Honey returned from the bar and set down four glasses of scotch. “Cheers, Major. Don’t give up just yet. It’s only a battle, not the war.”
Judge picked up a glass and brought it to his lips. “I’m not giving up. Just figuring where we go from here.”
“Half this damn country is checking their shorts for Seyss. Something will turn up.”
Judge felt at once proud and embarrassed by the younger man’s unbridled optimism. Once he’d had that same piss and vinegar. “Will it? And your rogue’s gallery? Any word from Altman or one of his cronies?”
“’Fraid not,” said Honey, “but they’re looking.” And when Judge sought his eyes for further explanation he glanced away, his cloying grin appearing a moment later, along with the dimestore adage to “just be patient”.
Judge waved away the entreaty. Patience had never been his strong suit and with two days remaining to track down Seyss he had none to spare. He took a shot of scotch, shivering as it coasted down his throat. “What’s he up to, eh Honey? You given that any thought? Can you tell me why a war criminal sure to draw the hangman’s noose decides to stick around and tempt fate? He went to that house for a reason. Tell me why and I’ll tell you what he’s got planned.”
Honey scooted his chair closer, so as not to shout. “Don’t get your imagination into high gear. A lot of these soldiers stick around because they don’t have anywhere else to go. They’ve been in Russia, France, Greece, or God knows where these past six years and the last thing they want to do is leave again. They want to stay close to whatever friends and family they’ve got.”
“Are you calling Seyss a homebody?” Judge railed at the mention. “Didn’t you hear von Luck? He doesn’t live with the enemy. Hebecomes one of them. A Brandenburger, for Christsake! The man’s been trained to pass himself off as the enemy. Bastard’s probably sitting at the next table.”
Honey shrugged, a sheepish look souring his face. “Looks like Seyss has got to you.”
“Of course, he’s gotten to me. The sonuvabitch killed my brother, stole the gun out of my hand, then damned near killed me. Hell, it’s not just him. This whole upside down country has gotten to me.” He started on his second glass of liquor, relaxing as the alcohol warmed his belly. “Don’t worry, Sergeant. I’m not giving up. I’m just hoping for a change of luck.”
The band launched into” Air Mail Special”, one of Goodman’s classics. The clarinet soared over the throbbing drums, the saxes and trombone jumping in behind them. Judge tapped his foot to the uptempo beat. Normally, the song put him in a swell mood, the straight-ahead rhythm and brass attack making him forget his problems for a few minutes. Tonight, the music and the memories of home it called up only deepened his anxiety.
Two days remained until his orders were rescinded. Forty-eight lousy hours.
He wasn’t concerned about what it would mean to Francis should he fail to bring in Seyss. Or that Seyss’s capture was the only way he had to apologize to his brother for his hubris. Francis would forgive him on both counts. He’d say it was the effort that counted. But then, Frankie would forgive a rummy a lifetime of boozing if he said he was sorry on his deathbed. Nor was he fearful that he might let down his country — which he took in the form of George Patton and Spanner Mullins — though the relentless achiever in him desperately wanted to satisfy them, too.
Savoring the cheap booze’s fiery drizzle, Devlin Judge cast a gimlet eye on his own ambitions, his own desires, wondering if getting his hands on Seyss wasn’t just a way to put his own unsettled dilemmas to rest; if Seyss was the trophy he needed to prove he was as good as the rest of the men in this place, the notch in his belt signaling another opponent dispatched. Twenty-nine without a loss.
Going a step further, he wondered if Seyss was the answer to the contentious issue that had plagued him these last four years: that by choosing to continue his work for the US Attorney’s office instead of seeking military service, he had neglected his obligations to his country. Or, to put it more colloquially, that he was a yellow-bellied careerist.
7 December 1941. A brittle, sunny afternoon in Brooklyn. Judge sitting in the living room of his third floor walkup with his boy, Ryan, four years old. The two listening to the radio, counting the minutes until the Chase-Sanborn Hour begins. Edgar Bergen and Charlie McCarthy. Judge thinking they were the funniest damn thing ever to hit the airwaves. Suddenly, the music stops; Gene Autry cut off as he warbles the refrain from “The Lonesome Cowboy”. The announcer’s stern voice, aquiver with righteous indignation, declaring, “This morning at eight a.m. local time, forces of the Imperial Japanese Army attacked the United States Naval base at Pearl Harbor in the Hawaiian Islands.” Ryan crying out in protest, “more music”. Judge wrapping his arms around the boy, pulling him to his chest, asking him to hush, just for a minute. The announcer going on, “The battleship Oklahoma and two as yet unidentified vessels are reported sunk with grievous loss of life.” And then the words that delivered a chill down America’s spine. “President Roosevelt will address a joint session of Congress tomorrow morning at ten a.m., it is said to ask for a declaration of war.”
War. It had finally come to America. Not across the Atlantic as so many had feared, but from the Pacific. A surprise attack. War!
And Judge’s first thoughts, the initial gut response of a thirty-one year old rookie lawyer: a lot of guys are going to leave the office and join up for this thing.If I stay put and keep my nose to the grindstone, I can be at the top of the heap when this mess is over. The army needed “bodies, not minds”, Tom Dewey had said. Who was Judge to disagree?
There it was, then.
Erich Seyss was his confession and his penance, his expiation and absolution, all tucked into a black and silver uniform with a death’s head embroidered on its collar and his brother’s blood on its cuff.
Happier, now, that he’d given a name to his frustration, Judge turned his ear away from himself and back to the music. The band really was very good.
“You a dancer, sir?” asked Honey.
“Me?” Coming from deep left field, the question made Judge grin. “Yeah, Sergeant, I know a step or two.”
“Go on down. Plenty of dames waiting for you. Go on and ‘sprechen-sie’ to them. After all, it’s legal now.”
Earlier in the day, Ike had called a press conference to relax the rules against non-fraternization. Servicemen were free to talk to children and widows, he’d said, but should do their best to steer clear of former Nazis and “good time” girls.
“You go on,” said Judge. “I’m going to stay here.”
Honey stood from the table, upsetting his chair. “Don’t be shy. You’re divorced, remember? Won’t be no one looking over your shoulder but me.”
Judge read the urgency in Honey’s eyes and was unable to keep a part of it from infecting him. “Go on. Maybe I’ll be down in a few numbers.”
Honey shook his head sorrowfully, probably thinking “old fart doesn’t know what he’s missing,” then hurried off.
Judge scanned the dancefloor, more comfortable observing than participating. The American girls were easy to pick out. Busy smearing on lipstick or sharing secrets with a girlfriend, they huddled in circles of four or five, angora castles waiting to be stormed. Most were WAC’s or secretaries sent over by the war department to help with the administration of the American zone of occupation. The frauleins were a different story. Scattered through the crowd in ones and twos, they moved with an overtly sexual intent. Cats on the prowl. Their eyes were rimmed with black pencil, their lips painted fire-engine red. Coy was a word they’d never heard. They wore blouses cut low and dresses slit high. They showed more curves than his wife had on their wedding night. Meeting a Joe they liked, they’d offer a frank stare, then follow it with a lingering touch on the arm, a hand draped across an olive drab shoulder. It wasn’t a dance floor so much as a bazaar. The thought that these women were readily available, that they were practically asking to be bedded, aroused him.