December '41, page 12
“You’re the boss.” She wrote the name in the notebook and imagined a character.
They tossed ideas back and forth as he found his way over Franklin to Riverside Drive, and onto the new Arroyo Seco Parkway, where he pushed the Dodge up to fifty miles an hour.
The speed filled Vivian with a growing sense of adventure. She might be leaving L.A. behind, but something good was going to happen out there. She just knew it. So she stretched her legs, rolled down the window, and felt the breeze. “I love going fast.”
“Someday, the whole country will have roads like this. They already have them in—” He almost said, “Germany,” thinking of the autobahns. Instead, he gestured to the notebook. “Back to Vivian. Where do you suppose I met her?”
“I told you I’m from Maryland, from Annapolis, Maryland.”
“Then Maryland is our home, and our destination.”
“Eastport … the working-class end of town.” She wondered if he’d still be with her by then. She didn’t know that after he killed Franklin Roosevelt, he’d need a safe house from which to make his escape across the Chesapeake. Annapolis would be perfect.
* * *
AROUND MIDDAY, A TELEGRAM arrived at the Diebold Seed Company in Crete, Illinois.
Max Diebold was in his office on the upper level of the barn. He came downstairs to greet the deliveryman because he never allowed anyone in the loft. He’d hidden the shortwave up there, behind a wall of hay bales. He tipped the man ten cents and read the telegram.
His son, Eric, came in from the greenhouse. “What’s going on?”
Max waved the telegram. “We go to Chicago on Sunday. Dearborn Station.”
“To meet the train?”
“What else would we meet at a train station?” The father looked at the dusty black car in the back of the barn. “We should also check the oil and tires and gas up the Ford.”
“I’ll wash and wax it, too. I bet he’ll love a shiny car.”
“No. Nein, Dummkopf,” said the father. “A waxed car in December? It should be salt-caked, not shiny. We’re not trying to attract attention.”
For a moment, father and son stared at one another. They were like mirror images, thirty years apart—small, bespectacled, ferret-faced men. But where the father appeared hard and focused, the son twitched with a kind of unnatural excitement at the possibility of a little trip and, perhaps, a little danger.
The father’s gaze carried force. The son’s conveyed weakness. And soon enough, the son averted his eyes and retreated back into the yard between the barn and the greenhouse. The father went up to the shortwave radio to compose a report for Section 6.
* * *
THE L.A. COUNTY CORONER was a cheery guy named Billy Belly Benson. It was easy to see why, thought Carter. If Billy Belly put on a red suit and a fake beard, he could play the lead in the Hollywood Boulevard Santa Claus Lane Parade … just so long as they aired him out first to get rid of the formaldehyde stink.
“You sure you don’t want to see Gunst?” asked Billy. “I can show you his heart. Arteries plugged like toothpaste in a tube.”
Frank Carter said, “We’re here to see Kessler.”
“Kessler? The other Kraut? He’s still on ice.” Billy Belly led the G-men to the storage room and pulled Kessler out of a refrigerated locker. “There he is. Cut and dried.”
“Cut and dried?” asked McDonald.
“Somebody drove a knife into his throat, just above the Adam’s apple, up through the back of his mouth, right into the medulla oblongata. Heart stops beating right away. Not a lot of blood. A dry, clean kill.”
“Cut … and dried,” said Carter. “I get it.”
McDonald asked, “Robbery?”
“I tell you how he died. Not why.”
Carter looked at Kessler’s face, a human husk, bloated, discolored, all life and emotion gone. “What’s that on the temple?”
“Hard to say.” Billy turned the head. His belly pressed into the sheet covering the body. “Looks like somebody took a shot at him and grazed him.”
“Could’ve been from Doane’s tommy gun,” said McDonald.
“But the throat cut killed him,” said Billy Belly. “And the damnedest thing—”
“More damned than this?” Carter gestured to the corpse.
“A philosopher we got.” Billy chuckled. “Like I said, I tell the how, not the why, and for certain not the wherefore.”
“The wherefore?” said McDonald.
“You know, ‘Wherefore art we going?’ Not a question we ask a lot around here.” Billy led them to another locker and pulled out another stiff, an old man with a tan so good, it hadn’t faded even in death. “They found this one in the trunk of his own Lincoln-Zephyr, parked beside Bob’s Big Boy in Burbank.”
Carter almost gagged. “That’s no Big Boy burger I smell.”
“It was the smell led ’em to the car. Course, we all stink after three days, alive or dead.” Billy chuckled again. This work required either the dourest of personalities or the sunniest of outlooks. “Somebody emptied his pockets. So we ran his plate. A widowed lawyer named Koppel. Lived in Pacific Palisades.”
“That’s where the Murphy Ranch is,” said McDonald.
“But get a load of this.” Billy put his fingers under the chin of the corpse and lifted. “Same kind of cut as Kessler. Right above the Adam’s apple.”
“Are you saying the same guy killed him?” asked Carter.
“I’m saying you don’t see a cut like that too often. As professional as a surgeon.”
Carter brought his handkerchief to his nose.
“Yeah, yeah. It stinks,” said Billy. “But I got one more thing.”
“Make it fast,” said Carter.
Billy led them down another corridor to another bank of refrigerated lockers and rolled out another corpse: a young man, eyes swollen, forehead stove in.
Carter said, “Who’s this?”
“I don’t know, but”—Billy pulled a pair of brass knuckles from his pocket and slid them onto his fist—“you know what these are, right?”
“Every street thug in L.A. carries them,” said Carter. “So?”
Billy brought his fist to the jaw of this corpse, so that the knuckles made a perfect match with the ugly bruise that serrated the side of the face. “The cops found a knuckle-duster like this in Kessler’s pocket. And this guy here was hammered real good, then tossed off the Hyperion Bridge. Landed on his head, broke his neck—”
“So you’re saying Kessler killed him?”
“Nah. I leave the speculatin’ to you fellas. But there’s an awful lot of coincidence around this morgue today. Two guys dead by the same kind of knife cut. And this? You figure it out. It’s above my pay grade.”
“We’re trying.” Carter shoved his hands into his pockets and felt the cartridge. “We’ll need photos of all these guys.”
* * *
BY FOUR O’CLOCK, VIVIAN and her “husband” had passed through Pasadena and Covina and Rancho Cucamonga. They’d climbed Route 66 through the Cajon Pass, with snowcapped Mount Baldy so close they could almost touch it. Then they’d dropped down into the high desert. After about fifteen miles of grit blowing against the windshield, they arrived at a dusty parking lot with a sign hanging outside a ramshackle building: GOBEL’S GUNS AND HARDWARE.
Vivian looked at the tar-paper roof, the little lean-to on the side, the barn in the back, and she said, “You drove all the way out here to see the guy who owns this dump?”
“Mr. Gobel is a good customer.”
She grabbed her door handle.
He told her to stay put, like a parent speaking to a child.
“But I need a bathroom. We’ve been driving a long time.”
“Give me five minutes. Then we’ll go straight to the hotel.”
“Harry, I need to pee so bad, I can taste it.”
“That’s very crude.” He reached around her, locked the door, and gave her a look. It wasn’t angry or threatening. It was blank. Just blank. “My wife is not crude.”
And it scared the hell out of her.
He must have sensed it, because he said, “Stay here, please. I’ll be back in a jiff.”
With the wind blowing sand and sagebrush across the flat desert, she squeezed her legs together and watched him go into the store. Who was he, really? And what was she doing with him? And why couldn’t she go in there and pee?
* * *
GOBEL’S SMELLED OF CIGARETTES, gun oil, and smoke from a little woodstove. Two aisles led to a counter at the back, divided by display shelves with all kinds of screws and brads and hinges. Along the wall on the right were seed bins and nail kegs … on the left, tools hung for display—wrenches, pliers, saws, claw hammers, tack hammers, and ball-peens, too. Behind the counter long guns hung on racks. Beneath the glass countertop handguns were displayed. A sign taped on the glass read: “California One-Day Waiting Period. No gun ’til tomorrow. Their Law, not Ours.” In a side office, country music was playing.
Martin rang the bell on the counter and studied the posters on the walls:
One showed Lady Liberty with an artillery shell cutting off her arm. Her torch was falling toward the slogan “War’s First Casualty,” which was emblazoned across an orange background. Beneath it, the words “America First Committee.” Nearby hung a soldier’s portrait, a young man in the uniform of an American doughboy, a Purple Heart pinned to the frame. In a smaller frame on the front of the register was the red-white-and-blue shield, framed by the words “America First.”
Martin knew he’d come to the right place. But he didn’t know what his contact looked like. German sympathizers took many forms. He’d just use the word “varmint” and see what happened.
A skinny woman shuffled out of the office. She wore an old dress and moth-eaten sweater. A cigarette dangled from her lips, and her skin had the crushed-newspaper tinge of an all-day butt fiend. She squinted over the smoke from her latest light and said, “I’m Ma Gobel. What can I do you for?”
“I need something to kill varmints.”
She puffed and squinted a little harder. “What kind of varmints, exactly?”
“Three rats and a mess of squirrels.”
She let out a long sigh, as if she’d expected those words but hoped never to hear them. Then she called into the office, “Boys, we got a visitor.”
First came a hulk of a man in overalls and flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He folded his arms and said, “Visitor? From where?”
Martin noticed the tattoo on his left arm. A circle and three Ks. Beneath it the words “Klan Forever.” An America Firster and a Klansman. The only thing better would have been a swastika.
Ma Gobel said, “This feller says he wants to kill varmints.”
Martin smiled. He wasn’t sure if he should play a role or play himself. He stayed in character as the friendly seed salesman. “Three rats and a mess of squirrels.”
The hulk knew what this meant. He said, “What’s your name?”
“My name’s not important. But … can a good America Firster help me?”
Ma Gobel leaned over her son’s shoulder and said, “America First dissolved itself today. It’s on the radio. Right after Hitler declared war on us—”
“So we’ll have to be careful.” Another voice entered the conversation, another son, from the looks of him, not quite as bulky, not dressed for hard work.
“America Firsters are good goddamn Americans,” said Ma. “But if Germany—”
The second son ignored his mother and said, “I’m Richard. This is my brother, Heinz. You’re a friend of Emile Gunst?”
Martin shifted his eyes to their mother.
“Ma knows everything,” said Richard. “So speak your piece.”
“Gunst is dead,” said Martin.
“I told you boys this was gettin’ dangerous. Even before the Japs bombed Hawaii, I told you.” Ma shuffled into the office.
“Dead? How?” asked Heinz.
“Heart attack most likely.” Martin saw no need to mention FBI custody, given how jittery the mother seemed.
“Gunst knew us,” Richard said. “He knew America First. He knew the best path for this country was to stay out of war.”
Ma shuffled back with a pint bottle in her hand. “Then that Jew lover Roosevelt went and goaded the Japs. So now my boys’ll get drafted and killed, just like their pa in ’17.” She dumped a shot of whiskey into her mug, then toasted her husband’s picture.
Richard said to Martin, “Some of us still think the best path would be to send envoys to Hitler, offer to join him, and beat back the Bolshevik Jews.”
“Yes, sir,” said Ma. “Commies and kikes. They’re the real enemy. My boys ain’t dyin’ for Commies and kikes.” She offered Martin the pint.
He shook his head. No need to drink to that.
Heinz asked him, “Are you a Bund member?”
Martin said, “I am a friend of Gunst. That’s all you need to know.”
“We hear the Bund’s been raided, shut down.” Heinz shook his head. “Too bad.”
“Yeah,” said Ma. “A good place to get dinner without havin’ to sit with a lot of Jews. Can’t go anyplace in L.A. without havin’ to sit with a lot of Jews.”
“They killed Christ, you know,” said Richard in total deadpan, so that Martin couldn’t tell if he was serious or not. “Now, what do you need from us? Money? Guns? We have two Thompson submachine guns, packed in Cosmoline since 1934.”
“Yeah,” said Ma. “Goddamn feds and their goddamn National Firearms Act. Federal government shouldn’t be able to tell you what kind of gun you can own.”
Martin said, “I just need a place to hide my car.”
“For how long?”
“Forever,” said Martin. “I’ll even sign it over to you. Better to stash it in a garage in Barstow than drive it into a ditch in Glendale and attract attention.”
“Well, I’ll be goddamned.” Ma squinted out the window, then reached under the counter and pulled out a shotgun. “Look at that.”
Through the side window, they saw a young woman heading for the outhouse at the back of the property. It was Vivian.
Ma said, “I’ll give that gal an assful of buckshot for trespassin’.”
But Martin shouted that she was his wife.
“Your wife?” said Richard.
Martin grinned. “It was a long ride from L.A. We drank too much Coke.”
“Your wife?” Ma grinned, too, revealing that she was a little behind on her dental work. “So tell her to come in and use the real plumbin’.”
Heinz flexed the KKK tattoo. “Gunst never said nothin’ about any husband-and-wife teams.”
“Gunst never told everything to anyone.” Martin seethed quietly at Vivian. “Now, I’ll leave my car here around five tomorrow. Then you’ll give me a ride to the train station. Then you’ll never see me again.”
“That’s it?” said Richard. “That’s all you need?”
“One more thing, maybe.” Martin looked into the case. “A box of 7.63-by-25-millimeter bottleneck rounds, if you have them.”
Heinz produced a box of cartridges. “Rare ammo. Mauser C96?”
Martin saw no need to answer. “Do you have a target range?”
“Drive out Old Highway 58. Just past Jamaica Street, take the dirt road back into the hills. The right fork leads to a shooting range. We own it.”
“Thank you,” said Martin. “Oh, and it feels like that woodstove is working.”
“Of course it’s workin’,” said Ma. “Gets goddamn cold in the desert in December. That’s why I need my sweater and my whiskey, too.”
Martin pulled the road map from his pocket. “Throw this in for me, would you?”
“Sure.” Heinz opened the stove, snatched the map, and fed it to the flames. “Gone.”
“Thank you,” said Martin. “How much for the bullets?”
“No charge,” said Richard. “Especially if you’re plannin’ to kill varmints.”
Martin didn’t tell them that he was planning to kill the biggest varmint of them all.
* * *
VIVIAN SAID, “WHAT TOOK you? I was ready to burst.”
“Sometimes I need to charm a customer before I can get his signature.”
“We drove all the way out here for a signature?”
“Mrs. Kellogg, you are asking too many questions. Your backstory says you are a loyal wife, does it not?”
She thought he was kidding, so she looked at her notebook. “Yes. It says here that I am loyal and obedient … honey … dear.”
“So, if I tell you to stay in the car, stay in the car. Wet your pants if you have to, but stay in the car.”
She turned to the window and resolved not to antagonize him further.
“Now, do you see that?” He pointed to a skeletal hundred-foot tower rising above the low buildings about a mile away. He could change his mood in an instant, as if reading hers. “It’s the Richfield Beacon. It’s part of the Highway of Lights. Keep your eye on it.”
“Highway of Lights?”
“A series of Richfield Oil road stops running from San Diego to Canada. Service for your car, taverns and hotels for your rest, and beacons for airplanes following the roads across California. Like an American dream.”
“Better than staying in that shack behind the feed store, I suppose.”
“When there’s no blackout, the word ‘Richfield’ lights up in giant neon letters,” he said. “Then the beacon sweeps the sky, so that travelers can see it from the road, and planes can find the Barstow airport in the dark.”
He gave another look at the little smokestack rising from the Gobel’s roof, to make sure that the woodstove was puffing away. Then he followed Route 66 as it turned to parallel the tangle of rail lines, sidings, and switches around this junction town in the desert. Freight was rolling, engines were steaming, and the mighty machinery of American commerce was beginning to turn again in a nation throwing off its shock.
Soon they were pulling up a long drive to the hotel behind the Richfield station. And Vivian was thrilled. This was no roaches-and-mold roadside wreck. It looked like a rambling Spanish hacienda, with balconies and tile roofs and a cactus garden out front.
