“There you are,” Van Dorn whispered.
“Came as soon as they let me. How are you?”
Dorothy Van Dorn and David Novicki were hovering. Novicki said, “I was just entertaining our pal here with tales of my retirement, wasn’t I, Joe? ‘Barnacle Bill’ is home from the sea. Joe won’t believe that I was driving a trolley on Long Island.”
Van Dorn whispered, “Passengers have no idea what a hand they have at the helm.”
“Trolley went bust,” says Novicki. “I’m going to drive a taxi.”
“Dorothy,” Van Dorn whispered. “Why don’t you and Dave grab yourself some lunch. I need to talk with Isaac.”
“Not too much,” she said.
“We’ll behave ourselves. Don’t you worry.”
Dorothy kissed him on the forehead and leveled her silvery gray eyes on Bell. “Go easy. He’s not out of the woods yet. But he’s been clamoring to see you.”
“Don’t worry. I won’t tire him.”
Van Dorn waited until his wife and friend were out the door. Then he asked Bell in a hoarse whisper, “How’s it going in Detroit?”
“Worse than we thought.”
Bell explained that the entire field office was being undermined by corruption, including the supposedly loyal detective Van Dorn had put in charge.
“We have to clear ’em out and rebuild from scratch.”
“Send Kansas City Eddie Edwards,” Van Dorn replied in a voice so low Bell could barely hear. “He’ll straighten them out.”
“Eddie’s not getting any younger,” said Bell. “And Detroit’s getting tougher. I sent Texas Walt.”
“Hatfield? Isn’t he out west, making moving pictures?”
“Walt’s taking time off.”
“I hope he hasn’t gone soft. All that Hollywood high living.”
“If Walt’s gone soft, it doesn’t show.”
Van Dorn closed his eyes. He lay silent, his chest barely moving with his breath. When he finally opened his eyes again, Bell said, “I do have better news about Protective Services.”
“What’s that?”
“Darnedest thing, but when the word got out that Clayton and Ellis were let go, our hotel dicks took notice all around the country.”
“How do you know?”
“I sent agents disguised as bootleggers to offer bribes.”
“Good for you!”
“The boys told them to get lost. Several were so emphatic, they threw punches.”
“That is a great relief. How are we doing with the Coast Guard?”
“I’m sorry, Joe. They canceled the contract.”
“Damnation!” Van Dorn erupted, which set him to coughing. Bell held a handkerchief for him and then gave him water. Van Dorn caught his breath. “I was really hoping we could parley new government work out of that. I got shot and lost the client. No justice in the world.”
Bell was relieved to see a wry smile on Van Dorn’s bristly cheeks. He said, “I’ll try and learn what our chances are when I finally get through to the Coast Guard chief of staff.”
“O.K…. How are we doing with the gang who shot up the cutter?”
“One of them showed up at Roosevelt Hospital, wounded. Before I could interview him, someone killed him.”
Van Dorn whispered, “What for?”
“I don’t know. Maybe they thought you were dead and they’d be facing murder charges if they didn’t kill the witness. At any rate, I almost caught the guy who shot him, but I lost him. I doubt I’d recognize him if he walked in the door. But we got the dead man’s name. Alien radical, deported to Germany, sneaked back in. I have Pauline working on who his friends were over there.”
“That’s a good start.”
“I am hoping you can help me, hoping you might remember a little more.”
“Shoot,” Van Dorn said weakly.
“The Coast Guard still won’t talk to me. So all I know about what happened out there is secondhand from the harbor cops. And the harbor’s boiling with rumors. What do you remember about a black boat?”
“It was going like a bat out of hell. Fastest boat I ever saw, Isaac. Had to be doing fifty miles an hour. It had a Lewis gun and a fellow who knew how to use it. And it was armored.”
“An armored speedboat?”
“Bulletproof glass in the windshield, too. I thought for sure I’d nailed him. Bullets bounced off it like rain. The only men I hit were on the other boat. The taxi.”
“Was the black boat guarding the taxi?”
“That was certainly the effect. Here’s the thing, Isaac.” Van Dorn sat up taller, his eyes glowing.
“Take it easy. Talk slowly. Don’t push yourself. O.K.?”
“O.K.,” Van Dorn whispered. “Here’s the situation. My head’s clearing, and I’m remembering that was one heck of a gun battle.”
“Machine guns and armor… I should say so.”
Van Dorn waved for silence. “I’ve been in plenty scraps, but not like that one. I thought I was back in Panama. Do you know what I mean?”
Bell nodded. Decades ago, as a young U.S. Marine, Joe Van Dorn had landed on the Isthmus in the middle of a revolution.
“Those boys on the black boat knew their business. They used their speed to hold an angle of engagement the Coasties couldn’t cover with their cannon. They’d been to war before.”
14
As Newtown Storms had predicted to Marat Zolner, the stock market began to move up.
“I can’t promise every week will be as exciting as this one, Prince André,” Storms told him on the telephone. “We were especially fortunate with a New York Central offering. The firm had an inside track, shall we say. Your ten thousand dollars is now worth twenty.”
“I need ten thousand of it immediately,” said Zolner.
“May I strongly counsel, Your Highness, that you plow this windfall back into your account? I see new opportunities every day.”
“I see one, too,” said Zolner. “Fern will pick up the money this afternoon.”
That evening, Marat Zolner took the ten thousand to the Bronx and paid the owner of Morrison Motor Express for a controlling interest in a fleet of seven-and-a-half-ton Mack AC “Bulldog” trucks. He dispatched four of the sturdy, slope-nosed, long-haul vehicles three hundred fifty miles to Champlain, New York, on the Canadian border.
Zolner gave command of the convoy to the powerfully built and aptly nicknamed Trucks O’Neal. Next to each driver rode a guard armed with cash for the booze, the names of the customs agents to pay off, and a Thompson submachine gun to either defend the convoy or, if they ran into a New York — bound shipment, cut short the two-day trip to Canada and hijack it.
Despite, or because of, an introduction by retired police commander Richter, the Foreign Service secretary did not invite Pauline Grandzau to his office. Pauline suggested they meet at the Kronprinzenpalais, where the National Gallery had created a wonderful new museum for modern art.
“That would be splendid,” he said, his genuine enthusiasm reminding her that for anyone who loved painting and sculpture and film, it was a magnificent time to be alive in Germany. For artists, the past was over and the future gleamed.
They made eye contact in the bustling front hall — he as handsome as Richter had promised her, she as striking as Richter had promised him — and he followed Pauline upstairs to the top floor, which housed a temporary collection. They wandered separately until, as if by chance, both were standing in front of an exciting Hannah Höch collage, a photo montage, with a title that made it hard to dismiss the violence in the streets.