It could never be enough.
The crowd in the Killarney Rose was rowdy with victory, yelling, cheering, jitterbugging in the aisles to a Count Basie record in the jukebox they could hardly hear. It was like New Year’s Eve. Somebody stood up on the bar and started counting
“One . . . two . . . three . . . four . . . five . .
“Yer out!” the gang yelled. Then somebody else struck up a chorus of “Yankee Doodle” and everybody joined in.
Beerbohm and Keegan sat sideways in the back booth, singing, laughing, reveling in this instant of national retaliation.
“What a sweet moment,” said Keegan. “You know, for a little while there I felt . . . I felt
He paused, trying to find the right word.
“Like you got even?” Beerbohm offered.
“Is that all it’s about, Ned? Getting even?”
“Look at it this way,” Beerbohm said. “Hate is very fashionable these days. The Germans hate the Jews, the Italians hate the Africans, the Japs hate the Chinese, the Fascists hate the Commies and the Spanish hate each other. What I mean is, I’m not knocking it. Getting even helps. When you get rid of all the superfluous stuff, then you can zero in on what’s really hurting you. Someday you’ll be able to deal with that, too.”
“I guess I never thought about it in those terms before.”
“Look at it this way. Father Coughlin is finished. Huey Long’s dead. The Bund is about to be outlawed. Louis has just destroyed Schmeling. Take heart, pal, that’s a lot of little ‘get evens.’”
“Not enough.”
“You want the big kill, right. Fantasy time—Hitler in your sights.”
“How come you got so wise?”
“I got old,” Beerbohm said and smiled.
Keegan smiled too and said, “Well, it’s been one helluva night, let’s not spoil it.”
A young man in knickers and a cap sheepishly entered the bar, stared wide-eyed at the party, edged his way to the corner of the bar. He cupped his hands and yelled to Tiny who nodded and pointed to the booth. Completely intimidated, the lad scurried down through the crowd staring straight ahead.
“M-m-mister Beerbohm,” he stammered.
Ned looked up and smiled.
“Hi, Shorty, what’re you doing in here?”
“Mr. MacGregor on the night desk asked me to run this over to you.” He handed Beerbohm an envelope.
“Thanks, kid. Shorty, this is Mr. Keegan. He owns the joint. Shorty here’s one of our primo copy boys.” He tore open the envelope, took out a sheet of paper.
“How long have you been with the paper?” Keegan asked.
“Almost a year, sir.”
“Tell you what, go over there and tell Tiny, the big bartender, to give you a hamburger and a soda, on the house.”
“Gee, thanks!”
“Sure.”
The boy rushed off and Keegan turned back to Beerbohm. The editor’s face was suddenly drawn and bloodless.
“What the hell happened to you, Ned?” Keegan said. “You look like World War Two just started.”
“Almost as bad,” Beerbohm said and slid a cablegram across the table. Keegan knew before he read it. He knew what it was going to say. He had feared this telegram for four years.
“I’m sorry as hell to be the one to show you that,” Beerbohm said.
The cable was simple and to the point:
BERT RUDMAN KILLED NOON TODAY DURING BOMBING RAID ON ALICANTE. RUDMAN WITH THE FIFTH VICTORY DIVISION. ATTACKED BY GERMAN DIVE BOMBERS. KILLED INSTANTLY. MORE FOLLOWS. PLEASE ADVISE RE REMAINS. MANNERLY, MADRID BUREAU CHIEF.
Keegan stared at it for several minutes, reading and rereading it, hoping perhaps he was missing something in the sparse message. His throat began to ache and the old anger welled up in him again.
“Goddamn them,” he said in a cracked voice.
“I’m awful damn sorry, kid,” said Beerbohm. “I know how close you two were.”
Keegan was silent for a minute or two and then he shook his head. “No you don’t,” he said, and there was misery in every syllable. “We haven’t been close at all since I left Europe.”
“I just thought. . .“ Beerbohm said with surprise.
