December '41, page 14
Harold Kellogg got out, shook hands with the driver, and hooked the leather satchel over his shoulder. The truck puttered away, trailing dust. And there he stood, in the last square of desert sunlight. Beneath the brim of the fedora, his eyes were all in shadow. But he was looking at her, she knew. Looking into her, too. He took a drag of a cigarette, dropped it, squashed it with his foot.
He might be unpredictable, but Lord, he was handsome. If she could have ordered a husband from central casting, he’d have been it. As he came toward her, she stood. He was extending his arm, inviting her.
But she wasn’t letting him off that easy. “Twenty minutes, you said.”
“Sorry.”
“Get one thing straight, Harry Kellogg. If you want me to play your wife, you need to play the husband. And my husband wouldn’t run off in the middle of the goddamn desert without telling me how long he’d be gone.”
“Any man who called himself your husband would be—”
What? she thought. What was he about to say?
“—a very lucky man.” He took her arm, since she wouldn’t take his. “And your husband smells grilled meat … the famous Harvey sirloin.”
“Don’t leave me alone like that again.”
“The Gobels were late. So I’m late. But I will not leave you alone again between here and Chicago. I promise.”
* * *
KEVIN CUSACK GOT A cab to Union Station around six thirty. Never hurt to be early. The departure board showed that the Super Chief was on schedule for eight o’clock. But he couldn’t check his bags because he didn’t have a ticket yet. So he sat in an armchair in the Great Hall, positioned himself with a view of the Alameda entrance, and waited.
About seven fifteen, he saw a familiar face. But it wasn’t Sally. He pulled his hat down and slumped into his chair and hoped that Frank Carter wouldn’t notice him. But Carter scanned the crowd and the cavernous space and came straight for Kevin, who shook his head. Don’t sit next to me. Please. Find somebody else to bother.
Carter dropped a folder in Kevin’s lap, walked around to the next row of chairs, and took a seat just over Kevin’s left shoulder, facing in the other direction.
Kevin whispered, “So you came down here to wish me bon voyage?”
“Lewis said you’re on the Super Chief tonight. Open that.”
Kevin flipped the cover: autopsy photos as glossy as movie-star headshots. “Jesus … that’s Kessler.”
“Did you kill him?”
Kevin turned to Carter. “What are you? Drunk?”
Carter ignored that. “According to our friends in the LAPD, some do-gooder saw you arguing with him on Monday night, right near the murder scene. They got your plate. They reported it. The cops also have you for assault in Musso and Frank’s this afternoon. Detective Bobby O’Hara is looking all over town for you.”
“He has forty-five minutes to find me. Then he can come to Boston.”
Carter lit a cigarette. “It does look suspicious, you skipping town just now.”
Kevin turned to Carter. “I almost got my head beaten in for you, Frank. That Kessler mug carried some nasty knuckles. If you’re playing me—”
Carter said, “Look at the other picture.”
Kevin glanced down. “Never saw him before.”
“Never saw him at the Bund?”
Kevin looked at the name. “A Jew named Koppel? You’re kidding, right?”
“Somebody cut him the same way they cut Kessler. Anybody ever talk to you about Bund boys who were good with a knife?”
“Gunst said a few things but … no names.” Then Kevin saw Sally come through the Alameda entrance, followed by a porter wheeling her suitcases. He said to Carter, “If Professor Drake’s daughter sees me with you again—”
Carter pulled his hat low, stood, and in one smooth motion took the folder and started walking. “Get on the train with your girlfriend. I’ll cover with the LAPD.”
“Nice knowin’ you.” Kevin got up and hurried toward Sally.
They met in the middle of the station.
Her first words were “So, did Rick have a happy ending?”
“Rick?” Then he remembered. “Oh, Rick from Casablanca? He was never as happy as I am right now.”
“Such a romantic. But let’s scram. The FBI is everywhere.”
“FBI?” Kevin looked around for Carter, who had disappeared.
“If they think your father’s a Commie, they watch you all the time. It’s half the reason I’m leaving L.A. I’m tired of being watched. Tired of being followed.”
“Well, now they have Nazis and Japs to follow.”
Two uniformed cops were coming by in their dark shirts and matching ties. They couldn’t be looking for him, though, not unless Leon Lewis or Frank Carter had tipped them off. Lewis would never rat him out. He wasn’t so sure about Carter.
The PA crackled, “Now boarding, Santa Fe Super Chief for Chicago. Track nine.”
* * *
THERE WAS NOTHING LIKE the Super Chief, nothing like it in the world. Every traveler got a thrill as they came up onto the platform and saw the drumhead shield at the stern of the observation car, or felt the rumble of the big diesel engines up forward, or rode along with the crowd surging toward the train.
But as Kevin and Sally moved ahead, she was still looking around, apparently more spooked by the FBI than she’d let on.
Kevin said, “Relax. We’re on our way.”
She said, “Remember, you’re my brother.”
They went past the nameplate on the observation car: NAVAJO.
She looked at her ticket. “We’re in the one called Taos.”
At every car stood smiling Negroes in blue coats and black sable hats with shiny silver plates that read PULLMAN PORTER. High class all the way. One of them was calling out, “Good evening, folks! This is Taos. This way to board Taos and Navajo, too.”
The guy walking ahead of Kevin was leaving a little fog of Brylcreem in the air. He had a young woman clutching his elbow, and he’d been bragging to her about all the big shots that rode the Super Chief and how he was a big shot at Warner Bros. Kevin had never seen the guy in a production office or on a soundstage or in the commissary. But as he approached Taos, the Negro at the door treated him like the biggest shot in town. “Why, Mr. Sinclair Cook. Welcome back. And is this Mrs. Cook?”
“As always, George,” said Mr. Cook.
“My, my, sir, but you sure are a lucky man.” The porter grinned.
Kevin knew there wasn’t a chance in hell that she was the guy’s wife.
But the porter didn’t seem to care. Checking passenger lists was his job. Checking morals was not. He said to the woman, “My name’s Stanley, ma’am, Stanley Smith. Anything you want, just tell me. Ain’t that right, Mr. Cook?”
“Best porter aboard,” said Cook, and he gave the girl a boost onto the train.
Now the porter turned to Kevin and Sally. “Good evening, folks, and welcome to Taos, the finest car in the consist, which is the finest on the Santa Fe line.” He looked at their ticket and said, “Drawing Room D.” He helped Sally onto the folding wooden step. “I’ll be along presently to see how you folks are doin’.”
Kevin thanked him. “You said your name was Stanley?”
“Yes, sir. Stanley Smith.” The porter grinned. He had a great smile, thought Kevin, and big hands from hard work on that train.
“So why did that man call you ‘George’?”
“Well, sir, sometimes passengers forget a porter’s name. So they say ‘George.’ Easy to remember.” Stanley didn’t add that most porters considered it an insult. A slave took his master’s name. As George Pullman was the first master of this company, calling his porters “George” was only a little better than calling them “slave” … or “nigger.”
“I’ll remember your real name,” said Kevin.
Then he and Sally boarded. He told himself to enjoy the luxury, because Sally wasn’t sending out any signals beyond “strictly business.” He was her brother, and there wouldn’t be much fun in that.
Once in Drawing Room D, she yanked down the shades and flopped onto the sofa, as if she was relieved to be out of the crush and crowd.
Kevin looked around at the chairs in Navajo red and black with shiny chrome trim, a sofa bursting in orange and yellow, like a desert sunrise. “It’s easy to see why they call this the Grand Hotel on wheels, even with the shades down.”
“I’ll pull them up once we get rolling,” she said. “But I like my privacy.”
He said, “Now, about the upper bunk—”
She jerked her thumb to the ceiling berth, presently closed and locked. “Don’t get any ideas, Brother. This drawing room was the only space available. If it was smaller, you’d still be in L.A., working for the FBI.”
“The FBI?” he said innocently.
Sally usually played it like a smartass dame who could mix it up with you and still you’d want to make love to her. But tonight, she seemed snappish and annoyed. “That guy at Musso’s the other night? The one you were talking to when I came into the station just now? He and his FBI stooges have been watching me for months. If one of them comes looking for me, and I’m with you, maybe they’ll back off.”
So, he thought, she’d known all along. He said, “You’re giving me too much credit.”
“Like I say, you make a good beard.” She kicked off her shoes.
That, he thought, was a start.
Then they heard knock, knock, and the porter’s voice: “All aboard, all visitors off, please.” Knock, knock. “All aboard, all visitors off, please.”
* * *
AT TEN FORTY-FIVE, THE Super Chief rumbled toward Casa del Desierto in Barstow, California.
When they heard the horn wailing, Mr. Kellogg took his “wife’s” arm and together they stepped out onto the platform, out into the late-night desert chill. The ground began to shake. A bright beam shot along the track. The engine came out of the darkness, flashing the famed Warbonnet colors—red and yellow and silver—with the words “Santa Fe” just beneath the headlamp.
Vivian Hopewell wanted to feel the excitement, but she could barely keep her eyes open. They’d split a bottle of wine over dinner, and she’d seldom had such a full stomach since she got to Hollywood, and it all made her just … too … damn … sleepy.
* * *
IN THE OBSERVATION CAR, Sally tossed back her third rum and Coke, stood, and said, “While the train is stopped, I’m going back to our room. I’ll need half an hour. So have another drink.”
“Half an hour for what?” asked Kevin.
“Ten minutes to get undressed, ten to read, ten to fall asleep. When you climb into your berth, watch where you step.”
* * *
MARTIN BROWNING WAS GLAD that Vivian was so sleepy. He’d planned it that way. He’d plied her with so much alcohol, he didn’t even need to add a Veronal tablet to her wineglass. Now, she was nearly legless. But he’d run out of conversation. Solitary men sometimes did.
At the entrance to Taos, the porter was putting down a wooden step. He said, “Evening, folks. You must be the Kelloggs. Welcome aboard. I’m Stanley.”
“Good evening, Stanley,” said Martin Browning. “My wife is very tired, so—”
“I’ll make down the bed right away, sir.” Stanley took their three bags and directed them down the passage on the port side of the car.
“Please make both,” said Martin.
“Yes, sir.” Stanley could see that the pretty blond lady, who looked like that actress in Destry Rides Again, was way beyond tired. So he said, “You know, your missus so sleepy, there’s a drawing room right here on Taos, bed’s already made down. You can take it, and the lady don’t need to wait.”
“Taos?”
“Your room’s on Navajo. That’s the observation car. You got folks comin’ and goin’ and chitchattin’ away till midnight, and some of us porters grabs forty winks back there, too, after everybody go to sleep. Taos is much quieter, sir.”
“That sounds better. Thank you.”
The train lurched. Vivian stumbled against Harold, who caught her and stumbled into a young lady coming from the observation car.
Stanley said to her, “Evenin’, Miss Drake. Your beds are ready.”
The train kicked into motion. Miss Drake staggered, mumbled something to Stanley, and disappeared into her room.
Martin followed Stanley, with a firm hand on Vivian so she wouldn’t fall over.
Then a shout came from the front of the car: “George! Where’s George?”
Sinclair Cook was stepping out of his room with a big grin on his face. Stanley knew why. Cook was a noisy one, and he’d made plenty after Pasadena. He got noisy, and then, while his girl got some sleep, he got a drink. Now he was barreling into this Barstow-boarding couple, stumbling, apologizing, then glancing again at Vivian.
Martin Browning, who never missed the smallest gesture or slightest change in the climate of the moment, saw eyes narrow, as if this guy with the clipped mustache and the shiny hair had seen Vivian before.
Then Cook said to Stanley, “A highball, George. Bring it to the observation car.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Cook. Right away, sir.”
Cook poked a finger in Stanley’s face. “Canadian Club, two cubes. Can’t sleep without it, especially after a busy night, if you know what I mean,” and he kept going.
Crude man, thought Martin Browning.
Stanley explained to the Kelloggs that this room was usually prepared for regular passengers who’d canceled at the last minute. So … lucky for the sleepy Kelloggs. He showed them the room features—temperature control, radio, separate bathroom—and excused himself.
Martin put Vivian’s bag on the lower berth. “Can you change into your nightgown yourself?”
She smiled. She felt dreamy and sexy and a little foolish. She looked at the bed. “Nice … and room for two.”
Martin saw the sloppily seductive look of a woman who’d had too much to drink. He was glad he’d spent himself with Mrs. Sanchez. Even a man in his thirties needed a few days to recover after a lunchtime triple. The Spanish widow had paid a high price so that Martin Browning might be cold-blooded now. He said, “Good night, dear.”
Vivian sat on the bed, flopped back, and passed out. He lifted her feet and slipped off her shoes. Safe to leave her. Safe to leave his satchel. Time to reconnoiter the train.
He went forward to the next car—Oraibi. Like Taos, it had six bedrooms, two drawing rooms, two compartments. He kept going into the dining car, Cochiti, where two Negro cooks were working in the stainless-steel galley kitchen. Next in the nine-car consist was Acoma, the club car and dormitory. He passed the sleeping compartments of the train workers, pushed through a swinging door, and stepped into a bright, colorful space with the bar at the front, tables and seats along the sides.
He ordered Laphroaig neat. Then he headed back through a hundred yards of streamlined aluminum and steel all the way to Navajo, the observation car: twenty chairs, side tables, and short-waisted drapes swinging with the sway of the train. But only two men there at this late hour: the crude Mr. Cook, in the first seat on the right, and halfway down on the left, a young man sipping from a tumbler while reading a magazine.
Martin took the seat diagonally across from the young man.
Cook looked at Martin’s glass. “Hey, how’d you get that before I did?”
Martin said, “I got it myself.”
Cook snorted. “Mister, you got to make these niggers work. Start doin’ their jobs for them, and before you know it, they’ll have you gettin’ drinks for them.”
Martin said, “I’ll remember that.” He noticed the young man shift his eyes toward the loudmouth, then glance at Martin, as if to say, You talk to him. I have no patience.
Martin put a cigarette into his mouth and pulled out his lighter. He snapped it a few times, then said to the young man, “Bad for your health anyway.”
So the young man flipped his lighter across the aisle.
Martin caught it, lit the cigarette, admired the gold case and the inscription: “For Kevin, to light your way when good wishes won’t. Grandpa C.” Martin asked, “What does the ‘C’ stand for?”
“Cusack. Kevin Cusack. Nice to meet you.” Kevin raised his glass.
Martin raised his in response but … where had he heard that name before?
The door swung open, and Stanley Smith came in with Cook’s Canadian Club.
“It’s about goddamn time, there, George,” said Sinclair Cook.
“You know I always take care of you, sir,” said the porter.
Martin watched this interchange, then turned back to the young man. “I’m Kellogg, Harold Kellogg. A pleasure to meet you, too, Mr. Kevin Cusack.” Sometimes saying a name out loud helped him to remember. And he did. He’d heard the name from Emile Gunst … and from Kessler just before he killed him. What was Kevin Cusack doing here?
And the Super Chief thundered east.
PART TWO
ACROSS AMERICA
SATURDAY,
DECEMBER 13
IT WAS STILL DARK when the train rolled into Seligman, Arizona, at 6:20 A.M.
Martin Browning had barely slept. The specter of Kevin Cusack had kept him awake all night. Who was the guy working for? The FBI? The LAJCC? Martin had replayed the conversation in the observation car again and again. But he couldn’t recall a glimmer of surprise or the slightest flicker of recognition on the face of Cusack, who was either clueless or the coolest customer aboard.
Martin decided to watch him. Play him. Figure out if he was dangerous or just a walking coincidence. After all, there were only so many ways to go from the West Coast to the East. Two weekly runs of the Super Chief, a few other trains, a few planes, and a lot of people wanting to get home for their first—and perhaps last—wartime Christmas.
