem."

"Why run?"

"I'm an ex-con, it's a tough habit to break." Jake removed the lid and slurped an inch off the near black coffee. "They never put in enough milk."

"It was a game with Preston, wasn't it?" Joe asked.

Jake laughed. "At first, I traveled in from the city to bust his chops. It was tricky when his wife was alive. After she pa.s.sed, I took an efficiency apartment in scenic Garwood to screw with his mind. I'd get right behind him in the bank, in the grocery store, and even at the town council meetings he loved so much."

Garwood, a blue collar town with multiple unit housing, bordered Westfield. It was an ideal location for a single guy to lose himself. Joe had shown the mug shots in the only gin mill in the borough and the mom and pop stores on the one block business district, but not to the Garwood cops who wouldn't p.i.s.s on him if he was on fire. Hard feelings refused to die after Joe refused to drop DUI charges against a Garwood detective who had sideswiped four parked cars outside Westfield High during school hours. "Why didn't he give you what you wanted?"

"He was a hard a.s.s," Jake said, throwing up his ham-hock size hands. "I guess deep down, I'm glad he didn't. He was my raison d'etre raison d'etre as the French say." His eyes followed a top heavy brunet. "I a.s.sume you've got them." as the French say." His eyes followed a top heavy brunet. "I a.s.sume you've got them."

Joe nodded. "Amazing stuff. You're mentioned a few times."

"Why in the world did you get involved?" Jake asked, pouring a splash of cream into the muddy brew.

"My father hammered into me that s.h.i.t just doesn't happen. Preston was bugged out of his mind for a reason, and I couldn't resist finding out why."

Jake's neck descended into the turtleneck as he hunched his shoulders. "I waited d.a.m.n near forty years to get my brother's journals and that dried up old prune Ruth Ritchie hands them to you. Of all the weeks to take a cruise, I have to pick the one that they cleaned out his house."

Holding his cup to his lips, Joe was astounded that Jake made no mention of Preston's diaries. "You can have them." He tossed his cup in the garbage. "Follow me home."

"Too bad Alenia has gone to Florida with Harry," Jake said with a sigh. "Some rack."

Joe kept Jake's '85 Corolla in the rearview mirror. The old guy was a card- on the hood "Man of Steele" was painted in blue Gothic letters. The mini convoy crossed through Midowaskin Park and pa.s.sed the cemetery on Broad Street. Jake may have looked half his age, but he drove like Joe's father in his last years. He slowed the Volvo to 20 mph to keep the gap to a hundred yards, pa.s.sing through the Wychwood gate to meander into Joe's driveway.

Jake took a long look at the house under construction on the former Swedge lot. Snow and ice caused a complete secession of work leaving the 4,000 square foot monster half framed. "They should've kept the old girl," Jake said as he negotiated Joe's ice laden walk.

"It's the Westfield disease. Tear 'em down and build 'em bigger," Joe said, firmly griping the railing on the front steps.

Joe kicked fallen icicles off the threshold and unlocked the door. Roxy, waiting in the entranceway, gave Jake a wag of her tail. "Like old home week," Joe said. "She's normally wary of strangers until she gets to know them. How many times did you let yourself in?"

Jake ignored the question. "Why do still have him?" he asked. Preston's face affixed to the top of the coat tree smiled from the dining room. Jake had circ.u.mvented the security system and searched the house on a half-dozen forays.

Roxy, drooling, stared at Jake's pocket where a trove of treats had pacified the beast. "I ask again, how many times?" Joe said.

"You don't want to know," Jake replied, giving Roxy a piece of kibble.

"And all the time I thought it was mice trashing the place," Joe quipped.

"I was respectful," Jake said, sounding wounded. He followed Joe who walked into the kitchen and flipped on the light. It was 3:30, the sun was setting.

Joe removed a s...o...b..x hidden in the rear of a corner cabinet. "While I'm getting the diaries, take a gander at these." He placed the box on the kitchen table and disappeared down the bas.e.m.e.nt steps.

Jake sorted through the box containing maps and other military paraphernalia found in Preston's bas.e.m.e.nt. He was holding the map detailing the route to the I. G. Farben plant dated 20 August 1944 when Joe returned. "The navigator on Paul's plane had one like this?"

"All navigators at the mission briefing received one," Jake said. "I had these in the wall behind the hot water heater if you're wondering." He handed Jake the diaries.

Recognizing Paul's school composition books, Jake reverently caressed their covers. "What are these?" he asked, holding Preston's leather bound journals.

Joe lit a Marlboro. "They're Preston's, covering the years '38 to '44, the same as your brother's. I'm surprised you didn't know about them." He had just thrown four aces on the table. From the look on Jake's face, the hand he was holding was a pair of deuces.

"If you don't mind," Jake said, his hands tremoring imperceptibly. He began to read.

"I've got a few things to do in my office." Joe signaled for Roxy to follow. "Don't steal the silverware."

"Stainless c.r.a.p," Jake grunted. Roxy snuggled at his feet. "One heck of a watchdog. At least the Russian broad screamed."

Joe settled at his desk, working on the required reading list for a course at Rutgers. A sob story written on Dr. Headcase's letterhead aided his sweet talking an admissions counselor into reinstating him. The spring session would begin in a week.

Clicking of Roxy's nails on the hardwood broke Joe's concentration. Two hours had pa.s.sed. Jake stood in the doorway, holding a can of ginger ale with the dog at his heels. He had removed the turtleneck. An athletic undershirt accentuated his chiseled upper body. "I helped myself." Gone was his Ted Steele tough guy persona. "McCloy played us like a concert violinist handling a Stradivarius." He sat on the couch, flexing his arthritic knees. "I was a naive schmuck to think we could have outsmarted the powerbrokers. McCloy knew when we farted. Maybe the lips I thought were sealed, weren't." He threw up his hands. "Who knows?"

Roxy changed sides and sat in the cutout of the desk. "Playing with the big boys is and will always be rough." Joe shut down his computer. "Did you get an official explanation concerning Paul's death?"

"We received a note from his commanding officer about how Paul was such a great pilot and a credit to his country, and his wallet with a few personal effects. Nothing else. In Sing-Sing, I met Otto Schrup, the B-17 waist gunner who accused Vinnie of shooting down one of their own planes. Schrup was in the joint for a piddly confidence scheme. If a guy ever was a bulls.h.i.tter, he was the ultimate.

"Schrup was in the upper layer of the formation. Smoke was coming out of two engines on Paul's plane, and he fell behind the rest of the group. One of the escort fighters followed Paul to provide defense against enemy attack. Clark Johnson flew that fighter and claimed a Messerschmitt came out of the sun, catching the Brooklyn Avenger Brooklyn Avenger with a burst of machine gun fire. Schrup swore there were no enemy fighters in the area. Without proof that Johnson was lying, the episode was swept under the rug." Jake was breathing hard. "In my wildest dreams, I never thought that he would get shot down by one of our own planes." Jake wiped his eyes with his undershirt. "You still have the Johnny Walker in the bottom drawer?" with a burst of machine gun fire. Schrup swore there were no enemy fighters in the area. Without proof that Johnson was lying, the episode was swept under the rug." Jake was breathing hard. "In my wildest dreams, I never thought that he would get shot down by one of our own planes." Jake wiped his eyes with his undershirt. "You still have the Johnny Walker in the bottom drawer?"

Joe handed him the bottle of scotch. "Did Shep Peterson ever get in touch?"

"Sent a letter that clued me in on Paul's missing diaries," Jake said, pouring more than a tumbler into the near empty soda can. He took a long sip and placed a forearm over his eyes.

Joe removed a pack of cigarettes from the center desk drawer. Puffing on the Marlboro, he gave Jake time to compose himself. "Dave Cohen fed me nothing but bulls.h.i.t."

"Nah, not all." Jake took another pull on the ginger ale scotch mixture. "He might have left out a few details, but the background was factual." A pained smile broke across his face. "I was sitting a table away and heard the entire conversation. Dave waited for my signal. We learned as much as we needed, and his leaving like he did, I figured would get into your head. We succeeded on all points."

"Sticking me with the bill was your idea?" Joe asked, taking the last puff on the cigarette down to the filter. He tossed the remains into the coffee can on the desk.

"Dave never needs to be coached on being a skinflint." Jake poured two more fingers of scotch into the can. A ruddy complexion crossed his face.

Joe propped his leg on the desk. "What about your family? Dave left me hanging."

Jake swirled the can, now one-hundred percent alcohol. "My father pa.s.sed away right after Paul married Sarah. Alex was conceived in Florida, the last leg of Paul's training mission before flying to Italy. Vinnie had the inside shake on their schedule, and I got Sarah a flight to the Sunshine state for nothing. My brother never had the chance to hold him. This is going to sound like a soap opera, but my mother was stricken with a heart attack when she read the telegram from the War Department. She didn't last two months. Sarah and Alex lived with me in the Brooklyn apartment because her parent's place was too small."

Jake cleared his throat. "The Greenbaums didn't own a car and took a bus to the Catskills for their summer vacation. The bus got creamed in an accident. Luckily, Alex was sick and Sarah didn't make the trip. Her parents, aunt and uncle, and her cousin were crushed to death."

"The gal you got off the St. Louis St. Louis?"

"Yeah, Minnah the whiner. Sarah was left with no one but me. A couple of years later, she met and married an engineer who worked for General Electric and moved to Schenectady. Her last name is Blumberg. Sam died in 1972. A d.a.m.n good man. He raised Alex as his own. Their daughter Phyllis is named for Paulie. My nephew became a physicist and works for NASA. Phyllis is a pediatrician. Both have two kids." Melancholy had taken over his voice.

Joe scooted his chair to the bookcase and removed Winston Churchill's The Hinge Of Fate The Hinge Of Fate. From the mid-section of the book, Joe plucked the two photos rescued from the scrum in Preston's bas.e.m.e.nt. "Alex?" He handed one of the photos to Jake.