The Aftermath
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That was the longest day of my life. Easily.
I don't know what was worse, watching Rosenberg splatter his brains all over the white paper, or having to tell the story a few dozen times to people from the FBI, the CIA, the NSA, and some other three-letter organizations I'd never even heard of. Most of the suits who interviewed me were dispassionate and professional, just like the book says you're supposed to be, but some of them didn't bother to try to hide their contempt, making it clear that they thought it was my fault that Rosenberg was no longer available for interrogation. Keaton did go out of his way to tell me that I had done a good job, but even he had to add, "under the circumstances," whatever that means.
They didn't cut me loose until near midnight. People were still lined up for the chance to give me a hard time, but Keaton basically told them that they could talk to me tomorrow after I got some sleep. Nobody there was sure that they outranked him, so I took off before he changed his mind or someone had the chance to change it for him. But I got only as far as Martini's, which was still open – and that surprised me until I realized that it wasn't even midnight, why wouldn't a bar still be open? So I parked in the gravel lot and wandered in to see if Gina had saved me any of her famous chicken cacciatore.
Another surprise hit me as soon as I walked in the door: Parker was seated at the table where I had been earlier, the one where he usually sat with his partner, but never would again. He was staring down at the table, and I didn't think he saw me, so once again I spun around and started to leave – and once again my hunger got the best of me. Assuming that Parker might not be eager to see me, I headed for the stool all the way over at the far end of the bar.
Aldo was still tending bar. He wore a sour expression, maybe because he had been working all day, but maybe because he had been talking to Parker, in which case he might not want to serve me at all. But he took my order with more professionalism than some of my colleagues had afforded me, and Gina's chicken cacciatore was still hot, although Aldo confided that there was no Gina. "She's the broad who sold me the joint," he said. "Gina Martini. I kept her name on the outside, figured I might as well keep it on the inside too, know what I mean?"
I had barely started to attack my meal when Parker came and sat down next to me. For a long time, he didn't say anything at all, so I just kept on eating while I waited. "Long day," he finally said, and I had to agree.
We exchanged a few more words while I ate, and I was both glad for his company and anxious about it at the same time. But if he blamed me for Rosenberg's death, hours of relentless grilling seemed to have drained it out of him.
"Another Bud, Al," Parker said, the next time the beefy bartender sauntered by. When Aldo delivered the beer, he turned and watched the TV at the far end of the bar with us for a few of minutes, and then he had something to tell us.
"Hey, get this," he said, with the air of a man who has something clever and important to share. "Did you know that he was the second President from Illinois to be assassinated? Lincoln was from Illinois, and get this: He freed the slaves! And now this one..." and here he pointed to the TV "...this one gets himself assassinated, and he's from Illinois too! I mean, what are the odds, huh?"
"Lincoln was born in Kentucky," I pointed out.
"And this one," Parker chimed in, "this one wasn't exactly born in Illinois, either."
There was such unexpected vehemence in his voice, such sudden vitriol, that my head shot up and I found myself staring at him, hard. His face was contorted in rage, his teeth were bared as if we were snarling. A vein in his neck had begun to throb ominously.
"Oh yeah?" Aldo said, seemingly oblivious to Parker's sudden change in mood. "If he wasn't born in Illinois," Aldo demanded, "then where the hell was he born?"
"Hawaii," I said, softly enough so that I could hear Parker's response, which he spat out maybe half a beat later.
"Kenya," Parker said.
©2010 Henry Charles Mishkoff