Bobby flung his schoolbooks and leather flight jacket onto his bed, and said, “What are you doing?”
“Nothing.”
“As usual,” he sneered. Before I could think of a comeback, he went out.
Dad was the last to come home.
Professor Dennis Collison had a schedule as regular as the rising of the sun. He left his office at four fifteen, took the subway, and arrived home around five. For the past few weeks, he had stayed later on Wednesdays to meet with evening students who dropped by his office.
Mostly bald, he blamed his condition on the army helmet he had kept on for four years. He did have a fringe of gray hair, and a bristly black mustache that made him look like a smiling walrus.
The way to describe Professor Collison was “mild.” As for being a Commie, about to overthrow the country, he didn’t have the strength to flip a flea. A war wound had given him a stiff and slightly twisted right arm. The most athletic things he did were play checkers with his younger son and talk baseball.
Standing in the doorway to my room, Dad said, “Hey, Pal, have a good day?”
“Sure,” I said, getting good at lying. “You?”
“A little too long. We listening to Sam Spade tonight?”
“Hope so.”
After Dad left, I studied the picture of him in his 1941 army uniform that I’d stuck on my wall. I also had his dog tags as well as the Purple Heart he got when he’d been wounded in Germany in ’forty-five.
“Dinner!” Ma called.
As I headed to the kitchen, I knew I had to make a decision: Was I going to tell my parents about Donavan, and what happened in school, the phone calls, Kat? About that picture in Dad’s desk?
A quick question: What would Sam Spade do? He’d poke around looking for clues, watching, listening, and waiting. But he’d keep everything he learned in his fists until he put it all together. Then he’d gather the suspects in the case, fling out the truth like a stick of dynamite, and Boom!—case solved!
One other thing: Spade always worked alone. The only person he sometimes talked to was his secretary, Effie, the one he called “sweetheart.” Of course, she wasn’t his girlfriend. More like Kat and me, best friends.
So I decided to work on my own and keep my mouth shut until I figured the facts.
During dinner, Bobby kept going on about his science camp. While he jabbered, I studied my parents. Were they Communists? It seemed impossible, but I reminded myself that private eyes uncovered hidden truth. Hidden, like five feet deep.
At eight, when it was time for The Adventures of Sam Spade, Detective, I told myself I needed to pay special attention. It would be like taking lessons from the best.
I set the radio dial for 660, WNBC, and thought about where I was.
The Collisons’ radio room was small, with two soft couches meeting at right angles, like marshmallows stuck together. In front of them was a rag rug, on which stood a low table with a dirty ashtray. The shelves on two walls were full of books and record albums, though one shelf was reserved for games: a checkers set, Monopoly, and Clue. Against another wall stood a Philco cabinet radio with a record player and changer. Above it was a photo of the whole Collison family from last Christmas. In short, the room was like ten million other rooms, not the kind of place a decent clue would want to call home.
With me on one couch and Dad on the other, we settled into listening to “The String of Death Caper.”
It was about identical twins, brothers, one good, the other bad, one left-handed, the other right-handed. The good one was a bank teller. The bad one killed his brother and took his place in the bank, so he could rob it. How did Spade figure things out? Seems left-handed and right-handed people tie string knots opposite ways. The way the bad brother tied up the packs of stolen money gave him away. Case solved.
When the show ended, I turned the radio off. “Wish they hadn’t got rid of that Duff actor,” I said. “He was a better Spade.”
Dad said, “I’m afraid Duff was blacklisted.”
“What’s that?”
“People won’t hire him.”
“Why not?”
“He was accused of being a Communist.”
More Communists! “Is he one?”
“I have no idea. But I’m afraid there’s more bad news. The show is going off the air in two weeks. It’s been canceled.”
“You kidding?”
“Nope. The writer who invented Sam Spade, a guy named Dashiell Hammett, has been accused of being a Red, too. Like Duff.”
I grabbed my chance. “Dad,” I said, “what do you think of all this Red business?”
Dad sat for a minute, then reached into a pocket, pulled out some loose change, and handed me a Roosevelt dime. “Have you ever looked closely at one of these?”
“No. Why should I?”
“It seems that the artist, somebody named John Sinnock, who made the engraving of the president, put his initials on it. Can you see them?”
I squinted at the dime but didn’t see a thing.
“Look under Roosevelt’s neck.” He pointed to a spot on the coin. “Right there.”
That time I saw the little letters.
Dad said, “Some people think that those letters, J and S, stand for ‘Joseph Stalin.’ ”
“The Soviet dictator?”
He nodded. “Those people believe the dime is a Communist plot.”
I stared at the coin, then back at Dad. “That true?”
Dad got up. “These are strange times, Pete,” was the only answer he gave. “Keep the change. I need to talk to your ma.”
I took the dime into my room, put it under my lamp, and stared at the tiny J.S. under the president’s neck. They were there, all right. In other words, if you look hard enough you can see things. Sam Spade couldn’t have said it better.
Then it hit me. I had asked Dad what he thought of all this Red business. He hadn’t answered my question. How come?
6
After breakfast on Saturday, Bobby announced he was meeting with his high school Rocket Club. “I’m out of here,” he called, and slammed the door.
My folks got ready for their weekly grocery shopping. To me Ma said, “Going to the movies?”
Most Saturday mornings, Kat and I went to the neighborhood theater for a kids’ movie show. For twenty-five cents, you could see seven cartoons, a March of Time newsreel, and a full-length flick. It was like starting your day with dessert. That week they had an old detective movie, Bulldog Drummond Strikes Back. I really wanted to see it, even though it wouldn’t be the same without Kat.
Dad said, “Don’t forget to lock the door when you go out.”
“It’s supposed to rain,” Ma added as they left.
As I set off for the theater, the sky was ash gray. If my mood had had a color, it would have matched. I checked around a couple of times to see if I was being followed. I didn’t see anyone. Ease up, I told myself. Bad things don’t happen in the morning: It’s Saturday night when the bad stuff hits.
When I reached the movie theater, dozens of kids—laughing, yelling, fooling, and having a grand time—were on line. They kept coming, too, from all over Brooklyn. The only adults in sight were the ones taking money for tickets, candy, and popcorn.
Without Kat, I wasn’t sure who I’d sit with. Then I saw Big Toby, Phil Corelli, and Hank Sibley.
I hesitated before going over to them, wondering if the school Commie stuff would start again. I decided I’d act as if nothing had happened.
They had been horsing around. Soon as I showed, it was as if someone pulled hard on their reins.
Sibley gave me a look as sweet as a dirty dishrag. “What are you doing here?”
“What do you think? Going to the movies.”
“No Commies allowed,” Big Toby said.
With my mouth feeling like it was full of stale crackers, I said, “What are you talking about? I’m not a Commie.”
Other kids started looking around.
To
by shoved me toward the curb, saying, “No reds allowed.”
I said, “It’s a free country. I can go to the movies.”
“You want to eat a knuckle sandwich, Commie?” Big Toby stood there, double fisted, daring me to fight.
Wobbly with anger, I made my own fists. “I’m not a Commie. I can do what I want.”
Toby backed off.
After one last glare at him, I went to the end of the line, where I didn’t know anyone.
It wasn’t cold, but Pete shivered. When it started to rain, he felt like the last soggy cornflake in the bowl.
The box office opened. Kids surged forward, Pete swept along with them. Inside, the theater was a zoo without bars. Kids were crawling over seats, running up and down aisles, shouting, throwing popcorn and candy wrappers on the floor. An old lady with a flashlight raced around, trying to keep order. She did no better than a bottle cap on a volcano. It was a regular Saturday at the movies.
Finding a seat in a back row, I shrank small and tried to think big about ways to get back at my classmates. I couldn’t come up with anything. All I could do was mutter, “I’m not a Red.”
I was glad when the lights dimmed.
There were huge cheers when the first cartoon, a Tom and Jerry, began. It was the usual: Tom the cat (large and dumb) constantly tried to catch Jerry the mouse (small and smart). Though Tom invented wild ways to slam the mouse, he always lost and ended up getting slammed himself.
At first, it was funny, but then I began to feel sorry for Tom, who was always being beat up. I felt like him. Was him. When Tom was flattened dollar-thin by a steamroller that came from nowhere, I jumped up and tore out of the theater.
Outside, the rain was pounding. I ran, fighting tears and the downpour. I lost both fights.
I raced home, slammed the door shut, and locked it as if Jerry the mouse was at my heels. Breathless and shaky, I stood in the empty hallway. Ma and Dad were still out.
I changed into dry duds, then went to the kitchen, slotted up some toast, and laid out a big sandwich. I was still eating when the doorbell rang. My first thought was, Kat’s back. I ran down the hallway and yanked the door open.
Instead of Kat, a man was standing there. His face was young and smooth, his hair short and blond, blue eyes and a sharp chin. Under his open, wet raincoat, he wore a brown suit, white shirt, and green tie. In his hands, he held a hat. He looked at me, and smiled nicely.
“Hi,” he said. “My name is Tom Ewing. I’m from the Federal Bureau of Investigation. The FBI.”
7
The FBI.
My jaw opened so wide you could have driven in a Cadillac. Then I realized he was the guy who had followed me the other day.
He said, “This is Mr. Dennis Collison’s home, isn’t it?”
“Yes . . . sir.”
“May I come in?”
“Who . . . who’d you say you were?” I had heard him. I just didn’t want to have heard.
Keeping his smile in place, he whipped out a wallet and flipped it open like a cowboy pulling out his six-shooter. There it was: a card with his picture on it and the letters F, B, I, big and bold.
“Are you Pete?” he asked.
I nodded.
“And your father is Dennis Collison, correct?”
I gave a dumb nod.
“You look like him.”
“You know him?”
“Of course.”
“How?”
“It’s my job to investigate people like him.”
His words sent an ice cube sliding down my back and into my drawers.
“May I come in?”
“What . . . do you want?” I said. I wished he’d go away but didn’t know how to make it happen.
“I’d like to talk to your father.”
“He’s not here.”
“How about your mother?”
“Not here either.”
“Your brother?”
“No.”
“Ah,” he said, his smile as real as a three-dollar bill. “Well, you could talk to me.”
“What about?”
“Lots of things. May I come in?”
“I . . . I don’t think so.”
“Hey, Pete, there’s no reason to be frightened of me. I’m a nice guy. I have a kid brother your age. In seventh grade, too.”
He seemed to know about me.
“Do you work hard in school, Pete?”
“Sort of.”
“Which New York team do you root for?”
“Dodgers.”
“I’m for Cincinnati.”
“The Reds?”
“Cincinnati,” he said, frowning.
Though I felt he was toying with me, the best I could do was hope my parents got home.
“Are you going to let me in, Pete?”
I shook my head.
“How come?”
“I’m not supposed to let strangers in.”
“That’s smart. But I was hoping you would consider me a friend. Here.” He took out his wallet again and handed me a card. “My personal card. You can call me any time.”
I took it without looking at it.
“You’re not worried because I’m from the FBI, are you?”
My head shook the lie.
With his smile fixed, and his blue-eyed gaze as sharp as a drill, I felt as if he were attempting to unnerve me. I hoped he couldn’t tell my heart was working like a baby’s rattle.
Then he said, “Or maybe you’re worried because there’s some secret you’re hiding.”
“Huh?”
“Maybe a picture of Stalin in your living room?”
“Stalin?” I echoed dumbly.
“Yeah, you know, the Soviet dictator. The guy who wants to destroy America. Do you ever talk politics with your dad?”
I couldn’t believe what he was saying.
“You know, Pete, you could help your father a lot.”
I just looked at him.
“We know he was a member of the Communist Party.”
Pow! It was as if the world’s heavyweight champ, Jersey Joe Walcott, had landed a glove on my chin.
“If you cooperated with us,” he went on, “things could go a lot easier for him, and for your whole family. You know anything about your grandfather?”
I felt as if he was throwing punches at me from all sides. All I could do was cover up by being silent.
He said, “You love your country, don’t you, Pete?”
I think I nodded.
He tapped a finger on my chest. I flinched. “If you love America,” he said, “then work for and with America. If you have no secrets to hide, don’t hide them. I really think you need to help us, Pete.”
That’s what the voice on the phone said.
“I’m guessing you don’t feel like talking,” he went on. “But I’ll be honest with you. We’d like to know a whole lot more about your father’s family. So I need you to tell your dad I was here. Okay? Here’s an extra card. You can have one. Make sure you give him the other.”
I remained standing, struggling to breathe, unable to speak.
He took a step back. “Nice talking to you, Pete. In fact, why don’t you come by my office sometime?” He nodded toward the cards in my hand. “You have my address there. We could talk some more. Now remember, tell your dad I was here.” He held out his hand. I shook it. He had a grip like Superman.
He strode down the hall only to swing around just before the elevator. “Hey, I’m good friends with someone you know. Bet you can’t guess who.”
I shook my head.
“Your teacher. Ricky Donavan.”
That was the knockout punch.
8
I flung myself against the door and locked and chained it. Then I tore to my parents’ bedroom, pried open the Venetian blinds, and stole a look down to the street. Ewing walked out of the building and into a small black Ford and drove away. I did get a view of the license plate: New York, PED459.
Trying to underst
and what had just happened, I kept staring down.
If Noah wanted to make a comeback, this was his day. A storm was sweeping the streets, making the surface glisten like an oil slick. Puddles were turning into pools. Cars, lights on, wipers whipping, rolled by with wet hisses. A lady in a green rubber raincoat hurried along, yanking a white Scottie that was finding the wet pavement more interesting than she was. Everything was ordinary, except Pete’s head, which was spinning like a merry-go-round that wasn’t merry.
“We know he was a member of the Communist Party. If you cooperated with us, things could go a lot easier for him.”
What did he mean? My dad a Communist? I didn’t believe it. How could I cooperate? If I didn’t, would Ewing arrest Dad? Me?
“Know anything about your grandfather?”
What was there to know about my grandfather? Nobody talked about him. Not even Dad. Or Grandma Sally. He died before I was born. I didn’t even know his name.
I went into the radio room and stared at that family picture. In it, gathered round Grandma Sally, were Ma, Dad, me, Bobby, my uncles and aunts, my dad’s uncle, my cousins. Little guys down front, littlest in my aunt’s arms.
The most normal family in the world.
Except, maybe it wasn’t. All I knew was that the world I knew had stopped being the world I knew.
I went back to my room and studied the cards Ewing gave me.
THOMAS EWING
SPECIAL AGENT
FEDERAL BUREAU OF INVESTIGATION
Room 25B, Brooklyn Borough Hall
MAin 4 8345
Emergency MAin 4 2690
I needed to calm down and think it through. Try to look at the pieces like a detective.
Ewing came when I was alone. I was sure that was no accident. He had followed me from school the other day. He was watching me. But it wasn’t me they were after, it was Dad. “Tell your dad I was here.”
Ewing must have come because Donavan told him Dad was a Communist.
That’s why I made the big decision that I would not tell Dad about Donavan and school. Which meant nothing about the FBI, either. On my own, I’d find the truth about Dad, that he wasn’t a Communist. I’d take the facts to Ewing and make him leave Dad alone. That would make Donavan look stupid.