Red Rag Blues (38 page)

The chairman gaveled until he got silence, and began, “Now, Mr. Fantoni, you live and work in the New York area, am I right?”

“That is where I live and vote. Work sometimes takes me elsewhere.” His swollen lip gave him a slight lisp.

“Uh-huh. This work elsewhere, does it bring you in contact with
Communists?”
McCarthy made the word ring out.

“Let's cut out the preliminary fencing and sparring, senator. I know you enjoy it but it's a waste of everybody's time.” Fantoni's voice was calm and confident and quiet. The shuffling and whispering in the room ceased. “You want to hear how many Communists I've ever known, don't you?”

“Well, this makes a change,” McCarthy said, smiling, and the crowd chuckled. “Put it like that, Mr. Fantoni, then yes I do. Exactly how—”

“Three hundred and seventeen. That's by personal contact. I know
of
others whom I have not met. Perhaps five hundred.”

That popped the silence. All over the room, people were saying:
Five hundred! You hear that?
McCarthy got his gavel going. Cohn leaned forward and said something. McCarthy nodded. His eyes had the gleam of a cardsharp who knows he's won and wants the other player to keep bidding.

“Three hundred and seventeen Communists you personally know. Is that in the United States, Mr. Fantoni?”

“I never said that. I never said Communists I
know,
I said communists I've
ever known.
Some are dead. You should pay more attention, senator. Do you want the whole story?” Still calm and quiet.

“Just remember your place, Mr. Fantoni. We ask the questions here.” As McCarthy shuffled some papers, Fantoni said, loud enough for the microphone to catch, “Then why doesn't he get on and ask them?” A few in the crowd applauded.

More gavel. “I want the facts, Mr. Fantoni. Communists you've known, dead or alive, in this country, total three one seven. That right?”

“It may not be right, senator, but it's correct.”

Ripple of laughter.

Kennedy said in McCarthy's ear: “He can't plead the Fifth now. He's hung himself, senator.”

McCarthy's hand had covered his mike. “Craziest damn suicide I ever saw.”

“Nail him down, boss,” Cohn said.

When in doubt, McCarthy gaveled. He beat until dust rose. “Mr. Fantoni, give us the facts. Tell us how many of the three-one-seven communists you've known are involved in organized crime?”

“Some were politicians. Is that organized crime?” Big laugh. Fantoni's face never changed. “Best Marxists I ever met were in City Hall. Best rackets, too.” The crowd agreed.

“Mr. Chairman, if I may,” another senator said. McCarthy nodded. “Why did you join the Communist Party, Mr. Fantoni?”

“Because the FBI asked me to.”

A blizzard of flashbulbs. The witness kept his head still. One eyebrow was raised, wrinkling his brow. Otherwise, no change.

“That's the most unheard-of thing I ever heard of,” McCarthy said.

“Tell us more,” the other senator said.

“Your chairman told me to remember my place, sir.”

“Very well, Mr. Fantoni.
Why
did the FBI ask you?”

“It was J. Edgar Hoover's idea, so perhaps you should put the question to him. However, I'll do my best. Hoover invited me to form a Communist club at Princeton so that he could keep track of Leftist sympathizers. You must remember that, in some intellectual circles, Communism was, in the Twenties, fashionable if not respectable. Rather like gin during Prohibition. Excuse me.” He took a sip of water.

“Brilliant,” Julie said quietly. She and Luis were in the gallery. “Now he's running the show.”

“The FBI financed the Princeton Communist Club,” the witness said. “All done covertly, of course. No incriminating records kept by us. Without Hoover's money, Communism would never have survived at Princeton. Our treasurer was hopeless. He is now the professor of mathematics at the University of Texas, I believe … But Hoover got more than he expected. The Soviet
consulate in New York recruited me when I graduated. They trained me to be a longterm underground secret Communist agent—a sleeper who could infiltrate American society and be ready when the KGB had work for me. It wasn't the KGB then, of course. It was the NKVD. I told Hoover, and Hoover told me to do exactly what they wanted.”

McCarthy said, “So you were a secret agent for the Kremlin.”

“And for the FBI. I was a double-agent.”

“But you signed for the Kremlin first. How many Americans have you betrayed?”

“Mairzy doats and dozey doats,” the witness said, “and little lamsey tivey.”

“That's an insolent answer.”

“It was a dumb question. If I didn't act like a dedicated Red when I met the Communists, I was no use to the FBI. But my ultimate loyalty was to the USA.”

“And when we ask J. Edgar Hoover—”

“He'll deny it. Standard operating procedure. Last thing Hoover said to me was that if I ever lost my cover, the Bureau would deny any knowledge of me. That's how all intelligence agencies work. I'm surprised at your naivete, senator. Did you really expect me to come here with a double-agent's badge?”

“No proof, then.”

“Not from the FBI. Plenty from the Soviet side.” Fantoni opened a document case. “These reports are all from the archives of various Soviet embassies. They cover my knowledge of various illegal or Un-American activities.” He held up a fistful of papers. “Why has the FBI never arrested me? Because they knew about everything in advance. I told them. Copies of all these documents are in the FBI files.”

Another senator claimed the microphone. “Mr. Fantoni, would you have us believe you
stole
all those Soviet documents?”

“Yes, sir. I did.”

“But why?”

“Because I knew the day would come when I would face the difficult task of proving my patriotism.”

McCarthy gaveled. “This hearing will go into closed session!” he announced. “Marshals, clear the room!”

The Carolina shrimp was undoubtedly tasty, but after all that Jambalaya they felt shrimped out. The red snapper was sure to be good; or there were crab cakes. Or grilled salmon. Hard-shell steamed crabs. Lobster. Old Henry's Tavern was the best seafood restaurant in Foggy Bottom. Said so on the menu.

They ordered. Mikhail did the wine: Bordeaux Blanc.

“What d'you think's happening now?” Julie asked.

“They'll have to get a translator for the dossier,” Mikhail said. “And stenographers. We have plenty of time.”

“I bet they get in experts to test the paper and the ink and stuff,” Luis said. Julie patted his hand. “Of course it's all genuine,” he said. “I keep forgetting.” For a moment he was flustered. “Did you ever meet Stalin?” he asked.

“Give the poor guy a break,” Julie told him.

“Forgive me,” Luis said. “Shocking bad taste. I'm quite mortified.”

Mikhail tasted the wine, and nodded. When the waiter had gone away, he said, “I know the collapse of Western capitalism is inevitable, but personally I hope it doesn't happen until after lunch. In fact I'm prepared to wait indefinitely.”

“I know you,” Julie said. “There was something familiar but I've just placed it. We met a couple of times in New York, years ago, at Bonnie Scott's place. You're Gib Rail. The author. He's Gibbon Connor Rail,” she told Luis. “Wait a minute. Weren't you kind of bald?”

“A triumph of Soviet technology.” Mikhail smoothed his hair.

“A novelist,” Luis said. “I wish I had time to write a novel.”

“You got expelled,” Julie said. “Didn't you?”

“All a misunderstanding.”

“I met Graham Greene once,” Luis said. “He was in MI6.”

“I don't remember that,” Julie said.

Luis snapped a breadstick. “He said he admired my style enormously. I appear in some of his recent novels. Lightly disguised.”

“And I'm Queen Marie of Rumania,” she said.

The Sub-Committee came back from lunch to find that the translations had been sorted into groups. Five groups. Five senators. A happy coincidence. Each man settled down to read his pages. Apart from the occasional muttered curse or grunt of surprise, the room was quiet.

“Hot as pigshit,” McCarthy sighed, “as we say in Wisconsin when a virgin comes to town, which is rarely. Who wants to start? What did you draw, Henry?”

“I got labor unions,” Henry said. “Seems our witness was a go-between for the Communist Party and various unsavory gangsters during the Twenties and Thirties. See here: they wanted Machine-Gun Kelly. Couldn't get him. Too expensive.”

A senator called Sherry said, “The Reds were fighting for the unions, right?”

“Usually. The CP helped the West Coast Longshoremen's union but when the Party tried to take over the garment industry it had a shoot-out with the needleworkers' union in New York. Then again, Communists were involved in the Memorial Day Massacre in South Chicago, 1937. Remember that? Steel union marched on Republic Steel, police shot ten workers. Party was disappointed. Not enough blood.”

“Let's move on,” McCarthy said. “Sherry?”

“I got Race Riots, Joe, and by God the Reds found themselves one hell of a happy hunting ground.” This amused the others. “Here's one of the best. Detroit, '43. The blacks are pissed off because the army's segregated and United Auto Workers is all white. Our witness claims he dreamed up the Double-V slogan for the blacks.”

“Victory at home and abroad,” Henry said. “I was in Detroit that year. Double-V was everywhere.”

“Sure,” Sherry said. “And UAW let the blacks into the union and every white man in Detroit saw his job, his neighborhood and his cute blond daughter in danger. One hell of a riot. 34 dead.”

“You're up, Chester,” McCarthy said.

“Okay. Sabotage. I found three plums in my pie. First up, there's the liner
Normandie,
burns until it capsizes at a pier on the Hudson, maybe an accident, maybe a local Red did it, our witness thinks the guy's bragging. Second, the invasion of Mexico in 1936. Seems—”

“I never heard of that,” McCarthy said.

“It never happened. Father Coughlin, the radio priest, remember him? Tried to get General Butler, ex-commandant US Marine Corps, to overthrow the Mexican government, for reasons too crass to contemplate. Our witness claims he put the priest up to it.”

“Coughlin was a rabid fascist,” Henry said.

“So what? The Reds will get into bed with anyone who suits their purpose. Lastly, the bungled assassination of FDR in 1933, when a jerk called Zangara shot the Mayor of Chicago instead.”

“Don't see how that helped the Party,” Chester said.

“Rumor was, Zangara was paid to shoot the Mayor of Detroit. Detroit was very anti-Communist in those days.” Chester held up a page. “It's all here.”

“Amazing,” McCarthy said. “Who's next?”

“Economic Riots,” Byron said. “You probably know this stuff already. Chicago Eviction Riot of 1931. Depression, no jobs, no money, families evicted by the thousand. CP organized a fight back, so they say. Likewise in Arkansas, 1935. Tenant farmers got kicked off their land. Quite a war down there.”

“Take your word for it,” McCarthy said. “All I've got is some crap about Commy propaganda. Let's move on.”

They sent for the witness.

“Three hundred and seventeen known Communists, I believe you said,” the chairman told him. “What are their names?”

“Twenty-four are dead,” Fantoni said. “You can have those.”

“We want the living.”

“No. You and your subpoena have blown my cover. You've needlessly destroyed my value to the FBI. But I'm not the only double agent who is active inside the Communist Party. Other patriotic Americans are still at work. Imprison me if you wish. I shall not reveal their names.”

Byron had a question. “Mr. Fantoni… Why are you a crook?”

“Can you think of a better front, sir?”

“But doesn't that make it difficult for you to contact the FBI?”

“They contact me, sir, which surprises nobody.”

“I see. What happened to your shoulder? And your mouth?”

For the first time, Jerome almost smiled. “I tripped over the cat,” he said. Byron recognized a coded message when he heard one. “I'm through here,” he said. Sometimes you just had to trust the other guy.

*

On behalf of the Sub-Committee, Roy Cohn made a very brief statement to the Press. “The hearing's over, gentlemen,” he said. “No questions. Good afternoon.”

*

By then McCarthy was in his office, trying to catch up on his drinking.

“Sonofabitch could of pleaded the Fifth,” he grumbled. “Would of saved a lot of trouble. Now I'm up to my neck in counter fuckin' intelligence. Whyn't the stupid bastard plead the Fifth?”

Nobody knew. Schine came in with some afternoon newspapers. “Three hundred and seventeen known and active Communists.” He pointed to a headline. “Congratulations, senator.”

“I've been screwed by a New Jersey mobster,” McCarthy growled. “I feel soiled. How can you trust a man who sleeps with the enemy?”

“That's Princeton for you.” Cohn shook his head. “No moral fiber.”

Luis and Julie walked across the Mall and looked at the Potomac. “Maybe it's time to cut and run,” he said.

“Your decision. Personally, I was hoping to see McCarthy crash and burn. And I like making him pay. God knows he made me pay plenty.”

Luis sat on the grass and hooked his hands around his knees. A wandering dragonfly hovered, watching him watch it. The difference was the dragonfly saw a man, whereas Luis saw nothing but deceit, subterfuge and fraud. “One last shot,” he said.