The Seven Year Itch (14 page)

Chapter 19

Late
Sunday Morning…

J.J.
strategized her next move on the way to her standing
Sunday brunch
 
reservation at the McCall
house. Tony’s ultimatum hadn’t helped her present dilemma, but could she really
blame him? For months, they’d both believed with every fiber of their beings
that Jack was the mole—and they were both wrong. Thanks to her so-called gift,
she was the only person in the FBI who knew the truth. Shit pissed her off. Not
only because she didn’t want to help the racist bastard, but whatever
investigation she conducted to find the real mole would benefit Jack. As much
as she wished she could take Tony’s attitude and let him fry, one simple fact
remained: The mole was still free. And as long as he remained free, no
operation or source was safe from his reach. She’d been forced by circumstance
to do a job she never thought she’d have to do—clear Jack’s name. To make
matters worse, she still had few clues to go on. They had sufficient
information to confirm the presence of a mole, but too little to identify him.

Work called but she’d first need to endure her father’s
weekly diatribe on the ills of singledom.
Ugh.

The scent of fried eggs and bacon wafted into J.J.’s nose as
she entered her father’s 1960s, all-brick duplex off Irving Street, where front
porches still had swings and neighbors were still nosy. He bought her childhood
home a few years before the five-day 1968 riots following the death of Martin
Luther King, Jr. From his front porch, he watched the protestors march down 7
^th
Street and the “fascist Gestapo pigs” (as he called them) greet them with
police sticks, dogs, and fire hoses. He had a family to protect, so he guarded
his front door, rifle loaded, and dared anyone to walk within five feet of his
home. He’d ensure they would meet their maker—by any means necessary.

Photos of a young Max McCall posing with Huey Newton, Bobby
Seal, and other Black Panthers hung throughout the house. Strong, determined,
and, by means questionable to some, seeking justice for all who hadn’t the
means or will to fight for themselves. External struggles to triumph in spite
of “the man,” internal conflict to overcome decades of second-class treatment.

Black on black was the uniform of the day with their ice cold
shades, hot leather jackets, and mile-high afros topped with black berets.
These were the images of black men, of black people, J.J. had grown up
observing every single day of her life until she left for college. Her mother
was undercover at the time, managed to stay out of most photos.

Special Agent Naomi Jones McCall was among the first black
women recruited by the FBI near the end of J. Edgar Hoover’s tenure. He
established a Top Secret program to recruit educated black agents that not even
Hoover himself would publicly acknowledge. She received orders from the
COINTELPRO director, who ran a covert program to “disrupt and neutralize”
subversive “Communist” organizations and political dissidents such as the NAACP
and the Black Panther Party. Naomi targeted the latter. The Bureau sent her
undercover to infiltrate and quell illegal arms activity that might undermine
U.S. national security. Her operations were only documented in Hoover’s secret
files, most of which were destroyed by his long-time secretary shortly after
his death.

A star agent, Naomi’s gift helped her to identify and arrest
corrupt Panther Party officials involved in harboring illegal firearms—of which
they were few and far between. Certainly fewer than she’d expected given the
propaganda she’d been indoctrinated with only days after raising her right hand
at the academy graduation.

Eventually, she met and fell in love with the disarmingly
handsome Max McCall—the one man who never made her itch. Her mother’s gift
revealed an inner goodness Max’s gruff, disillusioned exterior concealed. And
his greatest crime against society was establishing school breakfast program at
the local elementary school. Max told J.J. that after he proposed marriage, her
mother had planned to quit the FBI “soon.” But “soon” never came. She had
sensitive sources to protect and no colleagues she regarded well enough to
trust, not with their lives.

Before she could resign, she was critically wounded in the
line of duty during some mysterious operation, the details of which had never
been fully disclosed, at least not to J.J. For years she inquired about what
happened but no one provided answers, not even her father. As she grew older,
in the recesses of her mind, she’d planned to someday get the answers straight
from the FBI.

Each Sunday that J.J. entered her father’s home, the ghosts
of the struggle dredged up memories of
a
time
long-since gone but
a cause
that lingered into the present day. While she understood her father’s contempt
for the FBI and the long-dead J. Edgar Hoover, how did he expect the Bureau to
reform if women like Naomi and J.J. didn’t accept positions within the
organization? Black people couldn’t revolutionize the FBI culture from an arm’s
length. She suddenly dreaded the moment she’d have to tell her father she was
ready to give up. That the FBI would never evolve because the culture of
suppression suited everyone except those who suffered most from its effects.

Max McCall, now in his mid-60s, donned distinctive salt and
pepper hair, and his usual Sunday attire, a black Reverend Run Adidas sweat
suit. She stopped off at the powder room to wash her hands before entering the
kitchen. When she stepped into the doorway, Max turned to her, his smile warm
with affection.

“Ahhhh, there she is! My daughter the pig!” He held his arms
out to welcome her despite his too frequent digs about her employer.

She walked over and embraced him before grabbing the coffee
pot. “That’s
federal
pig to you, Dad,
which would make your son a city pig.”

He shook his head. “Mhm, mhm, mhm. I’m sure I raised y’all
better. But to each his own, I suppose.”

“You reared us just fine,” J.J. said taking her seat at the
table. “You call us pigs and
we still
come to Sunday breakfast every week. That’s got to say something about us,
doesn’t it?”

“Yeah. It says neither one of you likes to cook.” He laughed.
“Did your brother call this morning? Probably gonna be late as usual.”

“No, I hadn’t heard from him, but you know the police chief
has them working a bunch of overtime in the All Hands on Deck program. No
telling when he’ll get here. And I’m too hungry to wait. Sorry, bro!”

“If that boy ever showed up for brunch on time, I might die
and have a heart attack.”

“Well, don’t tell Malcolm. The way you two are constantly at
each other’s throats he’d probably start coming on time out of spite. And I
personally kind of like having you around.”

 
Max reached into the
cabinet above the stove and grabbed a couple of the “good plates” his wife
spent three hours selecting at Woodward and Lothrop in the months before she
passed away so many years ago. He’d bought them for their twelfth anniversary
present. After her eleven years of guilt-tripping him about their Justice of the
Peace wedding and non-existent reception, he finally conceded even though his
money was still a little funny. She couldn’t be with them in body, but he made
sure she enjoyed Sunday brunch with them in spirit.

He lifted the cast iron skillet from the burner, slid some
eggs onto their plates, and his daughter all but collapsed into her seat,
looking weary and sleepless. His expression shifted from one of joy to concern.

 
“Looks like you’ve got
bags under your eyes,” he said, as he laid the plates on the table. He pinched
her arm. “You’ve lost some weight too. I keep telling you, J.J., if you die
working yourself into the ground it’ll be in vain ‘cause all they gonna do is
hire a white woman to replace you. What they got you workin’ on, anyway?”

Bags? Lost weight?
J.J. wondered why her father exaggerated so much. She’d checked herself in the
mirror before leaving the house and she looked “okay,” just as she felt. She
shrugged off his comments as the bantering of a concerned father and poured
coffee into the supersized mugs resting on the kitchen table. “I could tell
you, but―”

“You’d have to kill me. Yeah, yeah, yeah...I know.”

“Come on, Dad. You know the drill. Can’t talk shop, so
there’s no sense in you worrying yourself to death about my work. I’m Max
McCall’s girl. I can handle it.”

He nodded in agreement. “Okay then, how’s your love life? You
datin
' yet?”

She stuffed an overflowing fork full of eggs in her mouth and
mumbled, “I’m not allowed to talk with my mouth full.”

He rapped his fingertips against the mahogany table. “That’s
okay. I’ve got all day.”

She chewed up the food and swallowed with a hard gulp. “Jeez.
I think I’d rather talk about work.”

“Ohhh, noooo, young lady, we’re talking about this right
now.”

Ever since her thirty-second birthday two months prior, Max
had made it his goal to ensure her eggs were harvested to produce a grandchild.
“Dad, you’ll let this go if you want to live long enough to see your grandson
graduate from the FBI academy,” she said, chuckling. “Stressing over my
nonexistent love life will surely kill you.”

Dad shuddered and gave me the side-eye glance. “At the rate
you’re going, you’ll be eligible for the
Guinness
Book of World Records
by the time you give me a grandson.”

J.J. smirked and leaned back. “Careful, Dad. Your 1950s are
showing. Besides, Malcolm doesn’t have any kids; he’s not married. Why don’t
you hassle him for some grandbabies?”

He shot her an incredulous glare.

“What?” she said. “All those women he’s got chasing him, you
could have your own rug rat assortment from multiple babies’ mamas.”

“Don’t even get me started on your brother. If I say go
right, he goes left. If I asked him for some grandbabies, he’d probably bring
me a pet fish. Hate to break it to you but your brother’s an idiot, God love
him. Can’t blame a woman for not marrying his crazy behind. You on the other
hand . . .”

She turned to him; her expression serious. “Well, I kind of
met someone, if you must know. He’s smart, he’s an agent, and, uhhhh... he’s
just a little white . . .
ish
?” she
said, lowering her volume to a level perceptible only to a few breeds of dog
and some small rodents.

“What you say? ‘Cause
I
know
you didn’t say what I thought you said!”

Chapter 20

E
ven though she had no plans whatsoever to pursue a
relationship with Tony, part of what held her back was a paralyzing fear of her
father’s reaction. To say he wasn’t a fan of non-black people was the
understatement of the century.

He became a small
successful businessman strictly serving the black community to avoid working
with them, talking to them, or dealing with them in any way shape or form. His
body was in the now but the 1950s and 1960s would forever color his perceptions
of the world, relationships, and view of a woman’s place in the family. She
thought she’d pitch him the idea of a multiracial relationship to gauge how
receptive he might be to the idea. If he didn’t melt like the Wicked Witch of
the West in a thunderstorm, then maybe....

J.J. tried to feign some semblance of courage.
He’s sitting here crying about grandbabies.
Why does the daddy’s color matter? All sperm swims in the same direction,
doesn’t it?
she thought to herself.

“I said . . . he’s white . . .
ish
.”

“Ohhhh,
lawwwwd
!” he
cried out, getting a little preacher in the pulpit dramatic. “My child’s been
brainwashed by ‘the man’! What the hell is white-
ish
? Either he’s white or not. Ain’t no ‘ish!’ Bad enough you
workin' for those racist Gestapos that ki—.”

“What dad? What were you gonna say?” she asked. Sounded as if
he was about to say “killed.” Did he know more about her mother’s death than he
admitted? J.J. didn’t know but trying to get it out of him, once he became
aware of his slip, would be like trying to squeeze water from a rock. She’d
broach the subject another day.

He shook his head. “Don’t try to change the subject. You bet’
not bring no white boys up in the house. All these good black men out
here—girrrrrrl, you gon’ get my pressure up.”

“He’s Italian.”

“Shoot, Italians ain’t no better. They’d just as soon as call
you ‘the magic word’ as some bible thumping rednecks from the Mississippi
sticks. Didn’t you see
The Sopranos
...or
The Godfather
?” he asked. She hadn’t
realized how skewed his perception of reality had been for so many years. Or
perhaps it was her perception that was skewed for the worse. “I’ll never forget
that line talkin’ about give the drugs to the black folks and spicks. ‘They’re
animals anyway, let them lose their souls,’” he said, imitating the accent.
“That’s what Italians think of us! You
 
remember those words when you’re flirting with Giuseppe!”

“That’s ridiculous. Zaluchi said
the line
because it was in the script. What if Tony said he knew
what all black people were like from watching
Good Times
and
The Wire
?”

“Well, that Puzo cat wrote
the line
because that’s what they believe.”

They both sat silently for a moment. J.J. thought about what
he said, and one thing she realized with she and Tony, their union would be a
two-way street as far as family goes. His mother probably wouldn’t be any more
excited to welcome J.J. into the Donato family than her father would be to
welcome him. She tried to wash the thought out of her head.

“Don’t get your boxers in a wad. I’m messing with you, Dad.
I’m not setting my sights on anyone, white, black or otherwise. Besides a man
can only serve two purposes in my life right now anyway.”

He paused for her answer.

She let him stew in anticipation for a few seconds.

“Take out the trash and keep my truck clean. Now, let’s
finish eating before the food gets cold.”

Silence had won again and it was good.

Max fixed a delicious meal. All those years cooking for his
children had improved his skills considerably since Naomi died and he assumed
kitchen duty. J.J. couldn’t jab her fork into her eggs fast enough when her
cell phone rang. Normally, she’d ignore it, knowing her father would be
displeased if she answered for work purposes while she was sitting at the
table. But something inside tingled telling her she probably shouldn’t let this
call go to voicemail. She fished her phone from her purse and looked at the
caller ID.

“Well, well, well, abandoning us this morning?”

“Hey, Sis,” Malcolm said. “How’s breakfast? Had your serving
of
nag
yet?”

“Yes, a heaping pile of it and no one to share it with,” she
said. “You still working?”

“Of course. What else is new?” he said. “Listen, I got stuck
at work today because I made an arrest in the middle of the night. When I
checked for his identification, I found your business card hidden in his
wallet.”

“My business card?”

“Yeah, thought you might want to get down here and talk to
this one.”

“Who is it?” she asked, sitting at the edge of her seat. The
curiosity nearly killed her.

“Some diplomat from the Russian Embassy,” he said. J.J. could
hear paper shuffling in the background. “Anyway, how about those Redskins?”

“Malcolm!”

“I think RG III will make a fine addition to the team.”

She clenched her teeth. “Keep it up and I’m gonna tell your
girlfriend you still sleep with a woobie.”

“You always were the ruthless one,” he said. “Okay, it’s
Aleksey
Dmitriyev
, a Second Secretary.”

“Dmitriyev?” she said in delight…and then the confusion sunk
in. “How in hell did Dmitriyev get my business card? I’ve never met him.” She
tipped her head back and turned her face to the sky. All the while trying to
temper her emotions.

Malcolm wasn’t aware that J.J. recruited spooks because she’d
dipped, dodged, and evaded that bullet for years.

Max looked at J.J. curiously as she hung on her brother’s
every word. Her mind spun at the possibilities of getting a counterintelligence
officer to cooperate.

“Hmph. That’s interesting indeed.” Her mind churned.

How could he get my card? How could he get my card?

Then she realized it. He took
Karat
to the airport. He must know about Plotnikov’s cooperation.

“Ohhhh God!” J.J. whispered as grief overcame her. “He’s
dead. He’s dead.”

“What’s wrong, Sis?” Malcolm asked. “Who’s dead?”

“N-nothing!” she said, avoiding the urge to curse to the high
heavens. She forced the emotion down and pulled herself together. “I, uhhh,
Dad’s here. Can’t really get into it. But why’d he get arrested?”

“We caught him soliciting a prostitute. Leona.”

“Leona? You mean the transvestite on 14
^th
Street?”

“That would be the one.”

She chuckled and tilted her head to the side. “Wow. I suppose
smarter men have been duped by her…his…her beauty, right?”

“Indeed. We caught a city official soliciting her a few weeks
ago.”

“No effin’ way. Which one?” she asked. Thirty-two years had
passed and she still had never uttered a single curse word in front of her
father.

“You know the drill, Sis,” he replied. “I could tell you but
I’d have to—.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Preaching to the choir. So has he claimed
immunity? Have you called the State Department yet?”

“No. And no. He was too drunk to claim anything except
intoxication. He’s sleeping it off.”

“Don’t call them. Don’t do anything with him until I get there,
do you understand me? This could be the break I’ve been waiting for.”

She hung up the cell phone and threw it back into her purse,
which she slung over her shoulder scrambling to get out of her seat.

“Who’s dead?” Max asked.

“Can’t talk about it, Dad. I’ve got to get down to 3-D.”

“So you’re just gonna run out in the middle of breakfast?”
her father said, his disapproving gaze burning a hole through her.

“Can’t be helped,” she said, her every move urgent and swift.
“I’m gonna slap my breakfast on toast and eat it on the way. Duty calls.”

Dmitriyev had sent Plotnikov to his death. J.J. was certain
of it. But the only way to get the information she needed from him was to help
him. It wouldn’t be easy to secure his cooperation. Hands down, Russian counterintelligence
officers were toughest to recruit. They’d been schooled in the FBI’s dirty
tricks. The puppet show held no secrets or surprises; they knew which strings
would be pulled. And more than anything else they understood the dire
consequences spies suffered for cooperating with agencies like the FBI,
especially in the age of Golikov. But he was the last person seen with her
source before he got recalled to Moscow. As hopeless as the situation seemed,
they had to talk.

She needed Tony’s support on this one—she couldn’t play good
cop, bad cop without a bad cop.

Can I do anything to
change his mind?

She decided to make Tony an offer he couldn’t refuse.