I know, I know – there’s this spycraft thing: I had to do it right, I was to follow the Josh guy to the subway, board the #1 train downtown (most likely), follow him… But who cares, who has the time or patience for protocol. I’d already been in the goddamn country for four months or was it forty years, I could do the city from B-Beach to Wash Heights and back blindfolded, I scouted Christopher Street and Ninth Avenue and St.Marks, Broadway West and East and South, my English was up to par, I spoke to everybody on streets subways bars, practice was making perfect continuously, my accent was shrinking by the minute (don’t tell Myron), and I was still not getting anywhere —
— “Hey Tovarish!” I greeted Josh on his way out.
Khakis, light sports coat, the knot of his necktie relaxed one buttonhole down, aviator glasses – a credible ensemble of a gainfully employed UWSider, perhaps NYT Arts section editor?
“Yeeees?”
“Hey, you want to buy some brand-new Soviet nuclear submarine blueprints? Whiskey Class? We are having a clearance sale, all blueprints must go – I’ll throw in a torpedo guidance system, never used, whaddaya say?”
“I say you forgot to refill your prescription, Tovarisch Zak – did I get the name right? What did it used to be in the Soviet Union, Zakharov? Zakharevich?”
His accent in Russian was decent. And he did not slow down as he headed west to Broadway. Neither for me nor for the coeds’ miniskirts. Walked in a straight line.
I ‘read’ him on the fly. He needed to take Myron’s papers to Federal Plaza. And now he was taking a cab, to get away from me. Bummer. That’s what happens when you deal with the expense-account crowd. Now I had to choose between being obnoxious now and looking suspicious later (when I ‘run into him’ again). You call that a choice, ha.
“Listen, Concorde, I can provide you evidence that Myron is double agent.” In a hurry, I drop my articles and prepositions, but there’s no time to pick them up. “I left a few things out at the entry-visa Embassy interview in Rome.”
His face twitched as if I had farted or something. “Make an appointment. We are in the book.” He signaled for a cab.
It felt like I had really pushed a button with Rome.
The cab materialized immediately. Like it was an unmarked Company car. Or else the cabbie named Ralph Diaz knew instinctively he was dealing with a very important US Government official.
I grabbed the handle, and Josh hit my hand – hard. “Don’t even think about it.”
“Let’s talk about Rome,” I said, resisting a childish urge to blow on my hand. Let’s linger. Let’s leave no scab unpicked.
Josh was firmly inside the cab. “Let’s get you deported to whatever collective farm you came from.” And to Diaz, “Federal Plaza. On Broadway?”
I started saying something about the beginning of a beautiful friendship, but while I was struggling to remember the exact quote, he interrupted: “They stopped making Whiskey class in 1958, Zak.” And then he was gone.
Set to Concorde, 6-4. Well, I needed a bathroom break anyway. (First, Justify failure.)