House of Ghosts (26 page)

“What are you doing here?” Goodman asked. “I did what Bavosa wanted. It was a one shot deal.”

When Tommy Bavosa ran into resistance in his bid to land a government contract with the Navy, Goodman was approached. As the ranking member on the appropriations committee for the War Department, Goodman could put in “the word.” When he resisted, a picture of the very drunk congressman with a woman not his wife, changed his mind. Jake had accompanied Bavosa to the meeting held in a motel in Westchester. The idea of a hulking Jew intimidating another Jew wasn’t lost on Tommy the Corkscrew. “Take it easy, congressman. This visit is personal.”

Goodman took a deep breath and reluctantly ushered Jake into his office. “Have a seat,” Goodman said, sitting at his desk. The diminutive congressman wiped his forehead with a monogrammed handkerchief retrieved from his back pocket.

In contrast to the cubicles, Goodman’s office was outfitted with a mahogany
desk and leather chairs. Civic awards, diplomas, and photos that captured his political life filled the walls. Framed pictures of his wife and three daughters were displayed on his desk.

Joe took a seat and placed his coat on the adjacent chair. “I wouldn’t have come to see you, but I don’t know where else to turn.”

Goodman puffed out his chest and looked up to the ceiling. “The man upstairs couldn’t get another soul into the country.” He removed a gold cigarette case from the center drawer of the desk and flicked a matching lighter. Smoke trailed from his lips. “Breckinridge Long, that fucker over at the State Department, has tied up visas with rules and regulations an attorney specializing in international law couldn’t understand.”

“I understand, but …,” Jake said.

Ash exuded onto the desk as Goodman stubbed the cigarette into an ashtray already teeming with butts. “You’re a first. I’m glad you understand.” Goodman rose, and extended his hand.

Jake reached into his coat. Goodman stepped backward as if was preparing to run. To the congressman’s relief, an envelope appeared in Jake’s hand instead of a .45 automatic that was brandished under his chin when Tommy Bavosa thought he needed an additional reason to help a local businessman. “My problem is the draft.”

Goodman returned to his chair, the color returning to his face. He dumped the ashtray into a wastebasket under the desk and lit another cigarette, keeping an eye on the envelope. He took two puffs on the cigarette, trying to calculate what Jake had in mind. “Military service is another matter.” A grin broke across tissue paper thin lips with the image of the Brooklyn tough guy slinking out of the induction station.

Jake leaned forward. “As the ranking member on the appropriations committee you can pull strings.”

Rocking back in the brown leather chair, Goodman rolled the cigarette between his thumb and index finger. “It’s not that easy. The local boards make the decisions. A guy on the Dodgers called me, there’s nothing I can do for him.” He pointed the cigarette at Jake. “My own doctor is preparing to close his office. In a month, he’ll be gone.”

Jake placed the envelope onto the edge of Goodman’s desk. “I’m not interested in staying out.”

Goodman dropped the cigarette into the ashtray. “You’ve lost me.”

“A number of my associates are going to join up. I want them placed in areas that might be advantageous in the future,” Jake said, keeping his hand on the envelope
as he inched it towards the middle of the desk.

“Associates” in Jake’s world was synonymous with a crew assembled to boost a truck for its cargo. Goodman thought supply depots and warehouses as he tapped his fingers to the beat of a hissing radiator behind him. His pro-union election slogan “fair pay for fair work” applied to any proposal that crossed his desk. If a buck was going to be made on the strength of his back, he expected to be compensated. He looked at the envelope suspiciously. “And Luciano and Bavosa have no connection to your associates?”

“That’s correct.” Jake took a piece of Wrigley’s from his jacket pocket and popped it into his mouth. He rolled the silver wrapper into a tight ball.

“When do you need this done?” Goodman asked, lighting his third cigarette.

“Immediately. I need your assurance that things can be arranged.” Jake worked the gum hard.

Goodman coughed to clear his throat, unsure about asking what was the purpose of the scheme. “How many?”

“Twenty-five. Some will be coming from outside New York.”

Despite the coolness of the office, beads of sweat appeared on Goodman’s forehead. “Twenty-five and multiple process centers?” Goodman shook his head. “This is a tall order.”

Jake pushed to envelope to the middle of desk. “This should smooth things. An equal amount will be delivered on a satisfactory completion.”

Goodman hesitated taking the envelope, his clear enameled nails reflected light from the desk lamp. By taking the envelope, the congressman would be signing a contract. He picked up the envelope, and opened the flap. Fifty Benjamin Franklins stared back. “I’ll need a list of names and addresses.”

Jake stood, handing Goodman a typed list. “I’ll be in touch.”

“All of these names are Jewish,” Goodman said incredulously. “Is this part of…”

“A Jewish Boy Scout unit,” Jake said with a laugh.

HIS HEART RACED AT THE SHRILL RING of the phone. Preston answered with a quick “Yes Mrs. Higgins” then straightened the knot of his U.S. Army issued tie. He’d been waiting for this call for two weeks after arriving in Washington, D.C. from Fort Benning, Georgia. His orders at the completion of Officers Candidate School were simple: report for assignment to the War Department on E Street, Room 201.

Room 201 belonged to Assistant Secretary of War John J. McCloy appointed in April 1941 at the behest of the Secretary of War, Henry Stimson. A Wall Street veteran, McCloy had established a name for his work in the corporate and securities areas. With investment bankers pushing German bonds, McCloy spent considerable time in Europe, particularly Germany.

For his knowledge of Germany, McCloy was appointed to investigate what came to be called the Black Tom Case. During World War I, American industry became the target of Germany spies and saboteurs, resulting in the loss of lives and property. Years of litigation finally produced an agreement for compensation.

In June of 1936, McCloy traveled to Munich where Hitler’s deputy Rudolph Hess refused to sign any documents concerning events prior to the establishment of the Third Reich. Hess and Hermann Goering, the German Air Force head, asked McCloy to stay for the Olympic Games in Berlin and see the miracles of the
new
Germany. McCloy returned to the United States convinced the country better prepare for war.

McCloy, with his reputation as an expert on German spies, pushed for the creation of an intelligence apparatus before the United States was involved in the oncoming war. He advocated that the government, in the name of national security, could indulge in wiretaps, mail intercept, and the decoding of radio messages directed to foreign embassies in the country.

Roosevelt, needing Wall Street support for his programs to end the Depression
and his planned military buildup, brought the staunchly Republican Stimson into his cabinet. By 1940, Stimson was using McCloy as his troubleshooter. McCloy had found a legal way for the president to send twenty B-17s to the British. It was McCloy who termed the United States “the arsenal of defense,” and it was the United States that kept England alive.

McCloy’s stewardship of Lend Lease brought invaluable contacts in Congress he used to advance his agenda of putting the country on a war footing. Convinced the Germans were involved in sabotage and were behind numerous labor disputes in the defense industry, McCloy sought and nurtured a relationship with FBI Director J. Edgar Hoover who increased the volume of wiretaps and mail intercepts without Justice Department approval. McCloy espoused the position that the events of the day required unusual action, even if it meant infringing on the rights of the individual.

Preston put on his solid khaki green dress jacket and checked the crease in his pants. He was happy to get out of the office and away from the mountain of facts and figures covering war production. Economics was his college major, but he had no knowledge of steel rivets or the technical aspects of mining bituminous coal. He locked the door and negotiated a warren of narrow hallways to the main corridor to find himself surrounded by shoulders stacked with gold braid and chests covered with campaign ribbons and medals. With the War Department being housed in seventeen different buildings strewn across the city, a new building to centralize operations was under construction near Arlington National Cemetery. The five-sided structure was unofficially being called the Pentagon. Independent design experts branded it a monstrosity and blight on the countryside.

The sound of pounding typewriters echoed off the granite tiled floor as he approached the outer office of room 201. Preston smartly saluted an exiting redfaced two-star general. McCloy’s main mission was to act as Stimson’s point man and troubleshooter. He had little time or inclination to deal with fools and incompetents. Ambiguous answers resulted in scores of resignations from the top-heavy general officer corps.

The cacophony of steel letters to paper was the labor of the three women secretarial pool trying to keep pace with McCloy’s reports and “take a letter” demands. The silver haired Mrs. Higgins swiveled her head away from her typewriter. “Take a seat lieutenant.”

Two oak benches occupied the right side of the room. Preston did as commanded, taking a seat closest to the door. In less than five minutes, the portal to the assistant secretary opened. Preston jumped to his feet as Charles Lindbergh passed. The Lone Eagle was in town lobbying for support to regain his commission
in the Army Air Corps, having quit after receiving a public tongue lashing from President Roosevelt. From the look on the hero’s face, Preston surmised his meeting with McCloy didn’t go well.

Mrs. Higgins sang out, “Lieutenant! Time is precious.”

Preston felt his knees wobble as he gathered himself off the bench. He paused at the tri-paneled door, took a deep breath and entered. “Lieutenant Swedge reporting as ordered,” he said, snapping to attention.

McCloy sat behind an oversized desk piled with files marked “Secret” and “Eyes Only.” Still possessing the build of a wrestler, the nearly bald forty-five year old assistant secretary of war was dressed in his customary double-breasted gray suit. A Stetson hat balanced on the corner of a lawyer’s bookcase behind him. An architect’s site plan of the Pentagon hung beside windows providing a view of the Capitol. McCloy looked over the man who he had known since his birth. “No need for such nonsense,” McCloy said as he stood, extending his hand. A broad smile broke across McCloy’s face. “Military life seems to agreeing with you. Mr. Lindbergh misses it so much he’s begging to be let back in. Hell will freeze over before that happens. If the country listened to him, Japanese would be the official language on the west coast and German on the east. Surrender would have been the only option with nothing to fight with. Take a seat and keep yourself busy with this,” he said, handing a binder to the newly promoted first lieutenant, “while I finish this memo.”

Preston sat to the right of his father’s friend. A friendship so close McCloy was asked to be Preston’s godfather. McCloy in his prior life represented Sterling Swedge and Company on numerous projects. As the American counsel to I.G. Farben, McCloy was instrumental in steering the synthetic rubber and oil deal Herbert Swedge’s way.

The office was devoid of the trappings that adorned his Wall Street power center where framed press clippings touting his brokering blockbuster deals were on display to remind clients that the egregious fees they were paying produced profits that paled in comparison. Only the portrait of the current president, not the gallery of international industrial leaders and Wall Street elite, hung on the plaster walls.

Two weeks after the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor, McCloy held court in Herbert Swedge’s walnut lined study. With a tumbler of single malt scotch in hand and a Cuban cigar firmly planted between his teeth, McCloy berated America First, its hero Lindbergh and anyone connected to the two. After the scotch diluted his venom, McCloy strongly suggested to the Princeton senior that he enlist into the Army before being drafted. If he did, a posting to McCloy’s Washington
staff would be arranged. He needed his own point man, an outsider to the military bureaucracy, someone of superior intellect and ability to understand the entire picture while appreciating the significance of each individual stroke.

Preston’s eyes widened with each succeeding paragraph he read. The subject was the relocation of 120,000 Japanese and American citizens of Japanese ancestry living in Oregon, California, and Washington to areas away from the west coast. The centers would be ringed with barbed wire and be patrolled by armed U.S. military personnel.

The Army’s chief law enforcement officer, Provost Marshall General Allen Gullion argued for mass evacuation of all Japanese on the west coast. General John DeWitt, the officer in charge of the western defense command didn’t support the call for mass evacuation. McCloy was ordered by Stimson to mediate. The debate became moot when President Roosevelt signed executive order 9066 authorizing the forced removal of Japanese American citizens and resident aliens from their homes to areas away from the west coast. McCloy was responsible for the decision since Roosevelt had delegated the matter to him through Stimson.

McCloy put the top on his fountain pen and opened a humidor sitting on his desk. He offered a cigar to Preston who waved it off. Slicing the end off the Cuban Churchill with a silver cutter engraved with his initials, he asked, “What’s your opinion?”

“There isn’t a shred of evidence that Japanese Americans have participated in any acts of sabotage or intend to do so. May I be direct?”