Hartford was under siege, and Duluth went under, trenches or no trenches. Not hard to see that the Army from the generals on down had lost confidence in their leadership, and who could blame them? The people who thought Patton was a demigod were sorely, as they say, disabused, and the people who hated him didn’t know whether to shit or go blind, as the southern boys say. No room for a sane person, in any case. It was enough to make you want to be back in the Gobi, with so many enemies you couldn’t count them all. If wishes were horses, we would all shit chocolate ice cream, or something like that. I realized my brain was losing its metaphorical moorings, and I best take it to bed, before it started biting itself on the butt.
>>>>>>>
We went to bed, but it was a mistake leaving the bedside radio on. I guessed they didn’t just play music anymore. We, I fell into some state that resembled sleep, but wasn’t restful. One of the times we were both awake at the same time, I finally asked her where she was from.
“Nowhere, and everywhere. My dad was from Minnesota, but he was career Army, a Warrant Officer, so we moved a lot. Then he got killed…” Long silence.
“In France?”
“Belgium. It was real early. Wrong place, wrong time. He was an observer, working for a colonel who was attached to the British Army for some reason I never quite got. I was only ten. Nobody wanted to talk about it, and I didn’t want to listen. We were in England. We were sent home, to Georgia, and then we had to leave. Mom had a little pension kind of a deal, so we went to California. She drank. She died. I was out of school then, so I just tried to stay out of trouble, and not get screwed by anybody I didn’t like. That only sort of worked. Then, when the IB cleaned the Jews out of Hollywood, I could see that times were going to get hard. I eased on up the coast, one place after another, and eventually got to Vancouver. It was nice. People are polite up here, they make good money. I answered an ad in the Chronicle, and met up with Peaches, and you know the rest.” She waited, then asked, “what’s your story?”
“Not much. It seems boring to me. I was born in Odessa; my parents ran to America when the Revolution looked inevitable. My mom died in a camp during the Red Scare, I was in the AEF, then, I never saw her again. Got gassed and shell-shocked in France, they kicked me out for being useless. I bummed around New Haven, tried to sell books, was a stringer for little loser newspapers. Somebody got pissed at something I did or wrote, I don’t know what, they drafted me again and sent me off to Vladivostok, then the Polar Bears sent me to Dalny, and I helped Admiral Epstein, he was just a lieutenant back then, one thing led to another, and here I am. General Hodges thinks I can pull miracles out of my ass on demand, he calls it my ‘sideways thinking,’ so every time they have an extra shitty job, I get it.”
“You get results, don’t you?”
“I just find good people and let them go to hell under their own steam. It works, more or less. There’s a fucking war on, you know.”
“You are either the biggest asshole or the smartest guy I ever met. Or both.”
“Beats the fuck out of me. Someday I will run out of luck and there will be shit all over the walls. But so far, so good.” I could tell that wasn’t good enough for her, so I said, “General Hodges told me that a man can do a lot of good in the world if he does not insist on taking the credit. I work a little differently, I just let people be who they want to be, as long as they get the job done.”
“Like Frankie.”
“Right. I don’t care if she has a dick or not. She expects everybody to care, to get in her face about her sex life. But I am so selfish, I just don’t care. Like Peaches’ tattoos. Her business is her business. I’m not in the judging business, I’m in the newspaper business. Like that Justine Lowell in Dalny. She is a lesbian, and she expects me to care about it as much as she does. But I don’t. I just don’t. She runs the paper in Dalny, does a good job. She pisses me off, but fine. I don’t care, as long as she gets the job done. Some other guy said, "The secret to leadership is not to be a particularly intelligent person. It is to surround yourself with people smarter than yourself. And try not to kill them." I didn’t get a chuckle. Some people take me entirely too seriously.
“And what about me?”
“No complaints. You are beautiful, and competent, and willing, and you put up with my fat ass. Good enough. I appreciate you.”
“And, there is a war on.”
“Yeah, I heard that someplace.”
>>>>>>>
The CKYZ radio news woke us up for good at five. Tolson somehow managed to get Congress to pass an Emergency Resolution removing Hoover and Indian Charlie Curtis from office “for the duration of the emergency.” In addition, Curtis was derided as a Race Traitor for being half redskin. Smooth. You could just about count that as the end of the USA. The Constitution was suspended, as if anybody had paid any attention to that for the last five years, but let’s dot all the Is and cross all the Ts on the flag before nailing it to the mast and sailing onto the reefs. Still mixing metaphors. Shut up, and start writing. Two extra editions in the same day? I hoped Billy Chung’s linotype didn’t melt down, it was getting a hell of a workout.
The last remaining Southern states rushed to secede, that news left them with little choice, there was really nothing left to secede from. The big question mark was Texas, their stations were mum, but they only had only two choices. Join the Confederacy, what Radio Home people were already calling the Newfederacy, or just go it alone. I might be cynical, but I expected them to make the worst possible choice. Radio Home also mentioned that VEUAC, the Spanish radio of the Colombian Central American State, was no longer using the word “Texas” but were referring to México Ocupado, and Las Tierras Robadas, the Stolen Lands.
Fuck-blisters. Life sure sucks when you have been an asshole for a couple hundred years. A random memory surfaced, Mark Twain once wrote that the real flag of the States should be black and white convict stripes, with a skull and crossbones in the field, to honor our noble convict and pirate ancestors. I decided that this had gotten too strange for me, so strange it was almost making sense. I found myself longing for the old days in exile, when the problems had been straightforward; a hundred naked Unnaturals in the hold of a half-sunk freighter? Get them off the ship, find some clothes for them, a place to stay, something for them to do. One step at a time. Now we were in less danger, at least for the moment, but what the hell am I supposed to do about the dissolution of the Union? What was the first step? Who needed food, clothing and shelter? Who needed something to do? All that seemed to be in order, the Pacifica Army was hiring, no doubt about that. So many men and women had joined the services, that Vancouver seemed almost empty. When we came to town a few months ago, there had been groups of American Exiles on almost every corner, looking for work, plotting and scheming of ways to get back home. And now they were all in dark blue near uniforms, headed south.
There was a government to build from scratch, but that was not my problem either. Whatever shadow government Arbuthnot and the Mysterious Mister Phelps represented, it seemed to be right on top of the situation. If they needed my help, they were quite capable of asking for it.
As if on cue, a livery limousine parked outside the door, and four people, three women, and a Mexican-looking guy got out and headed for the door. They looked... Oh, fuck. Like trouble.
They were all dressed like they were going to a funeral, black understated suit on the guy, matronly dresses on the women. Then they came into focus, and I ran to the door. Trouble? But not for us. “Lupo? You son of a bitch, what are you doing on this side of the Pacific? And Olga, good to see you too.”
“Don’t say hi to us bitches, asshole, just for that, no goddamn hugs.”
“Rosita? Fuck me. And…” I remembered the third woman, we had only met once or twice, but the conditions had been memorable. “Annie Brennan? Welcome to Vancouver. You know they have a bar named after you? They even have your portrait over the bar. It’s a dive.”
She rasped out in
a voice like anchor-chain through a hawsehole, “Well that ought to be good for a couple o’belts, one way or another. You going to invite us in or you want to keep our business on the street?”
“You bring your own booze, or you want me to phone for a tanker truck?” She almost took me seriously for a second. I led them in, sat them down, handed the two older women a jug, while giving the high-sign to Hilda. She caught Buster’s eye, and flipped him a double sawbuck. “So what do we owe the honor of and all that bullshit?”
They made eye contact with each other, then Lupo spoke. “We were sent here, by your General Hodges to take over, what you call better, liberate, San Francisco. Olga and me, we were in Nicaragua, Managua, to set up the radio station. You know?”
“VEUAC? Yes, we know of it, but we are not strong in Spanish. Not enough to follow it all the time. I can see that has to change. That was you?”
“Yes. We were sent on Australian freighter, neutral flag, you know. We were up in Serranías de Amerrisque, the mountains, for the safety. In the city Estelí, Villa de San Antonio de Pavia de Estelí. Pretty city, far from the sea.”
“So the US Navy can’t shell you.”
“Indeed. Is third largest city in Nicaragua. It is on the Pan-American Highway, 150 kilometers north of Managua. They have a pleasant climate, all year, they say, the elevation is nine hundred meters above sea level. They grow lots of tobacco for use in cigars.”
“Sounds like heaven.”
“It is nice place in truth.”
“And?”
“So we set up radio, hire crew, no problems, then things move fast. Patton destroy Ciudad de Mexico, much of atrocity. EUAC has to unify or die. So, they do, they come to us, you be official radio the government, or…”
“Else. Correct.”
“Then Hodges, General Bradley sends word, help conquer California del Norte. Liberate. Now…”
“The shit has hit the fan. All the shit has hit all the fans.”
“Truth. So, we come to you, you have the connections in this Vancouver?”
“I guess. We have this guy, James Arbuthnot, he seems to know what is going on, but…” An idea struck. “Hilda, find Chan and Eng. They are from Frisco. Hilda, you spent time there, didn’t you? I’m way out of my depth here.”
“I was there for a couple months, but I just worked in an insurance office. Eng’s probably in the kitchen, they have bridge game in there, most nights.”
“Who knew?” While she was gone, I asked Annie and Rosita, “So, how do you fit in?”
Annie spun the yarn. “Eppie fixed me up with a ship and a crew, I crossed over here, keeping well south. I got up to La Paz, and set up a base. Nobody ever thinks of fucking La Paz, it’s the ass-end of no place, but it’s far away from Acapulco, and on the inside of Baha California. Nice and quiet, out of trouble. I started looking to recruit pirates, and I run into Rosita there. It’s really my job to fuck things up in Frisco enough to make the revolution look good to those losers. I’m from Seattle, but that’s a done deal, Portland is shaky, let them fester, so that’s my plan. We run up here in the Buttercup to recruit sailors and ships, and then do what we have to do. As fucked up as things are, it should be a piece of cake.”
Rosita carried on the tale; “After I dropped off Joe and Connie, I headed south to find out what kind of trouble I could get into. I’m half-Mex, so I wanted to help those guys out. We got down to Dago, and I had to kind of bend that asshole Mike a little. He called the IB on me, so I ran like a turpentined bitch dog, and made it to La Paz. Any port in the storm, you know what I mean?”
“I hope I do. This is too much for me. Let’s call in the fucking Mounties. We sure the fuck do not want to work behind their backs. Anyway, we are all part of Pacifica now.”
“We are? Says who?” Annie was taking nobody’s word for nothing. I picked up the phone and called Arbuthnot.
“Miles; I was just about to ring you. You can release that package I gave you. As soon as you can. You understand the urgency, of course.” Not a question, an order.
“James, you need to get over here right now. Something big has come up, and we need you in on this.”
“You are referring to that converted cutter The Buttercup, that moored in the Fraser River a few hours ago?”
“You know more about this than I do, then, but the captain, Annie Brennan, wants to talk to you.”
“A legendary name. Consider me conjured.”
>>>>>>>>>>>>
We had a few belts and some steaks Chan broiled up, I handed the Pacifica Files to Charles, told him to whip that into a front-page story, and we were nibbling on chips when Arbuthnot showed up. I wondered why it had taken so long, but when I saw who he had with him, it all became clear. And more than slightly scary. “Ah, Mister Phelps, how nice of you to join us.”
“I am actually General Robert Phelps, these days. Call me Bob. The time for hiding lights under bushels is past.” He held out his hand, “Captain Brennan. An honor. Charmed, I’m sure.”
“General? Of what?” She was less impressed.
“Of what used to be the RCMP Special Branch. We are now Pacifica Intelligence Services.”
“If you called yourselves Pacifica Intelligence Special Services, I could call you a bunch of PISS-ers.” She shrugged, and went on, “We got a problem?”
“Not necessarily. We are dispensing with a lot of paperwork these days. Who sent you, and what are you supposed to do for us?”
“I ain’t supposed to do nothing for Vancouver. Admiral Epstein wants me to go down to Frisco and stir up trouble, see if I can get them to roust the fucking IB, and declare themselves a free port, like Dalny. That jake with you?”
“I see no problem with that program. And your friends?”
“Lupo here, and his old lady, Olga, they are from Radio Home, set up that radio VEUAC in Nicaragua, then the government, the Colombianos, took over, he’s looking for a gig. Rosita’s an old running mate, good people. You should know her; she gets in enough trouble for three people.”
“Ah, yes. Rosita Helms, Brighton, Kapurny, O’Toole, Santiago, Johnson. Did I miss any?”
“A few of the short-term ones. No biggy. Bob, I haven’t seen you since you were pounding a beat on the docks. Coming up in the world, ain’t you?”
“We do our best. You look well, considering how old we have gotten.” He dismissed that like throwing a switch. “So, again, what are we going to do for each other?”
Annie was not having any nice. “I don’t need shit. I just came up to find a couple of old fishing boats and some bad-ass sailor-types who can follow orders to go down and spread the word, pretty much like Rosita and Joe Angelo did down in Seattle. We stopped in Frisco on the way up, and that fucking place is seething, it’s ready to blow.”
“So you thought to fan the flames?”
“I was going to throw some fucking gasoline on the bastards. Rosita said that the book you guys printed up hit a lot of people real hard, took the heart right out of them. That’s what I need.”
My cue. “So, Lupo, old buddy, what can you tell me that will light a fire under their asses?”
“Los Colombianos are the friends of our enemies. We no want them for neighbors. My people, Espanish, but no my amigos. One day, Franco and Goering will have a war, but not today.” He went on after a thought settled in. “Los Colombianos want, expect to get Los Angles. They are at the gates of San Diego. Your Anglos have lost heart, they want to run away, but they have no home to run to. No more. So?”
“Are there many Spanish in San Francisco? I’m an East Coast guy, I don’t really know. All the Spanish I knew back home were Cubans and Puerto Rician cigar rollers in Connecticut, and they were mostly up in Hartford.”
“Spanish everywhere in whole world, but truth. Not so many down there. Old families. Landowners on the mainland. Too many other kinds of people in the city. Many people from Chile, no organization.”
“So, obviously, we want the Anglos from Southern California t
o go north, and vice versa. There is a road?”
Hilda chipped in. “US 101, what they call El Camino Real, goes all the way, the Pacific Coast Road, it runs right up here, where it hooks to 99. It’s pretty damn winding, but it’s a road. They keep talking about building a bridge across the Golden Gate, but nothing so far. You have to take the ferry. That might be a weak point. It’s a long damn way from Frisco to Portland. Six hundred miles of nothing but big trees and lumberjacks. I drove it in a beat-up flivver, I was lucky to live though that shit. I had to use my womanly wiles a few times to get flats fixed, shit like that.”
“And it is more than four hundred miles from Los Angeles to San Francisco.” Phelps spoke. “Either distance would be a decent buffer zone for our purposes. Although the benefits of the Port of San Francisco are not to be denied. Very defensible harbor, indeed.”
A long pause for cogitation, so I had to sick my oar in the soup. “So, am I supposed to have a say in this? We are back to cobblers and lasts. Lupo, you and Olga could go up to Crazy House, Radio CKYZ, and set up a Spanish service. They already do French and English. Annie, you and Rosita are the Merchant Marine, you have more of an idea what to do than I will ever have. General Phelps? I am not about to tell you what to do. I’m just an ink-stained scribbler, like Melville said. But I don’t see any conflicts here.”
“I think I must agree. Pacifica is still evolving, we have no central government as such, we may not have a viable constitution for months yet, if then. But, obviously, Dalny and Vancouver are the senior partners, we have been in communication with each other for a while now. We have one single overriding initiative; we need to maintain the support of the Imperial Japanese government, without becoming subservient to them. In the long run, they will need our materials and our ports and our armies, and we will need their Navy and their aircraft production. Mutual need is a strong bond. The Empire’s relations with EUAC are not defined yet, there have been no overt hostilities. The Philippines might well become a wild card, but not at this point in time. I think we best do as our individual spirits direct, with some caution, and see what happens.”
Brown Bear Blues Page 7