The Big Kiss-Off of 1944: A Jack LeVine Mystery (22 page)

Dewey smiled. “I think I’m pretty good.” He and Savage chuckled, two very tough Republican tigers.

“We’re all great guys,” I agreed, “granted. To continue: I will run off, on Dewey for President letterhead, a few copies of a press release that will explain that the distinguished banker, Eli W. Savage, will speak on the topic ‘Politics and Ethics: What Every American Should Know.’”

Savage paled. “We can’t …”

“Don’t worry,” I told him. “You’ll never give the speech.”

“But we said nothing to the press,” Dewey interjected. “This will get picked up. If the wire services get it …”

“The wires won’t get it because it won’t be sent to them. Perhaps a half-dozen copies will be run off and sent only to the blackmailers, who will think it’s a general release and, hopefully, panic. I’ll attach a note to the release which will say that receipt of the negatives and prints of the films will cancel the broadcast. That release, repeat, will only go to the blackmailers.”

“Just to them,” said Savage, his color returning.

“Correct. But it has to look like a general release.”

Dewey puffed on his cigar.

“You sure this is going to work?”

“I’m not sure of anything. But we have to play this to the hilt. If July 4th rolls around and they think we’re bluffing, they’ll look up the radio listings and see that the Republicans have fifteen minutes of air time, national time. Then I suspect they’ll have to do some quick thinking.”

“Will there be any broadcast at all?” the governor asked.

“You feel like making a speech?”

“No, no.” He waved his cigar. “It’s way too early for anything like that. We can’t get really going—officially, that is—until around Labor Day. It’s traditional.”

“Then I guess we get fifteen minutes of organ music.”

Savage exhaled long and deep. Dewey got up and went to the window. I helped myself to another scotch and soda, making this one a double.

“I’m not sure I like it,” the candidate said softly. “The basic idea is very, very good but …” he shook his head, “buying fifteen minutes of time and then canceling. That’s terribly awkward, I think. Eli?”

“Very awkward,” the banker echoed.

I took care of half of my drink.

“Make it ten minutes, then. Can’t Savage give a straight little campaign speech, something modest?”

“No,” said Savage like he meant it. “It’s pointless, kicking off a campaign July 4th in wartime.”

“You see, Jack,” Dewey said soothingly, explaining the bad world to his little nephew, “we have until November. This is so awfully early. Plus, to start off with something vague and thrown-together, people will wonder. Look, can’t we let the network know somehow that we’ll probably cancel?”

“If you’ve got a good friend at a network who knows how to keep his mouth shut.”

Savage and Dewey searched each other’s faces for the answer. Savage found his first.

“Herb Feigenbaum at EAF.”

Dewey hesitated. “He’s for us but he still might ask questions.”

“Not if you promise him plenty of paid time in the fall,” I heard myself saying.

Dewey started laughing. “Have you ever thought of going into politics, Jack? God, that’s perfect. He discounts this time against the certainty we won’t go on the air, so he doesn’t
lose
any paid time, but we get listed in the newspaper log. There’s no announcement, no cancellation, and nobody knows the difference. Marvelous.” Dewey was very happy.

Savage got up and made a couple of drinks. He gave one to the governor. I was killing mine more slowly. Savage lifted his glass.

“To the light at the end of the tunnel.”

“And to the best damned detective in the country,” Dewey added. We drank to both propositions.

I hoped they weren’t unduly exuberant.

T
HE NEXT DAY
I set about typing up my press release on ditto paper; I needed a ditto job so the release I sent out would look like one of thousands. I roughed out a few short paragraphs to my satisfaction, then waited for confirmation of the air time from Savage. He called at eleven and said that things had gone pretty smoothly with Feigenbaum, who usually drove a hard bargain. The Republicans would pay one-fifth rates for five minutes and would be listed on the log. One-fifth was very nice: Dewey must have promised the moon, come October. We were scheduled for July 4th at 10:00
P.M.,
WEAF in New York

A secretary in the building across the way noticed a run in her stocking and pulled her skirt way up to inspect it. I inspected with her, then turned back to the release. I wanted it finished before noon.

The end result sounded good enough to take ten years off Factor’s life.

SAVAGE TO SPEAK JULY 4TH:

POLITICS AND ETHICS THE SUBJECT

Eli W. Savage, president of the Quaker National Bank of Philadelphia, will deliver a radio address, “Politics and Ethics: What Every American Should Know,” on Tuesday, July 4th, at 10
P.M.
over the Blue Network, WEAF in New York.

Mr. Savage supports the candidacy of Governor Thomas E. Dewey, whose “courage, youth and honesty are vital for the shaping of the postwar world.” His radio address will touch on the need for ethical and moral leadership in the nation, “qualities in which the Democratic party has proven woefully deficient.”

I phoned it in to Savage, who cleared it with the candidate and gave me the green light ten minutes later.

“Tom said something, though, LeVine, and I think he may be right.”

“What?”

“He’s afraid the blackmailers will think it’s a bluff when they don’t see the story picked up in the press.”

“Who’d pick this up? It’s a routine puff, a piece of campaign flackery.”

“I’m not so sure, LeVine. It’s an ominous little release.”

“It’s ominous only because you know what’s behind it. And besides, the nuances aren’t important because the newspapers aren’t going to get the story anyhow. It’s academic. The important thing is that when the blackmailers call EAF and ask if there’s a political broadcast on July 4th at ten, a little man will leaf through his books and tell them yes. That is when it will get interesting.”

“I suppose so.”

“Of course. Tell the governor what I told you. He keeps forgetting that the release isn’t actually going out. God knows these mugs aren’t going to call the papers themselves and start asking questions. And look, I need that letterhead.”

“A messenger is bringing it over.”

“Fine. You staying in New York, Mr. Savage?”

“Oh no, LeVine, it’s a little more than I can bear right now. I’ll return to Philadelphia this afternoon and come back Monday night, if necessary. I do hope the films are in our possession before then.”

“I hope so, too, but don’t count on it. Chances are you’ll have to come back.”

“What a son of a bitch this turned out to be, didn’t it, Jack?” He sounded very tired all of a sudden.

“It’ll be over soon.”

“Yes,” he said vaguely and then hung up. I was left holding the phone and taking another look at the secretary across the way. She noticed and threw me a finger.

A messenger boy brought me the Dewey letterhead about a half-hour later. I signed a slip while he picked at a walnut-sized pimple on his neck. Very pretty, it almost brought my breakfast up. There are certain things LeVine finds stomach-wrenching and this kid was hitting the bull’s-eye.

When he left, I went on down the hall and knocked on Abe Rosen’s door. He opened up with a sleepy smile.

“It’s Bulldog Drummond.”

“Hope I didn’t spoil your concentration, Abe.” I walked in. “Where’s the blanket and pillow?”

“So I took a little nap. Crucify me. You want the machine?” he asked, seeing the sheet dangling from my hand.

“Yeah. It working?”

“It always works. What are you running off?”

“No show, Abe. Not this time.”

“No keyhole report this time? I observed Mrs. Rappaport performing an unnatural act upon a horse in room 604 at the Hotel Cumstain.”

“You left out what kind of horse.”

“Palomino. Let me look, Jack. I love those things.” He looked over my shoulder.

I turned and held the sheet behind my back.

“Abe, gimme a break. I can’t. Do Jack a favor and look out the window while I run this thing off. It’ll take a minute.”

He realized I wasn’t kidding.

“This got something to do with those shots yesterday?”

“You mean the firecrackers?”

“Check, the firecrackers. Same case, Jack?”

“Same one, Abe. Now be a sweetheart and turn around for a minute. Look at the girls out the window.”

“That’s all I’ve done this morning. That and sleep.” He turned around slowly, like a revolving ashtray. Which is sort of what he was. People in the music business called him a “decent guy.” In that racket “decent guy” is the kiss of death.

I ran off five copies and quickly checked them.

“Okay Abe, you can come out.”

He looked over his shoulder.

“You’re sure I don’t have to stand here all day?”

“Only if you want to.”

He walked me to the door. “I’ll go back to sleep. Thanks for breaking up my day a little.”

Back in the office, I typed a personal note to Factor.

Dear Lee,

Savage will blow the whistle over a nationwide hookup on July 4th, unless the prints and negatives are returned before that date. He feels his reputation can only be enhanced by such a show of integrity. And, of course, it ensures a Dewey victory.

It’s all over, Lee. Return the material to my office.

Hoping your head feels better,

I am …

It was a good note. I liked it, particularly the “of course” at the end of the first paragraph. It wasn’t every day that I could “ensure” a presidential election. After patting myself on the back, I attached the note to a press release and folded both inside an envelope marked “Lee Factor, Waldorf Towers,
URGENT.
” Then I grabbed my hat off the moose head and locked up.

The day had turned clammy and the sky was getting so dark that the cars were going to their parking lights. I got a cab to the Waldorf and managed to drop off the envelope, buy a
Sun
, and duck into a coffee shop before the rains came. They broke a minute after I got inside, the raindrops clattering noisily against the window panes.

“Uh, oh,” said the red-haired waitress, taking a gander out the window. Her features were carefully held together by powder, rouge, and hope. Slap her on the back and her face would fly off.

“Everybody’s gonna order in,” she said.

“Tough break.”

“It’s life.”

I dropped the subject, whatever it was, ordered a meat loaf platter, and unfolded the
Sun.
Good news was in abundance: the Russians looked ready to recapture Minsk, LeVine’s ancestral homeland, and the Allies were sweeping toward Siena and Le Havre. The rest of the front page was all Dewey: one of the youngest nominees in history, a meteoric rise, a genuine challenge to Roosevelt’s fourth-term hopes. Some controversy over the nomination of Bricker for veep, but conservative elements in the Party are pleased, and it gives geographical balance to the ticket.

The Yankees lost. The Dodgers lost. The Giants lost.

After the meat loaf arrived, I ate very slowly, delicately halving even the french fries. The rain was torrential. People ran hunched through the streets, pressing newspapers to their heads. Fresh ink ran off the sides in black rivulets. Umbrellas got turned inside out and a trash can across the street was bristling with their upturned handles. Clusters of people waited in doorways. They looked at their watches and at the sky. The coffee shop was only half-filled at 12:45.

By my third cup of coffee and the funny pages, the rain was letting up and the sun was shining through its last drops. I paid my tab and left to go out on the slick, wet streets. A waterfall ran off the coffee shop’s awning. People were venturing out of the doorways, smiling. It had been a hell of a rain.