Red Rag Blues
Authors: Derek Robinson
RED RAG BLUES
Derek Robinson
An imprint of Quercus
New York ⢠London
© 2006 by Derek Robinson
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by reviewers, who may quote brief passages in a review. Scanning, uploading, and electronic distribution of this book or the facilitation of the same without the permission of the publisher is prohibited.
Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author's rights is appreciated.
Any member of educational institutions wishing to photocopy part or all of the work for classroom use or anthology should send inquiries to Permissions c/o Quercus Publishing Inc., 31 West 57
th
Street, 6
th
Floor, New York, NY 10019, or to
[email protected]
.
ISBN 978-1-62365-330-9
Distributed in the United States and Canada by Random House Publisher Services
c/o Random House, 1745 Broadway
New York, NY 10019
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, institutions, places, and events are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual personsâliving or deadâevents, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Novels by Derek Robinson
THE R.F.C. TRILOGY*
Goshawk Squadron
Hornet's Sting
War Story
THE R.A.F. QUARTET*
Piece of Cake
A Good Clean Fight
Damned Good Show
Hullo Russia, Goodbye England
THE DOUBLE AGENT QUARTET**
The Eldorado Network
Artillery of Lies
Red Rag Blues
Operation Bamboozle
OTHER FICTION
Kentucky Blues
Kramer's War
Rotten with Honour
NON-FICTION
Invasion 1940
*Available from MacLehose Press from 2012/13
**To be published in ebook by MacLehose Press
For Sheila
Because That's Where the Money is
All Sorts of Freaks and Weirdos
Time the Cossacks Rode to the Rescue
Purgatory Should be a Piece of Cake
1
In 1953, the average New York hoodlum took no interest in current affairs. Sammy Fantoni was different. He read the
New York Herald Tribune
from end to end, every day. “Improve your mind,” his uncle, who was also his employer, told him. “Feed your brain. Learn about the country you love. What you don't understand, ask me.”
Sammy was surprised by how much he understood. Of course he took a professional interest in violent death, and 1953 had its fair share of bad blood between the other New York families: Gambino, Colombo, Bonanno, Genovese, Profaci. The
Trib
did an excellent job of reporting Mob killings. And one day he saw a piece in the national news about lynching. “Nobody in the US got lynched last year,” Sammy said. “First time that's happened since they kept records. What's up?”
“One is tempted to blame the sudden rise of television,” his uncle said. “Arkansas has ceased to make its own entertainment.”
Sammy gave it five seconds' thought and moved on. “How about the Yankees? If they win the Series again, that'll be the fifth straight year. Some sports writers say it's gettin' boring.”
“Americans have no concept of eternity,” his uncle said. “That's why they invented baseball.”
Sammy didn't understand that either. Probably a joke. The hell with it. Plenty other stuff in the
Trib,
good reassuring stuff.
Eisenhower got sworn in as President, in '53, and the
Trib
told Sammy that Ike said the US Seventh Fleet would no longer prevent Nationalist China from attacking Communist China. Sammy looked at the map. The Nationalists had Taiwan. The Reds had all the rest. So it was like giving Puerto Rico permission
to invade America. Sammy relaxed. He was thirty, he'd done his stint in the military, he didn't want to go back into uniform. He'd voted for Ike to
end
the Korean War, not to start a new one. He liked Ike, an American through and through, a guy who wouldn't take any subversive crap from anyone, like belonging to the Communist Party of America, which just got thirteen punks tossed in jail. He read about Loyalty Review Boards and the hard work they did, all across the country, making pinko people disprove that they were disloyal, or else they lost their jobs. Damn right! Why wait for tomorrow's traitors to betray America when you could flush out the bastards today? You know it makes sense. The
Trib
said the dollar was strong, '53 was looking good, the country was on the up.
Only thing Sammy disagreed with the
Trib
about was when it reported a smart-ass called Charles E. Wilson of Detroit, who said what was good for General Motors was good for America. Well, it sure as hell wasn't good enough for
this
American. Sammy took his brown Pontiac convertible to a man who customized cars. “Beats me why I bought this heap,” he said. “No class. No tailfins. No
difference.”
And the guy agreed.
Now, on a sunny summer's morning, he was driving west across Manhattan in his blood-red Pontiac, the top down, two hundred pounds of added chrome shouting class at the world, and sitting beside him was Julie Conroy, a piece of feminine beauty that turned his voice husky every time they met. He had picked her up at her apartment. She wore a tailored two-piece of cream linen that made the mailman drop a couple of letters. No hat. Black hair curled like a dark sea in a light breeze, a phrase he remembered from a movie review in the
Trib.
“You look like a million dollars,” he'd said.
“I feel like a buck and a quarter. Not enough sleep.”
He had held the car door for her and said, “You ever get your hands on a million, buy A.T.&T.” See, he read the business pages too.
Now he turned north on Riverside Drive. “Okay if we take the bridge?” he said. “Small piece a business I gotta do in Jersey.”
Traffic was light. Trees were in full leaf and the sunlight made them bright as new paint. Clouds were up high, quietly going about their business, which didn't include blocking out the sun. She rested her head and closed her eyes. That felt good. This trip was probably a big mistake, so enjoy what you can.
Sammy stopped at the George Washington. She opened her eyes. He paid the toll and got a receipt. “Tax-deductible,” he told her.
“Huh.” She thought about that as they crossed the bridge, about making a tax return when your business was crime. Too complicated. She gave up. The bridge flexed and trembled. The Hudson was far below. She closed her eyes and imagined they were flying.
*
Hackensack looked like a nice place. Plenty of big old clapboard houses in wide streets. Sammy found the one he wanted. He parked and got out. “Five minutes,” he said. Julie watched him open the trunk. He was dressed for Wall Street except that the pants, the lapels and the tie were too narrow. He walked to the house, swinging a baseball bat. Now that was too corny to be true. All the same, it put a chill in the sunshine.
He was back in four minutes, tossed the bat in the trunk, got in the car, drove away, first using his indicators and checking his mirrors, considerate of his valuable passenger.
“You gonna tell me?” she said. “Or should I assume the worst?”
“I did my sister a favor. Her boy Jimmy ain't gettin' good enough grades at school. She's upset. I discussed it with his headmaster.”
“Using a baseball bat?”
“Never touched the guy. He agreed, Jimmy's been gettin' a raw deal. It's the school's fault.”
“Or maybe the kid should work harder.”
Sammy left Hackensack behind, and put on speed. “Nah,” he said. “My way's better.”
She wondered how much of it was true. None, maybe. Or maybe the truth was even worse.
She'd met Sammy at a party in the Village. He'd looked and sounded like someone from
Guys and Dolls.
They'd talked a little, danced a little, he'd been very attentive, and as he drove her homeâfor which she was grateful, the rain was bouncing knee-high off the pavementâhe'd made a remark that he obviously thought was respectful. Complimentary, even. “Any time some guy annoys you and you want him whacked, or maybe semi-whacked,” he'd said, “you call me.” He was serious.
At the time, it had seemed almost touching, in a quaint, New Jersey way. Now, she wasn't so sure.
The
San Felipe
was a medium-small passenger liner, not nearly big enough to qualify for one of the huge berths on the west side of Manhattan, where fireboats pumped great fountains and whooped triumphantly to welcome the likes of the
Queen Mary.
Instead the
San Felipe
docked on the Jersey shore, at Hoboken. No bands played at Hoboken, no flashbulbs popped.
Luis Cabrillo was in the saloon when the ship tied up. He was playing backgammon with a fellow-passenger, Dr. John Barnes. Cabrillo had joined the
San Felipe
in Caracas, Venezuela. Barnes and his wife came aboard at Havana. They had been in Cuba for the annual convention of the American Psychiatric Association. The
San Felipe
was not a fast ship, and the two men had played a lot of backgammon. They finished this game; and Cabrillo lost on the last throw. “Another?” he said. They re-set the board.
Barnes was in his sixties, built like a foreman carpenter, wore a corduroy suit. Cabrillo was half his age, and by contrast he looked slim, almost sleek. He wore a double-breasted blazer from a good tailor, charcoal-gray flannel trousers, suede shoes. His face was smooth as an olive. Mostly it was as expressionless as an olive too.
They played fast, slapping the pieces, flicking them into corners. Luis paused, as still as a statue, then doubled the stakes. “Well, sure, I need a new car,” Barnes said, and accepted. Luis threw the dice. “Not a pretty sight,” Barnes said, and promptly redoubled. Luis accepted. Later, he re-redoubled. Barnes accepted again and said, “If this goes wrong I may have to sell the old car.” But nothing went wrong for him.
