The bookstore, Burke's, wasn't far from Faneuil Hall. No line stretched around the block waiting for her when she arrived. They did have a sign in the window saying she'd be there. That was good. She'd signed at two or three stores that hadn't let anyone know she'd be there. As a result, she hadn't signed much.
She took her place at a table near the door. The table held a dozen copies of I Sank Roger Kimball and a neat hand-lettered sign: MEET THE AUTHOR. A man in a suit that had seen better days came up to her and asked, "Excuse me, ma'am, but where's the bathroom?"
"I'm sorry. I don't work here," Sylvia said. She'd already seen people paid no attention to signs. The man muttered something and went away.
Another man came up. He took a book from the pile for her to sign. "I was in the Navy," he said. "You did everybody on the Ericsson a good turn."
"Thank you," Sylvia said.
A woman picked up a copy of the book. She said, "My brother would like this, and his birthday is coming up. Would you sign it 'To Pete,' please?"
" 'To Pete,' " Sylvia echoed, and wrote the man's name and hers on the title page. That was where Ernie had said the autograph was supposed to go. He knew such things, or Sylvia was willing to believe he did.
A plump woman in a flowered housedress approached. "Where are your cookbooks, dear?" she asked.
"I'm sorry. I don't work here," Sylvia said again. She held up a copy of I Sank Roger Kimball. "Would you like to buy my book? I'll be glad to sign it for you if you do." Of course I will. It makes me money.
The woman shook her head. "Not unless it's got good recipes for beans and cabbage in it." That, Sylvia couldn't claim. The other woman wandered off, in search of cookbooks.
Over the next two hours, four more people asked Sylvia questions whose answers only someone who worked at Burke's could have known. She sent them off to the clerk behind the cash register. She also did get another nine people to buy copies of the book, most by simply sitting there and having them come up, a couple by waving the book as they walked into the store. The first time she'd signed, she hadn't done that-she'd been too shy. But the manager of that bookstore gave her a tip she took to heart: "If you don't toot your own horn, lady, who's gonna do it for you?"
She was getting ready to go home when the bell over Burke's front door jangled again. In walked a lean Irishman with a lot of teeth. He tipped his fedora to her. "Good day to you, Mrs. Enos." Striding up to the table, he took a copy of her book and opened it to the title page. Most people, left to themselves, chose the half-title page or the blank sheet in front of it, but he knew the ropes. "If you'd be so kind…?"
"Of course, Mr. Kennedy." She wrote, For Joseph Kennedy-Best wishes, Sylvia Enos, and gave the book back to him. Another fourteen and three-quarter cents, she thought, but I didn't expect he'd want anything to do with me.
Kennedy took the book over to the clerk, paid for it, and then came back to Sylvia's table. "I hope this means you've come to your senses, politically speaking," he remarked, though the way he looked at her didn't seem political at all.
She said, "I've always been a Democrat." That wasn't strictly true. She'd favored the Socialists till she saw Upton Sinclair do no more than protest to the Confederate States when it came out that Roger Kimball had torpedoed the USS Ericsson after the Confederates were supposed to have stopped fighting. But she'd voted Democratic for as long as she'd had the suffrage.
"You sometimes picked odd ways to show it." No, Kennedy hadn't forgotten seeing her at a Socialist rally on the Boston Common.
Knowing he hadn't forgotten, she asked him, "What do you want with me?"
The way his eyes flashed told her one thing he wanted. He knew she knew he was married; his wife had watched her children when she spoke at a Democratic function. He didn't care if she knew. He wanted what he wanted. But he made himself remember he wanted something else, too: "I hear you're doing well with your book. I look forward to reading it."
"Thank you," Sylvia Enos said.
Kennedy hefted his copy of I Sank Roger Kimball. "This has put you in the public eye, you know. We have a campaign to run, Mrs. Enos. Would you help Governor Coolidge-help the Democratic Party-take Powel House back from the Socialists? They were lucky at first, but what's happened to the country in President Blackford's term shows their true colors."
That wasn't even close to fair, and Sylvia knew it. But she'd already seen that political campaigns weren't designed to be fair. They were designed to convince, by whatever means possible. She said, "I'd like to help, Mr. Kennedy, but I don't know if I can. Times are hard."
"Don't you worry about that," Joseph Kennedy said. "Don't you worry about that a bit. We'll take care of you." That glint showed again in his eyes. "How does a hundred dollars a month sound, from now till the election? Plus expenses, of course."
For a moment, it sounded too good to be true. But then Sylvia remembered Ernie talking about his dicker with their publisher, and about first offers' being meant to snag people who didn't have the nerve the stand up for what they were really worth. Her spine stiffened. She said, "I'm sorry, Mr. Kennedy, but I've got so many things planned, that isn't really enough to pull me away."
Joseph Kennedy eyed her again, this time in a very different way. Plainly, he'd expected her not just to say yes but to swoon with gratitude. After a long moment, he nodded, perhaps seeing her for the first time as a person and not just as a tool or a nicely shaped piece of meat. "More to you than meets the eye, isn't there?" he said, more to himself than to her. He grew brisk. "Well, business is business, and you'll do us some good. How does two hundred a month sound, then?"
Sylvia didn't gasp, but she came close. The way things were, that was a lot of money. "And expenses? And full pay for November, too?" she asked.
Kennedy bared his teeth. "You sure you're not a sheeny, Mrs. Enos?" he said. She didn't answer. She just waited. He gave her a sour nod. "And expenses. And full pay for November, too," he promised, and stuck out his hand. "Bargain?"
She was oddly reluctant to touch him. She didn't see how she could avoid it, though. When they shook on the deal, his hand felt like.. . a hand. Somehow, she hadn't expected his flesh to seem so ordinary. "Bargain," she said. The wolf wouldn't come round her door again till the end of the year-longer, if she salted some money away, as she planned to. That made it a fine bargain indeed, as far as she was concerned.
A eroplanes roared off the Remembrance 's flight deck, one after another. Even with a push from the catapult to speed them on their way, they almost dropped into the gray-green water of the northern Pacific till they gained altitude and buzzed away, some to the north, others to the south.
Sam Carsten scratched his nose. His fingertip came away white with zinc-oxide ointment. Even here, off the west coast of Canada, he needed shielding from the summer sun. But, though he might burn in these waters, he wouldn't scorch.
He turned to George Moerlein. Back when they were both petty officers, they'd bunked together. But Moerlein was even newer on the Remembrance than he was now, having rejoined her crew during a fueling stop in Seattle. Carsten said, "Feels good to see us in business again."
"Yeah-uh, yes, sir," Moerlein said. "Sorry, sir."
"Don't worry about it," Sam answered. His old bunkmate had forgotten for a moment he was an officer these days. He went on, "I'm just glad this ship isn't tied up at the Boston Navy Yard any more."
"Me, too, sir." Moerlein got it right this time. "That was what finally made me put in for a transfer-I wondered if she'd ever go to sea again. For a hell of a long time, sure didn't look like it." He pulled out a cigar, then sheepishly put it back in his pocket. The smoking lamp was out on the flight deck during takeoffs and landings, for excellent good reasons. The petty officer shook his head. "I've been away too damn long. I shouldn't even have started to do that."