The Great Perhaps (14 page)

“What’s the password?” Mr. Miner would say with a smile, holding up his first finger and thumb like a pistol.

Henry would smile and look down at his feet, embarrassed.

“What’s the password, kid? Hurry up and spill it or there’s gonna be trouble.”

Henry would grimace behind his hand and then whisper, “Hound’s tooth.”

Mr. Miner would squint at him, then nod, and take the brown package from his hands. Then, flipping out his wallet, he’d slip out a crisp green dollar bill and plant it in the young man’s hand.

“Don’t tell your father where you got it from, okay?”

“Okay,” Henry would say.

Mr. Miner would pat the kid on the shoulder, then slip back inside his apartment, slamming the door closed. Henry would stand there in the hallway, still smiling, his face flush with embarrassment as he stared down at the dollar in his palm.

M
ORE OFTEN THAN NOT,
the dollar would go toward as many issues of
Adventure
comics as he could buy. The comic book featured the ongoing exploits of
The Flash, Hourman, The Green Lantern
, and Henry’s favorite series,
The Airship Brigade.
Standing alone in the alley behind the tiny tailor shop, Henry would finger the creased pulp pages, reading every enthusiastic word, staring for long moments at every panel, every drawing—the amazing golden zeppelin, code-named the X-1, the Airship Brigade’s teenage commander, the dashing Alexander Lightning, the scientist Doctor Jupiter and his beautiful daughter Darla, Tor the herculean Man-Ape, and the lovable, bumbling Hugo—Alexander’s boyhood chum—all of them busy at the mechanized controls of the airship, flying high above the glowing lights of some city—Henry memorizing every half-toned ink dot, every pulpy illustration. Standing in the near dark, in the snow-filled alleyway, Henry would watch as the empty skyline swiftly disappeared and became something spectacular, something unexplainable, something amazing.

O
FTEN, RIDING BACK
from Mr. Miner’s apartment, with the dollar tucked securely in his back pocket, Henry would begin to narrate the latest episode of his favorite hero’s adventures, having read and reread it so many times that the words had become a bright-sounding refrain in his head.

“Alexander Lightning, teenage boy, supreme commander of the Airship Brigade, has only his magnificent airship, the X-1, to rescue his friends, who have all been shanghaied by spies from the dark side of the moon. What will he do, dear readers, what will he do?”

Whizzing past the park on Western Avenue, Henry would glance at the clock on the Great American Savings Bank to see how long he had been gone on his deliveries.

“Flying the fearsome vessel through the cloudy reaches of outer space, our hero only has one hour before his fellow brigadiers meet their end at the hands of the menacing Lord of the Moon.”

Henry, dashing down Irving Park Road, would squeal to a stop in front of the drugstore on Lincoln, leap down the aisle to the magazine rack in the back, and grab as many new issues of
Adventure, Airship Brigade, All-Flash,
or
The Justice Society
as he could afford. The clerk, some older lady in gray glasses or a boy roughly the same age, would watch Henry mumbling to himself as he approached the counter, glancing around the drugstore for a clock.

“Our hero only has twelve minutes left,” he would whisper. “Only twelve minutes.”

Then, grabbing wildly for his change, he would hop back on his bicycle, check to see if he was being followed by some Martian spy or rogue G-man, and pedal back to his father’s tailor shop, slipping the comics beneath the long green bicycle seat. Throwing the front glass door of the shop open, he would clamber inside and ring the bell on the counter to signify that he had returned, looking up at the yellow clock that was hung above his Uncle Felix’s sewing machine.

“The world is saved once again,” he would whisper, nodding in victory. “With no small thanks to our hero, Alexander Lightning, teenage boy, supreme commander of the Airship Brigade.”

O
N
M
ONDAY,
December 8, the day after the attack on Pearl Harbor, Henry sat beside the honey-colored radio in the tailor shop, listening to the terrible exclamations about the sinking of the American fleet. At his sewing machine, Henry’s father listened for as long as he could, before standing up and switching the radio off by turning its great golden knob.

“That is enough of that,” he said.

Henry nodded, leaning over to sweep the dust into the dustpan with the end of the broom. Henry’s father bundled up a pair of shiny black slacks in a sheet of brown paper, tied the knot tightly, and handed the package to Henry: a delivery.

“For Mr. Miner. Be careful not to drop it or to wrinkle it.”

Henry nodded again, pulled on his winter coat and hat and mittens, then took the package and placed it in the basket of his bicycle. Glancing over his shoulder for enemy spies, he started off, quickly turning down a side street. Just then, he noticed a black sedan pull away from the curb. The sedan was beautiful, with a silver grille and bright hubcaps, exactly what Henry imagined a spy or enemy agent would drive. Behind the wheel were two stern-looking men in gray felt hats. Henry glanced over his shoulder and grinned, just as the sedan took the turn, slowly easing down the narrow street in pursuit.

“Our hero, Alexander Lightning, pursued by enemy agents, finds his radio-ring is suddenly not working. He is unable to contact his fellow brigadiers.”

Henry popped a wad of gum into his mouth as he skidded along the snowy street.

“With two enemy spies hot on his trail, the young commander makes a bold move.”

Henry hit the brakes, darting in between two parked cars, then up the curb and along the sidewalk to the opening of an alley. The black sedan veered speedily, hitting its brakes, its rear lights blinking red as it lunged in reverse. Seeing the car stop, Henry realized something was wrong. The sedan heaved backward, then stopped again, and turned down the alley.

“Our hero is in serious trouble.”

Quickly, he pedaled along the narrow alleyway, past discarded cardboard boxes and overflowing garbage cans, the sedan moving swiftly behind him. The car began to honk, then flash its lights, and Henry—terrified of most strangers, let alone those following him so closely—let out a yelp. The sedan drew beside him, still honking its horn. The passenger, a man in a gray overcoat and hat, unrolled his window and shouted out to him:

“Hey, kid. Hey kid, we just want to talk to you.”

But Henry, frantic now, was too frightened to speak. Small silver tears poured from the corners of his eyes. He flew out of the alley and turned quickly to the right. He double-backed the other way along the west side of the street and hurried back to Western Avenue, where he thought there would be more traffic. For a moment, hurtling back toward his father’s shop, he grinned, thinking he had lost them, but then the sedan rounded the corner at the end of the block and flashed its lights twice in his direction. It quickly pulled alongside him.

“Okay, kid, listen, we just want to talk to you is all.”

The guy in the passenger seat, big with square shoulders, opened the door and began to climb out. Henry let out a nervous peep and sped past him, darting down the avenue, past a woman with her groceries and some kids having a snowball fight on their stoop. The sedan was wheeling around now, cutting across traffic, its yellow headlights glaring angrily. Henry’s bicycle slipped back and forth, careening over the wet snow.

“The Airship Brigade teen commander is in deep, deep trouble. Our hero is going to be murdered. Our hero is going to be put in those villains’ trunk.”

Henry slowed as he crossed Lincoln Avenue. He took a right, then another quick right, which he knew was a straight shot to Western Avenue, where Mr. Miner lived, where he hoped he would be safe. Pedaling slower now, his lungs tight in his chest, he glanced over his shoulder, past the rows of parked cars and drifts of gray snow. The street behind him was empty. He smiled a small nervous smile, his face red from fright and exertion, then pedaled down the alley behind Mr. Miner’s apartment. Hurrying down the gangway to the front of the building, Henry bolted for the front door, holding down the door buzzer much longer than he normally did, as a signal to let Mr. Miner know that he was in dire trouble.

“Hello?” came Mr. Miner’s calm voice.

“It’s me, it’s Henry,” he said, pulling on the door, which was still locked.

“What’s the password?” Mr. Miner joked.

“Mr. Miner, Mr. Miner, I’m in trouble,” he whispered, still holding down the call button.

“Hold on, pal, hold on.”

Suddenly the front door mechanism buzzed and swung open on its hinges. As he took the stairs one, then two, then three at a time, he thought he heard the footsteps of someone behind him, but he was too afraid, too full of cowardice to face those men again. With the brown package in his hand, Henry made it up to the third-floor landing just as Mr. Miner’s apartment door opened. Mr. Miner was in a red robe, his hair as shiny as wet plastic, a long cigarette between his lips, looking collected, suave, his forehead unwrinkled, his narrow mouth a little smile of vague concern.

“What’s the matter, kid? Who’s after you?”

Henry was too scared to speak, his heart pounding so loud in his chest that he could not think. He fell to one knee, handing the brown package to Mr. Miner, who regarded it with a large smile.

“Okay, okay, kiddo, who’s tailing you?” Mr. Miner asked, and then, as if they had been summoned, the two enemy agents from the black sedan marched up the stairs, their black shadows falling across Henry’s red face. Seeing them, Mr. Miner frowned, the cigarette tumbling from his mouth, and slowly, gracefully, he backed into his apartment. But the enemy spies were out with their guns quick, both of them. From his spot on the floor, Henry gasped at the guns’ bright, oiled certainty. Mr. Miner kept slowly backing into his apartment, raising his hands, as the two agents commanded him to be still. Henry could see Mr. Miner’s red slippers move inch by inch until he had backed over the threshold of his apartment, and then, as quick as a nightclub magician, he saw Mr. Miner reach for something—was it a gun, too?—from behind the doorframe. Before he could raise his weapon, the bigger of the two thugs jammed his pistol hard against Mr. Miner’s temple, then backed him with force against the shiny black door. A smallish, .22-caliber snub-nosed pistol, looking exactly as it did in the comic books, clattered from Mr. Miner’s hand to the carpeted floor.

“We got it, Burt,” said the other agent. “We got it, take it easy.”

The agent reached down and grabbed the brown package, then, stowing his gun back in his holster, he began to slowly untie the white thread.

“What do we got?” Burt, the bigger man, asked. “What’s it look like?”

“It looks like clothes,” the shorter one said. “It looks like a pair of slacks.”

The bigger man, Burt, frowned, and then gave Mr. Miner a shove.

“What’s with the slacks? Spill it and maybe we can go easy.”

Mr. Miner, a greased black forelock of his hair dangling over his white forehead, only smiled, shrugging his shoulders. “Gentlemen, I believe there’s been some kind of mistake,” he said.

The two agents glanced at each other, then shook their heads. Burt pressed his pistol harder against Mr. Miner’s temple, growling. “We know all about you and your pals, Silber. You might as well come across with what you know.”

“I believe you have mistaken me with someone else.”

The big agent laughed, nodding toward his partner.

“Pete, show him the credentials.”

Pete, the shorter of the two, with gray hair and thin tired eyes, reached into his coat pocket and removed a leather wallet, which he flipped open to reveal his badge.

“Maybe you’ve heard of the FBI?” Burt asked.

Mr. Miner did not seem very impressed.

“I have done nothing wrong as far as I know of.”

Pete looked down at the gray slacks again, eyeing the fabric, inching his fingers along the thread, checking all of the pockets carefully. He ran the cuff between his finger and thumb, nodding.

“Very fancy duds for a radio repairman. Where does a fellow like you get the money for a high-price item like this?”

Burt grunted a little at this and turned toward his partner.

“Maybe we give his place a once-over, what do you think?”

“Sounds wonderful.”

Burt turned to Mr. Miner, knocking him in the head with the barrel of his gun as he spoke. He reached into his coat pocket, found a pair of silver handcuffs, and slapped them on Mr. Miner’s wrist.

“Now, you don’t try anything brave, Mr. Fancy-Pants, and we won’t have to ruin your nice little robe there, how’s that?”

Burt backed Mr. Miner into his apartment, pushing him toward a red velvet sofa.

“Take a seat and make nice.”

He then turned to Henry, who was still kneeling, trembling, out in the hallway.

“You, the kid from the tailor shop? What’s your name?”

“Henry Casper.”

“You stand there and tell me if he moves, okay?”

Henry nodded, crossing into Mr. Miner’s apartment. The apartment itself—which Henry had never seen before—was gloriously decorated with ornate statues of Greek nudes and lush oil paintings of pastoral scenes. Henry glanced around the place, his eyes moving from an enormous radio set, to a stack of books, to many, many rolls of unfolded blueprints. On the sofa, Mr. Miner smiled at him, sighing, moving a few inches to his right. As the two agents tore open drawers, upended the black wooden table, threw letters and papers to the floor, Mr. Miner only smiled, staring directly at Henry, who was fixed in terror beside the door. When the two agents holstered their guns to move a large piece of white antique furniture—some sort of curio cabinet—Mr. Miner winked at Henry, sliding as far as he could to the other end of the sofa.