“Only if we stick with cash,” Charlie said. “I can’t call if Street throws down his Distinguished Flying Cross.”
Street laughed. “I like to get in the door on the first try,” he said.
Strongfellow dealt each man two cards and placed three other shared cards faceup on the table. The men fell into a brief silence, each contemplating his pair.
“Check,” said MacLachlan, and then he glanced at Charlie with one bushy eyebrow raised. “I hear you’ve been shanghaied by Kefauver to sign up for his latest publicity tour.”
“What’s he up to now?” asked Street. “Check.”
“Check,” said Charlie.
“Check,” said Strongfellow. He threw down a fourth shared card in the middle of the table.
“Nickel in,” said MacLachlan, throwing a coin into the pot. “Oh, he’s cooked up a bullshit hearing about comic books being the reason for urban crime waves,” MacLachlan said. “Kefauver’s latest attempt to cast himself as a white knight in preparation for ’56.”
After Street anted up, Charlie came to terms with the fact that he was holding a garbage hand.
“I’m out,” he said.
“Raise,” said Strongfellow, tossing a dime into the pot. He slid the fifth and final shared card faceup, prompting a harrumph from MacLachlan.
“Fold,” he said.
“Sounds like the old okey-doke to me,” Street said. “Raise.” He put down a quarter, and Strongfellow groaned mildly and tossed his cards on the table. Street reassembled the deck and began shuffling.
“Okey-doke?” asked Strongfellow.
“You’ll forgive him, Street, he’s from Utah,” Charlie joked.
“A distraction,” explained Street. “Omaha Hi-Lo, gentlemen,” he announced as he dealt the cards. “Okey-doke’s a scam. The guy on the street who holds up his hat with one hand and says, ‘Look at my hat, nothing in my hat,’ and with the other hand he’s pinching your wallet.”
“I don’t think it’s a distraction,” said Charlie. “I think they mean it. And I’m in no position to say no.”
“Course not,” said MacLachlan.
As Street finished dealing each man four cards facedown, Charlie wondered how much he could press his case with his new friends. He inspected his cards: the ace of hearts, the ace of spades, the two of clubs, the seven of diamonds. Two aces before even one flop card had been dealt; a great start, but he couldn’t seem too eager. He threw down a nickel.
“I need Kefauver on my side because of the cruddy gas masks I told you about,” Charlie said as everyone else anted up. “I don’t think Goodstone should get another nickel from the taxpayers. And I can use any support. Whether it’s from Kefauver, someone else on the Subcommittee on Juvenile Delinquency, or any of you fine gentlemen.”
Charlie turned to a confused-looking Street to offer a brief synopsis of the saga of the gas masks and Private First Class Rodriguez. Strongfellow chimed in with the more pressing issue of Chairman Carlin’s anger at Charlie for trying to block federal funds from Goodstone.
“I know the answer before I ask,” said Street, “but I assume Goodstone never reached out to the private’s family?”
Charlie shook his head. His two priorities upon returning to Manhattan after the war had been marrying Margaret and sitting down with the Rodriguezes to tell them what had happened. He saw them every June at St. Cecilia’s in Manhattan, where they all lit candles. “Near as I can tell, Goodstone’s done everything they can to pretend it didn’t happen.”
“Pretty crummy,” Street said. “Brother Powell’s on Appropriations; I can talk to him, see what he thinks.”
“I’d keep it quiet for now, boys,” Strongfellow cautioned. “Carlin is a mercenary.”
“But don’t you think if we can get a sizable group of veterans in the House to oppose this, Carlin will see the writing on the wall?” Charlie asked. “Why would this be worth making a stink about? I doubt Goodstone would want the publicity.”
“This isn’t some Andy Hardy movie, Charlie,” MacLachlan said. “Folks don’t band together when the chips are down and put on a show.”
“Mac is right,” Street said. “We need to learn a lot more before we do anything. We don’t know if Goodstone has connections or a loose wallet or powerful friends or what.”
“You don’t want to get in over your head,” Strongfellow warned.
“They had to have paid someone off to have gotten away with it,” said Street.
“Or someones,” agreed MacLachlan.
“I get it, I get it,” said Charlie, now a bit embarrassed.
“One just needs to be a bit more stealthy on this battlefield, Charlie,” MacLachlan said. “And we need to do a lot more recon.”
“Carlin is mean,” said Strongfellow. “You can’t just take him on willy-nilly.”
“But you’re actually ahead of the game, here, in one way,” said MacLachlan. “It makes more sense for you to try to get Kefauver to remove the Goodstone money when the bill gets to the Senate.”
“Here’s the flop,” said Street, throwing down the first shared card for the table: the ace of clubs.
Charlie didn’t believe in omens, but having two aces in the hole and a third on the table improved his mood a touch. Still, he felt naive and dejected and couldn’t help reflecting that principles had been a lot easier to fight for before he entered a world where there were actual consequences.
Chapter Six
Sunday, December 7, 1941
New York City, New York
Charles Everett Marder had been born prematurely in Manhattan on December 7, 1920, a date of little consequence in any way until the day he turned twenty-one. A birthday-celebration lunch was planned around his schedule, and at two o’clock he met his parents at P. J. Clarke’s on Fifty-Fifth and Third. It was their favorite restaurant, unassuming and lively, and Mary Marder pretended not to know that its chief attraction for her husband and son was the barroom radio, always tuned to whatever game was being played that day.
As the Marders walked in, the Brooklyn Dodgers football team, which outer-borough-born Winston rooted for, had won the coin toss in its game against Manhattan’s New York Giants, a favorite of Charlie’s, at the Polo Grounds. The family eased into a back booth as a waiter materialized, pen poised.
“Hamburger, please, medium rare, with extra fries and a black-and-white shake,” Charlie said. “Starving,” he explained to his mother when she looked shocked at his abrupt order.
“I was about to ask how it could be possible that my baby is officially an adult, but you still order like a nine-year-old,” Mary Marder teased.
“Martini for me, dry as a desert,” put in Winston. “I want to see tumbleweeds skimming across the meniscus. Oh, and get one for my boy too. Eighty-six his milk shake unless you plan on bringing it in a bottle with a nipple.”
Mary did her best to ignore her husband’s crudities, as did Charlie, who began to tell his parents about his upcoming exams while he and his father pretended they weren’t also listening to the football game blaring on the radio behind the bar. Mary had just asked Charlie about his plans, or lack thereof, after graduation in June when Winston shushed them so he could hear more of the important bulletin interrupting the game.
“Flash: Washington,” barked the broadcaster. “The White House announces Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor.”
As the waiter delivered the martinis, the restaurant fell into silence except for a man’s tinny, scratchy voice on the radio.
“Hello, NBC. Hello, NBC. This is KTU in Honolulu, Hawaii. I am speaking from the roof of the Advertiser Publishing Company Building. We have witnessed this morning the distant view of a brief full battle of Pearl Harbor and the severe bombing of Pearl Harbor by enemy planes, undoubtedly Japanese. The city of Honolulu has also been attacked and considerable damage done.”
Gasps throughout the restaurant. Waiters stood frozen in place; diners stared at one another in disbelief.