Monthly Archives: August 2019

David, Wallis and the Mercenary Chapter Eighty-Four

Previously: Mercenary Leon fails a mission because of David, better known as the Prince of Wales. Socialite Wallis Spencer is also a spy. MI6 makes them a team. David becomes king. David abdicates, they marry and he becomes Bahamas governor. Leon dies and his son Leon becomes a mercenary.
Sidney didn’t take long to walk the winding road across the hills separating Nassau and the community of black Bahamians. By the time he reached the other side the road was a mere path and the houses reduced to shanties. Dogs roamed the area looking for scraps of food and occasionally fighting when another dog had found a juicy bone. Women sat in their front yards tending huge vats of boiling soapy water to wash their clothes. Wearing his ragged fisherman clothes, he fit in. On the right was an elderly woman stirring a pot of clam chowder with a delicious smell, reminding him of his mother’s cooking. He closed his eyes and thought back to when his mother was alive. He pulled a pence from his pocket and handed it to her. She nodded and filled a soup bowl and handed it to him.
He sat on the ground nearby and closed his eyes again so he could savor the aroma. Sidney pushed the thoughts of his mission from his mind to contemplate whether life in the hills over Nassau might be preferable to the life he was living. His meditation crumbled when he felt another body plop next to him. When Sidney opened his eyes he saw a young man grinning at him.
“I like you,” the boy said. “You’re the only one who has more holes in his clothes than me.”
Sidney cocked his head.
“Don’t mind me. I’m always making bad jokes. I think it’s better to laugh than to cry, don’t you?” When no answer was coming, he stuck out his hand. “They call me Jimbo. Who are you?”
“Sidney.”
“You ain’t from around here. I know all the boys who are scratching out a living. Your parents dead too?”
“Yes.”
“Where you from?”
“Eleuthera.”
“Oh! A Out Islander. You don’t have to worry about food then. You can go fishing.”
“My whole family used to fish,” Sidney offered.
“Did you hear the story about the fisherman who got ate by a shark?” Jimbo asked. “It was years ago.”
“It was my grandfather.” Sidney’s voice was hardly above a whisper.
“Oh.” Jimbo stopped in mid-gulp of chowder. “So that’s why you don’t talk much.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Sidney explained. “Fishermen get used to hours of not talking. It takes our minds off business.”
“You talk good. You get to go to school?” Jimbo asked.
“My father taught me.”
“So, he went to school?”
“No, his father taught him.”
“The one who got ate by the shark,” Jimbo whispered as though connecting the dots of Sidney’s story.
“You don’t need a school to learn if you if listen and force your mind open to new things.”
Jimbo patted him on the back. “You need to meet Leonard Greene. You’re as smart as he is.”
Sidney finished his bowl of chowder. “And who is he?”
“He’s the leader of the Burma Road Boys.”
Sidney didn’t say anything but stood to return the bowl to the old woman. He considered how to learn more about the Burma Road Boys without acting too excited. This was his first lead on his mission, and he didn’t want to disappoint the organization.
“Is he the local preacher?” He chose not to sit.
Jimbo stood instead. “He’s more than a preacher.” He looked around as though checking who might be listening in. “Excuse me. I gotta give granny my bowl.”
When he returned, Sidney thought it best to change the subject a bit. “So, the chowder lady is your grandmother?”
“Oh no,” Jimbo replied. “That’s what everybody calls her. I’m like you. No relatives at all.” He motioned to Sidney to walk down the path. “That’s what Leonard Greene is. He’s like everybody’s father and best friend.”
Sidney decided it was best to continue appearing disinterested. “Where do you sleep? I gotta have a place to sleep.”
“A bunch of us boys have tents deep in the woods.” He pointed to the trees. “The bobbies come run us off every now and then to keep the Bay Street Boys happy. But we always find someplace else.”
“Can I sleep in your tent, just for tonight?”
“Sure. You can meet Leonard Greene. He’s holding a rally at our camp at sunset.”
The sun had just disappeared behind the hills when the camp began to fill with black men who gathered around a big fire. A tall man, dressed in a worn business suit, approached the group and gazed into their eyes. His wrinkled face shined with righteous hope.
“Did all of you work hard today?” Greene’s deep voice resonated around the camp and through the trees.
A discontented grumble arose. Sidney was sure they were all saying no.
“No! You may not have earned a single coin but you worked hard! You worked hard staying alive, keeping hope alive, defending your dignity so it’s still alive!
The negative rumble turned positive bit by bit.
“I guess you’ve heard there’s a new boss man down on Bay Street along with the rest of the rich white boys,” Greene began his speech. “It’s called the American Pleasantville Corporation. Don’t that sound nice? Don’t that sound friendly? And it’s going to create a heap of jobs for all you men and boys out there. Don’t that make you happy? They’re going to hire 2,500 of you to build two British air force bases south of Nassau and Grants Town. You know where that is, don’t you?”
A chant rose up. “Burma Road! Burma Road! Burma Road!”
“That’s right!” Greene replied. “The meanest plot of scrub brush God ever did put on this earth! And they’re going to use your muscle, your sweat, your blood to pull those thorn-infested bushes out so they can build a runway for all those pretty airplanes to land.” He paused to wipe his brow with his handkerchief. “But you don’t mind that, do you? You’re proud you can work hard, ain’t you? That scrub brush ain’t nothing to you, right?”
“Right! Right! Right!”
“But what they’re not going to tell you is that they’re going to pay you only part of what white men get for the same work! And the light-colored folks, who happen to have a white daddy and a black mama, they’re going to be paid more than you!”
“No! No! No!”
“You know the pretty pink building downtown where the government is run? It’s the representatives in that building who decide it’s all right to pay black folks less. And who elects those representatives? The white folks, not you!”
“Not me! Not me! Not me!”
“And why is that? Aren’t all men supposed to vote?”
“Yes! Yes! Yes!”
“So why can’t I vote?” Greene pounded his chest. “Just because I’m black! I’se a man too!”
“I’se a man! I’se a man! I’se a man!”
Sidney, not understanding why, joined in.
“I’se a man!”

Booth’s Revenge Chapter Nine

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Previously: Just before shooting Lincoln, Booth thinks of the events leading to this moment.Stanton goes to Seward’s house when he hears of the stabbing. Someone tries to shoot Andrew Johnson.
Another knock at the door interrupted Andrew Johnson’s thoughts about his sobriety. Turning, he wondered if “they”—the ones who had told the drunk to shoot him—had come to finish the job. In his younger years, Johnson would have flung open the door, grabbed the gun from the hand of the assailant, and beaten him with it, but he acknowledged he was an old man now who had a responsibility to stay alive for his family and his country.
“Who is it?” he called out in a strong voice.
“Mr. Vice-President!” a young voice replied in a loud fright-tinged voice. “Major Eckert sent me!”
The name was not familiar to Johnson, but he could tell by the young man’s tone he was in earnest. “What’s this all about?” he asked as he removed the chair from his door.
“The president has been shot!”
“What the hell?” Johnson opened the door to see a private, still panting and his eyes wide with excitement. He was drenched by the rain.
“He and his wife were at Ford’s Theater watching this play and while everybody was laughing—I don’t know what the joke was but it must have been awful funny because everybody was laughing and this guy shot the President in the back of the head, and everybody stopped laughing because the President’s wife Mrs. Lincoln started screaming and this man jumped to the stage and–”
“Please, private,” Johnson interrupted in a mellow voice, “please take a moment to compose your thoughts. I know this must be very frightening for you. I’m kind of scared myself.”
“But—“
“Sshh.” Johnson put his hand on the private’s shoulder. “You and I ain’t going to catch the attacker any time soon by ourselves. Take a deep breath.” He smiled. “You remind me of my son back in Tennessee. Mighty fine young man he is.”
The young man smiled, revealing how shy and frightened he was. He looked into Johnson’s eyes. “Thank you, sir. Mighty kind of you, sir.”
After a moment, Johnson asked in an easy-going voice, “How badly hurt was the President?”
“I don’t know for sure. The doctors are tending to him now. Across the street from the theater. A boardinghouse. Peterson’s, I think. The way the folks were acting in the hallway there, it don’t look good.”
“Did they capture the man?”
“No, he jumped from the president’s box to the stage and ran out the back. I don’t think anyone knew what was going on until he was gone and Mrs. Lincoln started screaming. I don’t know for sure, sir. I wasn’t there. Major Eckert ordered me to the boardinghouse only about an hour ago. I work for him at the Military Telegraph Bureau.”
“Do they know who it was?”
“I heard on the street that it was the actor, John Wilkes Booth,” the private replied. “But I don’t take much stock in what—“
“Did you say John Wilkes Booth?” Johnson said, remembering the note. He pulled it from his pants pocket to read it again.
Sorry I missed you. J.W. Booth.
“You ever see him on stage?” the soldier asked. “I don’t go to the theater myself but I understand all the young ladies have a soft spot for him.”
“Yes, I’ve heard,” Johnson mumbled. Was Booth the same man who had knocked on his door, he wondered. Johnson dismissed the thought. The man he saw was not an actor.
“I also heard Secretary of State Seward has been stabbed,” the private added.
“What? Seward too?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Is he dead?”
“No, sir,” the private replied. “But he’s hurt real bad.”
“A man just knocked at my door within the last hour,” Johnson said, almost to himself. “He had a pistol. I think he intended to kill me.”
“They’re out to bring down the whole government.” The soldier shook his head.
“They?” Johnson thought about what the drunk had said at the door.
They told me….
“Does anyone have any idea who they are?”
“No, sir.” The private hung his head.
“Well.” Johnson patted him on the shoulder. “We won’t let anybody bring the government down, will we, boy?”
He smiled. “No, sir. We won’t.”
“I suppose you just ran over from the boardinghouse?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, I’m too old to do any running tonight. Will you please flag down a carriage for us while I get my coat?”
“Yes sir.”
After he put on his coat and tie, Johnson considered asking the hotel for coffee. No, he did not have time for that. He had to force his mind to focus on the task in front of him. Knowing Stanton as well as he did, Johnson expected to see him at the boarding house set up as commander-in-chief. He had to brace himself for a confrontation with the secretary of war.
Downstairs he dashed from the hotel to the open carriage door. He waved to the private to join him.
“No, no, sir. I’ll walk back.”
“Nonsense. Get in. It’s pouring!”
As they rode to the Peterson House, Johnson amiably asked the soldier questions. Where was he from? Did he see much action during the war? When was the last time he saw his family? The private answered every one of them with a smile, though Johnson did not hear any of it. He just nodded and smiled, his mind trying to figure out why John Wilkes Booth would have called on him at his hotel just hours before shooting the president.
Johnson’s head was swirling with questions. Who were the mysterious “they” mentioned by his own would-be assassin? If the president, secretary of state and vice-president had been marked for murder, Johnson thought, why had no one tried to kill Stanton?
The carriage stopped at the boardinghouse, and the private pushed through the crowd, making way for the vice-president. Dozens of hands reached out to touch him. Johnson tried to make contact with as many of them as possible. These were the common people. His people and they needed to know their government was going to be all right. Inside, Johnson stopped for a brief moment as he surveyed the crowded halls and staircase.
“This way, Mr. Vice-President,” the soldier said, leading him down the hall.
Johnson saw other Cabinet members milling about. Military officers shouted orders to privates who scurried from place to place. He paused by the back room where the President lay at an angle on a bed. Lincoln’s face was ashen. Doctors conferred over him and shook their heads.
“Mr. Stanton is across the hall,” the private whispered.
Johnson stepped into the parlor where, as he suspected, Stanton was in his natural environment, writing telegrams and giving orders. Officers brushed past the Vice-President, barely acknowledging he was there. When Stanton failed to look up, Johnson cleared his throat.
“Mr. Stanton,” he announced in a firm loud voice, “what are the President’s chances of survival?”
Stanton stopped making notes long enough to glance up. When his eyes focused through his small glasses, he dropped his pencil and his mouth fell open. Johnson always prided himself on his ability to read the expressions on men’s faces, and what he saw on Stanton’s face was shock and fear.
“My God,” Stanton finally said. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m the vice-president. I’m supposed to be here.”
“I mean,” Stanton fumbled with his words. “Thank God they didn’t shoot you too.”
Once again, Johnson observed, the mysterious “they”.

Another knock at the door interrupted Andrew Johnson’s thoughts about his sobriety. Turning, he wondered if “they”—the ones who had told the drunk to shoot him—had come to finish the job. In his younger years, Johnson would have flung open the door, grabbed the gun from the hand of the assailant, and beaten him with it, but he acknowledged he was an old man now who had a responsibility to stay alive for his family and his country.
“Who is it?” he called out in a strong voice.
“Mr. Vice-President!” a young voice replied in a loud fright-tinged voice. “Major Eckert sent me!”
The name was not familiar to Johnson, but he could tell by the young man’s tone he was in earnest. “What’s this all about?” he asked as he removed the chair from his door.
“The president has been shot!”
“What the hell?” Johnson opened the door to see a private, still panting and his eyes wide with excitement. He was drenched by the rain.
“He and his wife were at Ford’s Theater watching this play and while everybody was laughing—I don’t know what the joke was but it must have been awful funny because everybody was laughing and this guy shot the President in the back of the head, and everybody stopped laughing because the President’s wife Mrs. Lincoln started screaming and this man jumped to the stage and–”
“Please, private,” Johnson interrupted in a mellow voice, “please take a moment to compose your thoughts. I know this must be very frightening for you. I’m kind of scared myself.”
“But—“
“Sshh.” Johnson put his hand on the private’s shoulder. “You and I ain’t going to catch the attacker any time soon by ourselves. Take a deep breath.” He smiled. “You remind me of my son back in Tennessee. Mighty fine young man he is.”
The young man smiled, revealing how shy and frightened he was. He looked into Johnson’s eyes. “Thank you, sir. Mighty kind of you, sir.”
After a moment, Johnson asked in an easy-going voice, “How badly hurt was the President?”
“I don’t know for sure. The doctors are tending to him now. Across the street from the theater. A boardinghouse. Peterson’s, I think. The way the folks were acting in the hallway there, it don’t look good.”
“Did they capture the man?”
“No, he jumped from the president’s box to the stage and ran out the back. I don’t think anyone knew what was going on until he was gone and Mrs. Lincoln started screaming. I don’t know for sure, sir. I wasn’t there. Major Eckert ordered me to the boardinghouse only about an hour ago. I work for him at the Military Telegraph Bureau.”
“Do they know who it was?”
“I heard on the street that it was the actor, John Wilkes Booth,” the private replied. “But I don’t take much stock in what—“
“Did you say John Wilkes Booth?” Johnson said, remembering the note. He pulled it from his pants pocket to read it again.
Sorry I missed you. J.W. Booth.
“You ever see him on stage?” the soldier asked. “I don’t go to the theater myself but I understand all the young ladies have a soft spot for him.”
“Yes, I’ve heard,” Johnson mumbled. Was Booth the same man who had knocked on his door, he wondered. Johnson dismissed the thought. The man he saw was not an actor.
“I also heard Secretary of State Seward has been stabbed,” the private added.
“What? Seward too?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Is he dead?”
“No, sir,” the private replied. “But he’s hurt real bad.”
“A man just knocked at my door within the last hour,” Johnson said, almost to himself. “He had a pistol. I think he intended to kill me.”
“They’re out to bring down the whole government.” The soldier shook his head.
“They?” Johnson thought about what the drunk had said at the door.
They told me….
“Does anyone have any idea who they are?”
“No, sir.” The private hung his head.
“Well.” Johnson patted him on the shoulder. “We won’t let anybody bring the government down, will we, boy?”
He smiled. “No, sir. We won’t.”
“I suppose you just ran over from the boardinghouse?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, I’m too old to do any running tonight. Will you please flag down a carriage for us while I get my coat?”
“Yes sir.”
After he put on his coat and tie, Johnson considered asking the hotel for coffee. No, he did not have time for that. He had to force his mind to focus on the task in front of him. Knowing Stanton as well as he did, Johnson expected to see him at the boarding house set up as commander-in-chief. He had to brace himself for a confrontation with the secretary of war.
Downstairs he dashed from the hotel to the open carriage door. He waved to the private to join him.
“No, no, sir. I’ll walk back.”
“Nonsense. Get in. It’s pouring!”
As they rode to the Peterson House, Johnson amiably asked the soldier questions. Where was he from? Did he see much action during the war? When was the last time he saw his family? The private answered every one of them with a smile, though Johnson did not hear any of it. He just nodded and smiled, his mind trying to figure out why John Wilkes Booth would have called on him at his hotel just hours before shooting the president.
Johnson’s head was swirling with questions. Who were the mysterious “they” mentioned by his own would-be assassin? If the president, secretary of state and vice-president had been marked for murder, Johnson thought, why had no one tried to kill Stanton?
The carriage stopped at the boardinghouse, and the private pushed through the crowd, making way for the vice-president. Dozens of hands reached out to touch him. Johnson tried to make contact with as many of them as possible. These were the common people. His people and they needed to know their government was going to be all right. Inside, Johnson stopped for a brief moment as he surveyed the crowded halls and staircase.
“This way, Mr. Vice-President,” the soldier said, leading him down the hall.
Johnson saw other Cabinet members milling about. Military officers shouted orders to privates who scurried from place to place. He paused by the back room where the President lay at an angle on a bed. Lincoln’s face was ashen. Doctors conferred over him and shook their heads.
“Mr. Stanton is across the hall,” the private whispered.
Johnson stepped into the parlor where, as he suspected, Stanton was in his natural environment, writing telegrams and giving orders. Officers brushed past the Vice-President, barely acknowledging he was there. When Stanton failed to look up, Johnson cleared his throat.
“Mr. Stanton,” he announced in a firm loud voice, “what are the President’s chances of survival?”
Stanton stopped making notes long enough to glance up. When his eyes focused through his small glasses, he dropped his pencil and his mouth fell open. Johnson always prided himself on his ability to read the expressions on men’s faces, and what he saw on Stanton’s face was shock and fear.
“My God,” Stanton finally said. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m the vice-president. I’m supposed to be here.”
“I mean,” Stanton fumbled with his words. “Thank God they didn’t shoot you too.”
Once again, Johnson observed, the mysterious “they”.

Remember Chapter Twenty-Four

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Previously: Retired teacher Lucinda remembers her favorite student Vernon. Reality interrupts when another boarder Nancy scolds her for talking to her daughter Shirley. Lucinda remembers Vernon decided to marry Nancy but instead was drafted. Her last advice to him was less than kind. She has a vision of Vernon right after he was shot in Vietnam. Troubles of the day overwhelms her and she dreams of a a fire in the boardinghouse.
Bertha whimpered as the teacher guided her out the door and to the top of the stairs. “Now. You go downstairs and out the front door while I get Cassie!”
“No! Don’t leave me!” Bertha clutched her. “I’ll die if you leave me!”
“You won’t die walking down the stairs and out the front door!”
“If I git confused and go wrong, I’ll walk right into the fire! I’ll die! You must guide me!”
“Very well. But hurry!” Lucinda ordered. The two women walked looked down at their down at their feet with stealth caution as they went down the stairs and out the front door. “Here, now you’re safe on the front lawn.”
“Thank you. I guess I was silly. I could have gotten out by myself.”
“No time for that. I’ve got to go back to get Cassie and Mrs. Lawrence!”
“Oh no! My foolishness cost time!” Bertha rebuked herself, bawling. “They’re already dead! I killed them!
“Oh shut up!” Lucinda went back inside the house and started up the stairs, but Cassie was already limping down.
“So it finally happened. Mommy caught the house on fire. Let’s git out of here!” She clasped Lucinda’s hand. “Come on, Miz Cambridge!”
She stopped as she thought of Emma. “I’ve got to get your mother!”
“Don’t worry about her!” Cassie replied with brutal honesty as she tugged on Lucinda’s hand, dragging her to the bottom of the stairs.
“No! I must save her! Where’s her bedroom?”
“Back by the kitchen.” She pointed down the hall before going through the front door. “I’m gittin’ out of here!”
Lucinda only made it partway down the hall before being repulsed by smoke and overwhelming heat. Flames peeked through the door to the kitchen. She ran back to the front, out the door and down the steps.
“Where’s Emma?” Bertha’s voice overflowed with hysteria. “Where’s my sister? Oh God, she’s dead! My sister’s dead!”
“Oh shut up, Aunt Bertha!” Cassie ordered, She was all out of patience.
Lucinda reached out to hold her hand. “I’m sorry, Cassie. I was too late.”
“I understand.” She looked at the house. “She was probably smoking in bed again. This time she fell asleep and the cigarette must have set the sheets on fire.”
Bertha put her arm around Cassie’s shoulders. “At least we’re all safe.”
“Oh! There is one more person!” Lucinda jumped and ran back up the steps into the house.
“No! Don’t!” Bertha screamed. “You’ll be killed!”
Lucinda barged through the front door and saw that the blazes headed down the hall toward her. She kept her eyes on the steps as she went up the stairs. She yelled, “Vernon! Vernon! Wake up! Fire!”
Rushing into her room, Lucinda went to the bed and jostled the sleeping body. Rolling over, Vernon sat up, looking sleepy and disoriented. But he was young and fresh again, no battle scars, no emotional pain etched his face. To Lucinda, he looked like a lovely angel, unravaged by the harsh realities of life. She heard a crackling, as though the flames were scorching the stairs.
“Hurry! Fire!” A loud pop let them know the wood staircase fractured and collapsed. “Oh my God! The flames are already up the stairs! We’re trapped! What can we do?” She looked at the window and remembered what Cassie told her about the drain pipe. “The window! Quick! Out the window!
Lucinda pulled Vernon from the bed and almost had him out the window when he hesitated.
“Go ahead, Vernon! There’s a drainpipe outside my window! Crawl down it!”
“You go first.” He tried to push her in front of him and out the sill.
“No! Vernon! We don’t have time! The flames are at my door!”
“I’m not leaving without my little girl.”
“Shirley!” Lucinda thought she had escaped with her mother. She turned around to see the little girl in her pajamas, smiling as though unaware of the flames.
“Here I am!” Shirley ran straight to Vernon and hugged him. “Daddy!
Another loud crackle drew Lucinda’s attention to the bedroom door which popped opened from unbearable heat. The blaze, now glaring white with tinges of orange and yellow around the edges advanced on its prey.
“You don’t have time! The fire!” Lucinda urged them through the window.
Vernon and Shirley crawled through, looked back, smiled and each one kissed Lucinda on the cheek. They disappeared down the drain pipe and into the darkness of the night. Lucinda stunned by the kisses, held her cheek and smiled. The withering heat entered her lungs; she felt scorching pain inside her old wrinkled body for only a split second before she collapsed; and the flames overwhelmed her.

Summer old

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I have been sneezing, coughing and appear to have a sinus infection. So I am talking a week off to recover. Go to the archives on the right side of the page to catch up up on past posts. Thank you all for your interest in my blog.
Jerry Cowling

Booth’s Revenge Chapter Eight

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Previously: Just before shooting Lincoln, Booth thinks of the events leading to this moment.Stanton goes to Seward’s house when he hears of the stabbing.
Andrew Johnson loved the earthy smell of a tavern. Cheap whiskey. Cheap cigars. Sweat of ordinary people who work hard for a living. Nothing and nobody fancy. Those were his people. Not those people in the president’s cabinet who looked down on him.
On his third or fourth cheap whiskey at Kirkwood’s—he couldn’t remember–Johnson was trying to forget how he had acted at the cabinet meeting that Good Friday afternoon. In fact, he wanted to forget how he had acted from the day he was sworn in as vice-president less than a month earlier. His inaugural speech was incoherent at best. Johnson thought he held his liquor better than that. Some friends tried to tell him an enemy slipped something into his drink before the ceremonies. He was not much of one for conspiracy theories, but he also did not want to think he was that irresponsible.
However, if there had been a conspiracy to make him look bad at the inauguration, Johnson would not have put it past Stanton to do it. Stanton, in fact, had been the object of his drunken outburst at the cabinet meeting. At one point, Johnson could no longer stand the way the Secretary of War was monopolizing the debate about the nation’s problems.
“One of those problems is why you insist on running this meeting,” he said, his voice barely below a bellow.
“That’s enough.” The president’s voice had an edge to it.
“Yes, sir. I know I don’t belong here.” He remembered stopping to point at Stanton. “But I can still smell a skunk.”
Johnson had only met Lincoln a few times before they became running mates. He liked him, but came to admire him since the election. There was something humble yet courageous the President that Johnson found endearing. After the meeting, he swung the president around and gave him a big bear hug.
“I’m sorry I embarrassed you, Mr. President,” he blubbered. “I’m on your side, you know. It’s just I hate Stanton so much.”
“I know, I know.” The president pulled away. “Go home and drink some coffee. You’ll feel better.”
Johnson had not taken the president’s advice. Instead, Johnson went back to the Kirkwood and spent the rest of the afternoon drinking in the bar. At one point he decided to go back to the White House and talk man to man with Lincoln about Stanton, but he overheard someone mention the president and his wife were going to Ford’s Theater.
“Yeah, I saw the carriage. Miz Lincoln was all decked out. Nothing new about that,” the man yelled. “That purty dress is gonna git mussed up ‘cause it’s about to bust out rainin’ ”.
Everyone else laughed and went back to their drinks. Johnson decided to do the same. After supper at the Kirkwood dining room, Johnson continued his tavern travels along Washington’s streets, made dark early because of the gathering storm clouds. The anonymity of darkness helped him forget what a miserable failure he was.
“Hey, buddy, you look like you need another drink.” A young man with dirty clothes and long disheveled hair leaned into Johnson. “Why don’t you buy yourself another one? And while you’re at it, buy one for me.”
Johnson looked at the man and chuckled. “Sure, why not?” He motioned to the bartender.
“Hey, buddy, you look familiar.” The young man upended his glass, and part of the whiskey dripped down his chin. “Ain’t you famous or somethin’?”
“Me? Famous? Naw. I’m just an old drunk,” Johnson replied with a guffaw.
“That means you’re just like me,” the man said, his eyes twinkling through an alcoholic haze. “From one drunk to another, how about another drink?”
“Sure, why not?”
Sometime later, Johnson decided he had drunk enough to put him to sleep for the next twelve hours so he went back to the hotel. By then rain was beginning to fall. At the front desk, the clerk gave him a message. Johnson focused his eyes on the handwriting.
“Sorry I missed you, J.W. Booth,” he mumbled aloud. After a moment to think, he turned to the clerk. “Who the hell is that?”
“I think it’s the actor,” the man replied.
Johnson knew the clerk was trying to ignore his condition and appreciated the effort. He shook his head.
“I’m not much for theater goin’. Maybe you can help me figure out who this fellow is.”
“Oh, he’s quite well known, Mr. Vice-President.” The clerk smiled. “Mostly does Shakespeare. From an acting family. Many people think he’s not as good as his father and brothers, but the ladies worship him.”
“Thank you very much.” Johnson burped. “But I don’t see why an actor would want to see me.”
“Well, after all, you are the Vice-President.” The clerk tried to be gracious.
“You’re much too kind,” Johnson mumbled as his hand searched his pocket for some change. His fingers felt numb as he put a coin in the clerk’s hand. “Thank you for your consideration.”
“Any time, Mr. Vice-President.”
Johnson staggered toward the stairs and up to his room where he lit the oil lamp and proceeded to take off his wet coat, vest and tie. Collapsing in the bed, he lay there with his beefy arm over his eyes, trying to keep the room from swirling. Once his head settled a bit he reached over to pick up the photograph of his wife, who was still at home in Greeneville, Tennessee.
Johnson would never forget the day he met her. He was seventeen years old. Riding into town in a ramshackle old wagon with his mother and stepfather, he saw a group of girls standing by the side of the road snickering at them. He decided to ignore them. Girls made fun of him all the time because he was a big clumsy boy in tattered clothes and a member of the great unwashed. When his eyes darted back at them Johnson noticed one of them was sniggering not at him but giggling because—dare he think it—because she liked him. He brushed the thought from his head. He was not going to stay in Greeneville anyway. He had better places to go.
However, within the year the girl sought him out and wore him down. She was Eliza McCardle and the daughter of a local shoemaker. They were married when they were both eighteen years old. He rented a house on Main Street and began a business as a tailor, the trade he had learned as a boy. In the evenings, Eliza began the arduous task of teaching him to read, write and do arithmetic. It took years before her lessons sunk into his thick skull.
As the years went by Johnson’s tailor shop became a gathering spot for local men to talk politics, in particular the success of fellow Tennessean Andrew Jackson. After the local college was organized, Johnson joined the debate team, for which he found he had a particular knack. Students from the college came to his tailor shop to engage in the political discussions. After a while, Johnson had enough self-confidence to run for town alderman. Surprising himself, he won.
Eliza decided he did not need her as his tutor any longer, and so she began having children, Charles, Mary and Robert. In the meantime, Johnson won seven terms in the state legislature. Then in 1843, he won election to Congress. Because of his roots in poverty, he always fought for the common man. Tennessee elected him governor for two terms. In 1857, the state legislature elected him a United States Senator.
And all this came about because a pretty girl giggled at him on the side of the road one day. How did he repay his dear, sweet Eliza? By maintaining his self-loathing and doubts, drowning them in alcohol. As a tireless defender of the underdog, Johnson won the love of his constituents, but that love never seemed enough. Now he found himself Vice-President of the United States, and what was he going to do? One of these days the people in Washington would find out he was nothing but an ignorant boy, dirty and in tattered clothes. What would he do then?
Johnson began to feel too sober and reached to open the drawer of the nightstand where he had stashed a pint of whiskey. He had to eradicate his fears, even if it meant drinking himself into a stupor. He uncorked the bottle but after only a couple of sips Johnson heard a knock at the door.
Struggling to his feet, Johnson carried the liquor bottle to the door, and when he opened it, he saw a middle-aged man with an uneven beard staring back at him. In one hand was a pistol, and in the other was a bottle. Johnson squinted as he tried to figure out what was going on.
“Verdammt, er ist grob,” the man muttered as he raised the bottle to his lips.
“What the hell does that mean?” Johnson asked as he took his bottle to his lips as well. “Speak English!”
“Dey said…you is bigger dan I dought,” the man replied as he stepped back.
“Fella, you ain’t makin’ no sense at all.” Johnson shook his head. He could tell by the man’s eyes that he was scared. Scared and drunk.
“I can’t—I can’t do dis.”
“Do what? What the hell’s goin’ on here?”
Lightning lit the hallway briefly followed by a clap of thunder. The man flinched, looked about and continued to back away down the dark hall until he disappeared in the shadows. A few moments passed before Johnson’s mouth fell open. The man was there to shoot him. And I just stood there like a lump on a log, he thought. And who sent him? If they waited for the assassin outside, they might come up themselves to finish the job. He shut the door and jammed a chair under the handle.
Johnson lurched to the bed and sipped from the bottle, trying to make sense of what had just happened. A thought crystallized in his alcohol-numbed brain. He held a liquor bottle as he faced his would-be assassin who held a liquor bottle. The man was too drunk to complete his mission. If Johnson continued to drink, he would not be able to complete his mission to help the common man. He could loathe himself for being the same as a failed assassin or he could change his life. After staring at the bottle for an interminable amount of time, Johnson stood and strode to the hotel window where he threw the bottle out into the dark. He stood at the window, listening for the sound of glass shattering against the cobblestones.
Sticking his head into the cool moist night air, he filled his lungs to clear his mind. Never before in his life had he ever thrown away a liquor bottle. The thought had flitted through his brain a few times to do so, but he had never done it. Johnson wished his wife were there so he could hug her for suffering through his drunken bouts. He went to the nightstand where he poured water into a basin and splashed it on his face, hoping to awaken and refocus his mind.
In his mind, he prepared a list of things to do the next morning. Go to the telegraph office and send a message to his wife about what happened to make him stop drinking. That was at the top of the list. Then go to the White House and apologize again to the President. No, Johnson decided, that was what a drunk would do, apologize over and over again and not mean damn word of it. He would show Lincoln through his actions that he was not a drunk anymore. He would go to his office and begin reading all the legislation he had pushed to the side for the last three weeks. Johnson vowed to himself to study each bill so he could defend the President’s agenda. Most vice-presidents had regarded their role as president of the Senate as a thankless, meaningless job. Johnson resolved he would think and act like a sober responsible man for once in his life.

David, Wallis and the Mercenary Chapter Eighty-Three

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Previously: Mercenary Leon fails a mission because of David, better known as the Prince of Wales. Socialite Wallis Spencer is also a spy. MI6 makes them a team. David becomes king. David abdicates, they marry and he becomes Bahamas governor. The Donohues scheme to meet David and Wallis.
Sidney walked into the secret room of his father’s bedroom closet in their home on Eleuthera. He wondered which weapon to take with him to the meeting of the Burma Road Boys in Nassau tonight. The organization had given him the mission of infiltrating disgruntled black laborers who, according to the whispers on the streets, were up to no good. Sidney’s long slender ebony fingers glided across a collection of various makes of revolvers but in due course pulled his hand away. He was there to observe not obstruct. Anyway, he was among his own people. He felt safe. He also felt like a traitor.
This mercenary business is more complicated than I thought.
To take his mind off the moral dilemma facing him, Sidney went across the room, thinking he would need money to feed himself and to pay for a bed, since the meeting would last late into the night and he didn’t want to cross back to Eleuthera in the darkness. On another table was his father’s treasure trove chest, filled with cold gold coins, pound sterling, half crowns and pence. Then there were bank certificates. His father Leon did not like depositing money into a bank which might create a trail leading back to him. But would it not be just as incriminating if the authorities found all this money in a house on poor Out Islander Eleuthera, Sidney wondered. He shook his head. That was a problem for another day. He grabbed a handful of coins and left the room. Sidney still couldn’t make himself spend the night in the bed where his parents slept.
Going down the hall to his own room, Sidney changed from his beachcomber wear to his old fishing clothes filled with holes and still smelled of fish guts. As he pulled up the pants he frowned. He wasn’t aware of it, but his thighs had thickened. He was becoming a man.
The sun was still high in the sky as he walked down the lane to the rickety old pier. People smiled and waved. The fat boy who once teased him for sounding like a girl—and received in turn a bloody nose—took off his hat and bowed. The community didn’t know exactly why, but Sidney had become a man to be feared and respected.
“All aboard!” Jinglepockets hollered as Sidney walked across the pier.
With ease the young man jumped on board and collapsed on a coil of ropes.
“What a wonderful day for a leisurely trip to Nassau. Not a care in the world.” Jinglepockets winked at him.
They had lost sight of land when Sidney cleared his throat and tried to start a casual conversation.
“You go to Nassau quite a bit, don’t you, Jinglepockets?”
“That’s where they pay the most for the fishes, yes.” He looked at Sidney and smiled. “And you’re not the only one who uses me as a water taxi to the big city.”
Sidney chose his words with care. “Do you ever hear scuttlebutt on the dock?”
“Oh sure. I hear all sorts of things. But a wise man knows when to just hear and when to listen. A man like your papa Leon should have told you that years ago.”
Sidney laughed and stayed quiet until the docks of Nassau appeared on the horizon.
“Okay.” Jinglepockets kept his eyes to the sea. “What is it you want to know?”
“Have you heard of Burma Road?” His mouth went dry.
“Everybody knows about Burma Road,” Jinglepockets started like he had a big yarn to tell. “It ain’t no road at all. It’s a big stretch of scrub brush on the south side of the island. The English who been to Asia say it reminded them of the part of Burma where they built a road one time. Toughest bunch of brush they ever did clear. So they call the land on the south end of the island Burma Road.”
“Oh, I’d heard of it too,” Sidney chimed in. “I just wanted to know what it was and why people were talking about it all the time.”
“The government is interested in it,” the old man told him. “Why, I don’t know and I don’t want to know. You live much longer if you don’t ask questions.”
The fishing boat hit the dock, and Jinglepockets jumped out to tie it up to the mooring. Sidney joined him, stood close and whispered, “Who are these Burma Road Boys?”
“Oh, you don’t want to mess with them.”
“Where are they?”
Jinglepockets nodded toward a low ridge of hills to the north. “Over there, where the poor folks live.”
“Can I get a place to sleep over there for the night and something to eat?”
“Folks gotta eat and sleep. I imagine if you got the money you can get just about anything you want over there.” He grabbed Sidney’s wrist. “Don’t flash those gold coins around. It won’t be healthy.”
Sidney smiled. “Oh, I save those for you, Jinglepockets.”
“Listen, boy, this is serious. I’ve known three generations of your family. Your grandpa was a good man. Your papa was a good man. If you live long enough you’ll be a good man.”
A shadow flew across Sidney then he grinned. “My papa taught me how to take care of myself.” He slipped a gold coin into the old man’s palm. “Be here in the morning to pick me up and I’ll have another coin for you.”
As he turned to walk away, Sidney heard Jinglepockets yell at him. “You be careful! I’m serious. I want my gold coin!”

Remember Chapter Twenty-Three

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Previously: Retired teacher Lucinda remembers her favorite student Vernon. Reality interrupts when another boarder Nancy scolds her for talking to her daughter Shirley. Lucinda remembers Vernon decided to marry Nancy but instead was drafted. Her last advice to him was less than kind. She has a vision of Vernon right after he was shot in Vietnam.
Bertha slammed the bedroom door as she left Lucinda in her rocking chair, looking up with her eyes closed.
“Give me strength.” She sighed. Her head drooped, and Vernon came back into view. Oh. I had almost forgotten about you, Vernon.”
Standing, she went over to Vernon’s body and sank to the floor. Lucinda could not decide if this were actually happening or was some figment torturing her soul. At this point, she did not care. All pretense was swept away and Lucinda felt as though nothing else mattered but reconciling her spirit with Vernon’s. “I’m sorry, Vernon. So, so sorry. I should have said something kind. Something comforting but I didn’t. And do you know why I didn’t? I didn’t because I loved you so much. I loved you in more ways than is decent for a woman my age to love a young man like you.” Her shaking hand ran down the side of his body. “You see, I didn’t like Nancy Meyers just because she lied and cheated in class and because I knew she slept with other boys. I hated her because she could love you the way I never could. And because you loved her. I was wrong. And I drove you away from me. And I don’t think you ever knew. You were so sweet and innocent. You didn’t know how Nancy loved you so little. You were too good for this world, Vernon. Oh, how I wish I could tell you how sorry I am. Oh, how I wish I could make it up to you.”
Lucinda rose and went to her stacks of books. “Maybe there’s something here that I can read to make me feel better.” She picked up a slender, frayed leather-bound volume. “Voltaire. Candide. This is the best of all possible worlds.” She threw it down. “No, this isn’t! This is the worst of all possible worlds!
“Dickens,” she said in a flat tone. “It was the best of times and the worst of times.” Lucinda hurled it at the window, wishing it would disappear into thin air. “No! No! Only the worst!”
Leaning over at the books in the boxes Cassie had brought to her, she lifted another one, this time a paperback. “Cervantes. Don Quixote. Oh, Vernon, you weren’t a knight on a mission for a pure chaste girl. Nancy Meyers wasn’t pure or chaste. Don Quixote was mad.” Instead of throwing it, she just let it slip through her fingers and drop to the floor. “And I’m going mad!”
“I’m sorry, Vernon. I can’t help you.” Lucinda walked toward her bed which seemed to be calling her to one last long slumber. “I don’t know how to help you. I can’t find anything in my books to help you. Or me.” Lying down, she hugged her pillow. “I have to rest now. I have to sleep. To sleep. Perchance to dream.”
Straightaway she went to sleep, her jaw hanging loose. How peaceful, how sublime, her subconscious reveled in the absolute vacuum. The scent of smoke crept into her nostrils, causing her to jerk her eyes open and sit up. Lucinda decided she must have slept for hours because the sun had set, and moonless night engulfed her. She looked down at the floor and squinted. Vernon was no longer there. The stench of rubber, plastic and moldy wood grew stronger.
“What’s that!?” She stood and sniffed several times. “Smoke!! Oh my God!! The house is on fire!!”
Lucinda ran to the door, opened it and walked into the hall which was beginning to fill with smoke. Her first thought was to save Vernon’s little girl Shirley and her mother Nancy. She felt her way down the hall to their room and banged on the door.
“Nancy! Shirley! Fire”
“Fire?” Nancy called out.
“Yes! You’ve got to get Shirley out of there!”
“I’ll get Shirley! You tell the others!” Nancy shouted.
The next door down was Bertha’s room. Lucinda’s fist slammed into the wood. When she did not answer the teacher opened the door and ran to the bed, shaking the old woman. “Bertha! Bertha! Wake up! Wake up! Fire! Fire! You must wake up! The house is on fire!”
Bertha roused slowly, her eyes fluttering open. As she smelled the smoke she jumped from her bed, her eyes wild with panic.
“My God! We’re all goin’ to die! I’m goin’ to burn to death!”
“No, we’re not!” Lucinda took her by the arm to lead her to the door. “The fire isn’t upstairs yet! We have time!”
“I’m goin’ to die!” Bertha screeched, refusing to move an inch. “I’m goin’ to die!”
“Shut up!” Lucinda slapped her. “Move!”

Booth’s Revenge Chapter Seven

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Previously: Just before shooting Lincoln, Booth thinks of the events leading to this moment.Stanton goes to Seward’s house when he hears of the stabbing.
The doctor told Stanton to get the hell out of Seward’s bedroom. Taking a step back, Stanton decided not to force a confrontation. Again, he felt humiliated, and his breathing became labored. With luck, Stanton told himself, Seward would be dead by dawn anyway. At the bottom of the stairs, he saw Welles talking to the other doctor attending to the State Department messenger on the floor.
“What does he have to do with this bloody business?” Stanton said.
“My God, man, don’t you have a heart?” Welles stared at him but when no answer was forthcoming, he sighed. “Poor man happened to arrive at the door with documents for Mr. Seward when the madman was escaping.”
“So he knows nothing,” Stanton stated nonchalantly.
“I suppose you heard about the President?” Welles asked.
“Yes, I did. I thought it was just a rumor.”
“It’s no damn rumor. The whole world has turned upside down.” Welles scrutinized Stanton’s face. “You look like you don’t give a damn.”
“That is an insult, sir,” Stanton snapped. “But I forgive you because of the emotional scene.” He paused. “I have a carriage outside. Do you want to join me on the ride to Ford’s Theater?”
Welles shook his head as he let out a sardonic laugh. “I don’t understand you. First you say I insulted you, and then you offer me a ride in your carriage.”
“That’s because I am a gentleman, sir.” Actually, Stanton conceded to himself, he was trying to control the situation again. He did not want to leave Welles at the Seward house asking too many questions. Stanton wanted Welles near him so he could filter any information received throughout the night.
The two cabinet members sat in tense silence as they rode through the streets in the rain. Occasionally Stanton coughed. The rain only made his condition worse. He listened to Welles drumming his knuckles against the wall of the carriage. Between the rapping and the dripping of rain on the carriage top made Stanton feel ready to explode. He bent over in an asthmatic rage.
“You should be home in bed,” Welles said in a way that was a lecture as opposed to expressing concern.
“You would like that, wouldn’t you?” Stanton spat. “Then you could be in charge and not me.”
Welles just shook his large, parrot-like head and stared out the windows at the milling crowds. “All these people. The people who loved him.” Welles made the statement not to Stanton in particular but out the misty window.
Stanton, on the other hand, prayed that Lincoln would already be dead. The carriage pulled up in front of the theater. Stanton leaned out of the window and waved over a soldier.
“Where have they taken the President?”
The soldier pointed across the street to a three-story tenement. “There, sir.”
Both men stared at the huge crowd gathered under their umbrellas in the pouring rain.
“We may as well get out here,” Welles said. “No way will the driver be able to get the carriage any closer.”
Stanton went first, elbowing his way through the people. Inside, another soldier told them Lincoln was in a bedroom at the back of the stairs on the first floor. As they began to walk down the hall, Mary Lincoln appeared from the bedroom and screamed.
“How dare you!” she said at the top of her voice, pointing at Stanton. “How dare you show up here!”
“She’s overwrought,” Welles muttered.
“She’s insane,” Stanton replied.
She scurried down the hall and slapped Stanton full across the face. “It’s all his fault! I knew it was too good to be true! You would not let him live! You had to kill him!”
Welles tried to put his large hands on her shoulders but he could not control Mrs. Lincoln because of her flailing arms.
“You’re as stupid as all the rest of them!” She glared at the Secretary of the Navy. “Didn’t you know? Couldn’t you tell the difference?”
“Tell what difference?” Welles stopped trying to contain Mrs. Lincoln to look deep into her eyes.
Stanton motioned to a soldier. “This woman is hysterical. Take her to a parlor down the hall. Make sure she doesn’t leave until I say so.”
The soldier took her by the elbow and gently guided her away.
“A parlor this time? Not the basement? Why not the basement? Couldn’t you tell the difference?” she screamed.
“The basement?” Welles said incredulously. “And what did she mean? Tell the difference?”
“Like I said, the woman is mad.” With that, Stanton continued down the hall with Welles behind him. He barged into the tiny bedroom to find a young man in evening clothes bent over Lincoln who was naked.
“Who are you?” Stanton demanded.
The young man looked up and said, “ Dr. Charles Leale, Mr. Secretary.”
“You don’t look old enough to be a doctor,” Stanton replied gruffly.
Leale smiled a little. “Well I wasn’t one until six weeks ago.”
“Hmph. So. What’s the situation?”
“The president received a bullet wound on the left back of his head,” Leale explained. “The bullet is lodged deep inside.”
“So this is a mortal wound?”
“Yes, sir, I believe so, sir.”
“Very well. Carry on.” Stanton looked around. “Is Eckert here? Is Major Eckert here?”
“Over here, sir,” a voice rang out from the hall.
Stanton looked up to see Eckert, who was the chief of the War Department’s Military Telegraph Bureau, walking briskly toward him. Stanton liked him because he took orders without question.
“I got here as soon as I could, Mr. Secretary.”
“I need a room to set up in,” Stanton said.
“I already secured the back parlor across the hall, sir.”
“Good. Set up a relay between here and the department’s telegraph office on Seventeenth Street.” Turning, Stanton left the room and went across the hall with Eckert close behind.
“You still haven’t told me what you think Mrs. Lincoln meant when she said, ‘Couldn’t you tell the difference.’” Welles stayed on Stanton’s heels.
Stanton turned to Eckert. “First thing, get Mr. Welles a room also. He needs to keep the Navy informed of every development.” He looked at Welles. “Don’t you agree, Mr. Secretary? The assassins might try to make their escape by sea. You don’t want them to slip through our fingers, do you?”
Welles sighed wearily. “No, we don’t.” He turned away and began asking for a naval officer.
“Where’s my desk?” Stanton asked Eckert.
“Right here, sir.” He led the secretary to a desk and oil lamp.
Stanton sat and reached for paper to begin writing notes. “Shut down the theater. Take everyone there in custody for questioning. Shut down all bridges leaving the city. Telegraph the New York City police. Tell them to send every detective they can spare. Telegraph General Grant. Tell him to return to the city immediately.”
“Yes, sir.” Eckert saluted and left.
Stanton knew exactly why he made each of his commands. He wanted to give the illusion he was doing everything possible to catch the conspirators. He was certain the owners of the theater were innocent but blame had to be cast everywhere except on him. New York City had more detectives than any other city in the nation. Every one of them had to be in the District, getting in the way of the district police who knew where to look and who to interrogate. And he had to keep General Grant under his supervision. Left to his own devices Grant might start asking too many questions.
Stanton was now in his element. He was in charge. At this point of history, he was the Commander In Chief, and he relished every moment of it.
“Sir,” Eckert said, coming back into the room and leaning over. “The District chief of police is here, sir. He demands that his forces be in charge of the investigation.”
“No,” Stanton snapped. “This is not a civilian affair. This will be a case for a military tribunal. No question about it. Tell him to keep the mob orderly. That’s his job.”
Stanton instinctively knew if he could keep the war department in charge of the investigation and trial, he could control the release of information. No one must ever know the truth about the assassination of Abraham Lincoln.

David, Wallis and the Mercenary Chapter Eighty-Two

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Previously: Mercenary Leon fails a mission because of David, better known as the Prince of Wales. Socialite Wallis Spencer is also a spy. MI6 makes them a team. David becomes king. David abdicates, they marry and he becomes Bahamas governor. David and Wallis meet the wheeler dealers over dinner.
Jessie Donohue lounged in her bed past ten o’clock one Sunday morning in December of 1940, which was her usual routine while wintering in Miami. She found, however, waking with a headache and aching arches were becoming the norm for her. Jessie realized she could not remain out after midnight at her favorite haunts drinking and dancing without some physical repercussion. But she so hated missing out on the best society gossip which usually slipped out of drunken lips in the wee hours of the morning.
Reaching over for her silver case on her night stand, Jessie took a cigarette out and lit it. She wondered where that girl with the unpronounceable name was with her breakfast tray and morning edition of the Miami Herald.
Where is that girl? If I could remember her name I’d have her fired.
Just then the door opened but instead of the girl entering with her tray it was her darling son Jimmy, with his usual twinkle in his eyes.
“Here’s your breakfast and newspaper, Mummy,” he announced.
“Oh, I’m so glad it’s you. What happened after I left the party last night?”
Jimmy adjusted the tray over her lap, took the tea rose from his lapel and placed it in her graying thick hair.
“Something quite unusual.” He pecked her on the cheek and then plopped into an upholstered chair next to her bed, throwing one leg over the arm of the chair. “I came straight home to you Mummy instead of with the handsome busboy.”
“Oh, that reminds me I’m quite cross with you.” Jessie sipped her coffee. “It’s cold. Even that awful girl, what’s-her-name, brings me hot coffee.”
Jimmy smiled with a glint of the devil in his eyes. “I was afraid you’d throw the hot coffee at me. You were in such a tizzy last night.”
“As well as I should have been.” She bit into her toast which was slathered with orange marmalade. “Imagine my horror to have Lord Beaverbrook stagger up to my table—of course, he had four or five too many martinis—“
“More like six or seven, but go on.” Jimmy rolled his eyes. “You remember I was right there and heard the whole thing.”
“That’s why I’m telling it to you again.” His mother sniffed. “It’s part of your punishment. Anyway, Beaverbrook, full in his cups, said Lord Mountbatten had told him about your little dinner party for his nephew the Marquess of Milford Haven.”
By this time both of Jimmy’s legs were over one arm of the chair and his head lolled back over the other. “Oh, it was just a joke for goodness sake. Haven is as dull as dish water. The tweedy type you know. I thought he needed something to loosen him up.”
“Imagine, a marquess of the British Empire having luncheon with a roomful of prostitutes.”
Jimmy lifted his head. “They were all very pretty prostitutes. Six boys and six girls who looked like they could have posed for Harper’s Bazaar.”
Jessie wiped a bit of marmalade from the corner of her mouth. “And then you asked him if he wanted to see my collection of bronzes. I’ve never had the least bit of interest in bronzes.”
“You wouldn’t have liked these either.” Jimmy laughed. “When Haven opened the door he saw six men covered in bronze paint posing like they were Greeks.”
Jessie picked up the newspaper, threw aside the news and sports sections to go straight to the society columns in the women’s pages. “Thank goodness Louis Mountbatten has a good sense of humor. He’s a bit of an odd duck himself.”
“So what’s all the fuss?” Jimmy faked a yawn.
“The point is that I had to pretend like I didn’t understand a thing Beaverbrook was saying. You know I don’t care what your predilections are, but they are illegal, and if you ever get into real trouble I’ll have to pretend I didn’t know anything about it.”
“I guess Wooly’s philandering with women is perfectly all right.” Jimmy curled up in a peevish fetal position.
“Your brother Wooly, when he knocked up a girl, had the decency to marry the girl, pay for the abortion and then divorce her.”
“Is that what decency amounts to these days?” Jimmy replied with a sneer. “I’d rather be indecent.”
Jessie without warning sat up in bed as she focused on a particular gossip item. “Shut up. Now this is something really important.”
Jimmy went completely prone in the chair as though he were in a coffin ready to be viewed. “Oh no. If it’s about another one of those tweedy types from England I’ll die.”
“Forget the tweeds. It’s the Windsors.”
“I told you I’m not accompanying you to Nassau. The Bahamas bore me to tears.”
“No, no. They are coming here. Wallis has an impacted wisdom tooth.”
“Is that all?”
“It’s worse than that. The tooth is infected, and the infection has spread to her jaw. She’s coming to Miami for surgery.” She lowered her newspaper for a moment. “I hope they don’t have to remove part of her jaw. It would ruin her looks.”
“I didn’t think she had any looks to ruin,” Jimmy sniped.
“A disfigured Wallis won’t help me break into the Four Hundred,” she murmured.
“Mummy, you have more money than all of the Four Hundred combined. What do you care if they don’t want to be around you? They’re the ones who should be groveling—“
“I don’t grovel,” Jessie snapped. “But a Duchess of Windsor turning into Quasimodo won’t help.” She shook her head. “I must stay positive that the operation will be a success. I can’t control the surgery but I can control how she is greeted when their boat lands.”
Putting her newspaper aside, Jessie stared at her son. “Straighten up. I have a job for you.”
Jimmy sat aright in the chair, but his drooping eyelids revealed he wasn’t happy about it.
“I want you to contact all your friends on the Miami party circuit and tell them to be on the pier when the Windsors land. Encourage them to bring as many people as possible, even if they have to bring all their maids and lawn attendants. Get all your special friends to participate, even those busboys.”
He leaned forward. “This is beginning to sound like fun.”
“Have the street lined all the way to St. Francis Hospital. Order tons of flowers for her hospital room. Put a different name on each bouquet. Plant positive articles in the newspaper columns about them. When they think of Miami I want them to smile.”
“Do you want me to wheedle you an invitation to visit her in her room?”
Jessie shook her head. “No, no. Too soon. Have the biggest flower arrangement sent from us. But we must respect their privacy on this first trip to Miami. Then we wait.”
“You love to wait.”
“Yes, then we wait until they decide to visit friendly Miami on a pleasant holiday. At that time, and not before, we will issue the invitation for them to stay at Cielito Lindo.”

Remember Chapter Twenty-Two

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Previously: Retired teacher Lucinda remembers her favorite student Vernon. Reality interrupts when another boarder Nancy scolds her for talking to her daughter Shirley. Lucinda remembers Vernon decided to marry Nancy but instead was drafted. Her last advice to him was less than kind. She has a vision of Vernon right after he was shot in Vietnam.
Bertha thought hard about what Lucinda had said about how people should always be mindful that what they do today will be with them all their tomorrows. Finally she replied, “But that’s kinda hard to do, ain’t it?”
“Isn’t it.”
“It sure enough is.”
“Yes, I suppose it is.” Lucinda leaned back in the rocker, drained from her attempts to be Bertha’s teacher.
“So don’t you worry about that boy none.” She reached over and patted Lucinda’s bony knee.
“Thank you very much, my dear.” Lucinda found herself out of breath again. “It was sweet of you to comfort me.”
“Call me Bertha.”
“Very well. Thank you, Bertha.” She decided to be magnanimous. “And you may call me Lucinda.”
“Thanks, Lucy.”
“Lucinda.” Perhaps not that magnanimous. “Um, I’m sorry I wasn’t a very good sentinel, but your sister flew up the stairs and past me before I could say a word.”
“Oh.”
“I’m sorry she didn’t let you complete the call.”
“Well, that’s life, ain’t it?”
“It isn’t my place to talk.” Lucinda wrinkled her brow. Has your sister always been so hard on you?”
“Oh yes, ever since we was little girls.”
Emma exploded through the door, put her hands on her hips and stared at Bertha. “I’ve been callin’ you to help me move the sofa in the parlor.”
“I’m sorry, Emma.” She fluttered her eyelashes. “Lucy and me’s been talkin’.”
“So. It’s Lucy now, huh? Well, I don’t care to be on first name basis with jest boarders.”
“Emma, what a thing to say.” A shy little laugh sneaked from Bertha’s mouth. “Why, I’m jest a boarder.”
“Yes, and I’m the landlady because Buster Lawrence saw fit to leave me with this wonderful house, big enough to rent rooms to make a livin’.”
“Seein’ you jest got four boarders, you ain’t makin’ much of a livin’ off of it.”
“That’s right,” Emma retorted. “And one of them ain’t even paid full rent.” She pulled a pack of cigarettes from a pocket in her worn apron, extracted a lighter from another pocket and lit up.
“I’ll pay full rent if you want me to.”
“Oh no. You’re my sister, and I love you.” She blew the smoke in Bertha’s direction. “It’s the least I can do for you since your husband didn’t see fit to leave you as well off as Buster left me.”
“Now why do you always have to say that?” Her face started turning an ominous shade of red. “My Merrill couldn’t help it if he had kidney stones. His three operations took up all the money we’d saved.”
The telephone in the kitchen rang. A moment later Cassie called out, “Mommy! It’s the fire marshal on the phone. He wants to talk to you right now!
“If I find out it was you who set the fire marshal on me I’ll slap your face off!” She went out the door, throwing an order over her shoulder. “Bertha, you git down there in that parlor and wait for me to move that sofa.”
“I should have said, ‘You’re gonna die from cancer by smoking all those cigarettes.’ That’s what I should have said to her. But it wouldn’t have done no good. She’d come back with smart answer.”
“I’m so sorry your sister acts that way.” Lucinda’s hand went to her chest.
“She causes all my fits. I jest know I wouldn’t have none of them if I didn’t have to be around her.”
“Of course. I’m sure,” Lucinda agreed in a whisper.
“But Lucy, why didn’t you back me up on them cigarettes? You know they cause cancer! Practically all the doctors say so now. Everybody knows that!”
“I’m sorry, Bertha.” She looked up to the ceiling. “I suppose I let your sister intimidate me.”
“Well, I jest thought you was stronger than that.” Bertha’s voice was filled with petty spite.
“No, I’m not strong at all.” It was as much a confession to herself as to Bertha.
“You fooled me. And I thought you was perfect.”