Billy nodded and retied the lace of his high boot.
‘Ideally,’ said Charles Stein, ‘we have to get photocopies, microfilm, microfiche or whatever the hell it’s called. Then we could show what we’ve got to any of these people, and still have the originals locked away and hidden.’
‘So why not?’ said Billy.
‘Sometimes I worry about you, Billy. Sometimes I wonder what is going to happen to all the stocks and the business investments and the nice little deal we got with that insurance broker in St Louis… Sometimes I wonder what is going to happen to all that when I finally take up my option on that small piece to turf we bought in Forest Lawn.’
‘Jesus, dad, don’t talk about that.’
Stein was mollified by his son’s horror at the prospect of losing him. ‘We can’t get that stuff microfilmed,’ he said, ‘because it would attract too much attention. Ask yourself how we’d go about it. We can’t just find some microfilm outfit in the yellow pages without a good chance they would blow the whistle on us as soon as they see what the stuff is all about.’
‘Buy a microfilm machine,’ said Billy. ‘What can it cost? A grand? Five grand? Not ten grand; and even that would be worth it when we are playing for the kind of telephone numbers you keep talking about. What did Breslow say-a hundred million dollars?’
‘No, it was me who said a hundred million dollars. Breslow played it all very close.’ He poured more tea. Billy put his hand over his cup to show he had had enough of it. ‘And who’d work the machine? Could you work it? Could I work it? No, it needs training to operate a thing like that.’
Charles Stein succumbed to the temptation of the last of the chicken noodles. There was a trace of scrambled egg-a bright yellow cushion under a sliver of chicken meat and a sauce-encrusted shrimp tail, the whole ensnared in a loop of fresh noodle. Chuck Stein levered his china spoon underneath and dashed a trace of soy upon it before savouring the combination.
He closed his eyes with pleasure. Only after he had swallowed it did he speak again. ‘You know I’m the only person who has been through all those documents. Colonel Pitman can’t read German-his French is OK but no German-and the other boys from the battalion don’t give a damn.’
‘It’s not something that interests me a great deal,’ said Billy, apologetically. ‘I read all those war books you used to bring home and tell me I ought to read, but it doesn’t grab me.’ Billy stole another glance at the girl. ‘If I was to tell you the honest truth, dad, I don’t even understand who won the war, or even who was fighting it.’ He looked at his father hoping that an explanation would be offered.
‘Yeah, well it’s easy,’ said Stein. ‘Hitler started killing the Jews, so the Jews came to America and built an atomic bomb so President Roosevelt could help them, but he dropped it on the Japanese.’
‘I never know when you’re kidding, dad.’
‘I’m never kidding,’ said Stein; he leant across the table. His sleeve went into the soy but he did not notice. ‘These documents are dynamite; you’d better understand that. If this English cat knows that I’ve been telling you what’s in these documents-all this stuff about Churchill talking with Hitler and offering him a sweet deal for a quick peace… well, he might get his orders.’
‘What do you mean?’
Stein glanced around the room, and then whispered, even though there was no one within earshot. ‘What I’m trying to tell you, Billy, is that the Brits might have already decided to destroy these documents, and rub out anyone who knows about them.’
‘Dad, no.’
‘And they’d be crazy to go to that extreme and leave alive some kid whose father has told him everything that’s in them. I mean, those Brits are not going to know that it just goes in one of your ears and comes out the other, Billy. They are going to think you are a bright lad who listens to what his dad tells him. Right?’
‘Oh, come on, dad.’ Billy smiled and waited for his father to smile too, but Charles Stein did not smile. He was serious.
‘Ask yourself what you would do in their position,’ said Charles Stein calmly. ‘If you were the British Prime Minister and wanted to keep the memory of Sir Winston highly polished, what would you do?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Billy. Now his attention was no longer diverted by anything around him.
‘Suppose it was Abe Lincoln,’ persisted Charles Stein. ‘Suppose a couple of lousy Brits were sitting in Liverpool with a carload of stuff that proved that Abe Lincoln was a pantywaist who sent a message of congratulation to Stonewall Jackson after the Battle of Bull Run. You think the CIA would wait two minutes before taking off after those Brits with no holds barred? You think that they would let the lives of a couple of blackmailers-that’s the way they would see it, Billy, blackmailers-get in the way, if Abe Lincoln’s memory was going to be sullied and the USA made into a laughing stock all over the world?’
‘Politics.’
‘With a capital P, Billy boy,’ said Stein. ‘I want you to realize that you could become a contract. From now on you watch your step; take it easy on the booze, and stay off the other stuff. Keep away from dark alleys and tell me immediately if you see anything unusual.’
‘I sure will, dad. You think I should carry a gun?’
‘It wouldn’t be a bad idea, Billy. Just until this business is over.’
‘A big guy you say-about forty?’
‘They won’t be sending that dude to blow anyone away. They will have specialists who just arrive in town, do their thing and scram.’
‘Jesus, dad. I never know when you’re kidding. Do you really think these Brits would… ’
‘Why take chances, Billy? That’s all I’m saying. Don’t take no chances.’
Billy took out a white comb and ran it quickly through his long dark hair. It was something he was prone to do in moments of stress and his father recognized this. ‘Maybe I’ll go down to Mexico,’ said Billy. ‘Why don’t you come too? That guy in Ensenada converted the locker space into an extra cabin-all hand-crafted oak; he’s a real craftsman… ’
‘He sure crafted the bill. Did you see what it’s costing us to run that damned boat?’
‘Pedro’s a wonderful old man,’ said Billy. ‘Long beard and that strong Mexican accent. Did you see the piece of movie I made of him rebuilding the boat? He could be a film star, or something.’
‘He could be a film star,’ said Stein bitterly, ‘except that he can’t afford to take a cut in salary.’
‘Come on, dad! It’s a good investment. With the extra cabin and shower we’ll be able to overnight in comfort. Drop anchor anywhere the fish are running, and stay as long as we like. No more hotel bills, see? Come down there with me this weekend.’
‘Just for the time being, Billy, it’s best that I see to a few thing here in town.’
‘Why do you keep looking at your watch?’
‘Breslow was supposed to be joining us for lunch. He said to go ahead if we arrived before him.’
‘Here in this greasy spoon? Not exactly his style, is it?’
‘Says he’s crazy about Chinese steamed pastries. I told him this was the best place in town to eat them. He wants to talk about copyrights, he says.’
‘I was wondering why you sat so that you can see the door,’ said Billy.
He had hardly spoken the words before his father began to get to his feet. It was something not accomplished without causing considerable disarray to the plates and dishes on the table, and some spilled sauce. Billy wiped up the mess with a handful of paper napkins while his father shook hands, and listened to Breslow apologizing for being so late. ‘And that is my daughter, Mary,’ said Breslow. He indicated the young lady who had so distracted the younger Stein. Her name was really Marie-Louise, for she was named after her mother, but here in southern California she preferred the anglicized version.