Brandy reluctantly agreed before flouncing off.
“That girl is used to getting her way,” said Floyd. “Should I just dye the dress in a big vat of orange and get it over with?”
“Not at all. I’ll handle her, don’t you worry. Let’s just hope this is our biggest dilemma.”
Three days later, North Korea declared war on South Korea.
Hazel tore through the newspaper articles, alarmed at the thought of another war. The North Koreans were backed by Russia, the South Koreans by America. The country would become a proxy for a larger conflict, communism versus democracy, of that Hazel had no doubt.
For her brother and his friends, who came of age in the 1930s, communism as a philosophy was all the rage, and Ben had jumped on the bandwagon right off, following the lead of brilliant writers like Clifford Odets and Albert Maltz. Practically everyone who was in a creative field looked to communism as a way to even out the gross misbalances of society, especially after the Depression exposed the wide rift between the rich and the poor.
At least once a week, Ben knocked on her bedroom door, some petition or other in hand, and asked her to add her name to it. Most of the time she never even bothered to read it. Everyone was taking up causes and trying to impose change, and she was happy to follow Ben’s lead and take part.
At his urging, she’d joined in marches, like the one to support the Spanish Republicans against Franco. News of the violence and horror in Spain, of executions of anyone thought to be communist, including priests, had spread to the United States, and Ben and his buddies had embraced the cause. That afternoon, they’d marched and shouted, and then crowded into someone’s basement apartment to go over next steps. She’d never seen her brother so engaged, his face shining with purpose, until he’d been drafted into the army and was heading off to his own war. And his own death.
Now there would be more boys sent abroad to a foreign country, who’d never traveled anywhere outside of the United States and would be in a strange land, told to fight and kill people. Like the soldiers she’d met in Naples.
Shaking off the dark thoughts, she headed down to the hotel lobby to meet Maxine for brunch. Mr. Bard stood in the middle of the space, overseeing two workers who were hanging an enormous oil painting above the fireplace. She stopped and studied it. “Very nice.”
“By one of our sixth-floor tenants. Couldn’t pay rent but I figure this will cover a couple of months.”
His graciousness touched her. “That’s very kind of you.”
“Did you see the Feds outside?”
“What?”
“Been there the past week or so, on and off. Could be any one of our guests who they’re after, other than Mr. Stolberg, of course. Wonder if he’s the one who sent for them.” He scratched his chin and surveyed the painting. “Pull the right side up two inches.” He nodded. “Great.”
“Has anyone asked them what they’re doing there?”
The workers climbed down their ladders and folded them up. “Watch that, don’t scratch the floors.” Mr. Bard turned back to Hazel. “Nah. Why bother? They go through the garbage, they tap our phones. We know it and they know we know it. Just like Hungary, where I came from. I’m used to it. You Americans think it’s all so free. But no one’s free.”
Out on the street, Hazel peered around. A black sedan was parked next to the fire hydrant, unoccupied and unticketed. Maxine stumbled out of the hotel, a scrape of mascara down one cheek, which Hazel wiped off with a handkerchief. “Long night?”
“The usual.” Even Maxine managed to look alarmed when Hazel told her about the Feds staking out the hotel, listening in on their phone calls. She glanced at the car before taking Hazel by the arm. “I don’t know about you, but I could use a sangria.”
“Unbelievable. You never stop, do you?”
They did an about-face and headed into the street entrance of El Quijote, the Spanish restaurant located in one of the hotel’s former dining rooms. The interior decor was best described as Iberian bordello, featuring red leather seating, a long, dark bar peppered with fake Tiffany pendants, and rough adobe-style walls that would leave a scratch if you got too close. The place was huge, with rooms off of rooms. They grabbed a couple of seats at the bar. A few tables were filled with folks who looked like they’d accidentally stumbled in, but the place was otherwise empty. This was way too early in the morning for the restaurant’s usual clientele.
Lavinia Smarts sat at a table way in the rear, talking to an older man. She waved at them before turning back to her conversation.
“She’s so regal,” said Maxine, sliding onto a barstool. “That’s what I want to be like when I’m her age. A doyenne.”
“No one messes with Lavinia,” said Hazel.
As she said the words, she spied a man in a black suit in a shadowy corner of the restaurant. He was scribbling in a notebook, and when he wasn’t writing, he was staring right at Lavinia.
She elbowed Maxine. “Don’t be obvious about it, but that man seems like he’s surveilling our friend.”
Maxine pretended to drop a napkin and eyed the man as she picked it up from the floor.
“That was so obvious, Max!” Hazel almost laughed. “Seriously, no one would ever guess you were an actress.”
The man turned away, so they couldn’t get a good look at his face.
“You’re worried for nothing. He’s probably an accountant who wishes he was a writer, and comes here to soak up the poetic atmosphere,” said Maxine.
Lavinia rose and hugged her friend goodbye, before disappearing through the side door that connected the restaurant to the hotel lobby. As she did so, the man snapped the notebook shut and pulled out his wallet, tossing a few bills down on the table before trailing her.
Hazel stood, pulling Maxine along with her. “No. He’s up to no good.”
In the lobby, there was no sign of either Lavinia or her tail, and the elevator was slowly ascending. Instead of waiting, they hoofed it up the stairway. At the third floor, Hazel peered up over the railing. She loved this view, straight up, the ornate railing wrapping around and around and disappearing into the blinding whiteness of the skylight. Fancy and overdone, as if she were in Paris or London.
But this time, a few floors above, the man in black was looking right back down at her.
She withdrew fast and whispered to Maxine. “He saw me, he’s up there.”
They picked up the pace, trying to walk as quietly as possible, but as their steps quickened, the man’s did, also. Around and around they went, until they heard a bang.
“The door to the roof.” Hazel stopped. “We have him trapped.”
“I’m not sure we should follow him. What if he’s got a gun?”
Hazel thought of Lavinia. The very least they could do was show these men that they weren’t afraid, that the hotel residents would stand up for one another and resist such intrusion. “We’re just a couple of girls getting some sun. Come on.”
They pushed through the heavy door.
The man stood near one of the gables, looking down over the avenue as if he was searching for his ride. When he saw them, he took off his hat and fanned his face, an attempt at nonchalance. Hazel looked about. No one else was up there with them.
She made a beeline for him. “Who are you?” Up close, he was younger than she’d expected, and rather skinny. His nose was slightly too big for his face, above rose-colored lips that belonged on a girl. His unruly thatch of brown hair could use a barber. This guy sure didn’t seem like a Fed.
He looked from Maxine to Hazel, as frightened as a chicken.
Hazel stuck her hands on her hips. “Are you a Fed? If so, you’re a disgrace to the agency, going after a sweet old lady. We saw you, and the residents of the hotel don’t tolerate being spied on.”
“I’m not a Fed.” His voice was deeper than Hazel expected.