Part 22 (1/2)
”Those against going to war were no less patriotic, even though that's how they were portrayed,” Gloria said, moving a cut-crystal ashtray to the middle of the table.
”Precisely,” Joe said. ”Once Pearl Harbor occurred, the United States was in the war and the former isolationists were in the army doing their duty.”
”And dying,” Gloria interjected.
”My book looks at the lives of the men and women who fought to keep the country out of the war then became heroes.” Joe watched Gloria soften. ”I spent many hours with Preston talking history. He was a brilliant. I learned much from the man who was there there.”
Gloria broke a cookie in half, taking a nibble. ”For so many years, people like Charles Lindbergh were dragged through the mud for his stance prior to Pearl Harbor. What Roosevelt did to him was despicable. Not making him a general was so so wrong.” wrong.”
Joe's cell phone chimed the Three Stooges theme song. ”Excuse me,” he said, reading Dan Fredericks' number on the caller I.D. ”Danny, how are you?”
”Are you getting laid?” Fredericks cracked.
”Something like that. What do you have for me?”
”Alice combed the files, not finding any vehicular fatalities concerning a child during the year 1951 or 1952. Likewise, there's no death certificate for a Rebecca Swedge.” Fredericks paused, ”Don't bother me again with s.h.i.+t about Preston Swedge.”
”Thanks. The book is coming along fine. I'll talk to you soon,” Joe said, ending the call. ”Sorry. My agent likes to make nice. Where were we?”
Gloria exhaled a curl of smoke from the corner of her mouth. ”I was talking about how Charles Lindbergh was mistreated by Franklin Roosevelt.”
Joe removed a three by five reporter's spiral notebook from his jacket and began flipping through the pages. The scrawl was notes taken in his Rutgers's cla.s.s. ”Preston told me your husband was one heck of a fighter pilot.”
”Clark was one plane short of being an Ace,” she took a final drag on the cigarette, stabbing it out in the ashtray. ”Would you like to see his war memorabilia?”
Joe picked a cookie off the tray. ”That's exactly what I'm looking for.”
”Come.” She took her coffee mug.
Joe tagged behind, crossing into the formal dining room. A hand carved walnut table for twelve, polished to a mirror finish, reflected his face. Gloria stood with one hand on a closed pocket door. ”I left the den the way it was when Clark pa.s.sed.” She slid the door open.
The den was a museum. Framed photographs lined the walls chronicling Clark's air force career from flight school to bases in the Mediterranean and his career at Ford Motor. Joe had to be careful not to hit his head on model airplanes suspended by piano wire from the ceiling. He spun the propeller on a P-51 Mustang fighter.
”I lowered the planes so I could dust them. You don't find many wooden models anymore,” she said proudly, sitting at a roll-top desk.
Joe scrutinized the picture gallery: Clark standing beside his P-51; Clark holding a bandolier of machine gun bullets; Clark standing bare-chested with a .45 automatic stuck in the waistband of his pants. ”Clark looks like he was in fighting shape,” Joe said, pointing to the toned Princeton grad that had to have lost forty pounds. The face in the 1942 Princeton University yearbook belonged to a softie, a momma's boy. Clark looked like he could have given a good fight.
Gloria laughed. ”Believe me, Mr. America didn't last long after he came home.”
Joe moved down the line. Clark was standing next to a staff car bearing the insignia of a two star general. In the background, a Quonset hut with ”325th Fighter Group” painted above the door. ”The 325th flew escort on some tough missions,” Joe said, writing the group number in his notebook. ”How long was he stationed in Italy?”
Gloria looked at the model planes. ”From the middle of 1943 to the end of the war. He came back to the States in October 1945.”
”You wouldn't by chance have his flight log book?” Joe asked. ”Most pilots brought their's home.”
Reaching into the bottom drawer of the desk, Gloria retrieved a rectangular brown cloth covered book. She handed the artifact to Joe. ”Take your time. I've got all afternoon.” Joe watched Gloria recede down the hall, not certain where to rank the widow on his ”callous scale.” He sat at the desk. Lt. Clark Johnson 325th Fighter Group was printed on the cover in tight grammar school cursive. Joe skimmed through the beige pages glimpsing into the daily life of a twenty-four year old kid playing in a game of machine gun dodge ball at fifteen thousand feet. 11-3-43 A Messerschmitt Bf 109 shot down while escorting a B-17 mission to Berlin. 3-23-44 Focke Wulf 190 downed over Dubrovnik, Yugoslavia supporting partisan operation. 5-08-44 Messerschmitt confirmed twenty miles west of Budapest, Hungary. Joe turned to 8-20-44. The notation- routine escort mission to Manowitz, Poland.
Gloria returned. ”Do you have a sense of the man?” she asked in a detached way.
”Brave guy.” Joe handed her the logbook. ”Did Clark ever talk about his missions? My father had nightmares till the day he died.” Joe's father never made it out of the Brooklyn Navy Yard. His destroyer failed its seaworthy tests.
”Never,” Gloria said, putting the book back into the desk drawer. ”Clark said he did what he had to do and would have done it again no questions asked.”
”My Vietnam experience wasn't so patriotic,” Joe said, fis.h.i.+ng in his s.h.i.+rt pocket for the Rothstein photo. ”Did Clark ever talk about this pilot?” He held the photo at arms length.
”Who is he?” she asked.
”Turn it over.”
Gloria flipped the photo over, reading the transcription without a flinch. ”Clark never mentioned him. Was Paul Rothstein a fighter pilot?”
Joe shook his head. ”He was a bomber pilot stationed in Italy.”
”Different bases. Fighters and bombers never mixed.” Gloria handed the photo back. She checked her watch. ”I stupidly forgot that I have a dentist appointment. I've got to get going.”
”So do I,” Joe said, recognizing a get the h.e.l.l out of my house, you lying b.a.s.t.a.r.d. ”Maybe you can help me out with this.” He handed her Rebecca's picture.
”Who is...she?” Gloria stammered.
”The Swedge's adopted daughter. Do you know where she lives?”
”You lied to me! You're not a writer, Detective Henderson,” Gloria spat. ”I should have done a web search when you called.”
”Retired detective.” Joe bowed. ”I just might write a book when I figure out what happened to Paul Rothstein.”
Gloria pointed to the door, ”You have thirty seconds to get out of my house before I call the police.”
Joe picked up the five-iron. ”One last question, was the Jewish Center built before or after Clark's death?”
”It was completed a year after,” she said.
”Beautiful,” Joe said. ”I'll find my way out.
Chapter 27.
PRINCETON, NJ OCTOBER 2000 2000.
SITTING IN THE VOLVO, Joe was glad that Gloria Johnson didn't have a gun. He'd seen that look on women who had shot their husbands. Preston's diary entries cast little light on Clark Johnson's widow other than she had been a cutie. There was zero doubt in his mind that Gloria knew what happened to Paul Rothstein and Preston's adopted daughter.
Keeping with his theme of repairing fences, Joe found his way back to Na.s.sau Street, joining the crush of traffic to Princeton's central district- his destination, The Princeton Gazette The Princeton Gazette where his friend Manny Eisen was publisher and editor. Eisen suffered severe neck injuries the day Joe nearly lost his leg. The two hadn't talked but once after being released from their hospital room. Dr. Headcase's explanation of Joe's avoidance of anyone connected to the incident was consistent with post-traumatic stress disorder. Joe held another opinion- he was just being an a.s.s. where his friend Manny Eisen was publisher and editor. Eisen suffered severe neck injuries the day Joe nearly lost his leg. The two hadn't talked but once after being released from their hospital room. Dr. Headcase's explanation of Joe's avoidance of anyone connected to the incident was consistent with post-traumatic stress disorder. Joe held another opinion- he was just being an a.s.s.
Finding a parking spot could be a challenge in the vibrant commercial center where meters had appet.i.tes larger than sharks for raw meat. He squeezed the Volvo between a BMW 7 Series and a Mercedes 500 in front of the Fitz Randolph Gateway. Joe removed a manila envelope from under the pa.s.senger seat, grabbed the five-iron, and checked the traffic in the side mirror. With his leg barking, he stepped on the sidewalk. Standing under the famed arch of the university, Joe waited for the traffic light to change. He closed his eyes, visualizing Preston meeting Clark Johnson at the Balt across the street. The rustle of feet brought him back. A sub shop occupied the former landmark's s.p.a.ce.
Joe crossed to the south side of the street, turned west and headed toward Palmer Square following the steps Preston and Clark took to Breslow's cleaners. The news kiosk on the corner was doing a brisk business. The New York Times The New York Times' lead story-”Bush Readies Transition Team As Democrats Ready Appeal to Supreme Court.”