Blue Rendezvous

Blue Rendezvous a novel by J.B. Pravda

Chapter One

"It was a Tuesday, but that never meant anything much when it came to
us charter member G-man types and our bad habits. Drinking, especially
under the Volstead Act, made us special and that's what Edgah---he
liked us to call him that, in that phony New England upper crust
way---always told us, the few who'd been with him from the start.

Me, I'm part of that motley bunch of gumshoes, hand-picked by that old
ball-breakin schemer, mainly because I knew his family---his real one.
With him, it was keep everybody close----specially the 'bodies' he
liked, you take my meaning!
You see, we were both born and raised in the old southern town we call
the capital; back then, it was Mecca to every black family wanting to
rise....... and Edgah's wanted desperately to rise.
My black nanny, Miss Beulah Mae Jackson, God rest her soul, she was a
distant cousin to that family."

As a young black female reporter I was unprepared for the casual
nonchalance of that observation, the kind that forces the brain to hold
the neural presses in order to produce the ultimate special edition
featuring the largest available font headline: REVELATION!

"What's a matter, hon, you never heard about our moveable spirits lab?"
Roiles needled me playfully, a prime instance of why his phonetic
middle name had been awarded by Hoover himself.
"Jus jokin, that's all, it's how I got the 'Lee' part of my name: 'He
frank-ly roils me!' ole Edgah used to say, didn't matter if I was the
only audience present."

"Mr. Roiles, of course, the King letter is public knowledge, it just
never got pursued; are you saying it should be?" I, somehow, finally
had composed myself.

Roiles just smiled like a Sphinx, whose riddle had not begun to be
undone. "Alls um sayin is what um sayin, you're the cub reporter.

"Any who, it was a Tuesday, like I was saying; I made it to the office
after sailin full canvas to the wind night before; and that's when it
landed at my feet. 'It' gets to your question, but it'll take some
time. Funny how co-incidences get in your face, like some one, thing,
force, you get the idea--- is tryin to tell ya something, only you keep
wantin to ID it by habit, I guess, 'chance', maybe, except you called
it by its real name without takin account of that name's plain
meaning-events that happen together, for some unseen purpose, that
sorta deal. There's lots a stuff written about it, try Jung or even
Sting, what's that song, Synchro-somethin...."
"Synchronicity" I added.
"Smart lady......where was I? Oh, yeah....I mainly knew it was Tuesday
from Meg Riley's usual remark about me surviving a car or train wreck.
As best I recall, I took the trolley, had em in those days, and a good
thing, too, considerin."

After the first hour, he just couldn't coherently recall very well; we
had decided, when he had finally agreed to do the open-ended sessions,
only the first hour would be videotaped----Frank was losing his hair
due to the chemo regimen and, even at his advanced age, vanity held
sway.

A little background might help; when I first learned about him, I was
convinced that he would turn down the whole project; after all, I was
still a relatively young woman, just out of journalism school, as he
might have put it, 'ignorant of my ignorance'. My trump card was my
great-aunt---Miss Beulah Mae Jackson.
That still left the hardest part: relating to a time whose very
leitmotif seemed hard to comprehend, married as I am to a white man, an
Italian born in Sicily, to boot (any wordplay attributable to the
Italian mainland and its cartographic relationship to his island of
birth is purely, well, somewhat unintentional----chalk it up to Frank's
corruptive influence). Irony was my real ace; Frank couldn't really
stand the idea of any new generation remaining unmindful of how things
had come to pass the way they had and did.
One clear sign that his heart was in it, if not his body, was when I
arrived the first afternoon to commence the video portion I've been
replaying for edit---it brought home to me the gravitas it held for
him: the television had been tuned to Entertainment Tonight's run down
of the 1984 Oscar nominees----they were showing a clip from John
Carpenter's Starman for which Jeff Bridges had been deservedly
nominated; the clip was especially poignant on many levels for us
both----Bridges is desperately trying to rendezvous with his rescue
ship while the authorities are closing in on him. Karen Allen's
character is devoted to this alien being, clonally embodied as her dead
husband, Scott. The civilian official, a true scientist in the employ
of a mercenary government treating his presence as an 'invasion'
despite his having been 'invited', tongue-in-cheek via the Voyager
probe, complete with the now embarrassing voice-over of the discredited
Kurt Valdheim, is torn about what to do. In speaking with 'Scott', he
learns of the great wisdom of this being through but one, piercing
statement from 'him': "You are an interesting species, intelligent but
savage; shall I tell you what I find beautiful about you? You are at
your best when things are at their worst."
Frank noticed me as entranced as he by the scene, saying one word as he
switched off the sound: 'Schoepenhauer.' That was it, just the
name.
"German philosopher, I think.... don't tell me you knew him too?" was
my venture into levity.
"Knew a German who knew him" Frank said with his usual cryptographic
smirk. "Fished him outta the Med after we sunk his submarine; I jumped
into a god dam burning oil patch, don't ask me why. But he seemed to
know, kept sayin this name, over and over, amazed he could speak,
really."

"I don't understand" was my flat-footed response.

"Seems this guy was the skipper, pretty well-educated; through the
medic on our boat, whose parents were from the old country, we figured
out that he was talking about the position taken by this Schopenhauer,
bout the way people respond to danger to another being, how they forget
all about themselves as a separate person; spent a whole book arguin it
was proof we are all connected, underneath surface appearances and all.
Stuck with me, I guess; Bridges had that same look in his eyes just
then" Frank's eyes, too, had that look, a look of kinship with me, with
just about anyone, any living thing if the situation was right.

I knew then with complete clarity why Frank, and I, wanted, no matter
what, to tell his story; I pray that I may tell well what I find
beautiful in it, and him. I've got 35 hours of tape, mostly audio, to
get it right---rent the movie if you want to help me get the eyes
right, those haunting windows onto that essence Schoepenhauer may have
been writing about so passionately.

Chapter Two

The streetcar was his safest bet; the conductors knew him so he always
got a reserved seat near that transport official. This was of prime
importance on Tuesdays, Monday nights being the usual inner sanctum
booze-a-thon passing as a card game. They, the conductors, were very
mindful of forgoing the usual bell ringing for so sensitive a
reason.

"Federal Bureau" was the driver's verbal cadence of an alarm clock
together with a firm tapping on his nearest shoulder.
"Thanks, Riley"---he called everyone Riley, except Meg, picked up the
habit in the Great War, just like 'Kilroy' in the next one---as he
gingerly disembarked for the short traverse to the adjoining sidewalk
and the office.

Not yet much of a federal presence, the Bureau was ensconced in a
nondescript old fin de siecle turreted building still bearing the bas
relief name of a long-gone bank once owing its prosperous existence to
planters and other agrarian patrons. Its anonymity was, however,
overwhelmed by its proximity to the White House, coveted by
Edgah.

"Federal Bureau, can you hold?" Meg Riley purred into her oversized
headset. Spying Roiles, the ritual commenced: "Hoi, Polloi.... any
other survivors from the crack-up?"

His automatic counter ritual involved the rubbing of temples, hat more
or less still in place. He was ready with his usual retort: "Save it,
Meg, huh; just a late night......", then, under his breath but still
audible by design "cap, or ten."

Frank made his way to Meg's perch behind a phone exchange ancient even
by 30's standards; the Bureau was low on the bureaucratic pole of
federal totems. As she handed him a phone message she added: "Called
twice already, says it's urgent" smiling at his wincing at the thought
of having had no coffee as yet.
"On a Tuesday....." talking as he read, he then offered "Holy, moley,
ain't this the White House exchange?"

Apparently even the nosy Meg hadn't noticed, chiming in: "I'm
impressed, considerin."

Regaining his semi-composure: "How bout a break, huh, doll? Get me"
and, squinting at the message, "Mr. Carter, ok?"

Meg rotary dialed the number: "Good morning, may I be connected to Mr.
'Dips' Carter, Jr.?" she paused for a reply.
"I see, that's odd, he just called not 20 minutes ago. Thanks, dearie."
As she hung up, she puzzled to Frank "Strange, say he's left for the
doctor's, feeling poorly."

Frank, now gaining relative focus and building interest asked, "He say
what it's about?"
"No, very polite gent, older Negro, sounded nervous, you know,
jittery."
Frank grabbed his hat, still more or less on his head, suggesting,
"Think I'll hop over to see FDR, you want I should bring you back a
souvenir?"
"Say, you kidding; how's about an invite to the 'Children's Hour'..."
Meg paused, noting with her at-the-ready air of superior
knowledgability "the poem by Wordsworth, his cue for the
drinkeys......oh, never mind!"
Halfway out the door, intent on the consolation of the ancient resort
of the lesser witted, 'the last word', Frank instructed Meg about one
track minds and the vocal habits of guilty canines. The aging college
fencer in him advised that he had scored a very palpable hit.

There he was, worthless old crab, thought Frank as he warily sauntered
up to the flimsy shack its erectors had pretended was the purely
optimistic inapposite verb known as guard'.

"Chrissake, what brings the likes a you to the palace?"

Frank expected a wiseacre greeting from such an excuse for a guardian
who had been his Chief Petty Officer in what was otherwise a man's
Navy. He braced himself.
"Don't tell me ole Edgah lost a cat or something!"
"Nah, Jimmy, like ta tell ya, but, ya know, classified way above your
station, get me?" Frank gave better than he got, as a rule.

"Oh, well, yeah, sure; what can I do you for?"

"Got a guy on yer roster name a 'Dips' Carter, Jr.?" Frank got down to
business. But Jimmy wasn't quite ready to cooperate yet.

"Gotta be a ni...."

"Come on, Jim, ain't got time for shootin the sea breeze, know what I
mean?" Frank insisted.

"Here he is, checked out little while ago, went over to St. Liz's
hospital, you know, the one for nig..."
Frank didn't care for editorials, especially from jerks like his old
CPO.
"When and why" Frank pressed him, barely holding his tongue.

"Bout 30 minutes or so, sick or something, but, well, you know
these..."

"Sure do, Jimbo, alls they do is keep the god dam country runnin's all;
hey, do yourself and that country a favor, will ya, take the rest a the
day off!" Frank, tipping his hat in the elaborate fashion of the naval
semaphore he and his mates had specially devised for James McFarland as
the signal for 'drop dead', stormed off in the direction of the
government car pool to arrange for a vehicle-----the streetcars didn't
run to that part of town.

Stopping by the office to use the facilities, Frank asked Meg to phone
St. Elizabeth's. When he returned, his interest piqued all the more
when Meg reported that they had never laid eyes on him.

"Coulda used another name," Meg suggested lamely.

"Stick to the phones, babe, would ya" Frank was deep in reverie when he
popped the payoff question his fogged-in brain hadn't formulated when
he had first learned of the two calls that morning.

"Say, did our friend Dips say who had told him to call me?"
"Why, hadn't thought of that; let me see" she searched for her
notepad.

"What, we were both hung over this morning?"

"Keep your shirt on" Meg said. "I usually do remember something like
that----here it is: said an old friend of yours from Alabama gave him
your name" Meg said proudly.

"Never even been there" Frank couldn't figure it.
"This thing is getting screwier by the minute." The phone rang.
"Federal Bureau...yes, just a moment, sir, please, stay calm...." Meg
pointed to the phone as she covered the mouthpiece.
"Roiles, who's...Carter! Been getting ready to do a personal All Points
on you.... where...what the...look, stay put, be there in half an
hour..." Frank headed for the door.
"So?!" Meg demanded.
"Call ya when I can; you don't hear from me for a while, means um busy;
gets to be a day or so, send in the Marines---hell, never mind, they'll
never find me unless um on some beach" he replied through a
condescending Navy man's smile, digging through his desk drawer for
ammunition for his pug-nosed government issue pistol.
"What if the White House calls?"
"Tell em they'll have to polish the silver some other time; for some
reason he's scared to go back, so you know nothing; gotta go" and he
was gone.

If Frank had brushed onto canvas the picture in his head of the
landscape that was his immediate destination, he would have been
grouped with the surrealist school, 'really dark' wing.
It had formed in some part of his neural net marked 'memorable' during
his slow, circling landing right after discharge from service, flying
into Washington from California. A few blocks from the Executive
Mansion was a nether world of row houses, not much more than shotgun
houses you still found down South that used to nefariously serve as
slave quarters. He remembered reading in some art book:'the painterly
juxtapositional cacophony of dark, brooding pockets of pigment yields
an eerie congeries of gloomy despair somehow integral to the otherwise
delightful landscaping, as though an organic cloudlike permanence had
been attached there over long-suffered time'-----smiling at his
uncharacteristic quality of memory, Frank rehung the painting back in
its deep, dark gallery as he approached the shabby dwelling marked 17
1/2 Beecher Street,N.E. Dogs were barking continuously, apparently
never having seen an automobile, especially one with "U.S. Government"
painted prominently on its side----or, maybe, even a white man, at
least out of uniform.

Chapter Three

The harbor docks were streaked with the last rays of the disappearing
sun, through thinly scattered darkening clouds, the kind that are said
to always hover over persons, places, things somehow haunted by bad
fortune.

It was dusk, making it a venue whose varietal appreciation was always a
matter of the eye's point of view. At the moment, that vantage was the
roughneck turf of stevedores, weary-looking warehouses and relatively
organized scofflaws whose penetration of the unionized work force was
nothing if not wholesale.

Two men, conspicuous in G-man style trench coats, faces obscured by
large-brimmed hats, walked the water's edge, the night watchman giving
every indication that their presence was, if not welcome, at least
'authorized'; his eyes, thusly relieved of monotonous duties, were
engrossed in the latest Superman comic. Having recognized their voices,
those same eyes never even left the colorful pages on which he had
begun to be amazed by this newly emergent man of steel, fresh from
boyhood somewhere in Kansas--- home to America's other latest darling,
Dorothy, he thought, then wondering where the Hecuba Superman had been
when she was thrust into the wild blue yonder by that twister; he
quickly corrected himself with 'he was just a boy, knew nothing bout
his powers then, fool'--- Hell, he didn't even know about the dangers
of kryptonite, what was he thinking----'just the gentleman in
me'----right down to the proper name for 'heck', like my larger than
life personages to be referred to proper', his thought patterns
concurred.

As for these two, the object of their attention was very realistic and,
yet, not unlike the to-be-avoided effects of that green metallic
nemesis of the iron man himself would have to deal with too soon, and
unprepared. Well-placed dynamite charges could cripple the whole port
authority operation, and for months if not longer.

"You telling me he's the only protection they've got out here?" said
the taller man.
"Relax; look, we ain't at war; besides, everybody knows not to mess
with this place, could be very bad for the health!"

"I dunno, you heard what that creep Mussolini's up to in old Italy" he
replied, unpersuaded that such foreigners understood the power of the
local mobsters.

"That may be true. He's going after every Italian family clan around,
can't stand the competition I guess" his diminutive partner agreed
through self-amused chuckling. As if zapped by a deep revelation, he
added: "Now I think on it, that's what bothers me----with the right
'partners' anybody could shut this thing down but good." From his more
vertical friend, he sensed that look his eyes confirmed: his colleague
of many years service, whose tongue was no stranger to uninvited
vituperative wagging, had allowed that same vital (he often wished it
were not so honored, especially when it came to the sheer palaver it
was capable of) organ to defer to the eyes, oddly, he mused, far more
effective when giving out than taking in: 'You're so fucking na?ve!' ,
they had screamed, silently. "One thing's for sure: the Brits gave him
a goddam knighthood, so looks like he's got some mucky mucks'
blessing."
"Whaddya expect; the Limeys got a tin soldier army just like
us---they've got those rose-colored glasses on when it comes to that
kraut with the bad haircut and his hairless Italian mutt, too" his
counterpart called the name of that pacifist tune.
Let's get some chow, it's Sammy's quittin time."
From across the Atlantic, a similar scrutiny, albeit by some of them,
Fascistas, lately come to official power, Fascists, far more intense,
was being directed toward that waterfront by some physically distant
cousins to their Americanized familia, albeit this crowd liked to wear
black shirts and parade around like neo-Roman legions, beating up and
disposing of undesirables, including Sicilian clans, most especially.
As for what each branch of those often fractious clans might be up to,
both in general and in the case of New York Harbor these G-Men were
without a clue, especially those who regarded their buddies as 'na?ve'.
Any such divining of the nature of that 'what' might be was a job that
would require nothing less than the functional equivalent of certain
ubermensch, himself equally vulnerable to the effects of a kind of
foreign power. As he turned the page of his vividly colored comic book,
the weathered skin of the watchman horripilated with the glee his
boyhood had once briefly known: 'This looks like a Job
for.....Superman!', newsman Perry White exclaimed so resolutely that
the trademark 'balloon' struggling to contain it seemed ready to burst,
fictitiously hinting at the state of a very real 'Planet', 'Daily'
lurching, blindly, toward its uncertain assignation with a harlot-like
Destiny.

Chapter Four

The rebellious youngest son of the President, Jeffords Roosevelt had
been dissuaded from his course of military service by his mother but,
with her concession that he be allowed to leave Washington and its
stifling atmosphere----along with Secret Service shadows---for
cosmopolitan New York.

There, at a well-arranged private dinner party, he had met Marta.
Daughter of an Italian Tyrolian aristocrat and a Swedish mother close
to certain alleged (by her, of course) European royalty. Marta
Angellini, had cast her eyes, and concomitant spell, upon 'JR', her
code name for the fascist Servizio Informazione Militare's prime target
of espionage and, again, accorinding to her faithful reportage thereto,
it was a coup de foudra.
Her cover as the graduate coed has been well planned and executed with
skills transplanted in spades from an archetype deeply embedded in her
Jungian psyche, labeled Mata Hari.

"Darling, be a dear and run my bathwater, hmmm?" Marta whispered.
Effortlessly gaining his puppy-like compliance, Marta quickly perused
the detailed documents her paramour has purloined from his father's
office having to do with detailed longshoreman's matters for most major
U.S. port operations. As he quietly discovered her reading through the
papers only just delivered from his latest unscheduled visit to
Washington while 'Dada' was away, his puerile roleplaying called for a
scolding rooted in scatology,the haunt of the eterna puera, his
suitably inadequate psychic response to her superior acoutrements a la
the Swiss-accented psychopomp.
"What are we, some old couple, so bored we read dull statistics instead
of, well, you know."
"Don't be silly, just impressed with how important you must be; I'm
certain to gain highest marks on my thesis with this---you're too good
to me" she assured her schoolboy book carrier.

Marta quickly laid aside the papers and switched on the radio to some
seductive Harlem jazz.
"That's more like it, Mar; say, now that your reward is so secure,
how's about mine, huh?"
Demurely posing Marta confidently asked: "You mean you don't wish to
read along..."

Caressing her earlobe, Jeffords said: "Madam, you've got me confused
with that other Mr. Roosevelt; now he would have surely said yes to
those documents, especially with a certain espoused cousin, by
appointment, of course."
Marta wanted to control the mood, and guarded against another unfocused
channeling off of his energies into his growing alienation from Dada:
"Now, don't spoil the mood with talk of mummy and daddy."
"You're absolutely right" as he helped her undress in keeping with Dr.
Marta Pavlov's highly effective conditioning. "Besides, I don't have an
appointment."
Marta now rang the bell ever so resonantly: "Well, how about a
rendezvous, his term, correct?......a rendezvous in blue, instead!" as
she seductively pulled him toward a bucking mounting his psyche would
later honor, again and again.

Chapter Five

Knocking faintly on a well-weathered door with the numbers ' 7 1/2'
rustily nailed askew, "It's Roiles...."

A woman blurted cautiously, "Who dat?"

"Frank Lee Roiles, I just talked with Dips."
Opening slowly to a darkened foyer, the door seems unaided by human
hand.
A disembodied female voice resignedly uttered a tentative invitation:
"Come on in, den."
Like some haunted house poltergeist, the door seemed to close
itself.

Gingerly, Frank greeted the relative darkness: "Hullo...."
Taken back by his increasingly revealed identity, the female asked:
"You member me, do ya?" She was smiling now, broadly.
"Holy Jesus!" shouted Frank. "Why, I haven't seen your sweetness
since...."
She took over: "You was knee high, reckon. How's your mama?"
Hugging her firmly, he said the dread words: "Rest in Peace."
As if to renew the hauntedness of the shack, another timid voice: "It
safe, Missy Jax?"
"Fool, this here's my baby boy! Raise him up right here in town,
almose."

Frank, finally spying the formerly dark apparition, said: "Hello, Dips.
I need some information, right now...."

Dips, seeming to acquire the lighter pigment of a ghost, tensed
fearfully: "What dat be, suh?"
Frank's wry nature determined to play it to the hilt: "Exactly what
kinda name is 'Dips'?!" belly laughing half way through the brief
interrogatory.

Notwithstanding the damage to Dips' already tenuous central nervous
system, they all managed to retire to a somewhat brighter sitting room,
the ice now shattered.
"Good thing they've still got plenty of those spittoons at the palace"
Frank said, noting the spittle cup in Dips' still trembling hand. It
was his customary way of bringing the subject around after a near
death-dealing confrontation. Now to business, ready or not, that was
the way Hoover had trained his boys----keep em guessing, off balance,
best way to the simple truth.

"Shoot, I'm all ears" Frank said holding his Government Issue
notepad.
"Now...now, I needs my job...you, you sure..." Dips stammered.
"Missy Jackson can tell ya, shoot straight, and don't nobody trouble
you for telling me the truth" Frank leveled.
With her confirming nod, Dips reached into his pocket, producing a
crumpled sheet of stationery.
"See, I foun dis at da House; doan reads too good but Missy Jax sez I
needs to keep a look out fur strange happenings; when she seen dis,
made me to call you sose ta git da evil offa me", handing it to
Frank.

Reading the almost calligraphically written letter, Frank's eyes reread
a certain paragraph aloud: "......and if you can do this for me, my
darling, I should be ever so grateful. My graduate sponsors are talking
about ending my stipend should I not excel, and soon, in my thesis. You
are so very important, I know that you will save me from this fate.
Your adoring Marta."

Frank, aquainted via that same man's Navy with a Secret Service pal
who'd had to deal with 'the kid', asked Dips: "Jeffords been staying at
the House lately?"

"Oh, yassir, he come and go all de time; he even use hiz Daddy's own
office sometime when he gone."

Miss Jackson chimed in on cue: "Mr. Frank, now you knows I read the
paper, religious---been reading bout dis Hitler usin peoples to do
spyin and such evil things; dis here gal's some kinda Matta Hari, you
axe me, can feel it."

Frank was now in high gear: "I'm gonna have a Photostat made at a
secure spot I know, right away, then, Dips, you're gonna put it right
back where you found it."

"Yassir, you betcha, cain't have it roun me no mo, for sure" Dips
hadn't blinked his eyes since they had sat down.

"Right......now, Dips, ya gotta be copacetic for me; nobody knows bout
this sept us three and that's gotta be how it stays. Mum's the word.
Miss Jax, can you meet me at the main post office lobby downtown this
evening?" Frank was setting things quickly on track so as to escape
anyone's notice.

"I can iffen you needs me to" Miss Jackson almost whispered, fully into
the sense of things.
Bussing her cheek and patting Dips' shoulder, Frank departed with:
"Good; at 5 o'clock; Dips, you done good."

Chapter Six

Mussolini had fooled even the West early on; a seeming voice of reason
in resolving regional border disputes and generally working Italy's way
through the global Depression, with adopted Teutonic proficiency, had
earned him a now rescinded nomination to become Sir Benito, compliments
of His Royal Highness and his desperately pacific ministers. Like his
trains, their fawnings, most often seen in those whose self-assessment
is brutally candid, was true to the 'shed-yule'----the one set spinning
on an Axis.
The ancient clans of Sicily had a decidedly more accurate view of Il
Duce----he was systematically seeing to the destruction of their all
too competitive influence throughout the latter day Roman's domain. He
had ordered them killed, Mafia-style and with dispatch and, they, of
like-minded reciprocal sentiment, had devoutly wished that an
otherwise, to their eyes, useless King of Britain had followed through
with the laying on of sword to shoulder, then ninety degrees hard to
either side, making for a truly memorable, though bloody,
dubbing---sadly, they risibly opined , he lacked both an Italian heart
and enough of his Viking heritage. Absent so colorfully imagined
consignment of Duce's head and soul to a deserved night-like status
incapable of rescission, the Dons had reached out to their American
contingent for counsel and possible assistance, albeit of a kind not
envisioned by the too crude Duce or his somnolent American
counterparts.

A double exercise was at hand, featuring an elaborately woven design
with the inevitable double-cross 'ditching' within one or more
double-crosses, the resulting artful depiction a characteristically
vivid and crimsoned tapestry of terror.

"I am pleased to report that our initial information, courtesy of our
top operative, has been most promising" confided Major Francesco
Sargento to his German liaison officer.
As they took seats in his rococo office at the Servizio Informazione
Militare headquarters in Rome, Colonel Heinrich Hinche was, by nature,
dubious. "Berlin wants no mistakes----they must not raise any suspicion
of our involvement and you must guard against double agent
betrayal."
"My dear Heinrich, you must understand: I am Sicilian, and have known
these people all my life; we understand each other" Sargento said.
"Operation Black Hand will be successful; these American gangsters are
Sicilians first and understand payment in gold via Switzerland, the
perpetual neutral, yes."
"Their bourgeois movies would seem to bear you out, but.....are there
not Jews involved?"
"True-----mere moneychangers, this time polluting a quite different
Temple, yes?" Argento amused himself and, he hoped, his guest
master.

Appearing assuaged, at least for the present, Hinche came as close as
his Prussian roots allowed to humor: "Forgive me for saying so, but it
would seem that they have much in common, your gangsters and theirs;
we, too, have seen this in our SA brown shirts-----but slightly
different shades of this same crude spectrum."
"I take your meaning; be assured, they will serve everyone's
needs---ours, the Axis', your Fuhrer's and, most critically, their own,
in the reverse order, of course. They can certainly envision a world
without old-fashioned overlords in Sicily and one controlled by us,
their new partners....at least for the moment" Sargento confidently
concluded.

The German paused for what seemed like a full minute, then observing:
"Do you not mean OUR Fuhrer?" Hidden from Sargento, indeed, the world
at large behind the cruel smile of the arrogantly proud Nazi was the
philosophic phrase he admired from so great an enemy as Lenin----'our
cause welcomes useful idiots'.

Chapter Seven

Sleepwalkers. The term was much in vogue in the halls and backalleys of
burgeoning Nazi power to describe the European and, especially,
American. After all, they had been so mesmerized ,into the bargain
,indeed, in the name of the bargain itself: the leading commercial
firms and banks, ruled by those who had plutocratized a docile and
deeply wounded populace, in a way capitalism, unbridled had been seen
to make inevitable since Plato. These devotees of Pluto, Plato's
'philosoper-kings', had always preferred to transpose that divided
phrase, and were virtually in open princely defiance of Versailles and
its reparations burden, zealously rearming Germany by way of highly
imaginative, barely legal, schemes, all framed in the
pseudo-philosophic language of capitalistic anti-Bolshevism.

Indeed, it was the Communist Jew and his international cabal that
constituted the real threat to the Christian West.
Perhaps their most useful standard bearer, the young dashing Lindbergh
was himself of glorious Nordic stock.
Only blocks from the shanty site of the meeting that same day between
Mr. Dips Carter, Jr., Miss Jackson and Special Agent Frank Lee Roiles a
regal ceremony was taking place, in honor of that very hero
himself.

"Mine Herren &; Damen, our duly elected Reichfuhrer extends his
warmest welcome to Germany....in America!" The sash-bedecked master of
ceremonies waited for the mechanical laughter to subside. "I have the
great honor of presenting to you a hero of the Fatherland, America and
the world; his aerial exploits are only matched by his, so to say,
'down to Earth' common sense.....I proudly give you our honoree, the
noble Charles Lindbergh!"

As Lindy ascended the dais and approached the podium, he caught, with
seeming genuine surprise, in the corner of his eye, the German military
attach? approach with an elaborately marqueted box.
"Kind sir, before you begin your remarks, allow me the privilege of
presenting to you my homeland's highest honorary medallion......"
applause accompanied the placement by the dress uniformed, complete
with swastika, officer of the medal around Lindy's neck.

"I am truly moved, thank you, danke shein" Lindy gushed, to more vital
applause. "Mr. Ambassador, esteemed guests, America stands at a
crossroads. One path leading to continued peace, the other to
hysterical and unwarranted conflict with countries we need not
fear......."

And now the applause dictated that the room now be reconfigured, on its
collective feet, the German hosts beaming after the fashion of their
compatriot, Colonel Hinche and his most useful operatives.

Chapter Eight

Frank had staked out a dusty corner of the massive cathedral-like Post
Office; it is nearing 5 o'clock and the whole city is losing most signs
of human activity save the rush homeward. Hearing a woman's heels
short-stepping toward him, Frank notices Miss Jackson.

"Mr. Frank, ah jus getting here, that street car late, an so was da
jitney......" she breathlessly whispered.
"Don't worry yourself, all to the good; wanted this place empty."
As he looked around scooping their surroundings as he had done so
diligently with his naval deck gun so long ago, Frank handed her a
plain manila envelope: "Be sure and see this gets to that address,
pronto, no names."

"Di.......sorry, he nervous as can be but ah make certain he do as you
tole him." She paused as much for breath as to acknowledge the weight
of the matter entrusted to her and Dips. "Mr. Frank, ahs got something
to say to you, here, awright?"
Frank motioned for them to move outside.
Again using his ex-deck gunner tracer bullet-like eyes, he searched
360(, then: "We're all set, town's only got ghosts."
Miss Jackson, realizing he was only joking, sighed the relief of the
superstitious: "Whew; now, you knows I be careful as can be.....fore ah
comes here lady fren a mine come over; by den, Dips he gone to call his
woik at da pay phone down the corner."

Sensing her deep distress, Frank asked: "Miss J, you act like you've
seen one of my ghosts----what gives?"

"You see, it's like this here, she got the giff, the shine they calls
it; I don't tell her nuthin when she say---'Sense something evil, bad,
bad evil....like Judas hisself been here, wit us!'"
"That from a piece of paper?" Frank didn't know what to say, itself a
scary proposition to him.

"Ah doan say nuthin, and she in her spell, but I knows was about this
here letter. She never wrong, Mr. Frank, never!" Miss Jackson caught
herself raising her voice.

A strong wind blew up from nowhere, on a clear calm day, startling them
both.
Frank had to calm her, and himself, her telling had been so sincere, so
earnest. "Well, there's your standard 'ill wind'...."
He might just as well as have said: Boo!
".....dat blows no good!" she completed the clich?; "You be careful,
you hear".
Remembering those words issuance a million times in his youth from that
gentle, loving mouth, Frank promised: "It's a bet; come on, my car's
around the corner", placing his long arm ,of love and the law---whose
sole personification in Mr. Frank she trusted--- around her
shoulder.

Chapter Nine

In not just any bistro, among so very many, in Little Italy sat two
princely embodiments of streetwise hegemony and, as with most royalty,
even the small talk had large implications for the rest of the
world.
".....looks good for the slot bandits down in Big E-Z town; had it with
Dewey and that pasta-packing guineau LaGuardia" Frank Costello told his
notable guest.
"Tell me bout it, can't a paisan live at the Waldorf in peace!" said
Lucky Luciano.
"Well, maybe time fur ya ta use Mussolini, the prick, to our advantage;
sides, got all the old time Dons in a twist, cocksucker!" Costello
piled on.
"Just waitin for da right time is all; gotta have a scare, then the
G-men'll be all ears. Workin it true a little It-y cunt who tinks she's
got a deal wid us---magine dat, sendin a bitch ta do their dirty work,
fuckin marones."
"What ya got in mind----hey, my boys would love a goodbye kiss-off!"
Costello was getting warmer.
"Soon, got us da spot cased, tanks ta some frens with the Feds, easy
pickins um told; way ole 'Ill Duchebag' is kissin kraut ass could work
out better n we hoped" said Luciano.
An obsequious waiter, dazzled by his table, interrupts bowingly with
their food.
"Hey, Luigi, what you think a dis Mussolini, uh?" Lucky asked
sternly.
A stream of almost undecipherable Italian &; broken English
expletives went spewing, along with enough obligatory hand gestures to
force a contortionist into retirement.

"Hey, ya know, the Limeys gave im uh freakin knighthood!" Costello
informed the waiter. "Took it back, though, when they saw he was a
scumbag."
Luciano, poker-faced and frowning: "Enough!!" Costello even started to
choke, leaving Luigi noticeably trembling.

"How you know I don't like him, eh?........." A pause pregnant with
quintuplet fecundity materialized. "Relax!!!" Lucky now effortlessly
blending laughter with animated speech: "Ya see, I do.....like
him......Morta!" Belly laughter, lost on a still tremulous Luigi.

"That's the kinda 'night' I got in mind for that
'hood'--------permanent night!" Luciano, in his opinion, and that of
anyone within earshot who knew what was good for them, had outdone
himself.

Chapter Ten

Edgah enjoyed a particularly good relationship with the Old Man, one
even he, knowing himself as he all too well did, was pleasantly
surprised with.
The President, both patrician and big on security didn't trust the
lowly-origins of Hitler or Mussolini and the dreadful consequences he
knew as their foreboding. And he knew that Hoover, also ambitious to a
great many faults, shared those humble beginnings: as he happened to be
on on our payroll, he could be most useful, especially when the
situation called for dogged determination, the law take the hindmost.
There were mortal enemies within and without, questioning the
immortality of a nation.
"Find them, Edgah" the President had commanded. Hoover obeyed,
zealously. Soon, enemies lists were compiled; unconcerned about his
allies, the services of certain elements of the underground variety
were freely, and fruitfully, employed. Besides, his overaggressive
brain rationcinated, they respected him and had been generous with
their resources, all to the nation's benefit, not to mention the
satiation of personal peccadilloes and whims only the duly powerful
could both furnish and understand. And furnish they did to the extent
that Edgah was renowned among the uninitiated to have uncanny 'horse
sense', at almost any race he chose.

But there was another race about which he was decidedly unenthusiastic.
That's where Frank Lee Roiles truly roiled. He had to be kept close, an
agent of his versatile talents, not to mention special knowledge. Among
the 'queen's jewels' of that unique knowing was the virtually unknown
and highly irregular fact that Edgah seemed to have been the only
person in his mid-forties in District of Columbia recordkeeping history
to feature a Certificate of Birth issued in 1935; and, then, there was
the question of parentage, among so many other similar, and
questionable, details of what should have been an altogether ordinary
delivery of a 'white' child, even in 1898. It was the Negro births that
often went undetailed, or even uncertified accurately &;/or timely,
if at all. Yes, Frank was one of his 'closest' agents, having been
there at the creation, so to speak: creation of just what, when, who,
why and how was another subject, for another occasion......perhaps
never, if Frank and he dwelt near Edgah's vest, if not in his hip
pocket.

It was out of grave concern for the delicacy of that presidential
confidence, along with certain confidences of agent Roiles, that Edgah
was reluctant, to say the least, to bring any discredit upon the
President, even if his son was a na?ve little shit.
"So, what you want me to believe, and cause the President to also
believe, is that Jeffords Roosevelt himself is a spy ring's dupe!?"
roared Hoover at the go between with Luciano's men, seated beside him
in his sound proof government limousine, whose driver had been chosen
owing to the quality of discretion insured by stone deafness.

"Mr. H, don't get sore, I'm just the mess......"
"Yes, I know, don't shoot the messenger; see here, and speaking of
shooting (Hoover's right brain assured him in its discreet, ever silent
voice how very clever he was), I need a smoking gun, the kind of thing
that lays it out so plainly that we---I---look like a hero and not some
come lately Keystone cop, capish" Hoover lectured.

The messenger's own brain, while correcting the fat egotist across from
him with its own silent 'it's cabish', responded with what he had
thought was obvious: "We're working on it, Chief."
"That's another thing, until you earn the title Agent---and don't think
that would ever be possible---I'll thank you not to call me
Chief----that's reserved for better ilk than you'll ever see. Now, get
me what I need, or my blind eye might just experience a miracle cure,
got it?" Edgah was a tremendous prick, having all the aplomb of lit
dynamite. 'Hell, the half-man prob-lee thinks my high brow woid for
him means 'a bomb'! was the mob messenger's bemused, at-the-ready
silent running minstrel show, starring Edgah as Ir-Rastus-able....the
way they tolerated this two-bit pissant.

"I'll deliver your words to Mr. L right away, sir" and the messenger
was discharged near a deserted trucking company offices.

Hoover, tapping his dutiful driver on the right shoulder through a
seemingly unnecessary thick sliding glass partition, handed him a
preprinted card reading: TAKE ME TO NATIONAL AIRPORT, FRITZ. He was off
on a fact-finding trip to the West Coast, with some precious time
carved out for the nags at Santa Anita, guest of Mr. Luciano.

Chapter Eleven

Corsica, that sometime Italian possession, had long since lost its
primacy along with the dustiness surrounding the exploits of its last
unleashed monster; Mussolini obliged not even acknowledging Bonaparte
and his little island as truly Italian: he had bigger fish to
fillet.
And, so, when a certain few Dons of Syracusa sat down with a few
American paisanos, no note was taken.
"Don Vincenzo, an honor, I'm sure" Luciano's personal envoy bowed and
kneeled.
"Up, up......we meet as equals, with a common enemy" Vincenzo put him
and his party at ease.
After a ceremonial toast of wine, mingled with each's blood offering
drawn by an ancient family dagger taken from retreating Moors, they
began.
"In Roma these strutting minions from Hades may fool the swine they
herd, but not us: that is why they have been persuaded that we would be
betrayed by you, la familia" Don Vincenzo stated.

"Then they have truly accepted our promises to serve their needs in
America, on their promises to wipe out any competition to our sharing
the spoils of victory----this we could only surmise until now; of
course, the worthless ancient Roman 'rites' we invented from thin air,
must have held sway, so self-impressed they are with their phony
legions' plumery" laughed Luciano's mouthpiece and the others.

"A bunch of fools, certainly, but, we must be wary of their Bosch
masters; they are not such fools" counseled the Sicilian consigliere.
"That is why there must be a convincing demonstration of Mussolini's
'success', which you, our American brothers must manufacture and, for a
brief time, take the, how do you say, 'rap' for" he advised.
"This will be no trouble; we have certain patrones in high places who
will put it down to anarchistic communists----they are everywhere these
days in America" Luciano's man was quite sure of himself.

"When do you expect the explosions to occur?" was the next item on the
Syracusan's agenda.
"When else but American Independence Day.......explosives are less
conspicuous then." They all laughed heartily and with much mutual
loving relief, then, almost instantly, as the business demanded, to
it.

"I am concerned about the interim period, another month, our people
disappear by the dozen daily" complained the consigliere.
"Your people must hide out here; just as we have not been detected,
these hills will take care of them even if found out; besides, there is
grumbling all around after Ethiopia, Duce needs time to regain his
prestige" Luciano's representative urged. Then, like a brother sensing
their deep concern, jested yet again "We call it goin to the
mattresses!"

For all their reputed savagery, these men who valued consanguinity
above all else, knew regional history---not for any ancestral or
aesthetic reason, it was a matter of continued survival when
'difficulties' arose with those who thought they understood
Italy.

What was 'Italy'? Surely it was unknown to the Etruscans and their
Roman inheritors; theirs was a way of being, an organically pulsing
body politic, birthed by a she-wolf and thriving upon boundless
expansive growth, ceasing only with her own inevitable sclerotic aging.
When medieval Venice ruled the seas and trade upon them, again, a
boundlessness inhabited and informed her stature, both within and
without. Did not Paoli, mentor to the Young Napoleon, demonstrate that
an unconquerable spirit could withstand whole 'national' armies
dwelling guerilla-style in the rugged hills of Corsica? No, Italy was
less than a 'Franklin' old, was the Italian-Americans' knowing joke,
and, even at that, an ideal whose fate, like that of all such
conceptualizations, was stilted existence in a one-dimensional flat
world of so many lofty, ethereal scratchings upon sheepskin, despite
Resurgimento and Garibaldi's imaginings. Man had been a tribal being
for eons and without his tribe he possessed nothing, no heart, and
could only be possessed. No, upon this fundamental bond of brotherhood
the traditional clans, and their American exports, relied, and seeing
it outside their tightly drawn circles most prevalent in the Hebrews, a
special respect and understanding and, when felt to be good business,
operational connection of the 'wandering Jew' only made them
stronger---Lansky knew what, and who, really mattered, and it had
little to do with being Italian or American, for that matter.

After another day of cordial discussions, it was agreed that the refuge
would be taken, awaiting the machinations of Luciano and his
gang.
In a parting gesture, the Americans were feted to a genuine blood
ritual and feast, conjuring that essential tribalism deep within all
true men; Don Geraldonato himself, aged but strong-willed, sent the
dagger to Luciano as a token, accompanied by a tribute meant for the
recipient's ears: "What is there to worry and fret about----you are,
after all is said and done, 'Lucky', a child of La Fortuna
herself!"

Chapter Twelve

"Welcome back, Dipsy" was the half-hearted greeting from the guard
shack where all White House workers checked in every morning, to pick
up their employee badge and name tag. The eyes scrutinizing this
long-term employee----he had been there long before James McFarland had
been able to walk---told a quite different story, one of deep
antagonism, whose very existence grew out of the ugliest aspect of
hierarchical power, its condonation.
"Don't look any the worse for wear, me boy; why, even if ya was hung
over, couldn't tell if me life depended.....say, you can tell me, have
a few nips, eh, Dips, yesterday whilst we was here runnin the
show?"

McFarland arrayed his empty authority in such a way that the very
stones beneath his feet might be heard to moan in sorrow under the
ponderous weight of such baseless contempt, the way that Dips Carter,
Jr. had heard it, heard it through that exquisitely sensitive ear of
the soul to the very core of his blameless existence, as had his racial
fellows, it seemed, for as long as there had been stones, perhaps
longer still, his angrily pounding heart told him.
But, he knew, as he, they had always known, that one needed to possess
a heart, a truly human heart to learn the crushing weight of it, not
merely a heart-shaped dollop of reddish granite so placed in Egan's
breast that it could be said to belong nowhere else on Earth, as it
would render so great an insult to her that all her stony crust should
be, happily, ground to dust in aversion to it.

"No, suh, I doan drinks tall, no suh, not me, you gots me con fews"
Dips pleaded earnestly, eyes wincing with the indignation aroused by
condescending cruelty.
Dips made his way to the back entrance he had entered soberly for 25
years of loyal, albeit invisible service. Once, the President himself,
had given him a raise of twenty five cents, and a personal commendation
for his politeness and dedication; he had even been an alternate pall
bearer at the great man's funeral and, despite everyone, including
Dips, knowing that it was just a hollow gesture as, by law, only whites
could tote the lowliest of coffins by law, he was proud of it.
As far back as anyone could remember, all the staff had been Negroes,
including during the War between the States when rumors were rampant
that spies, even assassins had been recruited amongst Negro house
servants, unquestioningly loyal to their masters, for surreptitious
placement in government service by the wily Judah P. Benjamin, reputed
'brains of the Confederacy', all over Washington. Despite all those
lies, several of the staff were actual generational inheritors of their
positions, so valued were their forbears.
That afternoon things were especially hectic for the staff, Dips in
particular as he had missed a rare day's chores, held undone for him as
he was so efficient in their dispatch. A formal dinner for certain
Congressmen was to be held in the state dining room, Dips' station, and
he hadn't a moment to spare, except the one he took to do Frank's
bidding, to replace the letter he now carried self-consciously in his
breast pocket.
He had taken every precaution he knew to take, double-checking to see
whether anyone, anyone at all might be in a position to view him enter
the President's office within an office; it had no windows, so he was
certain he had been unseen going in there, for the briefest of moments,
to situate the re-crumpled paper exactly where he had found it. After
all, it was one of his alternate duty stations; who would remember that
today was his day to work strictly in the dining room, unscheduled as
it was. No, suh, this'guilty dog' ain't doing no barkin, he thought, as
I ain't done nuthin wrong, no suh', he repeated in his mind at least a
dozen times or more. Why, he even remembered the plush deep pile carpet
he had meticulously vacuum cleaned the last time he was in there, only
days ago, being exactly as he had left it, nary a footprint on it, as
the President, First Lady, even Jeffords, were away from Washington
until that evening.

It was 3am, and Dips, a sound sleeper, sat up in his single bed like he
had never closed his eyes six hours ago----his pajamas drenched in
clammy sweat; his eyes, despite the dark, turned steadily like an
anxious lighthouse beacons to the place he knew his shoes had been
placed, as usual, his size 19EEE shoes. His stomach sunk below a new
wave of wetness dripping, now, from his deeply furrowing brow.

Chapter Thirteen

"I explained to you already why I can't take you; Pa insists that I be
present at some bloody soiree....I should be able to train back
tonight....." Jeffords, the 'kid', was reporting to his increasingly
jealous lover, before she hung up on him; of course, she knew he would
redial, she had feigned a fit of anger, always well-controlled, over a
meaningless date they had to attend some lackluster Broadway
production. She was right, he called back immediately. Knowing
precisely when to change the mood, she did so, and he followed suit.
The bell was not even rung this time, she mused, but his hunger no
longer made such obvious distinctions; Jeffords had earned his AKC
papers, as pure-bred a show dog as she, or her handlers, had ever
seen.

As with all such breeds, however, small but damaging flaws are
inevitable----the genetic pool, you see, the judges would
observe.
His particular imperfection had been his handling of the latest 'fetch'
routine, careless about leaving the point of contact unchanged. The
embarrassment suffered by the trainer was damaging to both their
careers and, in her case, could easily prove fatal.

The guests had begun arriving on time; the President, as was his wont,
had paid a visit to the anteroom he secreted himself within before any
important meeting, business or pleasure. Having wheeled himself into
the cosy space, he enjoyed his usual before meal German schnapps
aperitif; it was upon his attempted exit that the front of his chair
caught something undercarriage----wheeling backwards carefully, slowly,
he leaned forward to find a slightly scented hand written letter. The
one page, neatly written note featured the letterhead of New York
University/Graduate Studies Department, something Marta herself had
thought quite good additional cover, in case of difficulties her golden
retriever might encounter.

Young Jeffords slept at the White House that night, and indefinitely
thereafter; his father had been most insistent, along, therefore, with
the Secret Service posted at his bedroom door. Jeffords was informed
that an indefinite, though credible threat had been discovered to the
First family and all precautions were now in order. And while evidence
of his son's unwitting complicity in that threat had been consigned to
fuel for a wooden match, the President had in mind certain changes in
the quotidian workings of the White House; all staff were now to
receive particular scrutiny as never before.

Chapter Fourteen

"Mr. Seward, what's all the fuss about the Negro staff?" The President
was weary from letter writing to far too many grieving families over
the mounting losses of their poorly led sons.
"Sir, with respect, Benjamin's got his swarthy clutches far too deep
into Washington's private homes; I simply will not allow this one to be
so infected with seditious operators" said the now righteously
indignant Secretary of State. Lincoln, knowing too well that this had
been the customary state of mind of his once jealous rival---and
particularly as to his not too long-departed misgivings of his
President's abilities---smiled wryly, taking his time to devote verbal,
much less mental, energy to this latest crisis in a place overstocked
with what seemed like unceasing products of a devilish 'Perpetual
Exigency Machine', as the President termed it.
Seeing his cause barely registering on the stoic appellate arbiter,
Seward reached into his deep bag of chicanery.
"I shall retire, Mr. President, with but one more point: Mrs. Lincoln
shares my concerns about the staff" and then he was gone, stage right.
The arbiter, returning to his correspondences, merely sighed
deeply.
Judah Phillipe Benjamin, the 'brains of the Confederacy', so-called by
both sides and the commentators of Europe, had long been suspected of
devising and closely operating clandestine operations in the North.
Such a distinction was in no small measure an outgrowth of his
reputation for confidentiality and even deep secrecy in most of his
dealings; it was this characteristic, as well as his unthreatening
status as a lonely Jew in power and the South in general, that made him
the close confidant of President Davis.

Unhelpful to his already closely guarded heart's description as,
variously, 'dark', 'cold and calculating' and 'full of the crafty
Hebraic scheming of a double-Shylock', Benjamin was multilingual, with
a fine facility for French from his days of notable lawyering and
socializing in New Orleans as well as his wife, a regular habitu? of
Parisian salons; he was also well-regarded in sometime sympathetic
England and Canada. As one of America's leading commercial attorneys,
he had had a preexisting network of contacts in banking and financial
circles. Credible rumors abounded that he had a vast offshore reservoir
of capital, unknown even to Davis and his Confederate confreres, with
which to sow mischief. And so-called free blacks, or, in some cases,
escaped slaves, soon came to realize that there were many forms of
slavery, the subtlest perhaps being wage bondage. While the bosses were
generally preferable to the enlashed overseer, the inner workings were
not especially divergent when it came to their low opinion of the
African.

For as long as there had been an Executive Mansion there had been a
'darkie' staff; at least, that was everyone seemed to say. Himself,
manservant Jedediah Carter was the longest serving on the staff of 7;
mostly doing whatever needed doing----carpentry, gardening, even
plastering, as there were no funds for upkeep of the place, always
open, it seemed, to all sorts of callers, many just the curious and not
so trustworthy----he was very well-liked by the three Presidents he had
served.

When he had been first questioned by the Pinkerton man he was mostly
confused----living on small wages and what he was allowed to grow on
the grounds, he didn't understand what they were trying to learn from
him: 'When did you leave the South?' and 'Who is Mr. Bartholemew
Scaggs?' and 'How much are you being paid to steal papers?'

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