The Hellfire Club(16)
“Fold,” he said.
“Sounds like the old okey-doke to me,” Street said. “Raise.” He put down a quarter, and Strongfellow groaned mildly and tossed his cards on the table. Street reassembled the deck and began shuffling.
“Okey-doke?” asked Strongfellow.
“You’ll forgive him, Street, he’s from Utah,” Charlie joked.
“A distraction,” explained Street. “Omaha Hi-Lo, gentlemen,” he announced as he dealt the cards. “Okey-doke’s a scam. The guy on the street who holds up his hat with one hand and says, ‘Look at my hat, nothing in my hat,’ and with the other hand he’s pinching your wallet.”
“I don’t think it’s a distraction,” said Charlie. “I think they mean it. And I’m in no position to say no.”
“Course not,” said MacLachlan.
As Street finished dealing each man four cards facedown, Charlie wondered how much he could press his case with his new friends. He inspected his cards: the ace of hearts, the ace of spades, the two of clubs, the seven of diamonds. Two aces before even one flop card had been dealt; a great start, but he couldn’t seem too eager. He threw down a nickel.
“I need Kefauver on my side because of the cruddy gas masks I told you about,” Charlie said as everyone else anted up. “I don’t think Goodstone should get another nickel from the taxpayers. And I can use any support. Whether it’s from Kefauver, someone else on the Subcommittee on Juvenile Delinquency, or any of you fine gentlemen.”
Charlie turned to a confused-looking Street to offer a brief synopsis of the saga of the gas masks and Private First Class Rodriguez. Strongfellow chimed in with the more pressing issue of Chairman Carlin’s anger at Charlie for trying to block federal funds from Goodstone.
“I know the answer before I ask,” said Street, “but I assume Goodstone never reached out to the private’s family?”
Charlie shook his head. His two priorities upon returning to Manhattan after the war had been marrying Margaret and sitting down with the Rodriguezes to tell them what had happened. He saw them every June at St. Cecilia’s in Manhattan, where they all lit candles. “Near as I can tell, Goodstone’s done everything they can to pretend it didn’t happen.”
“Pretty crummy,” Street said. “Brother Powell’s on Appropriations; I can talk to him, see what he thinks.”
“I’d keep it quiet for now, boys,” Strongfellow cautioned. “Carlin is a mercenary.”
“But don’t you think if we can get a sizable group of veterans in the House to oppose this, Carlin will see the writing on the wall?” Charlie asked. “Why would this be worth making a stink about? I doubt Goodstone would want the publicity.”
“This isn’t some Andy Hardy movie, Charlie,” MacLachlan said. “Folks don’t band together when the chips are down and put on a show.”
“Mac is right,” Street said. “We need to learn a lot more before we do anything. We don’t know if Goodstone has connections or a loose wallet or powerful friends or what.”
“You don’t want to get in over your head,” Strongfellow warned.
“They had to have paid someone off to have gotten away with it,” said Street.
“Or someones,” agreed MacLachlan.
“I get it, I get it,” said Charlie, now a bit embarrassed.
“One just needs to be a bit more stealthy on this battlefield, Charlie,” MacLachlan said. “And we need to do a lot more recon.”
“Carlin is mean,” said Strongfellow. “You can’t just take him on willy-nilly.”
“But you’re actually ahead of the game, here, in one way,” said MacLachlan. “It makes more sense for you to try to get Kefauver to remove the Goodstone money when the bill gets to the Senate.”
“Here’s the flop,” said Street, throwing down the first shared card for the table: the ace of clubs.
Charlie didn’t believe in omens, but having two aces in the hole and a third on the table improved his mood a touch. Still, he felt naive and dejected and couldn’t help reflecting that principles had been a lot easier to fight for before he entered a world where there were actual consequences.
Chapter Six
Sunday, December 7, 1941
New York City, New York
Charles Everett Marder had been born prematurely in Manhattan on December 7, 1920, a date of little consequence in any way until the day he turned twenty-one. A birthday-celebration lunch was planned around his schedule, and at two o’clock he met his parents at P. J. Clarke’s on Fifty-Fifth and Third. It was their favorite restaurant, unassuming and lively, and Mary Marder pretended not to know that its chief attraction for her husband and son was the barroom radio, always tuned to whatever game was being played that day.
As the Marders walked in, the Brooklyn Dodgers football team, which outer-borough-born Winston rooted for, had won the coin toss in its game against Manhattan’s New York Giants, a favorite of Charlie’s, at the Polo Grounds. The family eased into a back booth as a waiter materialized, pen poised.
“Hamburger, please, medium rare, with extra fries and a black-and-white shake,” Charlie said. “Starving,” he explained to his mother when she looked shocked at his abrupt order.