The Hellfire Club(78)

Street turned the radio dial to news: the statehoods of Hawaii and Alaska were being put on a single Senate bill, against the wishes of the Eisenhower administration.

“Why does he want them separate?” asked Margaret.

“Hawaii’s a Republican state, Alaska’s Democratic,” Charlie said. “Ike is more keen on adding the Republican voters and senators to the rolls.”

More news from the Marshall Islands: The Atomic Energy Commission was about to acknowledge that more than two dozen Americans and hundreds of natives had been exposed to radiation during the recent testing of an atomic bomb. Next, stunningly, the army had issued a report charging that McCarthy and Cohn had threatened the military if it didn’t provide preferential treatment for one of their former investigators, Private David Schine. McCarthy and Cohn had wanted Schine to get an expedited promotion and be stationed at West Point with a cushy job. After those requests were denied, Cohn threatened to “wreck the Army,” sources said.

“What a little creep,” Margaret said. “Attack-attack-attack, threaten-threaten-threaten. How did Cohn make it to adulthood without learning how civilized people behave?”

“Civilized people such as whom?” asked Charlie. “Such as Joe McCarthy?”

“Him too,” Margaret said. “This is not normal.”

Street chortled.

“Speak up, Isaiah,” Charlie said. “You’re among friends.”

“I’m sorry, but the things commonly said about Negroes not only in polite company but on the floor of the House and Senate…you don’t know what being uncivilized is. Imagine a world full of Cohns and McCarthys accusing all people with your skin color of every crime imaginable, of being subhuman. Not for our ideology, not for being a Red—whether true or not—but for how we were born. Imagine statues of these accusers lining the halls of Congress. I mean, my people have been facing McCarthyism since before McCarthy! ‘Are you now, or have you ever been, a Negro?’”

He shook his head and silence filled the car.

“It’s a fair point,” Margaret finally said.

“These are the things I typically don’t say in front of white folks.”

Another silence. Charlie looked toward the backseat, to Margaret, who smiled at him regretfully.

“I suppose there are no secrets among us anymore,” Charlie said.

“I would hope not,” said Street. He looked at Margaret in the rearview mirror. “Your husband told me all about the predicament in which he finds himself.”

“That’s right,” Charlie said. “You’re the only two who know everything.”

“Not everything,” Margaret noted. “Tell Isaiah about New York. About McCarthy’s request.” So Charlie told Isaiah about McCarthy’s menacing demand that Charlie obtain the Strongfellow file from his father’s study and that he’d complied.

Street drove them through the rural hills of Maryland, which, though they were only ninety minutes or so from Baltimore and two hours from Washington, DC, looked like they could have been in Alabama or Indiana. A small town would pop up around a turn—pharmacy, diner, doctor’s office, hardware store, gas station, school—then quickly vanish after two blocks, the landscape going back to forests or farms. They sped by immense empty fields where corn would soon grow, roadside produce markets advertising asparagus, tomatoes, and squash that did not yet exist. As they rode, they discussed the murky swamp in which Charlie had found himself wading.

“I think for now, you’ve got to go along to get along while we figure out what to do next,” Street said. “Maybe you can cease to be of any use to them? Get a new committee assignment? Instead of Appropriations, maybe try to get on Veterans’ Affairs. God knows it should be easy enough to get a seat—not exactly a meal-ticket committee assignment.”

Margaret lit a cigarette and rolled down the window. Wearing black sunglasses and a sheer scarf wrapped around her head, she looked like a movie star trying not to be recognized.

“Let’s just try to keep a low profile, though, Charlie,” she said. “You don’t need to be going out to cocktail parties or poker nights. Just go to work and come home.”

“I agree with that, except the poker-night part,” Street said.

“Me too,” Charlie said grimly.

Charlie sank in his seat. Street found a jazz station on the radio, and none of them spoke until the car crossed the brand-new Chesapeake Bay Bridge, which, at 4.3 miles, was the third-longest bridge in the world. The structure seemed endless to Charlie, and there was part of him that hoped they might never have to return to land.





Chapter Twenty-One





Tuesday, March 16, 1954


Washington, DC



When Charlie met Cohn at Filibuster’s on Constitution Avenue the following Tuesday, the lawyer stood and greeted him with a smile, then sank back into the leather club chair at the corner table and summoned another Manhattan with a word and a flick of his hand in the direction of the bar. Charlie placed the manila folder containing NBC’s dirt on Strongfellow in the center of the table.

“You take a peek?” asked Cohn.

“No.”

Cohn rolled his eyes while he lit a Lucky Strike. “Need a towel there, Pontius?” He opened the folder and inspected its contents.