Epilogue
“This is ridiculous,” I murmured to Jack.
“I agree,” he said back, his mouth hidden behind his glass, before taking a sip of his old-fashioned.
“So why are we doing it?”
“The Big Man wants to be sure.” The Big Man was our nickname for J. Edgar Hoover. It was a bit of a joke, as he stood a whopping five foot seven. Which, granted, meant he towered over me, but still.
“I’m sure. When have I been wrong?”
Jack grinned at me. “He’s going to want more evidence than that.”
“The leader of the civil rights movement isn’t going to suddenly tell us he’s a Communist in an interview about the march he’s planning later this month.”
“That’s where we use our secret weapon,” Jack said.
“No.”
“It’s too late,” he said, nodding across the room of the Round Robin Bar at the Willard Intercontinental Hotel, where our target was staying. And I saw an older woman, dressed in her finest, order a cocktail at the bar.
“Why she thinks she’s better at this than us, I will never understand,” I muttered, irritated. It was just like her to completely steal my thunder. Though she stayed out of the newspaper at least.
Jack was amused. “What can I say? She’s good.”
I rolled my eyes at him as the woman took a sip of her drink, looked over, and winked at me. “Oh no. She’s coming over. She can’t just—she’s going to blow our cover.”
“How is my favorite granddaughter doing today?” My grandmother asked, leaning down to plant a kiss on the top of my head.
“I’m telling Betty you said that.”
“Psh.” She waved a gloved hand in the air. “I tell her the same thing.” She patted Jack’s shoulder. “And my favorite soon-to-be grandson-in-law?”
He chuckled, and I looked down at my left hand. I still wasn’t used to seeing a diamond there. Not that we had set a wedding date yet, to my mother’s eternal chagrin. “Did you get in?”
She nodded, turning her chin up proudly.
“Here on behalf of the United Jewish Appeal looking for ways to unite our two groups in a quest for equality.” She leaned in close.
“Much better cover than yours. A profile? He’s not going to tell you anything at all.
Unity and equality? That’s practically a description of a commune.
Though I do think our boss is barking up the wrong tree here. ”
“You can tell him that, then,” I said darkly. Better her than me.
“I intend to,” she said. “Once I can confirm it. I’ll wait for you after your interview though.”
“You don’t need to do that.”
“Sure I do,” she said. “I had them bump you until after my meeting anyway.”
I was ready to kill her. “You can’t just interfere—”
“Hannah said to do what I needed to,” she reminded me. “But no matter. I’ll drive you home.”
I was shocked that my grandmother was still alive with the way she drove, weaving in and out of DC traffic like she hadn’t a care in the world, barely looking at the road.
She had definitely graduated from the F.
Scott Fitzgerald’s Jordan Baker school of driving, believing it was everyone else’s job to stay out of her way.
“Jack drove,” I said. “We’re fine.”
“No, no, no,” she said, pinching my cheek. “Have you seen his car?”