Operation Underworld (5 page)

“Yeah, yeah lady, I speak English. Don jew?” he replied sarcastically. The aircraft jolted for a second time with turbulence as it entered the warm airspace over the city. The stranger clung more tightly to his seat, and tried not to look scared.

“Oh, I see! Jew have afraid! Dat’s okay, jew have afraid!” The young woman sat casually, seatbelt undone and legs crossed over. She made no attempt to ignore his white knuckles, welded to the armrests of his seat.

“I’m not afraid!” The man became conscious of his loud speech and lowered his tone. “I just don’t like the air bumps!” he exclaimed as he slowly released his death grip on the seat handles.

“Air bimps?”

“Jess! De air bimps!” he replied with increased sarcasm, no longer making any attempt to conceal his irritation at the women’s intrusion on his misery.

“Oh! Jew meen disturbulance!”

“What?”

“Disturbulance!” The women turned her body to face him and began to demonstrate with broad, sweeping gesticulations. “Iz when atmoosferic disturbulance comes from cold air mass and warm air mass crash together and make unstable, dense air mass. So jew have disturbulance! No air bimp!”

He stared, open-mouthed. “Who the hell are you lady, Charles A. Lindbergh?”

“No! Jew silly boy! Lindbergh, he a man! I Martina, Martina Kaminski. Are jew in dee Army?”

After a brief hesitation, the man relented. “Doc. Doc McKeowen.” He gave a cursory nod. “No. 4-F, perforated ear drum. Not supposed to fly.”

“Oh! Jew are a Doktor? How nice?” Her sweet, coy voice dripped through her broad smile and all over the seats and she slowly snuggled up to him. Doc moved over in his seat to maintain the distance.

“No lady, I’m not a Doctor. I’m a private investigator.”

She pulled back from him with a noticeable change in attitude. “Jew a cop! Jew dun look like no cop!” she said suspiciously.

“I’m not a cop. I’m a PI.” She looked at him quizzically. “Private Investigator.” He caught sight of her oversized handbag on the floor. “You know, like when a guy thinks maybe his wife is cheating on him, say with a younger guy or something.” He slid a little closer and propped himself up on the arm rest. “Like maybe she came back from a vacation, in Havana, say, and she’s very pretty, and her husband is a little older, and they haven’t been married that long.” He leaned into her. “And he’s worried that she might go puttin’ the make on every guy she meets because maybe, just maybe she married this guy to get her citizenship. You know, stuff like that.”

The young girl was now sitting with both legs pulled up to her chest, feet on the seat, a look of extreme worry on her face. Doc noticed her concern had turned to fear, and felt a short tinge of remorse. He smiled and sat back to allay her fears.

“Look, lady, I’m sorry. Really, I didn’t mean anything by it.” She didn’t respond, but continued to glare at Doc.

“Honest! Lady, I’m sorry.”

“How jew know dees dings?! My husband, he send jew?”

“Look, Mrs Kaminski… Martina. Your first name is Hispanic, I can see your passport in your handbag, it’s American.” Doc pointed to the small black carry-on, poking out from under the seat in front of Martina. She allowed her eyes to dart briefly to her bag and then back again. “If you were coming from Florida, you wouldn’t need your passport. And your wedding ring is brand new. Plus, I doubt I would find too many Kaminskis in the Havana phone book.”

The women began to relax a little. Doc wanted to stay her fears a little more.

“How did you know about that warm air mass and cold air mass stuff? That’s pretty interesting.”

Martina was still trying to make up her mind who he was, and so remained in the foetal position on her seat. Without turning away from Doc, she reached into the seat back in front of her and removed a trifold brochure. Like a dagger from a scabbard, she pulled it and thrust it at Doc.

“I read about the disturbulance in dees!” Taking it from her, Doc glanced at the latest issue of
Captain Carl’s Tips
, an informational brochure published by the airline.

“They many good dings in dare. Maybe someday jew read. Den jew don be so scared and den jew don drink so much,” Mrs Kaminski explained to her involuntary travel partner, nodding at the seven or eight empty drink glasses stuffed in the seat back, in front of McKeowen.

“Tell ya what, lady, my mother dies, you got the job!” As he spoke, he jammed the pamphlet back into the seat packet.

She was slapped by his irritation but didn‘t want any more tension between them. “I sorry! I Dun mean to criticalise jew! My father? He used to drink also. All dee time!”

Doc smiled and nodded, reminiscing about happier times when the woman was being quietly entertained by the clouds.

“All dee time, he drink, drink, drink, drink, drink.” She was again very animated in her behaviour. Doc wished he had a drink. “Are you anything like your mother?”

“Why jes! Sometimes people dink dat we are seesters. Why do jew ask?”

“Just wonderin’ why your father drank.” Doc was back on form.

“I dunnno…” Martina seriously contemplated the question.

After the plane taxied to the appropriate tarmac, McKeowen reached under his seat and produced a small, navy blue gym bag. The initials
YMCA
were stencilled across one side of it and it was easy to see there wasn’t much in it.

Doc always travelled light for two reasons. One, he hated carting luggage around, and two, he didn’t own any. He didn’t need it. The fact was that he had never been out of New York State before. Except to New Jersey, and what the hell, that didn’t really count now, did it?

Standing around the base of the roll-up stairs, out on the tarmac, were several skycaps in their mandatory dark blue uniforms. The sky blue Pan Am logo on the breast pocket and brim of the cap showed they had paid their mandatory fees to work for free. These men, all of them black, made their livings solely on tips. One of them approached Doc with an oversized metal cart, and asked if he needed a grip. Doc looked at the enormity of the cart, then to his diminutive bag, shrugged and said, “Why not?”

Doc passed him the bag which he placed on the cart, tilted it back and they headed across the tarmac towards the terminal.

“Mr McKeowen! Mr McKeown!” Doc turned to see Mrs

Kaminski running after him, her black, slide-on heels clopping on the asphalt while struggling to keep her overstuffed black bag on her shoulder.

“Go on. I’ll catch up,” Doc instructed the cap. “Mrs Kaminski. What a pleasure to see you again.”

She came alongside and dropped anchor, then removed her oversized sunglasses before she spoke. “How do jew know my husbent he’s older?”

Doc sighed. “I figure there’s plenty of young guys in Cuba, but no money, so you come here where there’s money. But not many guys your age have that much money. If they do, they’re probably connected, in which case you probably wouldn’t be screwing around.”

She didn’t know whether to be pissed off, indignant or just clop away.

“Anyding else, whise guy?”

“Yeah. If my wife had a body like that she wouldn’t have time to go to Cuba.”

Her anger began to leak away. “Are all jew Irish so smart?”

“I’m not Irish. I’m Scottish.”

Outside the terminal, taxis snaked in a never-ending line along the curbside. A black Checkered pulled up immediately and the operator hopped out. While the driver went around to open the trunk for his passenger’s luggage, Doc tipped the cap.

“What happen, Mac? Bastards lose your luggage?” asked the cabby, eyeing the cart.

“Yeah, second time this month,” Doc answered, as he threw the gym bag into the trunk and got into the cab.

“Where to?”

“1929 Christopher Street. Don’t wake me till we get there, and don’t go by way of Brooklyn Bridge,” Doc instructed.

Nearly an hour later, the taxi pulled up outside
Harry’s Front Page News
. Doc got out and, with the last of the bills and change in his pocket, paid the driver.

Despite the early hour of half past five, the dark of winter had set in. Traffic was flowing freely now in The Village, and the evening chill could no longer be ignored.

Harry’s Front Page
, which everyone called The News Stand, occupied the entire ground level of 1929 Christopher Street. The corner entrance and small display window were capped by a hand-lettered, green enamel sign which hadn’t seen a fresh coat of paint since Lindy had seen Paris.

Packed with black wire, twirly racks, stacked with postcards that never sold, (come to think of it, nothing ever really sold except newspapers and an occasional stale candy bar), you’d be hard pressed to squeeze four people in there at any one time. That included Harry.

Harry’s claim to fame was the time Mel Blanc came into his candy store and said it was so small you had to go outside to change your mind. Harry was a Bugs Bunny fan forever after.

Harry’s life had long ago settled into sitting on a high-backed stool all day, framed by racks of candy bars and potato chips, and he was rarely seen to venture out from behind the counter. An unseen radio constantly played in the background and he read all day long. To his credit, he read only the classics. Captain Marvel, The Shadow and The Phantom. These were by far the best, for it was common sense that they were the most realistic. Every time Superman or Batman got in a fix, they would come up with some wild gizmo they just happened to have nearby or hanging on a belt, and escape certain death. Ridiculous. Who ever heard of yellow kryptonite, anyway?

Harry had lost a leg in the last war, and in between warm sodas and cold coffees, the old man would give Doc tips on horse-racing, despite the fact Doc had never been to the track in his life. Doc respected Harry because he was one of those old people who could tell you what he had for breakfast on any given day, six months ago, and he seldom ate the same thing every day. This made Harry the perfect lobby watch-dog.

The ground floor of the five storey building was never intended as any sort of a shop, so when the owners remodelled it, just before World War I, access to the upper floors had to be rerouted. The ground floor conversion was an attempt to keep up with the flood of businesses which swept the Greenwich Village neighborhoods just before the war broke out. Doc walked in through the glass door which opened into Harry’s.

“Doc! Where the hell you been for a week?”

“Vacation, Harry. I figure I earned it. Anybody hangin’ around I should know about?”

“Not a bad guy in sight, Doc.”

“Gimme a late edition, will ya.”

“Didja hear the news? The Krauts sent a sub into the harbour! Sunk some big boat!”

“You sober?”

“Honest ta Christ, Doc! They did!”

Doc took the half-folded newspaper and tucked it under his arm while he headed for the door to the upstairs offices.

“Thanks, Harry. See ya later.”

“I’m tellin’ ya, Doc, this war ain’t like the last one. We could lose!”

“We ain’t gonna lose, Harry. We’re the good guys. Hell, Lamont Cranston lives here!” Doc called over his shoulder, passing through the single door to Harry’s left.

The sixty-year-old structure was immaculately cleaned and maintained but the elevator seemed perpetually out of order, so visitors and residents had to climb the ornate metal staircase to reach their destinations.

At the third floor, Doc turned left down the hall towards his office. He took the paper from under his arm and, just as he began to open it, a voice called out.

“Hey, Doc!” The voice startled him, making him jump, but as he looked to the right of the corridor, a smile slowly crept over his face.

“Hey, Redbone!” Tucking the paper back under his arm, he continued walking towards his office. The elderly black man, bent on one knee, was repairing a lock, and as he passed by, Doc patted him on the shoulder.

Redbone spoke in a slightly diluted Cajun’ accent. “Sorry if I startled you, man. Just surprised to see ya,” he said, reaching into his tool box.

Doc noticed the mop and bucket propped against the wall on the man’s left.

“Still on double duty, eh, Redbone?”

“Goin’ on six months now. But I don’t mind. Keeps me busy since Saddie went to sleep.” Doc smiled and nodded in acknowledgement of Redbone’s stoicism. He continued down the hall and stopped in front of a door on the left.

“Hey, Redbone!”

“Yeah, Doc?”

Doc was staring at the glass pane on the office door as he unlocked it. “You get time, take this damn name off the door, will ya? It’s stinkin’ up the joint.”

“Sure, Doc. First thing tomorrow.”

McKeowen unlocked the door and went in, thought for a moment, stuck his head back out, and called down the hall.

“Redbone, there’s probably gonna be a baptism tonight, so if you hear anything, it’s okay.”

“Don’t be goin’ doin’ nuthin’ stupid, Doc!”

The door shut and the glass panel was back-lit when Doc turned on the office light inside.
Sammon and McKeowen. Private Investigations Agency. We Peep While Others Sleep
, was the only office occupied at this late hour. The unremarkable office was only about 400 sq ft, and was partitioned to the right as you walked in the door. The partition was wood halfway up, then iced glass and stood just over six foot tall. There was a pair of opaque, deco globes suspended by chain from the ceiling around the lights. An army cot, half-sized ice-box and hot plate on the other side were home. They were semi-stashed out of sight. Just in case a client accidentally showed up.

Doc peered into the letterbox screwed to the back of the door, but didn’t bother to remove the three or four envelopes it contained. He locked the door, dropped his bag and moved over to his desk in the corner of the room and, exhausted, removed his coat and flopped into his chair. Staring into space, he suddenly jumped up and violently kicked the chair, knocking it to the floor. He stared at it for a while to make sure it wasn‘t breathing, then sighed and reached into his jacket pocket and produced an airline ticket stub. Staring at it, he shook his head.

“Chump!” he mumbled as he tore the useless document into small pieces and threw them in the air.