Joseph Kanon - Stardust

“A few times.”

“More than once? Five times, ten times? To be precise,” Minot said, playing to the room.

Hal raised his head, not answering for a second, as if he were taking aim. “More than once. Less than five. Somewhere in between.”

“This was at his home?”

“Once.”

“And the others?”

“Around.”

“Around. Well, we’ll get to those later. Right now I’d like to go back to the meeting at his house.”

“It wasn’t a meeting. A party.”

Minot moved some papers in front of him. “Maybe we’re not talking about the same occasion. I’m referring to the evening of March 7, 1941. You were one of the guests, I believe.”

“That sounds right. I can’t be exact on the date.”

“The evening I’m referring to had people giving speeches for the European Relief Fund. Do the parties you attend usually include speeches?”

“It was a fund-raiser. And a party.”

“I see.” Minot picked up a magazine. “Are you aware that Red Channels lists the Relief Fund as one of their suspected Communist front organizations?”

“No.”

Ben saw Lasner take out a pad and begin to write, a memo he must have forgotten, trapped at the hearing.

“And how had you come to be invited to this party?”

“I was a contributor.”

“So you gave some money to this organization, and Mr. Schaeffer invited you to his home. This was in the nature of a thank-you?”

“Partly, I guess.”

“And the other part was to raise more money? Did they actually collect cash?”

Hal looked at him steadily. “Checks, mostly.”

“Not just spare change, then. Who else was at Mr. Schaeffer’s party?”

Hal glanced quickly at the lawyers, some code they’d been waiting for. “I don’t remember. Other people from the Relief Fund, I guess. The ones in the letter you have.”

“But you don’t remember which ones precisely?” Minot said, biting the last word. “Was your wife there?”

“Yes.”

“Your sister?”

“No. It was an industry event. People in pictures.”

“So you remember their occupations, but not who they were.” Lasner squirmed in his seat, jotting something down again, his breathing audibly impatient.

Minot pulled out a copy of the letter. “Let’s see. Mr. Schaeffer, of course. How about Howard Stein? Was he there?”

Another quick look to the lawyers. “I don’t remember.”

“Gus Pollock?”

“I think so, I’m not sure.”

“Not sure. Ben Friedman. Was he there writing checks?”

Friedman. Ben’s mind went to Danny’s list. Friedman. But not Ben, he’d remember his own name. Another Friedman. A voice saying it. He looked away from the table, trying to remember, hearing it instead. One of the newsreel cameramen was changing film, the other camera still whirring.

“Ben Friedman?” Minot said again.

No, Alfred. Alfred Friedman. He jerked his head toward the cameras, hearing the name, then stared, not moving, afraid even a blink would make it go away. Newsreel, a voice in a newsreel. Alfred Friedman. The camera panning across a group of men. Suits and uniforms.

Minot was talking again but his voice had become a background sound, like noises in the woods, Ben’s mind racing. What did it mean? A man in the group. Follow the logic. His thoughts ran everywhere at once, water rushing downward, separating, branching off until it was stopped, blocked, then backing onto itself. If he knew Friedman, he knew the others, who they must be. Follow the logic, like gravity, one step flowing down to another. Then a split, a whole branch that led nowhere, stopped at Paseo Miramar. Unless Genia had been an accident after all, something that didn’t need to fit. The cameras kept whirring but his mind was moving even faster, in a panic now, because while things snapped into place a dread was spreading through him, where all the logic led, Danny doing something that could not be forgiven. He felt himself growing warmer, as if the body could literally burn with shame. His brother. Someone Ben hadn’t really known at all.

“What?” one of Bunny’s assistants whispered, but Ben shook his head “nothing” and faced forward again. He tried to listen to Minot, something again about Schaeffer’s party, but kept hearing Friedman’s name in the newsreel.

Assuming it was the same Friedman. He needed to be sure, something more than instinct. One foot, then the other. But he kept moving in leaps. If he was right, then the list wouldn’t be enough bait. They’d run to ground, not take any risks now. He’d need to offer something more, a direct threat, exposure. He glanced toward the press section, Polly’s hand moving on a pad as she watched Hal testify. Ostermann looked up, his features suddenly Liesl’s, the fine stretch to the chin, and Ben met his eyes for a second, then quickly went back to Polly. Did he owe Danny anything now? Was there ever a good reason for betrayal? Anyway, how could you betray the dead? This one would be for the still-living.

Assuming it was the same Friedman. He got up, crouching, the way people left the theater halfway through. “Phone,” he said to the assistant, the all-purpose excuse, this time true. In the hall, he felt his pockets for change, heading for the phone booths.

“Long distance,” he said, getting the coins ready.

The call took a while to put through but only a few minutes once the connection was made. Afterward he sat in the booth, his hand still on the receiver. The first piece, but not everything, the water still running in too many directions. Even now, when he thought he knew what Danny had done, his mind kept drifting back to the Cherokee, to police details, instead of what he really wanted to know, why.

He looked up. Across the hall, Bunny was standing in the witness room, no longer on the phone, not doing anything, in fact, just leaning against the wall and staring. His chest moved in small heaves. Ben got up and went over, directly in his sight line, but Bunny seemed unable to see anything until Ben was in front of him. Then a quick blink, startled, his throat moving in spasms, as if someone were choking him, cutting off his air. He swallowed, constricted.

“You all right?”

He didn’t answer, just swallowed again, his eyes talking now, screaming somewhere, mute.

“What’s wrong?”

Bunny looked down at the phone, then back at Ben. “He’s gone,” he said, a whisper, all the sound he could manage. “Jack’s gone.” Then nothing, another swallow, trying to breathe, now that it was said.

“When?” Something to fill space.

“Last night. This morning,” Bunny said, vague, but less ragged.

Ben looked at him, not sure whether to touch his arm, a gesture that might seem too intimate. Instead he nodded. “Go. They don’t need you in there.”

But Bunny still didn’t move, mesmerized by his own news, all the echoes of it.

“They just called?” Ben said, trying to keep his attention.

“They had to wait,” Bunny said, mostly to himself, his eyes getting moist for the first time. “Until they got the next of kin. They have to do that, tell them first. They didn’t want to wake her.”

“Who?”

“His mother. In Oregon. They had to tell her first. He’s been there all morning.”

“Go,” Ben said again. “Really. There’s nothing you can do here anyway.”

“She wants the body shipped back. She can do that. Ship it up there. He hated it up there.” He looked at Ben, catching himself. “I have to see him. Before they do that.”

Ben nodded. “Go.”

“I can’t,” Bunny said, looking down at his hands, an invalid displaying his paralysis. “I don’t think I can drive.”

Ben looked toward the hearing room, then gripped Bunny’s elbow. “Come on.”