“Well, if I like her, I suppose I have to like you. Now . . . you said Blue Eye. Lord’s mercy, I left Blue Eye in 1941 when I was seventeen. And my father—Daddy was an engineer, but during the Depression the only job he could get was as a draftsman—you know, got a job working for Martin Aviation, just outside Baltimore. I’ve been here ever since, lived nicely in the valley through two husbands, six children, and I’m not sure how many grandchildren, whose names I can’t seem to remember either. As you can see, my brain is a large piece of ancient Swiss cheese, and I fear that the part that contained Blue Eye memories is one big empty bubble. May I ask, what is this in support of? If the letter said, I’ve forgotten.”
“The letter was vague,” said Bob, “nothing in it to remember. I can’t explain it too well even now. See, my father, Earl Swagger, was a great man. He was awarded the Medal of Honor for something he did on Iwo Jima in 1945, and he also took part in five island invasions in the war. He came back and was a State Trooper, and was killed in the line of duty in 1955 when I was nine. But his father is a mystery. His name was Charles Swagger, and he was a hero in World War I, in two armies, the Canadian and the American. He was the sheriff of Polk County from 1923 until his death, also in the line of duty, in 1942, just before my father was sent to Guadalcanal. I realized when some of his relics came my way that I knew nothing about this man, and it seems he wished nothing to be known. He may have even covered his tracks. But he shaped my father into something special and my father shaped me.”
“Into something special—like father, like son.”
“No, my father was a real hero, I’m just a lucky imitator. Anyhow, I have taken it upon myself to learn something about my grandfather and see what lies at the root of his mysteries. I have called homes for the elderly all throughout Arkansas, taken out ads in elder publications, dug through the photo albums of old families in Blue Eye, finally hiring a sophisticated detective agency to try to find someone who was alive and remembers when my grandfather was alive. After all that, I’ve found only one such person: you. That’s all.”
“I’m afraid I must disappoint you, then, Mr. Swagger . . . Colonel Swagger?”
“Gunnery Sergeant Swagger.”
“Sergeant Swagger, I have no memories of your grandfather.”
“I brought some pictures. I thought it might help. These are from the Blue Eye Historical Society.”
“All right,” she said, “I’m game. Abracadabra, bibbity-bobbity-boo, let’s see if some magic happens.”
He handed over a batch of glossies from his briefcase and the old beauty took them, scanned them, now and then stopping to meditate, or at least go into search function, and commented as she navigated.
“The trees—I do remember the trees. Elms, hundreds of them, and in the fall the whole world blazed with their coloration.”
“Yes, ma’am,” said Bob.
“They burned leaves in those days, and from August through early November the stink of burning leaves and a fog of smoke hung everywhere. Is that right?”
“It is,” said Bob.
“Is it me or were the colors really different then? I seem to remember nothing was as hard a color as it is now. It was more pastel somehow, thinner. There was more light in the air. There wasn’t so much insistence on being noticed.”
Bob sort of got what she meant, but no words came to him.
“Not big on colors, are we, Sergeant Swagger?”
“He was too busy ducking to notice colors,” said Nikki.
“Point well taken,” said Mrs. Tisdale. “Your life has been too full of meaningful action to put up with ironic jibes from a rich old lady, Sergeant Swagger.”
“None of it had much meaning, ma’am. I take no offense.”
“Anyhow, of course homes were bigger, but hotter, no air-conditioning. I remember big black boat-cars. Everybody smoked, everybody wore hats, everybody drank. Yes, there was a Depression, but I was among people who seemed untouched by it. I remember tennis, but I think that was later, more toward the war. My father played golf and was in the country club. The black people were very subservient, and invisible, even if they were in your home . . . Oh, I do remember this home, I believe Billy Marlowe lived there. I think he kissed me in 1941, when I was seventeen, right before we left for Baltimore. I think I heard he died in a plane over Germany. The shoes are so funny. I don’t remember them, though I do remember saddle shoes, though maybe that was later. I think I have the ’thirties and the ’forties and half the ’fifties lumped together. I’m afraid next I’m going to remember going to the movies to see Lewis and Martin.”
“What about Shirley Temple?”
“I remember seeing those movies, I remember the theater, and my friends Frannie and Thelma, but it’s in space, just floating, not connected with anything. Sorry, I can’t help. Anything else, Mr. Swagger?”
“Finally, this one.”
“My god,” said Mrs. Tisdale. She looked at the photo, considering it carefully. In time, she squinched up her eyes so that she was regarding it like a sniper peering through a scope, only through her dominant eye.
“Here’s how it appeared in the paper, ma’am.” He handed over the cellophane-wrapped clipping from the December 11, 1934, Clarion. “Sheriff Awards ‘Crossing Guard of Year’ Medal.”
“The actual glossy has more detail,” he said. “The printed version gets all fuzzy with those dots.”
She continued to stare intently. Then at last—it seemed an hour had passed, but it couldn’t have been more than a few seconds—she said, “Yes, now that I see this, it does in fact conjure some memories. I cannot believe I still am capable of such.”
“Please, go ahead.”
“Ah, suppose I tell you something about this man that you won’t like?”
“I would be surprised if you didn’t. What information I’ve come up with suggests he’d just done something that resulted in some kind of scandal and returned to Polk County in shame. And I assume since it was the custom, that as part of the apparatus that ran Polk County in those days, he was party to all matter of graft, grift, and bribe.”
“Perhaps . . . I wouldn’t know any of that. But I did notice that he smelled like Daddy, which was my code for whiskey on his breath. I remember too that he had the sort of over-friendliness, over-politeness, over-precision that attends someone in a state of alcoholic blur who is pretending to be sober.”
“He seems to have had a drinking problem. I’m guessing it started in 1934.”
“What happened to him in 1934?”
“That’s the mystery I’m trying to solve. I know that later it got so bad that he started going to a Baptist Prayer Camp for help. But the Lord was otherwise occupied.”
“The Baptists talk to God, you know, so if they couldn’t help him, he was beyond redemption. Are you sure you want to know?”
“No. But I am sworn to try my damnedest.”
“Fair enough. All right, he was, as I said, slightly drunk. Nobody said a thing, but I could smell it. He must have favored rye, as my father did. There were other things manifest now that I remember. He was treated by all with great respect. It was clear many viewed him with awe and considered themselves lucky to be in his presence. Perhaps it was all those medals he won in his two armies.”
“He had also shot it out with some very bad fellows from Little Rock, and when the smoke cleared, he was still standing and they were not. Actually, that happened several times with various fellows, and he was always the one left standing in the end.”
“Yes, that was the aura. He was the gunfighter. But at the same time, even as I sensed that, I can remember not fearing him. He didn’t make you uneasy. He seemed a good man, to a ten-year-old girl. I remember that plaid jumper I wore on special occasions. Each of the crossing guards got a medal, but because I had never been late or missed a day, I was considered the best. I was rather proud of
that medal; it remains the only prize I ever won. It also was the first time I ever succeeded at anything, and I had been considered a dull girl. But having a big important man like The Sheriff give me that medal, and hold my hand, and telling me I should be proud, that was one of my favorite moments.”
“I’m glad he was part of that for you.”
“I am too. Maybe he wasn’t the bastard you think.”
“We’ll have to see.”
“Now I am getting a memory. It’s gurgling out of my unconscious. Is it real or is it a figment? No, I think it’s real.”
They waited. The old lady closed her eyes, as if waiting for the séance to begin, then laughed.
“Oh, yes: the ear.”
“The ear?”
“You can’t see it here. His head is turned slightly. It was his right ear. The top half of it was bandaged. It could not have been a major wound. I mean, an ear. The top of an ear! But it wore some gauze wrapping and adhesive tape. Yes, definitely. Had he been in a minor accident?”
“I don’t know. I’ll go back to the newspaper and see if there’s any mention.”
He sat back, looked at Nikki, who nodded.
“I can’t tell you how much you’ve helped me. You’ve given me something I didn’t have before: an ear.”
After some farewell ceremony, they left the old woman, found a place to eat, and then headed back to D.C. He would drop Nikki off at her apartment, then head out to Nick’s, where he was bunking, to see if Nick had come up with anything.
As he dropped her off, she said, “By the way, are you aware that you’re being followed?”
22
THE LOOP
CHICAGO
July 21, 1934
CHARLES TOOK THE FREIGHT ELEVATOR DOWN, stepped into the Chicago heat—it hit him like a hammer—and walked the few blocks to State. Chicago’s main stem was thronged. It was the season of the straw hat, that flat-brimmed pancake head cover that had always seemed ridiculous to Charles. These big-city folks, how did they think they looked? But everywhere, the disk-like things bobbed and swayed and jiggled, their wearers seeming to believe in their magic cooling powers, though faces ashine with sweat in the harsh sun seemed to belie that faith.
Charles himself, even in cotton khaki, sweated badly as he moved the two blocks to the huge hulk of the Maurice Rothschild department store and found the central phone booth outside the main entrance. Fortunately, it was empty, and wiping his brow with a handkerchief, Charles entered and slid the door shut—even hotter!—took the phone off its cradle and pressed the lever down, putting the phone to ear. He wasn’t much for pretending, but he made a halfhearted attempt to play the game, and Uncle Phil’s spies must have been efficient, for in a few seconds the phone rang.
“Swagger.”
“Well, aren’t you the hero.” It was the creamy voice of the man on the park bench, assured, vaguely New York, smoother than it ought to be.
“So what is this?”
“Your lucky day.”
“Okay.”
“No names. But there’s a cop in the East Chicago police force so crooked, he can’t find a bed to lie flat in.”
Uncle Phil waited for his laugh, but Charles wasn’t a laugher.
“Anyhow, he’s trying to sell out Johnny D.”
“All right,” said Charles, “I am impressed.”
“He knows a gal—this is the only name: Anna—she’s an ex-madam, was in the whore trade since before you were born. Her mess is, she’s some kind of European, she’s in trouble with Immigration, and they want to ship her back to her country, to which she’s in no hurry to go.”
“Got it,” said Charles, thinking, Get to the point!
“She runs a North Side rooming house, on the outskirts of respectability. It seems her newest roomer is a tall bub with a way about him. Lots of cash, flashy dresser, the dames got all their skivvies wet for him.”
“This guy would be Johnny?”
“You’re on it. So the deal is, Anna’s willing to give up Johnny in exchange for help with Immigration. That’s why the deal is coming to you, federal government, instead of local palookas, who can’t do a thing for her.”
“Give up how?”
“You’d have to discuss that with her.”
“What’s the timing look like?”
“She wants to move fast so she doesn’t end up back in Sylvania or Pennsylvania or Transylvania or wherever it is. You could have him inside of a week.”
Charles took a deep breath.
“This cop, will he be trouble?”
“No. He’ll get a message from certain folks I know to back off on this one. He’ll handle arrangements, put it together. He wants to be in on the pinch, or shoot—whichever—but he’s not a worry. He’ll either play ball or go for a swim in the lake with a refrigerator.”
“You guys play rough.”
“It’s the only way.”
—
THE MOON WAS A SLIVER, the lake a sheet of motionless gray, though here and there reflections winked. Behind them, the well-lit skyline of Chicago declared itself in dazzling illumination, the irregularity of the lights communicating the complexity of the architecture. Each vertical spurt of brightness stood for a building, too many of them to count, and between the buildings Charles could see more buildings, an infinity of buildings. Every two minutes the pulse of light from the Lindbergh Beacon atop the Palmolive Building swept over them, and when its brightness temporarily vanished, the glow of a metropolis going full blast rose in a great pink-orange crown over the skyline. The water lapped lazily against the concrete blocks of the revetment, and out there on the lake, a few lights disclosed vessels, whether yachts or barges being unknown.
There were two black Division Fords parked on this deserted stretch of shoreline a few miles north of the World’s Fair of 1933, now 1934, on new landfill extending the lakefront east, claiming it from the big waters. Someday it would be parkland, but now it looked like a bleak battlefield.
In the first Ford, Mel Purvis sat, elegant as usual, and behind him, in the backseat, Ed Hollis and Clarence Hurt sat with Thompsons, fully loaded with big fifty-round drums, bolts locked back, safety levers down, ready to pour out streams of fire in case of ambush of some sort. Both the young agents had taken their jackets off, wore bulletproof vests over their shirts, but still had their ties cinched tight, their collars starched and pinned, and hats—those straw boaters—atop. You never could tell when the Director was watching.
In the second car, Charles sat behind the wheel and Sam Cowley was in the backseat. Both were armed with handguns, and a Thompson and a Model 97 riot gun rested in the trunk, Charles was smoking, and the air felt heavier than saturated cotton.
“Are they late, Sheriff?” asked Sam.
“Still two minutes to go,” said Charles after checking his Bulova. “I hope they show. I hope this one don’t blow away like all the others.”
“But you think this Zarkovich seemed solid?”
“He knows the game. That’s not saying he’s some Angel of Virtue, but he knows the rules and doesn’t want us pissed at him because he knows how much heat the Division can stoke.”
“One of the advantages of working for the biggest boys on the block,” said Sam. “I hope I don’t have to shoot a Tommy gun tonight. I’ve never touched one in my life.”
“I’ll teach you. When I’m done, you’ll be able to shoot ducks with the goddamned thing.”
“Ha! Now, that’s optimism.”
At that point, a car turned off the Outer Drive onto this gravelly wasteland, dimmed its lights, and proceeded slowly toward the two government vehicles. It arrived, pulled off the road nearby, and went dark.
“Okay,” said Sam. “You’re on, Charles.”
Charles said nothing. He exited the car, tossed his half-smoked tailor-made away, and l
ounged against the fender, enjoying a bit of offshore breeze, as a figure emerged from the newly arrived car.
“Swagger?” said Detective Zarkovich.
“Yep,” said Swagger, and the man, heavyset, with a rather pouchy, glum Serbian face, came over. Blue double-breasted, Panama. Cigar.
“Is she here?” Charles asked.
“Yeah, but she’s a little fragile. Was crying all the way over. Doesn’t want to do this, but she don’t want a one-way to Bucharest either. What’s a gal going to do? I guess what she needs to do.”
“It’s a tough life if you’re a whore,” said Charles.
“I’ve noticed. Anyway, you’ve got your big man?”
“The biggest. Purvis is in the other car, the real power belongs to Cowley. He’s here to make a deal.”
“Nobody in that other car’s going to go nuts or anything?”
“They’re trained men. The best.”
“Okay, and it’s accepted, my stuff? I get to be in on the bust, I get credit. Someone tells my chief what a hero I am. I get the reward.”
“Not sure about the reward, and never said I was. The other stuff is all right.”
“Okay, I’ll get her.”
He watched the man return to his vehicle, knock on the rear window until it was rolled down. After a conference, the door opened and a leggy broad in a bucket cap and chemise stepped out, elegant in both dress and comportment, but a little shaky in the legs, as if one of her heels was loose. Even from afar, Charles could see the way her large eyes were spotlighted by the artful cosmetics around them. She looked like a silent-screen star.
Holding her arm, Zarkovich escorted her to the car. Charles tipped his hat, said, “Ma’am,” and opened the door. She slid in gracefully.
On instruction, Charles went behind the driver’s seat. Sam wanted a witness.
“Please, make yourself comfortable, Mrs. Sage,” said Sam confidently. “This is a conversation, not an interrogation. Smoke, if you care to.”
“Thank you.”
“Now, for us to help you, you have to tell us how you can help us. You understand that?”
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