Cold Morning by Ed Ifkovic

Aleck.
    â€œWhen this trial is over and the money dries up, I’m back to a city.”
    â€œWhat city?” From me.
    â€œWell, any city’ll do, but Newark is a start.”
    â€œThe trial can’t last forever,” I commented.
    For the first time he looked back into my face and the car swerved onto the shoulder of the road. “Hauptmann has to die,” he said, flat out, seething.
    â€œWhat?” Aleck bellowed.
    â€œAn illegal immigrant here to take jobs from American-born citizens. Come on, think about it. A depression in this country.”
    â€œBut you think he is guilty? And he has to die?” Aleck asked.
    â€œBeing illegal shouldn’t be a death sentence,” I offered.
    â€œYeah, but murder should.”
    â€œIf he did it.”
    Again the dismissive laugh. “Oh, he did.”
    â€œYou don’t like foreigners?” asked Aleck.
    â€œForeigners everywhere. Look at this Annabel woman. She came here to these shores looking for…” He paused.
    â€œOpportunity?” I ventured.
    â€œYeah,” he said snidely, “opportunity. That’s the word, I guess. Her and Hauptmann and millions of others. She should have stayed in England. He should have stayed in Germany. In prison there.”
    â€œBut why?” I asked.
    He glanced back, puzzled. “Hey, America is a dangerous place.” He snickered. “Come to New Jersey and they’ll murder you.”
    â€œHauptmann?”
    â€œYeah, they’re gonna kill him, too.”
    â€œYou’re a grim young man,” I said.
    â€œNo, ma’am, I’m a guy who looks at the world straight on. You learn that by driving a car. You can never take your eyes off the road.”
    Aleck looked perplexed. “If you do, what happens?”
    â€œThey’ll get you. They always do.”
    Aleck shot me a look but lapsed into silence, tucking his head into his chest.

Chapter Eight
    Peggy Crispen was expecting someone else to knock on her door. A short rap as I glanced at Aleck at my side, and the door flew open, a smiling Peggy ready to say something. Aleck was catching his breath after walking up the one flight of stairs in the boardinghouse. Peggy clutched the sweater she had draped over her shoulders, pulling it together and holding it at her neck, as though she’d been surprised in the process of dressing. Or undressing. She jumped back, the smile disappearing.
    â€œI don’t understand,” she let out.
    â€œMiss Crispen,” I began, “a few moments of your time?”
    But she was looking at Aleck and not at me, and muttered, “What is this about?”
    â€œHello, we’ve met before in the café. I’m Edna Ferber, and this is Aleck Woollcott. We’re writers from New York and…” I stopped because her face closed in, her eyes shrouded. She turned back into the room, as though to flee, but finally looked back, tapped her foot impatiently, and grumbled.
    â€œI ain’t talking to any more reporters.”
    â€œYou’ve talked to reporters?” That surprised me.
    â€œThis Joshua Flagg guy keeps knocking, says he needs to…”
    Aleck broke in, his voice silky, a twitch at the corners of his lips, a twinkle in his eyes. I got alarmed by the sudden transformation as he rolled his head back and forth, some feeble mimicry of a bon vivant on the town. “My dear, we don’t mean to bother you, but our concern is real . This sad story, a young beautiful woman, a stranger to our shores, murdered by a rejected boyfriend, well, it must be traumatic for you, I’m sure.” He went on, insipid drivel doubtless appropriated from a tattered copy of Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm or Pollyanna , but I could see Peggy softening, her body relaxing, her shoulders dropping, her head inclined coyly. A little amused, I gaped at Aleck, this overflowing man with the soft woman’s hips and waterfall chins, a man who usually