Cold Morning by Ed Ifkovic Read Free Book Online

mug shot, the size of a postage stamp. A stony expression on his triangular face, the eyes also hard, fierce. A dreadful juxtaposition, the two pictures, looking, indeed, like stamped mail. A postcard sent from the edge of hell.
    I tucked the newspaper under my arm and left the café. The lobby was lively with movement now, hustling reporters and guests, a hum of excitement. As I headed to the stairwell, I glanced toward the sitting area. Still nestled into one of the overstuffed side chairs, arms wrapped around his chest, was that annoying scamp, Joshua Flagg, slumped over, asleep. A copy of the Hunterdon County Democrat rested on the arm of his chair. I stood there watching him, his chest rising and falling. But he wasn’t asleep—that much I knew, because for a second his eyes fluttered, half-open, as he surreptitiously surveyed the room. Most likely he spotted me watching him. Then he tucked his head into his chest, sighed heavily, but I detected a hint of a smile. It had nothing to do with dreaming. He was watching me watch him.

Chapter Four
    The next day, late afternoon, Aleck and I sat in the church basement, the last diners, lingering over coffee and buttery sour cream cake that Aleck insisted was manna from the gods. He refused to leave and kept blowing ridiculous kisses to the matronly woman who ladled out the confection, though she did her best to ignore the drooling epicure. “Really, Aleck,” I chided him, “people will think you’re mad.”
    â€œEnviable, that diagnosis. Thus folks stay far away from me.” His stubby fingers stuffed crumbs into his mouth.
    â€œThere may be other reasons for that, Aleck.”
    â€œJealousy. A horrible thing, Ferb.” He rolled his tongue into the corner of a lip, retrieving a flake of the crispy pastry. He spoke with a full mouth. “We sit here while Rome burns.”
    â€œAnd I sit here with you. We should be securing our seats in the courthouse.” I smiled at him. “I do question my own common sense sometimes.”
    â€œMy dear, there’s nothing common about you.”
    â€œThank you.”
    He swallowed loudly. “I didn’t mean it as a compliment.”
    â€œOf course you did. You’re simply speaking the truth because you’re dizzy with sugar.”
    â€œYou can’t resist the wisdom I spout at you—gratis, I might add—because I know my words will appear in the mouth of one of your dashing heroes. Gaylord Ravenal uttering Aleck Woollcott bon mots .”
    I raised my eyebrows and changed the subject. “What happened yesterday? What did I miss?”
    I’d spent most of yesterday back in the city arguing with Doubleday. I’d been driven around noon into Manhattan, meeting with my publisher, sleeping at my own apartment, but I’d been squired back to Flemington in time to have lunch with Aleck.
    He shrugged. “Jury selection is over, as of this morning. You didn’t miss a thing. Opening statements—going on now. Last night Lindbergh himself stepped into the Union Hotel lobby for a minute, his lovely wife, Anne, at his side. The place froze. Anne looked tired, though she smiled at everyone. She has to testify today, this afternoon—maybe. His lawyer Henry Breckinridge was with them. Both disappeared into a back room. Oddly, they were trailed by Walter Winchell, who followed them in. The door closed behind them all, though some hack reporters put ears to the door until shoved away by the clerk. Quite intriguing.”
    â€œI don’t like Winchell.”
    â€œOf course you don’t,” he said. “He has a radio show, and you don’t. People actually read what he writes in his columns.”
    I ignored that. “And then?”
    â€œNothing. A half-hour later they all walked out, the Lindberghs slipping into Breckinridge’s car, and Winchell retreating to Nellie’s Taproom out back to regale lesser souls with his brassy