December '41, page 21
“What’s in it for me?”
“El Cholo at seven. Then we’ll go up to the Wiltern and see if Bogie’s any tougher on the screen than he is in real life.”
She said, “It’s a deal.”
He hung up and shouted, “McDonald! Let’s roll.”
A moment after he left, the phone on his desk rang.
Agent Dickie Doane answered. He refused the charges. But he left a note on Carter’s desk: “Collect call from Sam Spade.”
* * *
KEVIN CUSACK HUNG UP. Then he used the same nickel to call Leon Lewis again.
Lewis had two addresses: a lawyer who’d help Kevin turn himself in and a driver who’d help him get out of town. “I suggest you call the lawyer. But you can trust the other guy, too.”
Kevin said, “I’ll let you know. I need to think.”
“Think hard.”
Kevin hung up and sat in silence, thinking as hard as he could. And the heat in the booth started him sweating. In Hollywood, they called it “flop sweat,” the salt river that soaked you when you knew you were about to blow it, whatever it was. He feared that whatever he did, he’d be blowing it. But he had to do more than hide in a phone booth. So he stepped out, right into the path of two more cops. He turned the other way and saw a scruffy newsboy coming toward him, hawking papers. “Extra! Extra! Dragnet in K.C.! Hollywood Nazi wanted for murder!”
Hollywood Nazi. Good God. He already had a nickname. When the press gave you a nickname, you were all but convicted. He started walking, eyes front, chin up. He didn’t even glance at the hot-off-the-presses headline, but it helped him to make up his mind. He wasn’t turning himself in.
Of course, a guy walking around Kansas City in December would look damn suspicious without an overcoat. So he headed back to the lunch counter. He remembered a wall of coats hanging on pegs. He saw a tweed that might fit. He strode in like he owned it, grabbed it along with a hat, and never looked back. He just aimed for the exit, jumped into the first cab he saw, and gave the driver an address.
“That’s in the stockyard, Mac. You sure you want to go down there?”
“Just drive.”
* * *
THIRTY-FIVE MILES SOUTH OF Chicago, the Ford sped across the snowy fields of Crete, Illinois. The white landscape had faded to cold blue. The December dark was coming fast.
And Vivian had said almost nothing. She figured if Harold wanted her to speak, he’d start a conversation. But the only chitchat came from the son, who commented now and again about the traffic or the roads or some pretty view of Lake Michigan. She could see his eyes in the rearview mirror, flicking in her direction whenever he thought she might be looking the other way. He gave her the willies. So did his father.
Martin Browning was worried, too. Max Diebold was a veteran of the Great War who’d migrated to America with all his prejudices intact, and he disapproved of Vivian. The dirty looks, the cold comments on the sidewalk, the colder silence in the car … those said it all.
Now the car was pulling off the road and bumping up a long, rutted driveway. The house and outbuildings sat on three flat acres rimmed with skeletal trees. Beyond the trees, fallow fields rolled toward faraway clusters of buildings, shadows in the dusk, lights twinkling as feebly as distant stars. Around here, neighbors were measured in miles.
Martin was planning to drive to Washington. It would take three or four days but it would be the safest way to get there. He wanted to leave soon and leave the suspicious Diebolds behind. But a light snow was sputtering down, just enough to make the roads slick. So he decided to wait until morning and start fresh.
Eric opened the car door and said to Vivian, “Welcome to our humble abode.”
Vivian stepped out and looked up into the first snowfall she’d seen in four years. It made her shiver. Maybe going home wasn’t such a good idea after all.
* * *
A ’37 MACK E series box truck headed east into the darkness on Route 50. The cab was blue, the container a shade lighter. The gold lettering on the box read, KRAMER & SONS, KOSHER MEATS, KANSAS CITY, MISSOURI, and beneath that was a white Star of David.
Kevin Cusack hulked down in his stolen overcoat, turned up the collar, and listened to Dilly Kramer.
“Listen” was the operative term. Kevin couldn’t get a word in. Not that he wanted to. He didn’t have much to say. And Dilly was a guy who liked to talk. He seemed to have an opinion for every decoration on his scally cap, which was covered in political campaign buttons, baseball pins, advertising buttons, so many that a strong magnet could pull that hat right off his head. Dilly had been talking for an hour, with seven hours more to talk before they got to St. Louis.
“Yes, sir, any friend of Leon Lewis is a friend of mine,” Dilly was saying. “I knew him in the war. I guess you could call it the first war, now that we got another one.” Dilly laughed. He had big hands and big features and a big laugh. And that was all Kevin wanted to know about him, especially since Dilly didn’t know anything about Kevin except that he came from Hollywood. He didn’t even know Kevin’s real name. “Tom Follen” was the pseudonym that Leon Lewis had suggested. “Anyway, we kept in touch afterward. I sure envied him when he left for California. I said, ‘What? You goin’ off to eat oranges and date tomatoes?’”
“Tomatoes?” said Kevin.
“Dolls. Broads. Dames. Chicks. Say, is it true them Hollywood gals’ll give you a blow job for an acting job?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“What? Good-lookin’ guy like you?”
“I was a story analyst. That’s lower than a writer.”
“Writers are low? Ain’t they the ones who dream everything up?”
“There’s an old joke in Hollywood: How do you tell if a starlet’s too stupid to memorize her lines?”
“How?”
“She sleeps with the writer.”
Dilly laughed. He got it.
“So now,” said Kevin, “I just want to go home. Home to Boston.”
“You want to leave all that good weather for Boston?” Dilly shook his head.
“There’s more to life than good weather.”
Dilly snorted. “That’s what my father said after the war. I wanted to go to California, too, but he said, ‘If you go, who’ll take over the business? Stay here and help. You can do the drivin’ and your brother’—I got a brother who’s a rabbi—”
“Mazel tov,” said Kevin.
“Hey, you know the lingo?”
“Irish name but a Jewish grandfather.”
“Well, mazel tov to you, too.” Dilly chuckled and got on with his story. “So, my father says, ‘You can do the drivin’ and your brother can do the butcherin’, while I make the best damn dill pickles in Kansas City.’ He knew I like dill pickles. That’s how I got my nickname. You know, Dilly.”
The truck hit a hole and the sides of beef thumped and rumbled on their hangers.
“So here I am, drivin’ kosher meat across the Midwest. Best decision I ever made, too. Married. Three kids. Respect in the community—”
Kevin looked ahead at the dark landscape. What better place for a Hollywood Nazi to hide than a kosher meat truck? But why did he feel more like a man hurtling into an abyss than a guy just trying to get home for Christmas?
* * *
A GUST OF WIND shook the Diebold farmhouse. Outside, the windmill rattled and the pump brought up water for the night. The snow was beginning to swirl. But the warmth in the kitchen made Vivian think of home. Three pots simmered and steamed and filled the air with the pungent, mouth-tingling aroma of vinegar marinade.
While his father scowled, Eric played the host, pouring glasses of Riesling all around and promising more comfort as soon as the stove warmed the front parlor.
Vivian noticed that the table in the dining room had been set for three. She said, “If you weren’t expecting me—”
“We’ll feed you,” said Max Diebold.
Eric smoothed things with a grin. “We have plenty, Papa. Plenty for a pretty lady. As Mama used to say, always plenty in the Diebold house.”
“Don’t speak of your mother in the presence of strangers.” Diebold turned and went out the back door.
So, thought Vivian, perhaps it was grief that made Mr. Diebold so grouchy.
Eric said, “Sorry about my father, but he has many emotions. And—why don’t you go into the parlor. It should be warm there now.”
Vivian said, “I’d rather stay in here and help out.”
Eric grinned again. “You would? Oh, Mother always loved having pretty ladies in the kitchen. She said it made the work go more quickly.”
Vivian said, “I’m thinking there’s potatoes in one of those pots. And you know … I’m an excellent masher.”
Eric gave a snicker. “They say I’m something of a masher myself.”
Martin Browning didn’t know much about the son, except that there was something “off” about him, too eager, too quick with the grin and the sniggering wisecrack, too obvious with the sneaky sidelong looks. His whole persona was undignified, not German at all. But the environment that he and his father had built was as German as could be. Everything spotless in the kitchen, the firewood neatly stacked by the stove, the dishes shining behind glass pantry doors.
Martin could have puzzled all night over the son, but he was more concerned about the father. From the way that Max was acting, he wondered if the Diebolds had been turned. Anything was possible, and part of his job was preparing for any possibility. So he stood by the window to watch what was happening outside. When a lantern flickered to life in the barn, he decided to investigate. He told Vivian he needed some air.
“It’s freezing out,” Vivian said, and then she added “dear” for good measure.
Martin turned up his collar. “I’ll be just a minute.”
Eric called after him, “Better not leave me alone with such a pretty lady.”
Martin didn’t take that seriously, and Vivian took her cue from her “husband.”
Eric picked up a knife and sliced into a loaf of bread.
Vivian went closer to the stove and said, “So which of these pots has the potatoes?” She lifted one of the lids.
And a German authoritarian snapped to life in Eric Diebold. “Do not touch!”
Vivian stepped back, shocked at the sudden anger and the big knife Eric held at his hip, pointing at her, as though he considered using it.
Then he smiled. “I mean … if you take the lid off, you let out the steam.”
“I’m so sorry,” said Vivian.
“Don’t be sorry. Just … just be pretty.” Eric went back to slicing.
* * *
IN THE BARN, MARTIN Browning stepped quietly onto the rickety stairs and went up quietly, too, toward the faint light. In the far corner of the loft, in a little makeshift compartment created by hay bales and rough boards, the slender shadow of Max Diebold was working a key connected to a shortwave radio.
Martin stepped out of the darkness. “What are you sending?”
“Information to our man in Maryland,” said Max calmly. “You escape via the Eastern Shore. A U-boat will be monitoring American radio broadcasts. Once they hear that Roosevelt is dead, you have twenty-four hours to get to the beach.”
“And if I’m not there on Christmas night, between five and six, they will leave.”
“They will also leave if they see two people in your raft.” Max moved a sheet of paper that he had been working from.
Martin grabbed it and read: MB b-r-i-n-g-s g-i-r-l n-o-t p-a-r-t o-f p-l-a-n a-d-v-i-s-e n-e-x-t e-i-g-h-t h-o-u-r-s. Beneath the letters, another line of code. Martin read it aloud, then whispered, “Advise in the next eight hours … of what?”
Max Diebold was clearly not afraid of Martin. He said, in the tired way that a teacher talks to a dull student, “Advise of what to do with the girl.”
* * *
VIVIAN HAD RETREATED TO the doorjamb between the kitchen and the dining room, just to stay out of the way. She was making small talk to take the edge off the tension. “So … on this farm, do you raise animals?”
“Oh, no,” said Eric. “We raise flowers and vegetables, just as you’ve heard. Diebold’s Seeds, a famous brand. I would have thought you’d know about us.”
“My husband probably told me, but”—Vivian tried a gesture she’d seen from Dietrich, a little shrug—“I don’t always listen to him.”
Eric’s eyes brightened. “Oh, you don’t? Does that extend to fidelity?”
“What do you mean?”
“A wife was not part of the plan, and then you show up? My father is suspicious.”
Vivian laughed nervously. “I’m no one to worry about. I’m an innocent.”
“How innocent?” Eric put the knife on the counter, then came toward her.
Vivian folded her arms around her waist and stepped back.
Eric kept coming. “If I kiss you, will you cry out like an innocent? Or will you allow the kiss, especially if I promise to tell no one that you are a whore playing a role, an imposter interfering with our operation?”
* * *
IN THE BARN, MAX Diebold was saying, “Are you in love, Browning?”
“Don’t ask stupid questions.”
“You cannot endanger our other agents with a love affair. Leave her here. Leave her to us. Your car is ready. Multiple plates and registrations, some with your new name, some with another alias. Michael Milton, we’re calling you. Take the car and go. You’re a lone wolf. You always have been. Operate that way.”
“I operate as I see fit. I use those I need to use, including you.”
Diebold turned away, as if he’d said enough. He began tapping again on the key.
Martin said, “Stop sending, Max.”
“If you cannot leave the girl, you cannot—”
“I said stop sending.” Martin unplugged the key.
Max Diebold pulled a pistol from under the codebook and pressed it against Martin’s forehead. “I will do my duty to the Reich.”
Martin Browning knew that Diebold was ruthless in his defense of Germany, and in the half second he had to decide what to do—
A scream cut through the night, a female scream … followed by a male cry and the sound of something crashing in the house.
Max Diebold’s eyes shifted, but he still held the gun against Martin’s forehead. He said, “You should never have left him alone with that girl.”
Martin said, “He’s your son.”
They heard the back door slamming open, Eric calling into the wind for his father.
Max Diebold went hurtling down the steps, with Martin close behind.
Eric Diebold was stumbling out of the house, hands on the hilt of a knife buried in his side. He dropped to his knees in the snow. The wind gusted, and he fell on his face.
Max Diebold ran to his son, rolled him over, touched the hilt of the knife.
Eric screamed, “No. Don’t pull it out.”
Vivian’s shadow appeared in the doorway, her hands braced against the doorjambs.
Max glared at Martin. “The knife is in his liver. He needs a doctor or he’ll die.”
Vivian took two or three steps into the swirling snow. She tried to speak. But she couldn’t get her lips to move and fell back into the house.
Martin knelt and looked into Eric’s eyes, which were searching above him, blinking and fluttering in the falling snow. The knife must have struck a major vessel, because he moaned every time his heart beat more blood into his belly.
Max said, “She did this. She stabbed my son. She cannot—”
But Martin had already made another decision. Until he’d seen Max at the telegraph key, he’d never expected it to come to this. But he knew what he had to do to protect the mission … and Vivian.
Max Diebold surely did not see the blade in Martin Browning’s hand. He may have felt it drive into his throat, just above the Adam’s apple, through the sinuses, and into the brain. He may have known that it was a killing blow. But then he knew nothing.
Martin let the body drop onto the son, then covered Eric’s eyes with his hand, ignored Eric’s blood-strangled cry of “Nooooo,” and cut off whatever was left of the young man’s life.
* * *
IN THE KITCHEN, VIVIAN was sitting at the table, staring at the floor, at the spilled potatoes, at the blood mixed with the potato water.
Martin said her name.
She said, “I told him to stop. But he pinched … he pinched my nipples. It hurt. But he wouldn’t stop. He called me a whore interfering with your operation and—what did he mean by all that?”
“I don’t know.”
“I jumped back. He grabbed the knife and came at me again. He said he needed to test my … my commitment. I thought he was going to hurt me even more, so I threw the boiling potatoes at him. He stumbled back and slipped and somehow fell on the knife. Is he—”
“He’ll be fine. His father has taken him to the doctor.”
“They drove off? I didn’t hear the car—”
“Let’s not worry about them. Worry for you.” He took a bottle of Veronal from his pocket and dropped two tablets into her wineglass.
“What is that?” she asked.
“It will help you to sleep.”
At first she resisted, but he held the glass to her lips. “You need your rest. Please.” And she drank. Then Martin got about the business of cleaning up.
* * *
MEXICAN FOOD WAS ONE of the things Frank Carter liked most about L.A., and El Cholo was the place to get it. Chili that burned your lips and warmed your belly. Enchiladas, tostadas, and the best green-corn tamales north of Jalisco.
Stella was waiting for him in a booth. “Glad you finally made it. The mariachis keep coming over and playing sad songs, like I’ve been stood up or something.”
Carter picked up the beer on his placemat. “I’d never stand up a girl who’s already ordered me a Dos Equis.”
