Red Rag Blues (28 page)

“… and this crusade—I make no apologies for calling it that, because I speak for all decent, loyal, Christian Americans in our struggle against brutal and Godless Communism—this crusade has not made me popular in certain quarters of Washington. They call me a muckraker. Well, ladies and gentlemen, I was born an' raised in the fine state of Wisconsin, an' my family kept hogs, an' it was my job to clean out them hog-pens, an' I speak with the voice of experience when I say you can't rake muck unless there's muck to be raked. We didn't call it muck, but I won't go into that. Spell it how you like, it's here in Washington DC, and the stain of treachery and disloyalty has leaked into all the main departments of government, and soaked so deep into the fabric of America that I believe it'll take a carload of picks
an' shovels to dig it out, and a river of disinfectant to wash it clean. Why, just this morning, a young man came to me with a list of names.”
McCarthy unfolded a piece of paper. “I
cannot and will not reveal that young man's identity. Unlike some, I do not betray my friends, who have taken great personal risks to secure intelligence that is crucial to this nation's security from foreign foes.”

“Damn right!” Luis said. Julie turned up the volume.

“I will say this: These names shocked me. I've taken a few licks recently from the high-falutin' bleedin'-heart liberals who don't like my style but cannot deny my facts, and I thought my skin was pretty tough, but I'm here to admit that I shuddered when I saw these names and knew the powerful positions they hold—in the State Department, the Pentagon, the Treasury, a dozen other agencies of government where card-carrying Communists or Commy sympathizers can secretly—
secretly
—
inflict lethal damage. These names …”
McCarthy flourished the paper
“… represent a deadly virus which seeks to invade Americanism. I intend to reverse its course. I intend to turn this into the death warrant for all twisted, warped, Leftist traitors who have infiltrated our great country. It won't be easy. I have some experience in this area.”
McCarthy allowed himself a knowing grin.
“For a start, I pledge to place this list in a secure lodgment. When I leave here, I will hand it over to the senior partner of the most respected firm of lawyers in Washington, the eminent firm of Grant, Delaney, Meyer and Stubbs, for safe keeping. And I'll tell you why. There is a Presidential Order-think of that, a Presidential Order—which states that nobody,
nobody,
in the State Department is allowed to give any information as to the disloyalty or Communistic activities of any, I repeat
any,
State Department employee. It gets worse. Nobody in the State Department can say anything, not one word, about the employment of anybody there! You see what we're up against. You see what barriers are raised. You see why certain men …”
McCarthy glanced at the paper and shook his head. “…
why these men remain in office. But I'm not going to quit. I want you to know that as soon as Secretary of State John Foster Dulles gives us all an indication of his good faith by lifting this odious veil of secrecy, then I will be glad to give him these names, and then the Senate Sub-Committee of which I am proud to be chairman can get down to the business of investigating those alien agents who are dedicated to selling America down the river. These men are
well hidden. Well disguised. I have their real names, the names they were born with. But today, acting on instructions from their foreign masters, they hide behind false identities. Masks they have worn so long that their faces have grown to fit them. They may be listening to me right now. I hope so. They know who they are. Who they think they are. But not for long. The masks will soon be off. I have dedicated my life to exposing subversives. Ain't gonna stop now.”
McCarthy clenched the fist that held the paper.
“Can't stop. It just ain't in me.”

End of statement. Back to the studio for news, traffic, weather.

“Love it!” Stevie said. “Ain't he somethin' special? McCarthy makes Errol Flynn look like he's runnin' for dogcatcher.”

“He didn't use the names I gave him,” Luis complained. “I went to all that trouble, and he never used a single damn name!”

“He's a smooth operator,” Julie said.

“Love him.” Stevie kissed the radio. “I'm gonna send him money.”

“He missed his chance,” Luis said. “He dropped the bloody ball.”

“No, he didn't,” Julie said sadly. “I detest the bastard but that was a brilliant piece of politics.”

“Brilliant bollocks. He missed—”

“Shut up and listen. Look how he handled it. He used his old familiar technique, the list of names. Done it before. This time he puts a new hat on it: secrecy. These are
secret
names. We're privileged to know of the
existence
of the secret but not the actual names. Once he reveals the names, he's played his cards, got nothing left. So he hands them to his lawyers and blames it on State Department secrecy! Now that's smart. If State can have secrets, so can Joe.”

“Yeah!” Stevie said. “They're just bums in stripey pants.”

“Hey, wait,” Luis said. “Where's the logic?”

“Who gives a shit? It sounds good, and everyone hates Washington.” Julie batted away some flies, probably attracted by the smell of death. “What matters is the way he dumps all the blame on Dulles. And what's perfect is his timing. Late afternoon. He'll grab headlines in the evening papers but it'll be too late for the Administration to reply. The news'll be all McCarthy.”

“There's still tomorrow,” Luis said.

“Tomorrow's another world. Tomorrow nobody's listening. What everyone remembers is Joe McCarthy found another bunch of Reds in the government.”

“He did, too,” Stevie said.

“Let's go and eat,” Luis said.

At Idlewild, Philby had ordered another drink. He too had been impressed. The brave young man whom McCarthy would not name was probably Cabrillo. And if McCarthy could create such high-grade hokum when Cabrillo gave him ghosts to work with, imagine what uproar he would provoke if Cabrillo provided some flesh-and-blood traitors. Philby felt the skin crawl at the back of his neck.

They took Route 55 over the Appalachians, past Star Tannery, Wardensville, McCauley, Needmore, and Fort Run. “Extraordinary country,” Luis said. “The bigger the name, the smaller the town.” Julie wasn't interested. “Keep goin',” she said. Farmland, farmland. Useless. Where were the swamps when you needed one?

At Petersburg they stopped to check out the map. South and west lay Monongahela National Forest, a hundred miles of it or more. Monongahela had mountains, creeks, caverns, and rugged names like Red Lick, Elkwater, Smoke Hole.

“Real wildernessy,” Stevie said. “You should of brought quicklime. Or acid.”

“You done this kind of thing before?” Julie asked.

“I go to the movies.”

“Where do we get quicklime?”

“Yellow Pages?”

That ended the discussion.

A month ago,
Julie thought, I
was a happy victim of the witchhunt, poor but harmless, bugged by the FBI, slinging burgers and beers on Mooney's graveyard shift. Then Luis appears and I get sacked, evicted, torched, hustled off to DC and now look at me: deep in the sticks, trying to find a home for a pair of bullet-holed cadavers that I never met before, with the help of a fruitcake who believes everything Warner Brothers ever said.

“This has turned into a very peculiar day,” she said. “Let us for Christ's sake do what we have to do, and go get a good steak somewhere.”

They drove into the forest. In the early evening, the slanting rays of the sun made it magnificent. The road climbed between vast stands of oak and sycamore, merging with pine and cedar as they penetrated the mountains. Cliffs stood sheer, and large birds heeled up there, and streams rushed below. It looked virgin, untouched, superbly original. It probably was.

After twenty miles of this, Luis pulled over at a scenic viewpoint and they got out. Stevie in the Chrysler pulled in behind them. It was odd to feel a chill in the air. Washington was virtually at sea-level. This place was not far off a mile high.

“Any suggestions?” Luis asked.

“My ears popped twice,” Stevie said. “Bet they get a hell of a good TV picture here.”

“I say we find a lake,” Julie said. “Dirt road leads down to it. Handbrake off, windows open a few inches, big splash, air bubbles, two-three minutes, out of sight. In the movies—”

“No, no. Jesus!” Stevie waved at the scenery. “This Buick is gassed up, the motor's pumped full of oil an' shit, you can't just pollute their water! Which people drink!” Julie was silent. “You wouldn't like it,” Stevie said, “if West Virginia folk dumped their cars in the Central Park Reservoir.”

“Forget lakes,” Luis said. “The oil floats to the surface and someone gets suspicious …” He shrugged. “I've got a better idea. Set fire to the wretched thing and shove it over the edge. That's a five-hundred-foot drop. Gas tank cracks open, raging inferno, nothing left to identify.”

“Gets my vote,” Julie said.

“I'm ashamed of you guys,” Stevie said. “Here it is, middle of summer, here we are, middle of a forest, trees down there must be dry as tinder, you want to start a forest fire? Jesus! Get smart.”

Julie flung a small rock into the abyss. “I can see how you wore out three husbands, honey,” she said.

“I just go by what the signs say. No camp fires except in designated sections of Official Recreation Areas.”

“How big is a designated section?” Luis asked. “Could we burn a Buick in one?”

“I threw that rock real hard,” Julie said, “and look where it landed. Brambles and briars an' suchlike. Never reached the trees. What say we just tip these two over the edge and hope they
make a hole in the bushes? Seems like nobody ever goes down there.”

“'Cept the buzzards an' the coyotes,” Stevie said.

They looked at her. “Is that an obstacle?” Luis asked.

“Hell, no. It's a solution.”

They perched the bodies, one at a time, on the parapet, gave a shove, and watched them tumble through space until they got swallowed by the undergrowth. “Now it'll be easier to lose the car,” Julie said.

“I'll give the bloody thing away,” Luis announced.

By the time they got out of the forest and across the Appalachians and into the town of Harrisburg, dusk had fallen. They drove to a large, noisy bar-diner. Luis left the keys in the ignition and the windows open. They came out an hour later and the Buick was still there. “It's cursed,” he said. “There's a hex on it.”

“So just dump it,” Stevie said.

“Nobody dumps a new Buick,” Stevie said. “The cops find it, they'll be in Potomac Street within the hour.”

“Damn.” Luis kicked a tire. “Damn damn damn.”

They drove on, until Luis pointed to a roadsign that said Washington Airport. “I have an idea,” he said. “We'll lose it in the crowd.” He took the airport turnoff. Stevie followed.

He drove into the long-stay parking lot and tossed the keys to an attendant. “Your lucky day,” he said. “My company just transferred me to Tokyo for ten years. Shan't need the Buick. She's all yours.”

“Kind of low on gas, ain't she?” the attendant said. But by then Luis and Julie were striding toward Stevie's Chrysler.

Nobody had much to say until they crossed the bridge into Washington.

“Anyway, I never wore out three husbands” Stevie said. “Luis here shot Vinnie. He shot him with that pistol I gave.”

“You've got to get that idea out of your mind,” he said.

“Never think I don't appreciate what you done, cus I do. You got my appreciation, Luis, any day. Or night.”

“Forget it!” he shouted. “You got the wrong guy! I never saw Vinnie. Not alive anyway. Never used the lousy pistol. Not me, lady. Look elsewhere.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Stevie muttered. “They all say that.”

She parked the car, not by the fire plug. They went into the house. Julie took her to the guest bedroom.

He was brushing his teeth when Julie said, “Where did you get the names, Luis? No bullshit. I just need to know.”

He rinsed his mouth, went away and came back with a book called
Oregon Or Bust: How The Pioneers Crossed America.
“I lifted the names of men who went west by wagon train. Good, solid, convincing American names.”

“Phonies. Not real people.”

He nodded. “Senator McCarthy isn't obsessed with the truth.”

As they lay in bed, he said, “If Chick Scatola was Sammy Fantoni's cousin, it's a fair bet he got sent here by Jerome Fantoni.”

“Yes. You just worked that out?”

“Do you think Jerome wants his car back?”

“Sure. That's why his gorilla was carrying a sap, a butcher's knife and a loaded automatic. Stevie told me he was here to do a job, that's all she knows, but go ahead and ask her yourself, she might open up to you since you gave Vinnie the Creep a hole in the head.”

Luis went to the guest bedroom. He was soon back.

“She sleeps in the buff,” he said. “A lesser man would have faltered but as you know I have the pluck and courage of a British grenadier.” He got into bed. “Chick Scatola's line of work was population control. He whacked people. It's too risky to live here now.”

“Damn,” she said. “Just as I figured out how the stove works.”

Wagner had been writing his memoirs for five years. The stack of manuscript stood a foot high.

1953 was too soon to seek publication. Timing was everything in life, and when the moment came, Wagner would be ready. Ready to demonstrate that the Third Reich had not been defeated in 1945. The
Wehrmacht
had run out of war materials—bullets, tanks, fuel, men—but the
Abwehr
had triumphed in the intelligence war. A victory that nobody could deny.