We got back to find our people doing everything but napping. Once KZN broke the story in the States, the world at large got to jump on the bandwagon. Everybody wanted to play the calliope, even if they didn’t have the music down right. KZN, K-Zion, was in full rant, declaiming that the murders just showed the moral depravity of the United States, and were a portent of the well-deserved doom now spreading its fiery wings over the yadda-yadda. And so on.
For a change, the BBC and Großdeutschen Rundfunk were broadcasting live news, and of course it was all about the Patton Tryst, as it was being called. Except they had Tolson as the hero, so I wondered if he had some sort of channel to the Reich, did his choice of negligée indicate a deeper connection. The only broadcasting service to remain silent was Victory Broadcasting Service, VBS. No surprise there. You could just about hear the heads spinning in DC as they tried to come up with a positive way to present this story. Cheer up guys, no fucking way.
Just about then, CKYZ came on, it sounded like Ed Murrow had taken a shot or two to steady his nerves, but he laid it right on down.
“This is a CKYZ Radio Exclusive. Confirmed reports from our exclusive sources show clearly the sordid nature of the recent murders of Generalissimo Patton and IB Director Hoover at the Exclusive Del Charro Hotel, in La Jolla, California. We are in possession of photographic proof that Hoover and his Second in Command were engaged in deviant sexual behavior when they were surprised by Patton. Patton became enraged and fired one shot from his sidearm, his famous ivory-handled Colt 1873 Single Action Army .45 revolver. Hoover was killed instantly, Clyde Tolson, who was dressed in a German SS uniform, returned fire with a Luger 9mm semiautomatic pistol, firing three shots, killing Patton on the spot. Tolson immediately fled, his present whereabouts are unknown.” He audibly gathered himself, and continued. “Reaction from the world’s capitols has been mixed, to say the least. The only capitol not to react has been Washington DC, which is considered indicative of chaos at the highest levels.
“A statement from the Provisional Council of Pacifica reads as follows. “The nation of Pacifica expresses sympathy for the people of the United States of America, in this hour of travail, and hopes that they soon will regain a government worthy of that formerly great nation.
“In other news, fresh offensives along the Duluth and Northfield, Massachusetts fronts are reported, with scattered Zeppelin bombing of most major northern US cities reported by local amateur radio stations in Chicago, Minneapolis, Detroit, New York and Boston. It is assumed that Reich forces are taking advantage of the disarray at the top levels of USA leadership to make tactical gains.”
The phone rang, I picked up. “Miles? James. We are ready to distribute your first edition, the Express Rebirth story. Are your people ready?”
“Jesus, James, that seems so long ago. But, yeah, ready as we will ever be. Want me to send a truck for the papers?”
“They are on the way. We plan to distribute the photo edition before midnight, so be prepared.”
“Some of my people are getting a bit nervous, you have a spare crate of Thomsons?”
“Of course. Not an unwise precaution. If there are any IB loyalists left, this will be sure to flush them out.”
“Flush. There’s a good word.” He nearly chuckled, and hung up without another word. Shit-fritters, this was moving fast.
“Okay gang, they have moved the clock on us. The Everett edition is ready to hit the streets. Tommy, you and Mary O’Brian guard the fort, and I mean guard. You too, Lizzie. Guns in the closet under the stairs. That door there. The rest of you, drop your cocks and grab your socks, you’re in the Army now.”
“What about me?” Hilda asked. “I have socks, that’s the best I can do.”
“You want to come with me? You know where the news-stands are?”
“I have an idea.” She went to the large-scale city map. “We have only three vehicles, so we need to send a crew down to New Westminster, where the Americans are, our old neighborhood…”
“Correct. Charles, you take the Marmon.” He nodded and I tossed him the keys, “Greek, take the Buick and as many guys as you want, you just hit the street corners north and west of here, okay, Hilda?”
“Good enough, and you and I and Eng, we will cram in the Dodge pickup, and hit the news-stands. Eng, you can get us through Chinatown?”
“Not a problem in the world. Chan could stay here, and keep the beans warm.”
“Good point,” Hilda said, “You new guys,” she pointed at the dozen CKYZ roughs, “You just grab stacks of papers and spread out, hustle them on the streets. If you don’t know what to do, fake it. It’s not hard. Kids do it. Bring us back two cents each, the rest is yours.”
Hilda was taking responsibility responsibly. Good deal.
>>>>>>>>
Chinatown was apparently quiet, at least they were taking care of their own business, which was not our business. We sold a few bundles of papers, but nobody seemed much interest in week-old news. Eng did most of the talking, and said, “Everybody is waiting for the other shoe to drop. They want to know about the Patton story. I told them midnight and handed out some business cards.”
“Business cards? I knew I forgot to order something. Where did you get business cards?”
“A messenger dropped them off while you were up at the radio station. He said they were pre-paid, so I just signed for them.” He handed me one. “Here.”
Yep. Grizzly Bear Express, correct address and phone number, and everything. “Investigative Photo-Journalism,” was the sub-head. I detected the fine hand of Mister Arbuthnot. Fine. Next. Downtown.
We started at Gassy Jack’s Saloon, Maple Tree Square, and the mood was a lot different. People were arguing on street corners, radios in furniture stores were out on the sidewalks, cranked all the way up, and every radio had a cluster of people who should have been at work, standing rapt around it. Again, newsies took our papers, but all they wanted to hear about was Patton. And who could blame them? That fucker had been the center of existence for almost thirty years and if he was gone, it was important. We ran the business district, then worked down the docks from news-stand to drugstore. After we unloaded all our copies, I suggested we spend our new-found wealth at the roughest bar we could find.
I remembered “Tugboat Annie’s,” maybe it was not the absolute toughest dive in town, but it would do. When we went in last year, just after getting to Vancouver, the place had been full of branded Americans, there had been a shooting scuffle when we were still on our first beer. Two or three dead, but we didn’t keep statistics.
It was still jammed with bad ass mariner types, but fewer of these had brands. Lots of Dalny Free Port types, all with the Green Tree patch on their shoulders, and an equal number of rough-looking Orientals, Japanese Merchant Marines, and what looked like Chinese tramp steamer sailors. All were slugging down the booze, and politely discussing politics at the top of their voices. We found a table, Eng bought us a pitcher of beer, and we sat quietly, ears a-flap.
“That fuckin’ asshole! They expect me to believe he wasn’t in there with the rest of them perverts? And all that preaching and holiness shit? Fuck them and their fucking momma too.” That seemed to be the consensus. Some were louder and more profane, but that was the gist. I noticed that the guys with the “U” tattoos, the Unnaturals, they were the quietest, were really socking down the hooch. The piano player was at his machine, but silent, backwards on the bench, elbows on the keyboard, derby pushed back to display his U tattoo. You could just about smell the hate. It took a minute, but I got it. Betrayal on betrayal for decades. The last couple of years had been the worst, but it had never been easy for anybody that was a bit different under the Hoovers. Ask me, I know.
I didn’t see many “X” or “RT” brands, they probably had all gone south to fight. The joint was not as full as it had been the last time we were here, and the last time than had all been more or less white and English-speaking. Looking around, I did notice a couple of table
s of Russian-speakers, they all wore whites, reclaimed Czarist Navy uniforms, a lot of them wore the green tree patches too. A real mixed bag, but all salty, and all talking about Patton. I leaned over to Eng, asked, “What’s the word?”
“Same as in English. Patton. They are not even talking about girls.”
“A-fucking-mazing. Finish your beer, we better hit the bricks.”
Hilda drained her mug. “Damn straight. Let’s go.”
“Yeah. We smelled the mood of the street, and they are pissed off.”
Eng said; “Even the Chinese and Japanese are ready to kill. You would think they would feel relief, but they are scared and full of hate. I can taste the need for revenge in the air. Things are going to blow up really soon.”
“Wait until those photos hit the street,” I said. Didn’t need to be a prophet to figure that out. If Arbuthnot was ready to drop that bombshell, then the pictures must be in Dalny already. And, the thought struck me, in Tokyo. And Shanghai. And you do remember about Chinese print shops, don’t you? Whoops. You catch on slow, fat ass. Time to move.
>>>>>>
It was full dark when we got back to the Express, and only a few hours before midnight. I took Arbuthnot’s word for it, and lined up all the troops, had the vehicles gassed up, and spent the intervening time loading magazines for all our weapons. We still hadn’t seen any opposition, but… But is a dangerous word. It’s the little short words that can kill you.
A little before eleven we got the word, and the truck arrived a very few minutes later, Arbuthnot himself was in the cab with the driver. It was a newish dump-truck, full of bales of papers. His Pierce was following. “You just keep the Mack, I’ll follow incognito, just in case.”
I didn’t ask, in case of what? I knew. I had to look at the front page, and it stopped me in my tracks. I had seen the pictures before, but this was a whole new level of reality. The top picture was of Hoover, obviously naked, with good old Clyde draped across his chest, face buried in black lace. Patton had been a good pistol shot, credit where credit is due, he had hit Hoover right in the bridge of the nose, there was blood and lumpy matter all over the nice white hotel pillows. The Del Charro logo was clearly visible. Good composition, Smith.
The second shot, to the right, but still above the fold, was himself, flat on his back, and with a nice grouping of three holes in his sternum. Lots more blood, but none on his noble features. The headline was one huge word, vertical between the pictures. “Proof.” My deathless prose was below the fold. I didn’t bother with that. “Okay, gang, let’s roll. Anybody able to drive this truck?” I knew it wasn’t me, I’m a city boy. Anyway, I wanted to be in the back with a tommy gun. Hilda and Eng joined me, somebody fired up the truck and off we went to Chinatown.
The only problem we had, was that we forgot a bucket to throw the nickels in. We just kept chugging along in low-low, and people snatched the papers out of our hands and threw money at us. Quiet, reserved Chinese people? Not tonight.
We left them and headed to Maple Tree Square, they were even more excited there, we had to push right through a crowd that blocked the streets. We saw some fights, even brawls, but we had no idea what any of that shit was about. If there were any IB assholes in the square, they would have been mobbed and trampled, if they had tried to start any trouble. We were like a huge wave of drugs or something, as soon as people got their copies, they stood stock still and stared at the pictures, silent and rapt. Oil on troubled waters. Chaos in front of us, quiet concentration behind us. We were changing the world with paper and ink. We had to stop, and hand out most of the copies we had, so they would let us go on.
Every copy we sold had three or four readers, and some people got their copies and took off running to destinations unknown. Phone booths had lines of dozens of people waiting. Easy to see that a lot of people thought they could make money or political capital, some sort of advantage out of the news. We had planned to go down the docks, but we ran out of papers.
Once the crowd got that through their heads, they drifted away, all deep in thought or conversation as they went. The Square cleared, people still filled the sidewalks and the phone booths and the bars, but you could see the pavement. Arbuthnot and his agents or cops or whatever they were, were still tagging behind, so I waved him up for a conference.
“You got more papers? The presses still running?”
“I think we have made our point. I will just hire people to do the rest. Would you care for a little excursion?”
“Your little side-trips always come close to getting me killed. Where this time?”
“Bellingham. It should be quiet enough. We can take a truckload of papers down there, see what the reaction is in the States.”
“I would just as soon beg off. I have to keep the copy flowing, this is a big deal, and who knows which way this is going to break. Cobblers and lasts, you know.”
“A point. If you can spare a reporter? We can leave at dawn.”
“Take George Olsen and Buster. They are able-bodied, and George can shoot a few rolls of film of the wreckage, bomb damage, that will be an issue right there.”
“As good a plan as any. Consider it done. The Rolls will be at your door at dawn.”
“Deal.” Actually, I wondered what the real deal was, I knew he never did anything at random, but I did have a job to do. One that didn’t involve getting shot at. Which was when a couple long black cars roared into the Square with guns sticking out of every window.
More Packards. IB assholes must buy them wholesale. I threw Hilda down in the bed of the truck with one hand and snatched up my Thompson with the other. I needn’t have bothered. Arbuthnot’s heavies had not relaxed their vigilance, they had their guns in their hands, and my guys were not far behind in unloading on the assholes.
It was pathetic, the Packards sucked up so many bullets so fast, they almost seemed to melt down a little, they ran out of speed as the tires were shot flat, steam burst out of their radiators, and people died. When I could focus, after I unloaded the first magazine of thirty, it was all over. A lot of our customers were heeled too, they were flat on the ground, blasting away with anything they had that would shoot. A slaughter. You might have thought that the Vanc guy on the street had enough of this happy horseshit.
We waited in silence, then the police whistles started shrilling, Arbuthnot stood up and waved us on. I took a quick head count, all present and accounted for, and home we went. We did stop and buy out a bar or two, we had lots of change and even some bills in the bed of the Mack, and nothing better to spend it on.
>>>>>>>>
Our celebration was muted; we were stunned by a “What Hath We Wrought” realization. And in the newspaper business, there is always another story.
We were enthralled, but not elated when Franklin Roosevelt came on Radio Home with words of wisdom about Patton’s death. He ended with; “We should not exult, we should not celebrate the passing of any human being, we all are capable of redemption in life. However, the sordid nature of this crime, the exposure of the rot in the highest levels of what used to be our beloved country, should lead us all away from temptation, the temptation to gloat, the temptation to say that we would never act in a similar manner. We all have our crosses to bear, we all have closets full of skeletons, and it behooves us to become more compassionate, more moral, as we rebuild our poor tortured nation. And it shall be rebuilt. I promise you this. I cannot disclose our exact plans at this time, but plans are indeed being laid, and measured steps are being taken. Be brave, be patient, and be compassionate to your fellow Americans. It will take all of us, every man and woman of good faith and strong will to rebuild our nation, and to repulse the enemies that press us on every side. May God grant you strength, and may He grant you wisdom along with that strength. Good evening from Radio Home, Dalny Free Port, in China.”
Which gave me furiously to think. Why did Arbuthnot want me down in Bellingham? He never did anything at random, and the way he got the papers to us earl
y, showed that he was master of detail. He even remembered the business cards. Look at your watch. Three in the morning. Shit. Do it. “Hilda, I think I better go south with Arbuthnot. He is up to something, and with him, a hint is the force of law. Where’s Olsen?”
“In back, he said he could not get back in the Y this late, so he is napping on my couch.”
“I’ll fix that shit.”
We had time to roust the lad, fill him full of coffee and flapjacks, before Arbuthnot showed up before time, in that immense Rolls armored car. He didn’t blink or comment when I said I was going, he took it for granted that I would come to my senses, I suppose. So, we went, me calling myself a dozen kinds of asshole for falling for the same old line of shit again.
>>>>>>>>>>>
We didn’t quite get into Bellingham proper, we turned off to that same airport, but it wasn’t the same at all. They were bulldozing another runway, surrounding houses had been knocked down, and a four-lane road connected to 99. It looked like it had become the major airfield for that whole area. We pulled right up to the new control tower, also under construction, and I tried to not obviously count the planes on the new-laid tarmac. Dozens, if not hundreds neatly stored in sandbag revetments, designed so that a fire would not spread from plane to plane in case of a dive bomber attack. A completely professional operation, and if some of the pilots looked a little wobbly doing their touch and goes, that was part of learning to fly. And it was not hard to see that they were running job lots of pilots through here. The planes were Mitsubishi 1MF10s and Curtiss P-6 Hawks that had never seen the Curtiss factory in Buffalo. They still hadn’t decided on a national flag for the alleged nation of Pacifica, so most of the planes bore the wavy blue lines of Vancouver Free Port, or the Dalny Green Tree insignia.
Arbuthnot was at his politest and most obtuse, he genially refused to tell me what the fucking hell we were doing here, it was still only a little after eight in the morning, so I slurped down the free coffee and pastries while he conferred with the older and wiser heads upstairs. After about an hour of such silliness, he came down the stairs in an avalanche of brass, officers even though the Vancs still did not have real uniforms, just blue suits with insignia on the lapels. There were quite a few eagles and stars in evidence. He gave me the high sign, and said, “Get your cameraman ready, and then join me in the reception line. You are going to enjoy this.” He unbent so far as to tap me on the shoulder. “You better, it’s all your fault, you know.”
Brown Bear Blues Page 5