THEY HAD THANKSGIVING dinner the following day at supper time. While the rest of the nation, full to the gills from their mid-afternoon meal, sat around listening to Radio City Music Hall, Stacey cooked their meal and Nessheim kept her company in the kitchen, fortifying them both with a couple of bourbon highballs. She’d found two turkey legs at the butcher’s on 53rd Street, and after cutting pockets along their meaty ends she stuffed them with mushrooms and breadcrumbs, then roasted them slowly in the oven while she made succotash and a box of wild rice she’d saved for a special occasion.
When they sat down to eat, she brought out a bottle of Chianti from the drawer she used in the bedroom. Nessheim filled two sherry glasses from the straw-encased bottle and toasted Stacey. As they started to eat he said, ‘How did you find the Chianti?’
‘Top secret.’
‘Was it Mrs Fermi?’
‘That’s classified information. You won’t get a word out of me.’
He laughed. ‘You like her, don’t you?’
‘Very much. We’re having lunch next week.’
‘You told me. She seems great. Enrico – I don’t know about him. I like him well enough – he’s friendly, and a pretty regular guy for someone who’s won a Nobel Prize.’
‘But?’
‘I just sense there’s something going on with him. I don’t mean his work – he’s not allowed to talk about it in any case. But I think something else is bothering him, and I wish I knew what it was.’
‘It has to be tough for him living here. He’s not your average immigrant, now, is he? There’s a lot riding on his work.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘I wasn’t born yesterday. I can tell from the way the others defer to him. Not just because he’s their boss – he’s also their leader. I don’t have the faintest idea about it, but I know it’s important. And I don’t think you have to worry about him. It’s the other guys I’d be watching.’
‘Which ones?’ He was amused and intrigued by the thought of Stacey sizing them up.
‘That moose man.’
‘Nadelhoffer?’
‘That’s the one. And the creepy guy – Kalvin. Though there’s nothing Calvinist about him. He looks at women like they’re turkey legs – what bit’s chewable, what bit’s bone?’
Nessheim laughed. ‘So what are you doing tomorrow?’
‘There’re no classes because of the holiday. I thought maybe I’d knit you a muffler.’
‘I bet.’
‘What about you?
‘I was going to drive up to Fort Sheridan and try to find a soldier for Guttman.’
‘Is that the guy who called?’
‘Yes.’
‘So he’s your boss? Now I get it.’
Nessheim didn’t react.
‘Can I come?’ she asked.
‘No way. I can do it Monday instead – then we could spend tomorrow together.’
‘Did Guttman say it was important?’
‘Guttman says everything’s important.’ Like Groves, he thought, recalling Fermi’s description.
‘Then you’d better do it tomorrow.’
‘I’m a law student, remember. Fielding thinks I’m a good one, too.’
‘Law school’s faute de mieux for you, Nessheim. You wanted to do your bit. Well, Guttman’s giving you a chance to.’
‘I’d rather spend the day with you.’
‘There’s a war on, remember. Until it’s finished, “rathers” don’t count. You can have them in your head – who doesn’t? – but you have to leave them there until the war is over. Anyway, you can give me a lift downtown on your way.’
‘Why? What are you doing in the Loop?’
‘Christmas is in a few weeks, you ninny. If I’m not knitting you a muffler, I’d better buy you the equivalent. Hyde Park may have a great university and a superior intellectual life, but the shopping’s lousy.’
The Drive had been well ploughed and there was for the moment no more snow. He drove his own car, an old but reliable Dodge, and dropped Stacey outside Marshall Field’s, arranging to meet her at one o’clock outside Carson Pirie Scott. It took him forty minutes to reach Fort Sheridan, and once there he had trouble locating anyone who would help. The original ‘fort’ had been swamped by the emergence of a small city – Nessheim had read that over 100,000 soldiers had already been processed through the place, and the empty lots and parkland surrounding the original fort now held row after row of barracks. A military policeman with a white helmet and olive green uniform directed him through the complicated grid of new streets to the commander’s headquarters, underneath an enormous water tower that had been built in the previous century. Inside, he found the offices full of clerks scurrying in semi-panic, like the newsroom in The Front Page.
He also found that his credentials didn’t cut much ice in this military environment. FBI badge or no, a domestic cop didn’t hold much sway among people getting ready to go to war – or preparing others to do so. After a runaround from the Commander’s office and a blank refusal from the Quartermaster’s secretary, he tried the payroll department in desperation. A young woman with wavy hair and a corporal’s stripes proved more receptive than her colleagues. Taking the slip of paper from Nessheim, she went to check it against a table full of shoeboxes, each holding several hundred index cards. She came back with three of them. ‘More than one Bergen, I’m afraid. Do you have a first name?’
Nessheim shook his head. ‘No. But I think he’d probably hail from New York. Does that help?
The woman looked at the cards. ‘A bit. I’ve got one from Iowa, one from Jersey, and one from New York.’
‘New York City?’
‘Beats me. It says Liberty, New York.’
‘You’re kidding.’ Nessheim knew it well; it was the town nearest a resort where he had once been unofficially trained on a mission for Guttman. It was also a hundred miles from New York City, and since Guttman had said the man Bergen worked as an elevator serviceman in Manhattan, he could not have commuted. Nor have moved there to work – Liberty was a nice spot, but a little one, and Nessheim doubted there would be a single elevator to service in the town.
‘How about the third guy?’ he asked.
The woman picked the card out as though it was a winning raffle ticket. She was enjoying herself. ‘Elizabeth, New Jersey,’ she said like a bingo caller.
‘That’s the one. Now can you tell me where I can find him? Or has he been shipped out?’
She was studying the card and her face suddenly darkened. ‘Was he a friend of yours?’
‘Never met him in my whole life. Why’d you say “was”?’
‘He died.’
‘In combat?’ That was quick, he thought. Americans had only just arrived in North Africa; and how quickly could Bergen have made it to the Pacific?
‘No, he died here.’
‘Natural causes?’
‘It doesn’t say. What it does say is it involved the MPs.’
‘How do I find them?’ he asked, dreading the thought of finding his way again through the morass of buildings.
She saw his face and laughed. ‘Don’t look so gloomy. The MPs are right next door.’
He had to wait a good half-hour while the captain in charge, a man named Percival with a Kentucky twang, decided he needed to finish his early lunch, brought in on a tray by one of the ranks, all by himself. When at last Nessheim was ushered in, Captain Percival said curtly, ‘State your business.’
Nessheim explained who he was. Percival made a point of not examining his credentials. Nessheim said, ‘A soldier died here in the last few weeks. I wanted to know about the circumstances of his death.’
The Captain exhaled to show his indifference. ‘His name?’
‘Bergen – Edward Donald Bergen, native of Elizabeth, New Jersey. I don’t know the regiment or what he was doing here – Basic Training, I assume.’
‘Do you know how many new recruits come through here each week? Pick a number, add a zero, and you’ll still be short.’
‘Sure, but how many of them die while they’re here? I can’t believe it would be hard to check this.’
The Captain shook his head. ‘But it takes time, valuable time. Maybe I haven’t got that kind of time, mister, even if you do.’
‘I’m just asking for a little cooperation,’ Nessheim said levelly.
Nessheim sighed and sat down, without invitation. ‘If you say no then I’ll leave. Empty-handed and unhappy. You don’t want that.’
‘Aw, don’t I now?’ said the Captain sarcastically. ‘You Feds really get to me, you know. You come in with your dark suits and white shirts and shiny ties and tell us what to do. If we baulk then you go all tough guy, just like you’re doing to me. Yet you have no jurisdiction here – none at all. So don’t try and scare me, bud. J. Edgar Hoover could walk in here himself and I wouldn’t be obliged to dance. Got it?’
Nessheim sighed and took a deep breath. Then he looked at the wall behind Percival as he spoke quickly but quietly. ‘I got it, all right. And that’s why, when I leave here empty-handed, I’m not going to call the Bureau in Washington. I am going to pick up the phone and call General Leslie Groves. He’s a big bullish sonofabitch nobody likes, but he gets the job done. In case you haven’t heard of him, he built the Pentagon. Right now he’s got thirty thousand men building things all over the country. I will tell him how at his direct request I came here, looking for information about the death of his wife’s beloved nephew, but that unfortunately a certain Captain Percival felt he could not help me out in this slightly embarrassing task – embarrassing because I know there are more important things to do, for both you and me. Anyway, after this General Groves will go up against your commanding officer, and unless your guy’s a general too, I’d put my money on Groves – though you know better than me how the army works. So it’s your call what I do next, Captain.’
He had said this without looking at Percival, wanting to make the man have another think without threatening him so directly that he would find it unmanly to back down. For a moment, it looked to be in the balance, as Percival considered his options and Nessheim looked out the window and saw two MPs lighting cigarettes. When he glanced over, Percival had picked up the phone on his desk. ‘Send Swanson in here right away.’
They waited in silence, not looking at each other, until there was a knock on the door and a small man in uniform came in – a first lieutenant, Nessheim saw from the bars on his epaulettes. Captain Percival explained that he wanted information on Bergen’s death.
The little man named Swanson nodded. ‘Yes, sir. I remember it well. It was a hit-and-run – still no progress in locating the driver. We liaised with the local police.’ He looked over at Nessheim.
Percival said, ‘Mr Nessheim’s not a local dick, Swanson. He’s a Fed, so you needn’t get all nervous.’
Swanson hesitated and finally said, ‘Bergen got run down on Waukegan Avenue. He had told one of his buddies that he was meeting a friend from New York who was in town. I figure he was walking to catch the bus to go see this friend when it happened. He was on the road because of all the snow.’
‘Did anybody see it happen?’ Nessheim asked.
‘Sort of. They were behind him.’
‘But too far back to get a plate number,’ Percival interjected. It was clear he had heard about this before, and even clearer that he didn’t want to hear it all again.
‘Oh, it wasn’t that, sir. The car didn’t have a licence plate. The witness was sure about it – he’d noticed that even before the car hit Bergen.’
Nessheim said, ‘Any dope on the make of car?’
Swanson shook his head regretfully. ‘No. A sedan is all they could remember. A dark green sedan.’
He could see Stacey through the brass-framed glass doors of Carson Pirie Scott & Co.’s famous entranceway: Sullivan the architect had done himself proud with this building. The two-storey rotunda, with its elaborate brasswork, had already been decorated with Christmas lights.
Stacey was talking with a sales assistant, a dumpy mousy-haired woman in the store uniform of blouse and skirt. She seemed very animated and suddenly hugged Stacey and kissed her on the cheek. In Nessheim’s experience, not many sales assistants did this with customers.
He tapped the horn and Stacey came out through the doors. He noticed she wasn’t carrying any shopping bags.
‘Brrr,’ she said as she closed the passenger door. ‘Home, James, as quick as you can.’
He turned on Madison heading for Lake Shore Drive. ‘I thought you were going shopping.’
‘I was. I just didn’t buy anything. Makes a change, huh?’
‘Who was that you were talking to?’
‘Where?’
‘In Carson’s. Just now by the doors.’
‘Oh, just a friend.’
‘Does just a friend have a name?’
‘Diane.’
‘Diane who?’
‘Diane Keefer. What’s with all the questions?’
‘Did you just happen to run into her?’
‘She works at Carson’s. Behind the counter since you seem so curious about her. I had coffee with her during her break. I think it was chicory and it was pretty disgusting, but they give you a cookie to hide the bad taste.’
He said, ‘You’ve never mentioned any friend in Chicago.’
‘I grew up here, remember? Diane and I went to grade school together.’
‘I’m impressed you’ve kept up. You haven’t lived here for a long time.’
She gave a small irritated sigh, then cracked her window and lit a cigarette. She blew out some smoke and said, ‘If you have to know, she was in the Party with me.’
‘Was?’
‘Yes. She left at about the same time I did. She’d tell you it was doctrinal disagreements, but I think she just couldn’t stand the meetings. Too much ideology, not enough men.’
‘From what I saw of her, she’s more likely to be embraced by the ideology.’
‘Very funny,’ she said crossly. ‘Maybe she’s not all-American in the looks department, but not everybody can be a pretty boy. She’s got a good heart, and she’s smart, real smart.’
‘Unusual for a Communist.’
‘Ex-Communist.’
‘Pardon me. So what did you two ex-Communists discuss then?’
‘Well,’ said Stacey, in a you are being very stupid about this tone of voice he found unnerving because he knew it was justified, ‘today she told me about her bunions, and I told her about you. It’s called exchanging confidences, and it’s one of the common features of something called friendship, which I would encourage you to learn more about. We can’t all be misanthropes, you know.’
‘I’ve got friends,’ he said defensively.
‘Of course you do. Winograd’s a great guy.’
When they got back to the Kimbark apartment, Nessheim went into the kitchen. Shutting the door, he phoned Guttman’s house, but there was no answer. On the off chance that Guttman was working, he tried the office as well, where to his surprise, Marie answered. When he heard a man’s voice in the background he thought he’d found Guttman at last.
But Marie said, ‘He’s not here, Jim. He did come in at lunchtime but he left a little while ago. I told him you’d called, so he knows you’re trying to reach him –’
‘Do you know where he’s gone? I need to speak to him urgently.’
There was something hesitant in Marie’s voice. She always knew everything about what Guttman was up to; she probably knew his shoe size by now. So he pushed her: ‘I need to know where he is, Marie. Like I say, it’s urgent.’
‘He said something about catching a train later on.’
‘A train? Where’s he going?’
‘Didn’t he tell you?’
‘Tell me what? Come on, Marie.’
‘Maybe he couldn’t reach you, or maybe he didn’t have time.’ He sensed that Marie was justifying to herself an imminent disclosure, so he waited, controlling his impatience. At last she said, ‘He’s catching the train for Chicago.’