Manhattan 62 (19 page)

PART THREE

CHAPTER ONE

October 22, '62

“
G
OOD EVENING, MY FELLOW
citizens.

“This Government, as promised, has maintained the closest surveillance of the Soviet military buildup on the island of Cuba. Within the past week, unmistakable evidence has established the fact that a series of offensive missile sites is now in preparation on that imprisoned island. The purpose of these bases can be none other than to provide a nuclear strike capability against the Western Hemisphere.

“The characteristics of these new missile sites indicate two distinct types of installations. Several of them include medium-range ballistic missiles, capable of carrying a nuclear warhead for a distance of more than 1,000 nautical miles. Each of these missiles, in short, is capable of striking Washington DC, the Panama Canal, Cape Canaveral, Mexico City, or any other city in the southeastern part of the United States, in Central America, or in the Caribbean area.”

On my black and white television set, the President looked handsome but tired, deep gray shadows of fatigue seemingly carved out under his eyes.

Next to me on the couch sat Tommy Perino. His father was at work on the night shift, as usual. I had made Tommy a grilled cheese sandwich, but it lay, untouched and cold now, on the plate. When he asked for a smoke, I let him have it. I gave him some of my beer. If we were gonna die, the kid might as well smoke if he wanted. I had smoked at his age. Me and my pals. Some of them, those friends, had been drafted into the goddamn military like me, some died fighting the Commie bastards in Korea, or lost their toes to frostbite in that miserable country.

“Nuclear weapons are so destructive and ballistic missiles are so swift, that any substantially increased possibility of their use or any sudden change in their deployment may well be regarded as a definite threat to peace.” JFK's voice was cool and sober. I turned the TV set up louder and told Tommy to eat his food.

“It shall be the policy of this nation to regard any nuclear missile launched from Cuba against any nation in the Western Hemisphere as an attack by the Soviet Union on the United States, requiring a full retaliatory response upon the Soviet Union.”

Was it a provocation, these missile sites? The Russkis didn't need Cuba. They had rockets powerful enough to nuke us from Moscow. They wanted to make us sweat. They wanted a base ninety miles from our shores. If they got it, they would own a piece of us.

“To halt this offensive buildup, a strict quarantine on all offensive military equipment under shipment to Cuba is being initiated. All ships of any kind bound for Cuba from whatever nation or port will, if found to contain cargoes of offensive weapons, be turned back.”

JFK knew what he was doing. He outlined his plans. He said he was calling for a blockade, an embargo, a quarantine. Whatever you called it, it meant trouble. Starting Wednesday, the day after tomorrow, Soviet ships on their way to Cuba would be boarded.

“What's that, Pat?”

“What?”

“You was talking about Cuba.”

“Never mind,” I said to Tommy, realizing I had been speaking out loud without meaning to. “I always thought they'd come for us over Berlin,” I said, and we went back to watching the TV in silence.

This was worse than Berlin. This was our territory. Cuba had always been ours, more or less, at least until Castro and the Commies got hold of it.

Khrushchev I didn't trust. He was an animal, a short fat piggy-looking man who had treated our President with contempt in Vienna when they met.

The President said that the Russians had been planning the shipment of arms for months. The Soviets had promised him if there were weapons, they would be only for defensive purposes.

The Soviets had lied, and Americans would not stand for it, or at least our leaders would not. They were shipping their shit to Cuba, and Cuba wanted it, and we were all going to nuke each other. I didn't want to die yet. My stomach was in knots.

Kennedy announced that he had been shown photographs of the missile sites last Tuesday morning, October 16. Almost a week ago; the night Tommy had found the body on Pier 46.

“Pat?” Tommy said. “We gonna die, Pat?”

We stared at the photographs taken by U2 planes flying over Cuba. The planes go up. The camera cover, like an eyelid slides back. Like a naked eyeball, the camera peers down. It snaps the missile sites. Launch pads. Padlocked sheds.

I peeled the cellophane from a fresh pack of Chesterfields, removed it, put one in my mouth. The city outside was very quiet, a thick dense sort of silence, as if everyone had died, and only the television sets and radios left playing. It was Kennedy's determination to stop the Russians, his assertion that he would resist intimidation, that made me proud and also scared me good.

The President told the “captive” Cubans he was their friend against foreign domination. He would not allow them to be puppets and agents of an international conspiracy. Told them the new weapons were a lousy bet for them. That America was set on a dangerous effort to resist.

Looking into the camera with that steady gaze, JFK said, “The cost of freedom is always high, but Americans have always paid it. And one path we shall never choose, and that is the path of surrender or submission. Our goal is not the victory of might, but the vindication of right; not peace at the expense of freedom, but both peace and freedom, here in this hemisphere, and, we hope, around the world. God willing, that goal will be achieved.

“Thank you and good night.”

After the speech, some of the commentators noted they had seen it coming, too; that last week, people had seen lights on all night at the White House, had seen wives of government officials solo at cocktail parties, and they knew something was up.

I put in a call to the Millers. Muriel answered. I could hear the TV in the background.

“Oh hello, Pat, dear. How are you? It's a very difficult time. I assume you're phoning to speak with Max, but he's not here. Are you watching the television? Terrible news. Terrible.”

I said I was fine.

“Max left a note saying he was going to some friend on Long Island. Are you all right? This is quite a nerve-wracking time, and if you would like to drop by for some coffee, dear? Are you on your own? Or come for a glass of whisky, given the situation? You musn't be alone. Stan says it may be very bad, that we need to leave certain things to the generals who will know what's best for the country. I trust the President, of course. Stan says the military has it in hand. Says the generals will take care of things.

“But I'd actually like to talk with you, Pat. Let me be frank, do you imagine that Max would be capable of something improper?”

“What kind of thing?”

“Somebody took money from my Minnie Mouse cookie jar. And he left without leaving his phone number. Why would he do a thing like that?”

I told her I had no idea, and got off the phone, with a promise to drop by some time or other.

No surrender, no submission.

I was behind the President one thousand percent. I'd put on a uniform again if I had too. We could never let the bastards put nukes ninety miles off our shores. I felt for JFK. He was alone, it seemed, except for his brother. Thank God for Bobby. But if the President stayed tough, we were all dead. If he backed down, we would live under the heel of the Red Menace. The thing we had been waiting for, all the Cold War fear, it was happening now. Tonight.

“You OK, Tommy?” The kid was on the edge of the couch.

“You know what, Pat? We should nuke ‘em now,” he said.

“Goddamn right, we should do it to them before they do it to us,” said Tommy, who had seen too many movies. “Listen a me, Pat, I gotta go.”

“Where? You're not wandering around the piers anymore? Tell me the truth.”

“I'm not. No way. I just want to wait for my pop when he gets home. I gotta be there for him, so are you gonna be OK by your own, Pat?” He touched my arm as if to somehow reassure me, and left quietly, his shoulders squared in some imaginary military style, his stride sharper than usual, as if he was already practicing for his part in the coming conflict. Tommy was twelve. In five or six years, some lousy war would probably claim him.

I called my ma to make sure she was doing OK. She said she was praying. Said she was also eating most of the Whitman's Sampler, the chocolate I gave her for her birthday. Might as well, Paddy, cause you never know if there will be a tomorrow, and then I left all my gorgeous chocolates behind, which would be a crying shame.

My ma, in spite of being a crazy lady with her Sacred Heart pictures on the wall, always had a sense of the ridiculous. I called over to my sister Colleen, and woke her up. After that, my instinct was to phone Nancy; I dialed her number; I listened to the phone ring, and pictured her little pink Princess phone that lit up when you used it. Nobody answered. I lay down on the couch, and when I opened my eyes, it was midnight. I fried some eggs, and made coffee. I ate. Then I went out to get some papers and a fresh pack of smokes. The streets were empty and I had to walk all the way to Sixth Avenue to get the early editions.

U.S. IMPOSES ARMS BLOCKADE ON CUBA ON FINDING OFFENSIVE-MISSILE SITES; KENNEDY READY FOR SHOWDOWN.

The
New York Times.
All the News That's Fit to Print. I didn't usually read the
Times,
but when you looked at it, you knew it was for real.

After I got home, I scanned the other papers for any news of the homicide on the pier. It had been front page last week, especially in the
Daily News
and the
Journal.
Now it had been shoved inside all the newspapers. What was reported was that it was a Mob case. That it was a Mafia hit had been confirmed by sources inside the police department, one of the articles noted. Indictment pending. Same killers as the homicide on the High Line during the summer. Proof the cops were on the job, cleaning up the city. A ray of hope in a gloomy time.

Again and again I had wondered why the brass was determined to hang it on the Mob. This was why. This was the deal. This would make them look sweet to the politicians.

I read the lead piece in the
Times
, reporter name of Anthony Lewis. My stomach turned over. “Mr Kennedy treated Cuba and the Government of Premier Fidel Castro as a mere pawn in Moscow's hands and drew the issue as one with the Soviet Government.” The Russians; it was always those bastards; of course it was.

Was Ostalsky reading the papers somewhere? Watching TV? Had he been in on this too, sent over here to wait for this event that must have been planned a long time ago? You didn't put together all those ships and men and hardware overnight. This would be a war between us and the Soviets. The Cubans were small potatoes. The Russians held the reins; even I had that figured out. I kept reading.

“The other aspect of the speech particularly noted by observers here was its flat commitment by the United States to act alone against the missile threat in Cuba.”

There was such a heavy feeling in my gut, I couldn't sit still, and I went up on the roof for air. I could see all of Greenwich Village spread out, houses, little gardens, narrow streets; and I could see the skyline, still alight, and looking, for once, heartbreakingly fragile.

I had to find Ostalsky.