A President In Peril

Chapter Seventeen V₄ E₁ R₁ B₃ A₁ T₁ I₁ M₃ (adv, adj) in exactly the same words; word for word

To show Fahey that I was earnest in trying to help, I immediately went back to his office and repeated our phone conversation verbatim. At the risk of bragging, I’m good at remembering every word of a dialogue.

“That miserable Nazi,” he raged. “Well, going back to what the late Mr. Goldman told you — assuming he could be believed — at least the good news, if there is any, is that this is a pretty small group we’re dealing with.”

“True, but it doesn’t take a lot of people to cause a lot of trouble. I think that man John Wilkes Booth, who shot Lincoln, was operating pretty much on his own. Same for the killers of those other presidents back in the last century, Garfield and McKinley.”

“Okay, so you know your history,” the chief growled. “Don’t show off.”

“Sorry, Fergus. It’s just that even if only one man is involved, it can be hard to stop him.”

Fahey nodded and reached for a cigarette. “Stay in touch,” he said. “And for God’s sake, don’t try to play the Lone Ranger again. It hasn’t worked all that well for you in the past.”

“Thanks for the reminder,” I told him. I excused myself and headed back to the press room. As I climbed the flight of worn marble stairs, I mused on how — and where — the New Reich voice had seen me.

Perhaps he had stationed himself outside Police Headquarters and spotted me on my way to or from the job, or heading out to lunch. But if that were the case, how would he have recognized me? My photo had never been in the Tribune — or any other paper, for that matter.

Back at my desk, I half-heartedly joined in a discussion about whether the latest polls showing Dewey in the lead were reliable. After ten minutes of mostly listening to the opinions of my fellow reporters, I went down to the lobby, eased into a phone booth and dropped a nickel into the slot.

Pickles Podgorny answered on the fourth ring. “To what do I owe the pleasure of this call, star reporter?” he asked.

“Have you heard about Lou, the guy that we had lunch with?”

“No, why?”

“For the record, his real name was Ed Goldman. He was found early today in an alley with his throat slit.”

“No shit?”

“No shit. And they used the knife a second time, to nail a paper with a Star of David on it into his chest.”

“Oh my God, that’s... that’s...” His voice trailed off.

“Now listen, Pickles, I want to see the man who hooked you up with Goldman. What’s his name again — Arnie Kravitz?”

“I can’t do that, Snap. It’s—”

“Shut up, Pickles! You can and you will. As it is, I’ve got Fergus Fahey all over me right now. I’m trying to keep you and the Kravitz guy out of all this, but by God, if you don’t play ball with me, I’ll hand you both to the chief.”

“Shit, Snap, you wouldn’t do that.”

“Just try me, card sharp. We’re all up to our asses in this one.”

He emitted a sound somewhere between a sigh and a moan. “Geez, I don’t even know if I can find Arnie.”

“Bullshit, Pickles. Don’t give me that helpless crap — it’s not like you. I want a meeting with you and Kravitz and I want it today. Understand?”

The silence at the other end went on so long I thought he’d hung up on me, except I never heard a dial tone. Finally he spoke: “I’ll try to find him and call you.”

“All right. Let’s see, it’s just after two. I’m here ’til five, and we can meet someplace quiet for a drink after I get off. There’s a little joint on Van Buren in the Loop under the El tracks...”

At four-fifteen, Pickles phoned me in the press room. “Arnie really doesn’t want to see you or me either,” he said plaintively.

“We’ve been all through that; he doesn’t have a choice, unless he wants to make a visit to Headquarters,” I said, keeping my voice low.

“I explained all that to him, and he gave me an argument. But when I mentioned Chief Fahey, he, well, changed his mind.”

“So as I said before, there’s this little saloon on Van Buren near Dearborn called Sonny’s. We’ll meet in exactly one hour, at five-fifteen. If you and Kravitz get there first, take one of the booths toward the back. We’ll have more privacy there.”

Pickles mumbled his assent and signed off. I then called Catherine and told her I’d be late for dinner. She wanted to know why, and I told her that I would explain when I got home.

It was precisely a quarter past five when I pushed through the wooden revolving door and into the smoke-filled Sonny’s, which had occupied the space as long as I could remember. There were a half-dozen men and a couple of women at the bar and most of the booths were empty. One in the back was occupied, however. Pickles signaled me with a wave.

He and Arnie Kravitz sat on one side of the booth, knowing that I’d want to face both of them. Kravitz was even skinnier than Pickles, which was saying something. His long face wore a basset-hound expression, although probably he wouldn’t have looked so sad if he were anyplace else at the moment. He wore a ratty brown sweater and a flat cap similar to the one Pickles had on.

“Sorry we couldn’t have met under more pleasant circumstances,” I told the glum Kravitz. “When did you get the word of Goldman’s murder?”

“Just a little while before Pickles called me,” he said sullenly. “A... a friend called me. I don’t know what you want from me.”

“Hear me out,” I told him. “As you know, I met Goldman, or ‘Lou,’ as he called himself, when we had lunch. So I assume you’re part of this Maccabees bunch too?”

Kravitz looked at Pickles, who nodded. “What of it?” he said in a defensive tone.

“Did Goldman tell you what he found out about any specific plans of this New Reich organization?” I asked as a waitress came by and took our beer orders.

He waited until she had left and contemplated dirty fingernails. “He... knew something big was in the works, but those guys played it pretty close to the vest. Of course now we know that they got onto him.”

“But they must have said something that he picked up on in the meetings,” I posed. “Presumably, they didn’t know he was one of the Maccabees until he’d been with them for a while.”

“He told me there was one word they used whenever they talked about the big thing they were planning.”

“Which was?”

“Something like ‘ogra’ or ‘okra.’ He couldn’t be sure of the spelling because it was never written down, only spoken,” he said as three frosty pilsner glasses of beer were set down in front of us.

“Probably O-G-R-A or O-K-R-A, right?”

“I really couldn’t say, but that’s what it sounded like to me.”

“And you have no idea what it means?”

“Not a clue,” Kravitz snapped, the hostility still evident in his tone.

“Did Goldman have any idea what the ‘big thing’ was that they were planning?”

Kravitz took a sip of his beer and licked his lips. “He got the idea that... that it had something to do with President Truman.”

I tried to sound surprised. “Is that so?” I said, throwing Pickles a knowing look. “Did he have any details about this?”

Kravitz shook his head. “Truman’s name never came up in the meetings, not once. But whenever they talked about this plan of theirs, they referred to ‘The Big Man’ as the target.”

“Truman’s coming to town next week.”

“No secret in that,” Kravitz muttered.

“No. Do the Maccabees have a plan to avenge Goldman’s killing?” I asked.

“I got no comment.”

“Okay, fine, I don’t really give a damn one way or the other about your group’s plans, although I’d love to see these thugs all land in the pokey.”

“I’d rather see them all dead, every last one of them,” Kravitz said.

“Can’t say that I blame you. Do you know if Goldman ever wrote anything down about what he learned in these New Reich meetings?”

“I’m sure he didn’t. Everything he knew, he told us. We would meet with him right after every one of his sessions with... them.”

“Did he say anything that would tell you the identities of any of these people?”

“Not really. The one who seemed to be the leader in these meetings was somebody named Earl, but his last name was never spoken. In fact, Ed told us that no last names got used.”

“Do you have any idea how the Reich got onto him?”

Kravitz screwed up his face. “All I can figure is that maybe one of these fascist pigs followed him after one of their meetings. He usually came straight back to us to report.”

“Us meaning the Maccabees?”

“Of course. We try to be careful ourselves — we have to. But maybe Ed slipped up once and didn’t realize he had a tail.”

“Anybody else from your bunch going to try infiltrating them?”

“Are you out of your mind? That would be like asking to be killed right now.”

“So this Nazi slime will just go on with their miserable work?” I asked, goading Kravitz.

“Eventually they will be stopped, we promise you that,” he said tensely, a vein standing out on his forehead. “Maybe not now, or not next week, or even next month. But they will pay.”

His intensity left no doubt in my mind that the Maccabees were still to be reckoned with. I would not want to be on their bad side, and I said so.

Kravitz made no comment. He drained his beer, licked his lips, and started to slide out of the booth. “I can pay for this,” he said.

“Nope,” I told him, holding up a palm. “This meeting was my idea, and I know you weren’t keen on coming. I appreciate that you did. If by chance you find out anything more about what these two-bit storm troopers are planning, I would appreciate it if you would get hold of Pickles or call me.” I wrote my work and home phone numbers on a piece of my notebook paper and passed it over to him, although I knew damn well I wouldn’t hear from him.

He nodded, put the sheet in his billfold, and turned on his heel, walking out through the bluish nicotine-driven haze of the now crowded and noisy saloon.

“Well, what do you think?” I asked Pickles, who was glumly contemplating his empty glass.

“I think I’d like another one of these,” he said, “if it’s in your budget, that is.”

I called the waitress over and ordered two more beers. “Okay, your impressions,” I said.

“Shit, I don’t know, Snap. I think these Maccabees are spooked right now. Wouldn’t you be? Christ, they slit a man’s throat and then nail a Star of David sign to his chest. That would scare me off permanently. And I do mean forever.”

“Yeah, I’m sure they’re scared, all right, but they’re also mad as hell. You know, Pickles, I had this weird feeling that something was going to happen just before Goldman got himself killed. Now I’ve got the same sort of feeling that The New Reich is going to get their comeuppance, and very soon.”

“Would you call that a weird feeling, or just wishful thinking?” Pickles asked as our beers were delivered. “I’ve never known you to be psychic.”

“Maybe it’s a little of both,” I conceded. “I just feel like things are about to come to a head.”

“Well, I urge you to be careful, scribbler amigo,” he said between sips from his glass. “You’ve already used up several of your nine lives, and after what happened to this poor Goldman, it’s clearer than ever that this is one damned nasty bunch, regardless of what they may have planned for Truman.”

“I hear you, Pickles. I promise to proceed with all due caution.”

“You define caution the way most people define reckless,” he snorted. “You’re a decent sort, if somewhat stingy in your payments to informants, but I’ve grown rather fond of you nonetheless.”

“Why, Pickles, I’m touched, I truly am,” I told him as I worked on my beer.

“If you’re so all-fired touched,” he said, “you might consider how hard I toil to bring you information — and informants, too.”

“Just drink your suds and consider it one form of payment.”

“But Pabst Blue Ribbon doesn’t put food on my table,” he groused.

“No, although poker does, you slick operator. But you’ve touched my heart with your plea,” I said, pulling out my billfold and handing him a double sawbuck that I would find a way to expense.