along the straight line from Foggia, Italy to Manowitz, Poland. “This is the route bombers took to bomb a synthetic rubber plant less than four miles from the concentration camp. The crooked line is the return path to Italy.”
“Syn-tetic rubber?”
“In the 1940s, tires were made from real rubber. The Nazis had limited supplies. They invented a way to make rubber from oil. We use something like it to make tires today.” Joe flicked ash into the mug.
From between two crusty pieces of cardboard, Alenia removed a second piece of carbon paper. This piece was in pristine condition and easily read. She held it up to the light.
EYES ONLY: JOHN P. McCloy
ASSISTANT SECRETARY, U.S. ARMY
20 August 44 Re: Mission completed.
Will return to Washington ASAP
Preston Swedge, Captain U.S.A.A.F.
“This McCloy a big shot?” Alenia asked with the cigarette dangling from her lips.
“I’m a little hazy on details about McCloy,” Joe said, tossing the cigarette into the coffee. “I’ve read some stuff about him—he was a big shot before, during and after the war. I’ll be right back.” He got up from the chair and walked out of the room.
Alenia looked through the pile and found a credit card sized envelope sealed with Scotch Tape. She removed a 2x2 photo of a young man in his dress army uniform.
Joe returned carrying the coat tree kept next to the front door. “Who’s this Rothstein?” Alenia asked, holding up the photo.
“Rothstein?” Joe asked as he placed the coat tree beside the French door. Alenia handed him the photo. The uniform bore the wings of a pilot. Joe turned the print over. Paul Rothstein was written in blue ink. “I’ll be a son of a bitch. Another Rothstein. How many ghosts did he have?”
“You’re talking crazy,” Alenia said in a huff.
“Give me the picture of the kid with the yarmulke,” Joe said.
“Call me Joe’s secretary,” Alenia said, handing over the photo.
“Secretary isn’t the adjective I use.” Joe held the picture labeled Rothstein along side the one of the Bar Mitzvah boy. “The kid looks like a younger version. What do you think?”
Alenia scrunched up her nose. “Same mouth and noze. Must be his off springs.”
“Offspring. One word and one kid,” Joe said, laughing. “Preston must’ve been friendly with Rothstein the flyboy to have his kid’s Bar Mitzvah picture.” He removed the suit from the leather satchel, buttoned the jacket around the topmost hooks, and hooked the pants below. “Let me have Preston’s picture, the one where he’s standing next to the convertible.”
Alenia handed him the picture. Joe placed it into the jacket’s collar. “You were in the middle of something,” Joe said, looking at Preston atop the coat rack. “What, I don’t know.”
Chapter 6
WESTFIELD, NJ SEPTEMBER 2000
ALENIA HAD JUST STEPPED OUT OF THE SHOWER when her cell phone chimed her back to the reality of being married to Harry. She packed the G-string into a side pocket of her Gucci carry-all and slipped on a pair of what she called babushka underwear—non-see-through white bra and plain cotton panty. “Harry is on his way back from Atlantic City.”
Joe backed the Volvo onto the street to let Alenia’s Mercedes SUV out of the garage. When she arrived on his doorstep, the Benz was sequestered in the garage just in case Harry lost his shirt at the crap table and decided to come home to nestle his head in the bosom of his loving wife.
Joe flashed the Volvo’s high beams to signal that Tanglewood Lane was clear of prying eyes. Alenia screeched onto the street, blew him a kiss and was off.
It was 2:45. Finding the Rothstein photo put working on his research paper into the category of “I’ll get to it later.” He headed for The House of Beers to buy a six pack of Guinness Stout.
The parking lot of the converted gas station on the south side of town was deserted. Sunday football enthusiasts had completed their forays and were sitting at the feet of their televisions. Joe breezed into the store, gave a nod to the Pakistani clerk behind the register and fetched the beer from the cooler. The clerk robotically began to ring Joe’s weekly purchase of a twenty-four can carton of Budweiser, but caught his mistake. Distracted by a kid who looked about fifteen browsing the aisles, he handed Joe change from a twenty and hustled from behind the counter.
For an instant, Joe moved in the direction of the expected confrontation, and then stopped. Juveniles were somebody else’s problem. He put the change in his