‘I forgot that you met the Brit. What was he like?’
‘You missed something, Billy,’ said Stein. He drained the last of the tea into his cup and then waved the teapot lid at the waitress to get more. ‘Boyd Stuart, he calls himself. What kind of faggot name is that? But he’s no faggot when it comes to weighing in; two hundred pounds at least, and I’d guess he knows how to handle himself, and never mind the fancy accent. About forty years old … the sort of face that makes it difficult to guess the age. Cunning! You could see it in his eyes.’
‘Sounds as if you like him even less than you like Breslow,’ said Billy Stein, who had long since grown used to his father’s extreme and unpredictable passions about the people he met.
‘Too Aryan for me,’ said Charles Stein. ‘I saw too many guys like him striding around in the POW cages with SS flashes on their collars.’
‘Did you ever stop to think, dad, that maybe …’
‘I’m a racist,’ Charles Stein completed the sentence. He took one of the hot towels that the waitress had brought along with a fresh pot of jasmine tea and, lowering his head, buried his face in it for what seemed a long time. Billy Stein looked to see if the wonderful girl was watching his father’s ablutions and was relieved to see that she was giving all her attention to a plate of roast duck. ‘Yeah, I’m a racist,’ said Stein, emerging happily from the towel like a walrus surfacing for a fresh herring. ‘And it’s too late to change me now, Billy, so we’ve both got to put up with it.’
Billy nodded and retied the lace of his high boot.
‘Ideally,’ said Charles Stein, ‘we have to get photocopies, microfilm, microfiche or whatever the hell it’s called. Then we could show what we’ve got to any of these people, and still have the originals locked away and hidden.’
‘So why not?’ said Billy.
‘Sometimes I worry about you, Billy. Sometimes I wonder what is going to happen to all the stocks and the business investments and the nice little deal we got with that insurance broker in St Louis … Sometimes I wonder what is going to happen to all that when I finally take up my option on that small piece of turf we bought in Forest Lawn.’
‘Jesus, dad, don’t talk about that.’
Stein was mollified by his son’s horror at the prospect of losing him. ‘We can’t get that stuff microfilmed,’ he said, ‘because it would attract too much attention. Ask yourself how we’d go about it. We can’t just find some microfilm outfit in the yellow pages without a good chance they would blow the whistle on us as soon as they see what the stuff is all about.’
‘Buy a microfilm machine,’ said Billy. ‘What can it cost? A grand? Five grand? Not ten grand; and even that would be worth it when we are playing for the kind of telephone numbers you keep talking about. What did Breslow say – a hundred million dollars?’
‘No, it was me who said a hundred million dollars. Breslow played it all very close.’ He poured more tea. Billy put his hand over his cup to show he had had enough of it. ‘And who’d work the machine? Could you work it? Could I work it? No, it needs training to operate a thing like that.’
Charles Stein succumbed to the temptation of the last of the chicken noodles. There was a trace of scrambled egg – a bright yellow cushion under a sliver of chicken meat and a sauce-encrusted shrimp tail, the whole ensnared in a loop of fresh noodle. Chuck Stein levered his china spoon underneath and dashed a trace of soy upon it before savouring the combination.
He closed his eyes with pleasure. Only after he had swallowed it did he speak again. ‘You know I’m the only person who has been through all those documents. Colonel Pitman can’t read German – his French is OK but no German – and the other boys from the battalion don’t give a damn.’
‘It’s not something that interests me a great deal,’ said Billy, apologetically. ‘I read all those war books you used to bring home and tell me I ought to read, but it doesn’t grab me.’ Billy stole another glance at the girl. ‘If I was to tell you the honest truth, dad, I don’t even understand who won the war, or even who was fighting it.’ He looked at his father hoping that an explanation would be offered.
‘Yeah, well it’s easy,’ said Stein. ‘Hitler started killing the Jews, so the Jews came to America and built an atomic bomb so President Roosevelt could help them, but he dropped it on the Japanese.’
‘I never know when you’re kidding, dad.’
‘I’m never kidding,’ said Stein; he leant across the table. His sleeve went into the soy but he did not notice. ‘These documents are dynamite; you’d better understand that. If this English cat knows that I’ve been telling you what’s in these documents – all this stuff about Churchill talking with Hitler and offering him a sweet deal for a quick peace … well, he might get his orders.’
‘What do you mean?’
Stein glanced around the room, and then whispered, even though there was no one within earshot. ‘What I’m trying to tell you, Billy, is that the Brits might have already decided to destroy these documents, and rub out anyone who knows about them.’
‘Dad, no.’
‘And they’d be crazy to go to that extreme and leave alive some kid whose father has told him everything that’s in them. I mean, those Brits are not going to know that it just goes in one of your ears and comes out the other, Billy. They are going to think you are a bright lad who listens to what his dad tells him. Right?’
‘Oh, come on, dad.’ Billy smiled and waited for his father to smile too, but Charles Stein did not smile. He was serious.
‘Ask yourself what you would do in their position,’ said Charles Stein calmly. ‘If you were the British Prime Minister and wanted to keep the memory of Sir Winston highly polished, what would you do?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Billy. Now his attention was no longer diverted by anything around him.
‘Suppose it was Abe Lincoln,’ persisted Charles Stein. ‘Suppose a couple of lousy Brits were sitting in Liverpool with a carload of stuff that proved that Abe Lincoln was a pantywaist who sent a message of congratulation to Stonewall Jackson after the Battle of Bull Run. You think the CIA would wait two minutes before taking off after those Brits with no holds barred? You think that they would let the lives of a couple of blackmailers – that’s the way they would see it, Billy, blackmailers – get in the way, if Abe Lincoln’s memory was going to be sullied and the USA made into a laughing stock all over the world?’
‘Politics.’
‘With a capital P, Billy boy,’ said Stein. ‘I want you to realize that you could become a contract. From now on you watch your step; take it easy on the booze, and stay off the other stuff. Keep away from dark alleys and tell me immediately if you see anything unusual.’
‘I sure will, dad. You think I should carry a gun?’
‘It wouldn’t be a bad idea, Billy. Just until this business is over.’
‘A big guy, you say – about forty?’
‘They won’t be sending that dude to blow anyone away. They will have specialists who just arrive in town, do their thing and scram.’
‘Jesus, dad. I never know when you’re kidding. Do you really think these Brits would …’
‘Why take chances, Billy? That’s all I’m saying. Don’t take no chances.’
Billy took out a white comb and ran it quickly through his long dark hair. It was something he was prone to do in moments of stress and his father recognized this. ‘Maybe I’ll go down to Mexico,’ said Billy. ‘Why don’t you come too? That guy in Ensenada converted the locker space into an extra cabin – all hand-crafted oak; he’s a real craftsman …’
‘He sure crafted the bill. Did you see what it’s costing us to run that damned boat?’
‘Pedro’s a wonderful old man,’ said Billy. ‘Long beard and that strong Mexican accent. Did you see the piece of movie I made of him rebuilding the boat? He could be a film star, or something.’
‘He could be a film star,’ said Stein bitterly, ‘except that he can’t afford to take a cut in salary
.’
‘Come on, dad! It’s a good investment. With the extra cabin and shower we’ll be able to overnight in comfort. Drop anchor anywhere the fish are running, and stay as long as we like. No more hotel bills, see? Come down there with me this weekend.’
‘Just for the time being, Billy, it’s best that I see to a few things here in town.’
‘Why do you keep looking at your watch?’
‘Breslow was supposed to be joining us for lunch. He said to go ahead if we arrived before him.’
‘Here in this greasy spoon? Not exactly his style, is it?’
‘Says he’s crazy about Chinese steamed pastries. I told him this was the best place in town to eat them. He wants to talk about copyrights, he says.’
‘I was wondering why you sat so that you can see the door,’ said Billy.
He had hardly spoken the words before his father began to get to his feet. It was something not accomplished without causing considerable disarray to the plates and dishes on the table, and some spilled sauce. Billy wiped up the mess with a handful of paper napkins while his father shook hands, and listened to Breslow apologizing for being so late. ‘And that is my daughter, Mary,’ said Breslow. He indicated the young lady who had so distracted the younger Stein. Her name was really Marie-Louise, for she was named after her mother, but here in southern California she preferred the anglicized version.
‘Mary Breslow,’ she said. Billy Stein thought it was the most beautiful name he had ever heard. He took her hand and lowered his head in one of those hand-kissing gestures that he had copied from an old movie.
In all the flurry of apologies and explanations Mary Breslow found a new opportunity to study Billy Stein and she liked what she saw. This tall-handsome American was everything that California promised. His long dark hair was wavy and squeaky clean, his teeth white and perfect, and his suntan was the sort of dark golden brown that can never be acquired with indoor lamps. The faded denim work clothes, artfully threadbare in places, were tailored to emphasize his slim hips and muscular shoulders. Just in case anyone should mistake him for a manual worker, there was a monogrammed silk shirt, a paper-thin gold wristwatch and the suede high boots. Already she had heard her parents talk about the Steins’ private plane and the big sailing boat they took down the Mexican coast. ‘You’re such a silly girl,’ her father was saying. ‘You must have guessed that this was Mr Stein and his son Billy. You should have looked round to find them and introduced yourself to them.’
She smiled and Billy smiled too. And they all moved away from the chaos of the Steins’ table to another booth. ‘Nothing to eat for me,’ said Breslow hurriedly. ‘But I would like a drink.’ He turned to the waitress. ‘A Bloody Mary with plenty of Worcester sauce.’ Breslow straightened his tie and made sure that his jacket was buttoned. ‘May I speak with you for a moment, Charles?’ he said formally.
‘Why, sure.’ Stein recognized that Breslow’s restless movements and urgent need of a drink signified unusual circumstances. It was a conclusion endorsed by the speed with which Breslow consumed his Bloody Mary.
‘I want to show you something in my car,’ said Breslow.
‘Well, I’m sure the kids won’t mind waiting.’ He smiled at Breslow, for Billy Stein and Mary Breslow were already engaged in earnest conversation about discos in Acapulco.
Charles Stein followed Breslow outside into the street. The pavement was hot underfoot and, once they were out of the air-conditioned restaurant, the smog hurt Stein’s eyes so that he had to wipe them with his silk handkerchief. Breslow led the way down the ramp of the underground garage across the street and said nothing until he came to where his pale blue Mercedes Benz 450 SEL was parked. Stein looked at the car with surprise: the whole right side was smashed in. The doors were both jammed tight into the warped framework of the body and the glass smashed. At the front of the car the right wing had been ripped away to expose the whole of the wheel. Inside the car, the seats were glittering with broken glass, and a bent chromium strip had tangled into the headrest so that the upholstery was ripped through to the interior padding.
‘They tried to kill me, Charles,’ said Breslow.
Stein looked at him before answering. Breslow held his hand to his brow as if reliving the experience. The hand began to tremble.
‘You’d better come back to the restaurant and sit down,’ said Stein. ‘Then we should get you to a doctor and have him check you over.’ Stein looked at the car again. ‘When did this happen?’
Breslow looked at his watch. ‘Not even thirty minutes ago. I took the Ventura Freeway all the way to the Golden State; the Hollywood Freeway was jammed today, I heard on the radio.’
‘It’s Friday, the 13th,’ said Stein. He kicked the tyre to check that it had maintained its pressure.
‘Surely you are not superstitious?’ said Breslow.
‘It can’t hurt,’ said Stein.
Breslow looked at his wristwatch to see if it really was the 13th. ‘They nearly killed me,’ he said again.
‘Well, it can happen to anyone, Max. Come back and have another Bloody Mary and think yourself lucky you weren’t killed. It must have been a truck, eh?’
Breslow took Stein’s arm. ‘You don’t understand, Charles. When I say they were trying to kill me, I mean exactly that. This wasn’t any ordinary traffic accident. This fellow was working with two other drivers: one boxed me in, and the other one edged me over into the emergency lane and then tried to crush me against the median wall. Behind me, I had a big panel truck hitting my rear fender as I tried to slow.’
‘Max. Are you sure you’re not imagining all this? Some of these guys go crazy on the freeway. It’s easy enough to mistake some drunken salesman or some hyped-up kid for something else.’ Stein took Breslow by the arm but Breslow’s gasp of pain made him release his grip.
‘I hurt my arm struggling with the steering wheel,’ said Breslow.
Stein ran his hand over the car damage. ‘Look at that!’
‘They weren’t kids or salesmen, Charles.’ Breslow trembled again. ‘You can see the size of the truck from the way my top is damaged.’ He fingered the torn metal of the Mercedes’ roof. ‘He left some red paint behind, look.’
‘You’re a tough son of a bitch, Max,’ said Stein in an effort to cheer him up. ‘You kept behind the wheel and held on, eh? I don’t know how you got this heap all the way from the Ventura intersection without a tow truck.’ Stein laughed and voiced his secret thoughts. ‘Only a German would arrive apologizing for being late for lunch after that rumble.’
Max Breslow tightened his grip on Stein’s arm. ‘Mary mustn’t know, Charles, my friend. She would be sure to tell her mother. You must promise me help in getting her away from the restaurant. If she comes down here to collect her mother’s car,’ he nodded to indicate the yellow Chevette, ‘she’ll be sure to recognize my Mercedes.’
‘Come and have a drink, Max.’ Stein sneezed as the smog got to his sinuses.
‘It was the Britisher who did it, Charles. I’m certain of that.’
‘Why?’
‘They are desperate to get the documents. They’ll let nothing stand in their way. We must be clever, Charles, or they will kill the two of us, and there will be no money for anyone.’
‘I’ll tell the kids that something important has turned up,’ said Stein. ‘Let’s tell Mary that I am borrowing the Chevette. That way she’ll have no reason to come in here.’
‘How will she get home?’
‘Billy will take her home. He’ll love posturing and posing in that goddamned T-bird.’
‘It’s not parked down here?’
‘It’s only old dudes like us who pay for anything these days,’ said Stein bitterly. ‘Billy’s left his car at the sidewalk, just the way he always does.’
Chapter 18
Max Breslow looked around the Stein home with interest. In keeping with Stein’s theories about investment, his house was furnished with valuable antique furniture. Most of it had be
en selected for him by a dealer who had benefited from short-term loans guaranteed by Stein against the surety of the dealer’s stock. Charles Stein had little or no idea of the historical background to his furniture and carpets – a discovery which distressed Max Breslow when he tried to strike up a conversation about it.
The two men settled themselves into the comfortable armchairs in the large lounge which commanded a view across the city. Breslow noted the grand piano in one corner of the room.
‘Do you play the piano?’ he asked politely.
‘My wife insisted I get it for Billy, but that kid’s got a tin ear.’
Breslow nodded sympathetically and looked at the piano upon which a dozen or more framed photos vied for Lebensraum. Stein’s late wife was given pride of place there; framed in fine silver, she surveyed the unchanged room with a calm smile. On the rare occasions when Charles Stein and his wife had exchanged harsh words, she had told him that he would be better off and happier with a housekeeper than with a wife who slaved for her children, spent her life over the stove and was never appreciated. During his wife’s lifetime, Charles Stein had always denied that possibility, but the event had proved her right. He was happier with the housekeeper, who kept to her small apartment, and did not complain when he stayed up late reading the share prices or writing up his large collection of postage stamps. And the housekeeper did not want displays of affection from him, neither did she want to dress up and go to charity functions, nor ask why Billy had never had a bar mitzvah, nor tell Charles Stein that he would be happier if he lost fifty pounds in weight.
The housekeeper brought a tray of tea and his favourite kind of fancy cakes. ‘Did you notice all the flowers, Mr Stein? There was a special; I bought almost twice as many for only two dollars over what we regularly spend.’
Stein grunted. He did not much like flowers but he was prepared to regard the purchasing of them within the context of the overall upkeep of the house. ‘Maybe you’d like a real drink?’ he asked Max Breslow. The housekeeper stood, teapot in hand, waiting for the reply, but Breslow shook his head and she poured tea for both men.