Ark of the Lost Angels

The Empire City turns into a special dance partner on a night like tonight. Even with wartime rationing in place, nothing can quite dull the glittering gold of New York. Outside the window of my office, I can see the glistening veins of the city pulsating with nighttime activity. The light of every car slipping through the streets, or shadow in every window further highlights my growing frustration at this mental paralysis consuming me.

My sole mission at the Empire City Press is to take reports from overseas, where our boys are fighting against the Germans and Japanese, and turn them into tales of daring and bravery for the folks here at home. It’s an important task; morale on the home front is important to keep up. We need everyone pulling their weight: from families with victory gardens, to the women on the assembly lines, to little old me giving them the encouraging stories of our brave heroes.

I understand that my work falls in a bit of a gray area. Many of the reports I get are, to put them charitably, rather depressing. The inspirational side of me says that even in every nightmare, one can find a spot of sweetness. Tales of sacrifice and bravery are crafted from recollections of arrogance and stupidity. Occasionally, I’ll get a good story that doesn’t take much spinning, one which I can merely print as the straightforward truth, and I know it’ll resonate with the people on the other side of the dividing line. The ones who don’t know the truth about this war.

Last year, it was far more difficult. The brutality of the Pacific campaigns led to a lot of creative wordplay in order to underline the severity of the situation without letting the American people know how badly we were suffering. This past summer, it became much easier when we invaded Normandy and started liberating France. Five weeks ago, when Paris was liberated, my stories practically wrote themselves. The Third Reich’s iron grip over Europe seemed to be slipping more and more each second, and I have been dutifully chronicling it all in the kind of shaded way that makes the American people proud to sacrifice so that our soldiers and sailors are afforded what they need to win this war.

Tonight, however, I can only glare angrily at a page resembling Central Park immediately after a winter snowfall. I have been shuttered up in my office, clacking away at my typewriter for an eternity each day for months. A friend of mine who works in the writers’ room for The March of Time a short ways uptown gets advanced copies of most of my articles. He likes my phrasing better than his own, and I’m more than happy that my talents land in front of a larger audience than our relatively meager circulation.

When I managed to work my way up from the copy editing department to a writer and reporter in 1939, I hadn’t the foggiest clue a war would break out two months later. Then the Krauts had to go and invade Poland, and we were off to the races. When Pearl Harbor was attacked, the Press was the first paper to get a compelling narrative out to the people, and I did so by staying up all night and piecing together scattered reports I could gather from what I heard people saying, and my sources working at the Department of War down in Washington. After that, my employer intervened and prevented me from being sent to the front, they said I was too valuable to the war effort at home. The draft board, apparently, agreed.

That isn’t to say that I’m not grateful to not be shelled by the Germans or eat and sleep in the forests of northern France. However, people tend to give me funny looks when I mention that I’m writing for the papers here at home instead of giving Hitler’s toy soldiers eight kinds of hell in Europe. To complicate my frustrations, the last few front line reports I’ve received have been bone thin. Either my sources are being extra careful due to unwanted eyes over their shoulders, or military secrecy is being increased in anticipation of something major happening. Either way, it severely limits my ability to perform my civic duty.

Perhaps I should call it a night. I’ll go out, get a drink, and get back to my apartment to get some sleep. The Upper West Side isn’t too far on the IRT, and there’s a club not too far from my office. I can be home at a reasonable hour.

My trip from my office, through the bullpen, and down the elevator barely registers. Before I realize it, my shoes are echoing on the marble floors of the lobby: a booming percussive melody met by the rhythmic drumming of the rain upon the door. The precipitation quiets the world outside, covering the sounds of engines and pedestrians. Four blocks more, and I get to enter my favorite paradise for the evening.

The Black Cat is a frequent destination for late night rendezvous. Many a time have I met a source in the smoky underground refuge. With a hint of glitz and glamour, of crystal chandeliers and Tiffany lamps, foodstuffs you’d be hard pressed to find outside of the tsar’s palaces in normal times, and an eccentric clientele, The Black Cat is a world all its own. The owners pay good money to keep the place at its normal standard, employing the services of former bootleggers from Prohibition who retained their secret trade avenues these last eleven years. Ask me how I know, and I’ll tell you: I may be making tales of the war more…palatable for a general audience, but I’m still a reporter.

“Hello, Jack,” the bouncer greets me, gesturing for me to walk right in.

“Evening, David.”

David Gibson is a tough man, and I mean that in more ways than one. Even for someone whose job in peacetime is to uncover the truth, and his job in wartime is to obscure the truth, David Gibson remains a total mystery. He doesn’t tell anything, and everyone has a different story about him. Some say he was a Marine on Guadalcanal and got discharged because of the brutal fighting. Others say he was too dangerous that the military didn’t even want him. My guess is the truth lies somewhere with the theory that his employers paid off the draft board, since he has knowledge of a lot of key players in town from when they slink off to this little corner of shadows and that knowledge helps with good business. Mr. Gibson is tough, a disciplined fighter, and doesn’t tolerate fools lightly.

The jazz band on stage is one I don’t recognize, but they’re damn good. From the moment I step inside the place, I forget everything about the world outside. Every time, without fail. Only the soulful saxophone in the lead, weaving a tale of wartime sorrow and loneliness, reminds me of the world outside. Unlike the marble floors of my office, the oak floor here somehow deadens the sound of my footsteps. This is a place for breathing ghosts, lost souls hanging between worlds for the evening, somewhere not quite here but not quite there. I love that quality about The Black Cat. This isn’t a place for the faint of heart.

I sit down at my usual table: a booth to the side of the dance floor, close enough to see the action, far enough away to keep a conversation quiet. I’ve entertained people from disaffected police officers to women’s rights leaders all the way up to city councilmen, state senators, and even mayor La Guardia himself on one occasion right here in this very booth.

My favorite waitress makes her way over to me. Katherine Larsen, who goes by Kitty, is an angel of a human being. She works as a typist for an insurance company but ended up picking up night work here to help take care of her younger sister. Kitty married her high school sweetheart last February, before he was sent to Sicily in the initial invasion, where he died. She’s a good kid with no right to be caught in a shady place like this, but she navigates it with an impressive amount of cunning and guile. In another life, with a less pure heart, she’d be a crime boss who would have given Lucky Luciano a run for his money.

“Interesting crowd in tonight,” Kitty tells me with a wry smile, nodding her head over towards the bar. In the sparkling lights of the chandelier, with a striking yellow dress against her pale skin and dark hair is a woman transfixing most of the club. She carries herself as if she’s the most valuable person in the joint, and that’s with two flag officers, Grover Whelan, and some big shot whose suit and mannerisms tell me he’s up from Washington at a table in the corner. The last time I chatted with Whelan was at the Russian Tea Room eighteen months ago, but I don’t recognize the rest of his party. With the mysterious woman at the bar taking up all the oxygen in the room, I don’t think anyone else is paying attention to their table either. Maybe I’ll go over and try to pester Whelan for a juicy bite or two when his meeting breaks up.

“Seems like it,” I reply offhandedly while my mind spins up into trying to think as to what event Whelan could be planning with military brass and one of Roosevelt’s staff members.

Kitty clears her throat loudly to recapture my attention.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I’ll take an old fashioned, please.”

Kitty cracks an even wider grin of disbelief, crosses her arms and scoffs. “Not what I was talking about.” She gestures with her thumb over her shoulder towards the woman at the bar. The girl in the yellow dress.

“What about her?”

Kitty sighs and her head drops back to point her gaze toward the arches of the intricately tiled ceiling. I can ferret out stories from the tiniest bits of information, but I have never been good with women. Most of my relationships never last beyond a single night.

“Go talk to her, you idiot!”

I wave Kitty off. Kitty continues to stare at me. Kitty only leaves when I slide out from behind the comfort and safety of my table.

“I’ll have your old fashioned waiting for you when you come back.”

Pleased with her efforts, Kitty heads off to get a few more orders and take them to the bar. The oak beneath my feet, imported from rare Cuban oaks, feels as though it energizes my steps. I can’t understand why my body is so excited by the prospect of this woman. Maybe it’s a subconscious desire to make Kitty happy. She’s been attempting to play matchmaker for me for ages, and it’s really sweet of her to keep trying so ardently. I think there’s a part of her that wants to be right about me: that I’m not as irredeemable as I say I am. At the same token, I am not someone for whom romance comes easily. I spend my days at work, I am a tad clueless when it comes to women, and I value some measure of independence. Additionally, the thought of me ending up widowing my hypothetical wife due to chasing a story is of substantial concern. However, an additional feeling sits above all else.

At the end of the day, I am a professional liar. For the duration of the war, at least, I paint pictures of false realities and then sell them to the people out there. And there will come a day when the reckoning for the sins of this war will arrive. And there are those who have committed greater crimes than I have, but who would I be if I refused the judgement which I am due? Especially if I expect them to face the repercussions of their own regretful but necessary transgressions.

Absolution will not come in the arms of another stranger from a smoky club, no matter how alluring she may be.

Regardless, I make my approach. Her friend is a fiery redhead in a green dress, with a laughter of wind chimes reminiscent of those on my neighbor’s front porch in my small Ohio hometown. A gentle tap on her shoulder, and she turns to look at me.

“Hello, miss.” I can only get two words out before her eyes meet mine and I am stunned into silence. The constellation of freckles on her face disarms me, and the icy blue eyes pierce right into my heart.

I understand why every person in this little slice of momentary paradise has kept her in sight for the entire evening. She sees all, knows all. This woman is a keeper of secrets because all the secrets of the world reveal themselves unto her. It’s the reason despite every other man in the joint looking at her with hunger, none of them would dare to even attempt taking a bite. Nobody is willing to bare their soul so easily.

I could almost kill Kitty if I wasn’t so excited about the possibilities. What stories could this woman give me? No, I cannot let myself think like that. This is a person, a person whom Kitty wants me to get to know. I simply must remain calm.

“Jack Warren, Empire City Press,” I introduce myself simply, offering a handshake. She accepts gracefully, pressing a warm hand into mine with strength and conviction. Uncertainty has no hold over her.

“And you’re asking me for an interview, Mister Warren?” A sly grin creeps its way onto her face, not unlike a cat who has cornered a mouse. I’m a meal for her, and she intends on playing with her food. Not that I was ever in a position of authority here to begin with, this conversation started on Kitty’s insistence, but the girl in the yellow dress now controls the situation entirely. She knows my interest isn’t of a professional nature.

“N-no, of course not. It’s a force of habit when meeting powerful people,” I respond as smoothly as I can.

“I’m powerful?” Her head bows slightly but her eyes remain fixed on mine. I could swear my heart just punched me in the throat. Again, she’s toying with her food.

“Haven’t you noticed every eye on you in here?” I inquire.

“And yet you’re the only one who wasn’t scared to approach me. How interesting.”

“Oh, believe me, I’m terrified, but my friend was insistent.” I try to play off the truth with a flat tone as if it were a joke. She doesn’t seem to think I’m kidding. I’m not. She’s good.

“And who is your friend? Another reporter, perhaps? Or one of the soldier boys who seem to be everywhere these days?” At the end of her statement, she gestures towards her friend who is dancing with a tall boy in an army uniform while his friends look on from a booth on the far side of the dance floor.

“The waitress,” I correct, gesturing towards Kitty, who waves hello in response. I wave back.

The stranger instantly deduces that I’m a regular, which I confirm, stating my reasoning as The Black Cat being close to my office, and a discreet place to meet when working on stories. It seems to satisfy her curiosity.

“Emily. Emily Wickham,” the girl finally offers her name.

“Your name is lovely,” I compliment her sincerely.

“Don’t try so hard, Mister Warren.” She doesn’t buy it, but the verbal fencing does tell me she doesn’t take a lot on trust, and she is guarded and protective over herself and her reputation.

“Wouldn’t dream of it, Miss Wickham. I have a booth if you’d rather sit.”

“I would love to.”

Emily leads me through the crowd, the dancers parting as though she were Moses. Everyone is careful to keep their distance, so as to not upset the monarch. I have never seen her patronize The Black Cat before, but she carries herself as if she owns the place. We slide into the booth, and Kitty comes over with my old fashioned, and inquires as to Emily’s drink of choice. My new companion orders a double of top shelf whiskey, neat, without a care in the world as to how it makes her look. Before darting off to get the order in, Kitty gives me a wink and flashes a big smile for just a moment. I wave her off with slight annoyance on my face, but only to hide the amusement I really feel. Kitty is perhaps a sister I never had.

“She’s adorable,” Emily comments once Kitty leaves earshot.

“She’s a good kid,” I agree. “Leagues smarter than she ever lets on. A regular expert at navigating this place. Her husband died in Sicily last year. I think working nights helps keep her mind off the sorrow.”

“How tragic. This war has taken from all of us,” Emily muses, letting her confident, guarded exterior slip for a moment before the mask snaps back into place.

“And what has it taken from you?” I push, like a good reporter does.

“I was studying at Oxford when the war broke out. I have family in England, so I stayed with them at first. Eventually, it became too dangerous with the German bombing raids, so I returned to America.”

I question and confirm that her family is well-off, and she is living with her parents on the Upper East Side. She questions my background and I give the short version. I grew up in Ohio, moved to New York to break into journalism, got a job as a reporter a few months before the war broke out and then transitioned into telling tales of Allied exploits to bolster morale at home, while still managing some real reporting on the side.

“A man of the people,” she comments.

“As well as I can hope to be,” I respond. “What all has this war taken from you, Emily?”

“Two of my young cousins were killed in a German bombing raid in London. I was on the other side of the townhouse when the bomb hit their bedroom.”

“My God, I am so sorry.” I place my hand over hers in sympathy. I think, behind her confident and controlled exterior is a girl who has been struck by this war and doesn’t like to show it. Her greatest crime was being in the wrong place at an ugly time.

She clears her throat, gently fixes a strand of her hair which had fallen out of place, sets her mask on once more, and continues her story. “Eventually, we moved to the family’s country estate, but my parents wrote to me and ordered me to come home. Not wishing to upset them, I complied. The last several months have been difficult, aimless. I haven’t desired much to even leave my house. I can’t stand the upper class parties which people still throw, not after witnessing the devastation of this war firsthand. I don’t know how to organize help. I have been so distant from the world. I didn’t even want to come out tonight, but my friend Mary insisted.”

Emily gestures to her friend on the dance floor clad in emerald, enraptured with a GI about to be thrown to the wolves. I inquire if Mary knows what happened, and Emily shakes her head sadly. Not only is the girl carrying a horrendous burden, but she is carrying it alone. The missing inspiration for the latest article makes its way into my mind. The home front also has its share of sacrifices and bravery, and those should be highlighted so that people know they aren’t suffering alone. Perhaps in community, we can find unity.

“Emily, I’d like to thank you. I came out tonight looking for an evening to clear my head because I hadn’t the foggiest clue what to write for my latest column. I think you just struck me with inspiration. Mind if I pick your brain for more stories to tell? So that people don’t think that they are suffering alone on the home front.”

Emily smiles, warmly this time, as though a weight was lifted off her chest. The mask shatters, and she seems to find a measure of peace. Kitty returns with Emily’s drink.

“I would be delighted.”