Chapter 29
“What was that?” I asked as soon as we were in the car. Which admittedly was a late forties Plymouth that had seen better days.
“What?” he asked innocently.
“Who are you? For real?”
“You know who I am.”
“Well my mother is calling Jacob Feldstein’s mother right now and if that’s not your mother, I’m about to be in a world of trouble.”
He smiled in the dark car. “That’s my real name.”
“What do you mean real name? Are you a spy or something?”
“Yes. A spy investigating a spy to write a story on the other spy. Very logical, Greenberg.” He glanced over at me. “How many Jews have you counted at The Digest?”
I was definitely the only one in the typing pool. And I hadn’t actually seen a single Jewish name in bylines I had typed, now that I thought about it.
“They don’t hire Jews?”
“I mean, clearly they can because they hired you. But I got turned down at enough places without even getting an interview as Jacob Feldstein that I tried Jack Fields. And wouldn’t you know? Suddenly I was a good hire.”
It made sense. I thought about Frank, passing for Italian. And I wondered, if I had been Judith Graham, if I would be writing legitimately instead of in the typing pool.
Not at The Digest. There were no women in the newsroom. But would The Post or The Evening Star have looked at me twice if I had goy-ified my name?
Either way, I hadn’t and they hadn’t. And I liked being Judy Greenberg, even if I did get asked periodically if I had horns.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
He shrugged. “You never asked.”
“I literally gave you a Jewish last name the other day. That was the time to say, ‘Hey, by the way, I’m actually Jacob Feldstein, and I know all of this already.’”
He looked over again, a devilish grin forming this time. “It’s not easy to get your goat. You get mine all the time. I saw my chance, and I took it.”
I smacked his arm, probably more forcefully than necessary. “If I hadn’t played that off, I’d be off this story right now—they’d lock me in my room.”
“I have a feeling you’d find a way out. You strike me as a girl who knows how to climb out a window when she needs to.”
He had a point there.
“Speaking of which, pull over—preferably on a side street.”
“Why?”
“I need to change.”
“Change what?”
“My clothes. I can’t wear this to Off the Record.”
He looked at my dress. “Why not?”
I sighed heavily. “Everyone there is in cocktail dresses. This is a regular dress.”
“You look fine to me.”
“You’re a man—I can’t expect you to understand fashion. Now pull over.” I pointed. “There’s good. I don’t know anyone on that street.”
He turned and pulled over at the end, away from the houses. I climbed into the back seat. “You’re changing in the car?”
“Do you want me to do it in the street?”
“I mean no—I just—I—uh—what if—”
I laughed. “Flustered, Fields?”
“Feldstein. And no.”
“You’re still Fields to me. Just close your eyes.”
“I—um—I’m just gonna look straight ahead. In case a cop comes or—something . . .”
“Don’t you have a sister or know any girls?”
“I have a sister, but she hasn’t changed in front of me since I was probably four.”
“Well I’m not your sister, and I’m behind you. You’ll be fine.”
He shook his head, but dutifully kept his eyes straight ahead without so much as a peek in the rearview mirror. “If you say so.”
I shimmied into the green dress but then realized I needed help. “I need a zip,” I said. He reached an arm back without turning around and accidentally knocked me in the head. “You can turn around,” I said, exasperated.
“Are you decent?”
“What would you do if I wasn’t? Can you just zip me up already? You’re being a child.” He turned around and stared at me. “What?”
“Where did you get that dress?”
“I had it hidden under the skirt of the one I was wearing.”
He shook his head. “Being a woman sounds exhausting.”
“It is,” I agreed, turning around and pulling my hair up for him to zip the dress.
He pulled the zipper gingerly up my back, grazing the skin above my brassiere slightly as he did.
I tried my best not to flinch but felt something fluttering in my stomach.
This was strangely intimate—more so than I expected.
Just business, I reminded myself. “Can you do the hook too? If not, I can probably reach.”
He turned all the way around to use both hands and threaded the hook through the eye at my mid-back, his fingers brushing bare skin again. “There.”
I turned around again. “See? Better, right?”
He swallowed. “Yeah. I see what you mean.”
I climbed into the front seat and slipped my shoes on. “Don’t go yet. I need to put some more makeup on, and I don’t want to mess it up if you hit a bump.”
He watched as I used a mirror compact to apply eyeliner and red lipstick. I blotted with a tissue from my purse, then told him I was ready to go.
“Fields,” I said, remembering my question for him as we drove past Rock Creek Park, “what did Maricela mean when she said Batista was bad for Cuba and bad for the people? I thought he was good?”
Fields shook his head. “He was a dictator too. The US government just supported him because he hated Communism.”
“We supported a dictator?”
He looked over, amused. “We’ve supported plenty of them as long as they were somewhat on our side.”
I thought about this. “So if Maricela worked for him . . . ?”
“She’s likely done some unsavory things.”
“Can we trust her, then?”
He shrugged. “You know the old saying ‘The enemy of my enemy is my friend’?” I nodded. “That’s half of American policy. And it’s the best we’ve got right now.”