Operation Underworld (6 page)
Standing still for another moment, he righted the overturned chair. He decided he didn’t feel any better and so he went over to the sink and washed his face for longer than necessary, and as he dried himself, the reason for his inability to focus dawned on him. He was fighting something that he had never felt before.
After all the physical and emotional strain encountered during thirteen years on the job, and seven years of marriage, something was different. Something made him feel like nothing mattered anymore. It was depression. Doc was smothered by it.
Throwing the towel in the basket under the sink, he walked back over to his desk and opened a wall cabinet behind him marked
Classified Files
. He withdrew a rocks glass and a bottle of Irish Whiskey. Pouring a full measure into the glass, he adjusted the chair and sat down.
Glancing around the room, which he realised contained the sum total of his life, he sank deeper into his depression. He saw the steely simplicity with which he used to approach life methodically eroding away and became lost in the resulting mist of confusion called apathy.
His lifted his drink and his eyes drifted off to the right, settling on a picture of a middle-aged man in a policeman’s uniform sitting on a shelf next to some shooting trophies. The policeman’s photo had a black ribbon tied around the upper left hand corner of the frame. A gold NYPD badge was mounted on a dark wooden plaque, and stood next to the photo. Doc stared at the picture and after a minute he smiled.
“Alright! You were right. I shoulda stayed on the force.” He threw back his shot. “But ya gotta admit, it ain’t nuthin’ like the god-damn movies!”
Reaching underneath the desk and into a specially constructed compartment under the drawer, Doc removed a snub nosed .38 and a .45 Colt. After a functions check on both weapons, he loaded them and placed them in separate desk drawers.
He sat forward, leaned on the desk and slowly let his gaze drift until it fell on a picture of a woman, sitting on the shelf below the policeman’s photo. She was a semi-attractive brunette, late twenties and wore some sort of graduation gown. The handwritten inscription read,
To Hubby, Love Forever, Mary
. Doc downed his second drink and shook his head in the direction of the photo. He leaned back, put his feet up and turned off the desk lamp, leaving himself and the room bathed in the alternating shadows of Jimmy O‘Sullivan’s neon sign.
Like in those god-damned movies.
The syncopated rhythm of the Smith-Corona keys reminded Shirley of the Morse code radio messages she had heard in an Alan Ladd war movie last week. Alan Ladd! Now there’s a man! The engaging, eccentric black girl indulged her fantasies as she trudged through her work day. With instinctual dexterity, her well-manicured fingers floated in mid air, coercing the keys to perform.
Perhaps without the weight of a wedding ring to encumber the fingers, they moved faster, Shirley mused. Although attractive by any standard, she was, by her own reckoning, an old maid at twenty-six.
“Ouch! God-damn it!” Shirley cried out, quickly putting her index finger to her mouth.
“What’s wrong?” It was Nikki Cole, the receptionist stationed with Shirley at the oversized reception desk.
“I busted a freakin’ nail!”
“Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?”
“Maybe I got potty mouth, but there are worse problems to have!”
“Like what?” Nikki challenged.
“Like gettin’ the hiccups when you’re horny!” Shirley giggled.
“I told you that in confidence, damn it!”
“Don’t worry, I won’t tell nobody. Besides, I kinda think it’s cute.” Shirley smirked as she turned back to her typewriter. “This way he always knows when you’re ready.”
Nikki reached under the desk and produced a large pickle jar, nearly filled with nickels, and held it out to her workmate.
“About another week and we can have lunch at Grauman’s,” Nikki commented, as the five cent piece Shirley retrieved from her purse clinked into the jar.
“Grauman‘s Chinese Theater? That’s in Hollywood!”
“I know.” The sounds of laughter echoed through the empty, marble-plated lobby.
The curved, Art Deco reception desk was surrounded by a chest-high counter, covered in Carrera marble. It was a large, D-shaped island floating in the center of a lobby, set back from the elevators, which appeared much too expansive for the two slender women it housed.
The dual elevators, a few scattered ashtrays and the reception desk gave the distinct impression they were put into the lobby as an afterthought. There was no indication whatever that this was a headquarters for the intelligence service of the US Navy.
Although no sentries were visible, a tap on one of the buzzers installed underneath the desktop where the girls were working, would summon Marine guards to assist with any unwanted intruders.
As the conservatively dressed Nikki offered her help to Shirley, the switchboard buzzed. Donning the cumbersome headset, the attractive auburn-haired, blue-eyed twenty-something answered the incoming line.
“Good morning, Third Naval District, may I help you?” Nikki Cole and her switchboard, nick-named Cary, were the primary means of communication for 90 Church Street and the outside world.
“That would be Captain McFall’s office, sir. Just one second and I’ll connect you. Thank you, Major, your voice sounds lovely in the morning, too.” Rolling her eyes towards Shirley, Nikki connected the cloth-covered cable to one of the dozens of brass plugs sprawled before her.
Upstairs, at the other end of the line, lay a new desktop model, black rotary Bell telephone. These latest models were much more of a pleasure to use than the old ‘licorice stick’ phones which were awkward, difficult to dial and required both hands to manipulate.
In stark contrast to the desolation of the lobby, the large upstairs office sprawled out to cover the entire floor, and was a cacophony of typewriters and telephones. Unabated activity was in full swing despite the fact the work day was only fifteen minutes old.
“Good morning, Captain McFall’s office, may I help you?”
“I’m sorry, Major, but the Captain is in a meeting. May I take your number, sir? Uh-huh… yes sir, I have it.” There was a pause as the secretary smirked into the phone. “And your voice sounds like Ethel Merman after a half pint of bathtub gin. Goodbye, Major.”
Behind the secretary’s desk stood a wooden frame door with an opaque glass panel. Lettering on the glass stated that it was the office of the Branch Chief of Naval Intelligence, Captain Roscoe C. MacFall, which explained why the door was closed for the better part of the day and, more often then not, locked.
A pair of thick fingers separated two slats of the metal Venetian blinds, allowing a pair of steel-grey eyes to peer out across the sprawling office. Like a headmaster staring at an oversized classroom, he observed the impressive collection of pre-war FBI agents, detectives, District as well as Federal Attorneys and Treasury Department operators at work in the office before him. Still facing the glass, Captain MacFall began to speak.
“Two months into the war and we’re losing a hundred ships a month. We won’t be up to full production capacity for six to eight months. And now a raving lunatic who is too stupid to get into art school has got saboteurs in our backyard!” He made his way back to the head of the conference table and flopped into his high backed chair. “Hell, I thought it was bad when Dewey lost!” MacFall’s bad mood was interrupted by one of the men dressed in civilian attire sitting near the other end of the table.
“Sir, we don’t know it was sabotage. The official investigation doesn’t even start until today.”
“You want to proceed on the premise that it wasn’t and wait for them to hit us again?” the Captain responded, to no one in particular.
The agent had only stated what most of the half dozen operatives in the small conference room were thinking. Which didn’t make it any easier when the CO pointed out the obvious to him. MacFall now stood facing the men in the sparsely furnished office. An awkward silence filled the room.
Gathered in this conference room were some of the most powerful military men in the country with, what they believed to be, the most powerful government in the world backing them. They were unaccustomed to defeat. However, now it appeared that not only had the enemy won the war in Europe and were winning the fight in the Atlantic, but he was knocking on America’s front door.
The primary goal of the intelligence group, which up until this meeting had been the security of the Atlantic convoys, had now been shifted to the security of the New York harbour, and it was to this end that MacFall sought ideas and suggestions. The Tuesday morning meeting continued.
“Sir!” It was Lieutenant James O’Malley. “Seems to me what we really need is inside information about what’s really going on, down on the waterfront I mean.”
“Thank you for your blinding insight, Lieutenant.” The Captain rarely employed sarcasm, but he was genuinely in the dark and didn’t like it.
“DC has tripled our allocations, broadened our legal powers beyond our wildest dreams and we’ve even stooped to hiring girls.”
The tension was broken and laughter circulated the room when the lone female agent present smiled at MacFall and slowly gave him the finger. Just then the door opened, and a burly, late middle-aged man made his way to a seat.
“Has anyone considered the idea of using… uh… snitches?” O’Malley continued.
“Glad you could join us, Agent Johnson.” McFall was in no mood for lack of punctuality.
“Late at the range,” Johnson grunted back as he perused the room. “What’s all this about snitches?”
“Don’t tell us. Another three hundred,” the civilian agent seated next to Johnson quipped.
“Maybe I shot a two-nine-nine.”
“Maybe I’m doin’Veronica Lake.”
“We’re battin’ around ideas to upgrade intel on the docks,” McFall interrupted.
“So somebody suggests stoolies? Who’s the FNG?” Treasury Agent Johnson often regarded himself as the only one in the room with any level of expertise.
The OIC attempted to answer.
“It was…”
“I’m the FNG,” O’Malley shot back.
“You think for a New York City second the Pentagon’s gonna give you money to pay snitches?”
“We used paid informants all the time at the DA’s office.”
Looking around the office, Johnson continued in his vein of antagonism. “Will all the DA’s please raise their hands?” Noting the lack of response, he added, “Gee, kid, I don’t see no hands. How ’bout that!”
“I realise you’re a lawyer, Lieutenant O’Malley but… sounds a bit thin,” McFall prompted.
“You don’t pay them in cash, sir. You barter with them. Sort of like using military script in a theatre of war.”
“The United States Treasury is not about to print anything that can be counterfeited. You can take that to the bank.”
“You’re missing the point. You don’t actually have to give them anything. Just tell them you’re going to give them something. Or better yet, just make them
think
you’re going to give them something!”
“Like what?”
“Like… you’ll get the local cops off their back for a while. Or like, you want to know who the dirty cops are so you can get them off the take and save the crooks money. You just gotta use your imagination.” O’Malley was a lawyer and made a persuasive argument.
With her heavy South Boston dialect, the lone female agent joined the fray. “I say hear him out.”
“You would,” Johnson shot back. After an exaggerated glance around the room, the woman smiled.
“Somebody fart?” she loudly asked.
“Fuck off!”
“Snappy come-back, J. J.! Wonder why you’re always striking out with the girls?”
Johnson glared at her.
“People!” It was McFall, once again trying to keep the train on the tracks. “Carry on, Lieutenant.”
“Sir, most of us still have a lot of our old contacts. If we could somehow organise and enhance that information, we could pool it and draw up a plan of action. Theoretically, we could develop one helluva network.”
“Theoretically!” Now it was one of the civilians joining in. “I was on DA Hogan’s staff and I don’t know about this stoolie idea. I can tell you from experience that the Mob has no sense of humour about songbirds. And the Mob controls the waterfront. Period! Nobody was allowed to even think that at the DA’s office, but that don’t change the facts. Nothing goes on down there without their say-so or them knowing about it.”
Johnson saw his chance to euthanise the idea. “Gentlemen! You too, Betsy Ross. Do we honestly believe that stoolies, the most untrustworthy of criminals, the scum of the scum, are about to risk gettin’ their heads ventilated just to help the people who are being paid to put them away? It’s a stupid idea!”
“Hell! They could be bumpin’ off Germans and dumpin’ their bodies in the East River right now and we’d be none the wiser!”
“Yeah! Can you see some poor dumb Kraut bastard caught down on the West Side Drive by a couple of union guys?” The civilian agent mocked a German accent as he held his hands in the air, in mock surrender. “Nein, nein. I am nut a polleece man! I am only a shpie!” There was a ripple of laughter.
“As that may be our dream scenario, gentleman, we can’t bank on it. I would also remind you that our infiltrators are not necessarily German. They may just as well be Italian Facists or
Spanish Anarchists.” MacFall interjected the sobering thought to the assembled group, and everyone was involuntarily reminded that the overwhelming majority of the people they would have to deal with on the waterfront would be Italians or Sicilians.
“‘Stupid’ is a little strong, don’t you think, Mr Johnson?” O’Malley was careful not to use Johnson’s title. O’Malley folded his hands on the table in front of him and looked across at the bureaucratic treasury agent.
It took a couple of beats to soak through to the rubber-stamp-orientated agent, but he eventually came to the realisation that he was being challenged. The older man continued the volley.
“Sorry I hurt your feelin’s, Junior. But we have a serious situation here. We have a lot of things to do and no time to do them. This is no time to be grasping at straws.” Although the row had essentially been reduced to the two men, civilian against military, everyone else paid close attention to where it was going.