Manhattan 62 Read Online Free PDF Page A

with some expertise, though I must apologize for my condition. Would you call it sodden?”
    â€œCheerful. It’s nothing, man. You can chalk it up to experience, you know, your first American bender.”
    â€œYes. But thank you for your kindness in showing me around,” he says, as we reach the apartment building, the front door covered in a ornamental pattern of wrought-iron leaves. “Good night, Pat,” Max adds, as he pulls open the door and disappears inside.
    And me, I’m thinking, Jesus, I’ve been drinking with an honest to God Communist who talks about his pretty wife, and gets drunk, who willingly tries out new kinds of booze, even laughs. Maybe he’s not one of them. Maybe he’s looking to come over to our side. Maybe I can win him over. But I’m a little bit soused on Scotch, and truth is, I don’t think I’ll ever see Max Ostalsky again.
    At the deli on the opposite corner, I get myself a fresh pack of Chesterfields, then head north on University Place, thinking about looking for a plate of spaghetti. Maybe I’ll go up to Gene’s. I’m hungry.
    You can spot a Fed a mile away, especially in the Village. Across the street, I see him, right then, a young FBI agent, the bad crew-cut hair—his barber must use some garden shears to cut it—yellow and standing up from his head. In his wrinkled tan summer suit, he’s standing in front of the Hotel Albert, pretending to read a copy of the Journal-American, but looking at the building where Max Ostalsky lives.
    This one has to be Ostalsky’s tail. All Soviets who come over to America get an FBI tail. Ballet dancers. Students. Diplomats. They’re Commies, after all; you have to watch them.
    After all, as my pop, ass that he is, says, “Mr Hoover says ‘Communism is not a political party, it is a disease.’”
    The agent lowers his paper, glances at me, and because I’m plastered, I wave at him and grin. We’re on the same side, I think. Right? He looks startled. Behind him, the red neon Eiffel Tower out front of the Albert restaurant blinks on and off.

CHAPTER TWO
    October 17, ’62
    T HE SIRENS TORE UP the cold wet night. From the pier, I could hear them coming closer. Tommy must have phoned the precinct like I told him. Who was the man he had seen? Who was Tommy’s devil?
    I looked at my watch. Two in the morning. Wednesday already. Cold out. Cold as a witch’s tit in a brass bra, like they used to say. Winter coming.
    Hurriedly, I zipped the body bag. I didn’t want anyone asking why I messed with the crime scene. I shoved the silver medal Tommy had found into my pocket. The sirens screamed louder, and I heaved myself to my feet, tried to light up a cigarette and failed. The wind was whipping me good.
    Lights flashed. A dark blue car appeared, bumping over the pier. When it stopped, a pair of detectives got out, and stood waiting while a second car pulled up. I didn’t recognize them. They were not from my station house. They wore cheap suits and had the dogged look of men who take orders without question. I went over and told them I was the lead detective, I had found the body, called in the case.
    â€œWhere’s the kid?” I said.
    â€œWhat kid?”
    â€œI need the phone in your car,” I said and showed my badge.
    â€œWe have to ask,” said the taller one, indicating the second car.
    â€œSure, go get permission,” I said.
    From the second car, two more men, also in plain clothes, got out. I didn’t recognize them either. If the guys at my precinct were off duty or on other cases, maybe my boss, or whoever took Tommy’s phone call, had contacted other houses for help. Two of them. The older man probably a senior cop from downtown, wore an expensive navy blue topcoat—alpaca, I figured—over his suit. The heavy silver tie gave him the look of a Mafia capo or a corporate vice president. He was pushing