One Friday afternoon Dexter asked me if I'd like to go out to dinner tomorrow with the greatest spy in American history: Alger Hiss. Public Enemy Number One.
“Alger Hiss!” I cried. “The Alger Hiss?”
“The very one. How about the des Artistes?”
Our apartment was on Manhattan's Upper West Side just off the Hudson River. Early summer and already very hot. Manhattan was boiling. A sweaty taxi drive to a restaurant off Central Park. A sweaty ride back. The staff at the Café des Artistes were friendly, helpful, welcoming. At least they were with their ordinary customers like Dexter and me. But how would they react to Alger Hiss of all people? I'm scared of confrontations. I'd remembered the name because my civics book in the ninth grade had said that he was the most dangerous traitor in the history of the United States. He was America's Judas Iscariot, and the glee in Dexter's voice told me that his reputation hadn't changed all that much.
