House of Ghosts (20 page)

Cesar opened the passenger door of the plane. Vinnie reached out for the girl. Empathy didn’t exist in Vinnie’s vocabulary. He took hold of Minnah and threw her into the rear of the plane. “God damn it Jake! Whack her if you have to. Make sure she is tied in. Cesar, button things up around here, and I’ll be in touch in a couple of days.
Adios
.”

Jake buckled himself in, as Vinnie revved the engine. The Cessna sped through the taxiway, following the painted yellow arrows to the main runway. “What is your rush? You’ve been like a mad man since we left the dock,” Jake yelled over the engine noise.

Vinnie monitored the gauges on the instrument panel as he maneuvered the plane to the flight line. “Stop acting like a rabbi. While you were on the ship, I talked to the lieutenant. I’ve dealt with him in some deals. He purposely didn’t acknowledge me in front of his boss. Gomez told me that Batista might try to double-cross us, maybe even shoot us down. He doesn’t want it known that he let the girl off the boat. He’s crazy enough to do it. He would say that we left in one piece, sometimes things happen over the ocean.” Vinnie pushed the throttle to maximum, not waiting for clearance to take off. “Reach under the seat and remove the package.”

Jake pulled off the brown wrapping paper to reveal a Thompson submachine gun. Minnah took one look at the weapon, and began to wail like an air raid siren. “
Nein! Nein!
” Jake said. Minnah took the hint, sat still and whimpered. “What am
I supposed to do with this?” he asked, pointing the weapon toward the window.

“You’re going to shoot anything or anyone who tries to stop us. Make believe that this is a stagecoach in the old West. Hold on!” The Cessna quickly picked up speed.

Just as the Cessna began to liftoff the runway, a black Ford raced toward them. “Get ready!” Vinnie yelled. “Give them a reason to turn away. This is Batista’s way of saying thank you.”

Jake stuck the barrel of the Thompson out through a firing port in the window. He waited for the target to get into range. The Ford was close enough that Jake could make out the faces of the four occupants. Two rifles popped out of the Ford. Jake could see them fire, but like most things on the island, their aim was off. He fired three quick bursts, shattering the windshield of the Ford. The car veered crazily to the right, running off of the tarmac into the muddy grass.

After what seemed like eternity, they were airborne. The run of four-hundred feet could have been a hundred miles. Vinnie had the plane in a power left bank maneuver. Minnah screamed as air pressure built in their ears.

Jake looked around the perimeter of the plane, keeping his eyes alert for trouble. “I don’t think Batista is going to be happy about me taking out his men. I’m pretty sure I hit the two up front.”

Vinnie continued looking fore and aft. “Keep your eyes open. We won’t be able to relax for another couple of minutes. Batista could’ve sent a plane up when he found out we got off the ground. I’m not afraid of that greaseball. I’ll be back down here in a couple of days. He understands business like we do.”

Jake checked his watch—5:30. They wouldn’t be in Florida until almost 7:00. He eased back into his seat and closed his eyes. The roar of the engine was like a lullaby.

Jake woke with a startling punch to his left arm. “Time to wake up Rip Van Winkle. Thank God she also fell asleep,” Vinnie said, thumbing to the rear. “We’re approaching the Florida coast. Throw the Tommy gun into the ocean. If the Feds are waiting for us, I don’t want to be caught with the gun.” He adjusted the fuel mixture. “Do you have a plan for getting her back to New York?”

Jake opened the door a crack, slipping the weapon out. “First of all, I think we’re going to have to let Minnah rest for a day or so. The best thing I can come up with is to put her on the train. Flying back is going to be too risky. They have too many immigration guys at the airport.

The light quickly faded. “How are we going to land in the dark?” Jake nervously asked.

“No problem tough guy.” Vinnie began a slow turn to the east, while losing
altitude. The Cessna was under 1,200 feet. The large Florida swamp pines seemed to reach out for the bottom of the plane. Suddenly a lit runway appeared. Vinnie cut the throttle—600 feet, with just a few seconds remaining in the flight. Jake saw the runway lined by cars with their headlamps on. With the slightest bump, they were on the ground. The Cessna rolled to a stop next to the movable barn.

Jake gently touched Minnah on her knee. She slowly opened her eyes. Realizing the plane had landed, Minnah unlatched her seatbelt. Jake picked up her suitcase and helped her out of the plane. Vinnie’s crew quickly surrounded the plane with the plywood camouflage as they climbed into the Cadillac. The plane was hidden before they were out of sight.

“I’m impressed with your flying. If it weren’t for you, we would never been able to get her out. I won’t forget it.”

Vinnie motioned Jake to stop. “I do what my uncle tells me.” He turned into his driveway, blowing the horn as he pulled in front of the house.

The double entrance doors flew open with Sarah and Paul bounding down the steps. Unlike Havana, Jake didn’t have to pull Minnah from the car. The two girls ran to each other, tears streaming down their cheeks.

PRESTON HANDED IN HIS
CALCULUS II
final exam. He was the last one finished out of fifty-five. The term was now officially over, but for a last hurdle—checking out of Albert Hall.

“Mr. Swedge, I trust the exam was fair,” Professor Hans Schmidt said in a tone that translated to I don’t want to hear the opposite. Schmidt, by twenty-five, had published ground breaking work. His math acuity equaled his political activism. Schmidt was a frequent participant in the informal debates that broke out in the campus coffeehouses where he met and befriended Clark Johnson.

Carrying an A average into the lecture that morning, Preston didn’t recognize half of the problems. After three hours, he was worn out. “Extremely so.”

“Have you decided to accompany Clark?” Schmidt asked, placing Preston’s exam booklet on the collected pile. “You’ll be missing one heck of time.”

“I’m not so sure I want to go, considering what I read in the papers.”

Schmidt looked at Preston with a bemused expression. “Open your mind to change. What is happening in the new Germany is the wave of the future. If the climate was so threatening, do you think the International Congress of Mathematics annual meeting would be held in Berlin? Clark and I have made plans to meet. I have family across Germany who are more than thrilled to put us up.”

“Did you see the look on Price’s face when I handed him the coffee pot?” Clark said, slapping Brent Newman on the back, unable to contain himself.

“Get in the car,” Preston yelled through the window of the big touring Packard. Walters, the Swedge chauffer, drummed the steering wheel with his thumbs. They had been waiting fifteen minutes while Clark held court outside Albert Hall.

Brent Newman shook hands with the man voted by the dorm denizens most likely to be found stuffed into a discarded oil drum. “The offer still stands. Come
to Charleston and I’ll show you
real
Southern hospitality.”

“He can walk to the train.
Let’s go
,” Preston ordered.

Walters released the clutch and eased away from the curb. “Wait!” Clark screamed, running down the walk, hurdling over suitcases and trunks forming an obstacle course to the street. Walters screeched the brakes. “Can I help it if I’m wanted?”

“Like Dillinger,” Preston scoffed.

Clark slid onto the plush rear seat and rested his feet on Preston’s books. His things were picked up by a freight forwarder that morning for shipment to Michigan. “Try it again, Mr. Walters,” Preston said.

The Packard pulled away, the Princeton Gate loomed ahead. With traffic sparse on Nassau Street, transversing town was easy. Walters headed north to New York.

“We did it.” Clark pulled a silver hip flask from his pocket and unscrewed the top. “We made it through year one.” He took a long pull of the Wild Turkey and offered Preston a drink.

“You
had
to give Price the coffee pot,” Preston said with disgust, shoving Clark’s hand away, “and rub his nose in it after I did everything but kiss his ass to get us checked out.”

Clark took another drink. “Everyone thought it was a riot.”

“One day you’re going to push somebody too far.” Preston closed his eyes.

Pulling all-night study jams resulted in both occupants quickly falling asleep. Midway through the Holland Tunnel, Clark woke with the smell of oil and exhaust in his nose. “Do me a favor Mr. Johnson, wake Mr. Swedge,” Walters said, watching Clark in the rear view mirror.

Clark elbowed Preston, who sat up and rubbed the sleep from of his eyes. Walters maneuvered across Houston Street, stopping at a red light on the Bowery. The everlasting effects of the Depression were evident—the homeless population hadn’t diminished after nine years. With the warm summer-like weather, the makeshif tent city was overflowing. There was no hope in sight for the apple and pencil sellers.

“Things look the same as they did a year ago,” Clark said. “Roosevelt’s programs haven’t touched this bunch.” He rolled the window up as panhandlers approached the car. “Detroit is in the same sad shape. This isn’t how it is in Germany. There, the Depression is a memory.”

“You forgot to mention Austria and those damn annoying Czechs. Absorbing the two countries into the Reich did wonders for their economies. The Czechs will be eternally grateful,” Preston quipped.

Walters took a left on First Avenue. Within minutes, the Depression seemed years in the past. Midtown was a boom in progress; the sidewalks were jammed with shoppers toting their purchases. Traffic on 42nd Street near Grand Central Station was the heaviest they encountered. Walters eased the Packard to the curb and removed Clark’s luggage from the trunk.

“Well partner, I appreciate the lift. I’ll call next week to finalize our arrangements. Remember what I said about handling your old man,” Clark said. “Walters, I appreciate the lift.”

“I do as ordered, Mr. Johnson,” Walters replied curtly, trying to hide his disdain.

The Packard moved away from the station. Walters, employed by the Swedge family since Preston was a year old, was more than a driver to the young Swedge, he was a confidant. Stolen away from his English employer by Herbert on a trip to London, the British ex-patriate brought to New York refined manners and an adherence to protocol. Alone with Preston, the rules were relaxed.

“Robert, I want to ask your opinion. Clark has extended an invitation to join his family on a trip to Germany. I’m wondering how father is going to react?”

“May I speak freely?” Walters asked.

“Of course. We never pull punches with each other.”

“Clark Johnson is a fool. Hitler ended unemployment by producing military hardware on an unprecedented scale and slapping every schnook who didn’t have a job into the army. Sooner or later, the Nazis are going to run out of money and war will be the only way to sustain their economy,” Walters vented. “Why do you want to go?”

“The papers are filled with such conflicting opinions concerning Hitler. I want to see things for myself. Clark has made numerous trips to Germany; he can take me around.”

“The young man is woefully misguided. If you were my son…”

“I asked about my father.”

“He was talking about you working at the firm. He feels it’s time you began your apprenticeship.” Walters didn’t want to get into the middle of a Swedge family fight. He witnessed too many over the years not to forget to mind his own business. “I would broach the subject very carefully.”

Walters stopped in front of 2365 Park Avenue. Albert greeted Preston with a good-natured tap on the arm. “Mr. Swedge, asked me to send you up as soon as you arrived.”

For a change, the elevator was unoccupied in the lobby. Preston rode to the tenth floor, fished his key chain from his pocket, and unlocked the door. Sunlight
streaming through the windows overlooking Park Avenue brightened an otherwise dark decor. Wednesday was the maid’s day off. The only sound in the 4,000 square foot apartment was the violin concerto playing on a 78 rpm recording in Herbert’s study.

“You’re late. Sit down,” Herbert, his speech slightly slurred, commanded from his favorite high wing backed leather chair. A tumbler of scotch was at arms length on the edge of his desk beside a half smoked cigar smoldering in a massive crystal ashtray. The day’s issue of
The Wall Street Journal
lay at his feet.

“It’s five o’clock. Princeton isn’t around the corner,” Preston countered, sitting on an adjoining leather sofa. His father having an afternoon bender was never a good sign. “Where’s mother?”

“
Spending
my money,” Herbert said, sipping from his glass.

Spending money and flitting from one women’s club to another filled Bernice’s day. Preston was certain his mother wasn’t the reason for his father’s melancholy. “Tough day?”