A Blind Goddess bbwwim-8

by James R Benn

  Shows how dumb I was. The thing I didn’t think through was that the public defender had to share evidence with the prosecutor, and the prosecutor works with the police. Meaning Basher. By the time I’d filled in Dad-and gotten a dose of reality, delivered in a long and loud lecture about my lack of brains, judgment, and all-around suitability as a functioning human being-a new public defender had been appointed, the evidence from Mrs. Bishop had been misfiled and lost, and Basher had paid her a visit. She refused to speak to me again, even when I showed up with a pack of Pall Malls.

  The fix was in. What we didn’t fully understand was how deep and twisted the fix was. At the last minute, the prosecutor offered Tree a deal. Testify that the theft had been my idea all along, and he’d walk with probation. Then the district attorney would file charges against me. Whether they stuck or not didn’t really matter. What mattered to Basher was teaching us a lesson. And he’d have something to hold over my father’s head. Dad wasn’t exactly an angel when it came to the small stuff. Hell, our kitchen was furnished with a lot of stuff that fell off trucks after a robbery. But Basher was corrupt in a big way, the kind of corruption that led to organized crime and dead bodies floating in the harbor. Dad resisted him every step of the way, but the cop code of silence kept him from doing any more than that. With me coming up for trial, Dad might be tempted to exchange an illegal favor or two to derail the court date.

  Tree told the DA to go to hell. Not to save me from trouble, but because he wanted a trial. Probation meant a conviction, and even though he wouldn’t serve time, it would kill his chances of college. Pop Jackson had a Negro lawyer, Irwin Dorch, lined up to defend Tree. Dorch was head of the Boston National Association for the Advancement of Colored People, and Mr. Jackson said he’d paid his dollar a year to belong since he came back from the war, and it was time to collect. Dorch took the case pro bono, and he planned to use it not only to exonerate Tree, but to agitate for more Negro police officers.

  The whole thing was a far cry from the simple summer job I’d originally signed up for.

  Tree and I began to drift apart as rumors swirled about Dorch taking the case. All of a sudden it seemed like it was the whole department, not just Basher, against him and me. It became a case of us and them, with me sitting on the them side, since my dad and uncle were both detectives, and being on the force was their whole world.

  I tried again with Mrs. Bishop, but she was gone. Took her nest egg and moved to Maine to live with her daughter, the neighbors said. Conveniently outside of the local jurisdiction. Looked to me like any nest egg she had went into buying smokes, and I wondered if Basher had shown up with a wad of cash. No wonder my single pack of coffin nails hadn’t opened any doors for me.

  I went to see Tree after that. I said I’d talked to the DA, that he’d been to the house a few times, and was what my dad called one of the good guys. Even among lawyers, cops, and robbers there were good guys and bad guys, and you couldn’t always count on the uniform or suit coat to tell them apart.

  Tree said no, let it go to trial. That way I was in the clear, and he stood a chance of keeping his record clean. I didn’t see it that way, but he was in the hot seat, so I told him he was probably right.

  But I never said I wouldn’t talk to the DA.

  I waited outside the courtroom the next afternoon. A big trial was wrapping up, and I knew DA Flanagan would be there for the cameras. He was. As the flashbulbs popped and he puffed out his chest in the August heat, I strolled around the edges of the crowd. Finally I caught his eye, and as the crowd dispersed and he walked to his waiting sedan, he waved me over.

  “What are you doing here, Billy?”

  “Waiting to talk to you, Mr. Flanagan. About Tree … I mean Eugene Jackson,” I said.

  “Your father know you’re here?” He’d stopped and given me his full attention, tapping out a cigarette and firing up a gold lighter.

  “No, sir. This isn’t his idea, it’s all mine.”

  “And what exactly is it you want?” He drew in smoke and exhaled through his nose. It looked strange, and I unaccountably thought of dragons.

  I told him about how Basher had treated us, about Mrs. Bishop and the statement I’d given to the first public defender. “I just want Eugene to get a fair shake. But Basher’s got everything lined up against him.”

  “Billy, the police have presented sufficient evidence for my office to act. If Mrs. Bishop will come forward and give a proper statement, we’ll be glad to take it into consideration.”

  “She’s gone. It looked like she didn’t have a dime to spare, and now she’s moved up to Maine with a nest egg.”

  “So all I have is your word,” Flanagan said.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “It might look very bad for your father if word got out his son tried to influence the prosecution in favor of a defendant,” Flanagan said. He moved toward his automobile and the driver hopped to and opened the rear door. He stopped, took a drag, and crushed the cigarette out on the curb. “I wouldn’t try this again, young man. You might stir up trouble your family doesn’t need.”

  “Yes, sir,” I said to the door as it slammed shut.

  I went back to mopping floors as the summer ended. Tree’s trial was scheduled for right after Labor Day. The day before the holiday, Dad came home with good news. The prosecutor had offered Tree a deal. A terrific deal. All charges dropped except breaking and entering. And he was given a choice about how to do his time. Take one year in jail, or join the army.

  Tree hadn’t wanted to take the deal. He was ready for a fight, and thought Dorch could win the case. But Pop Jackson wasn’t so sure, and told Tree to take the offer. He wasn’t a guy you argued with, whether he was your boss or your father. So Tree took the deal.

  I made the mistake of telling Tree that I had been the one to talk to the DA. I was bragging about it, to tell the truth. I thought I’d gambled and won, and I wanted my friend to know. Flanagan had believed me, or at least knew enough about Basher to reconsider his case. I thought Tree would be happy, even thankful. But he was roaring mad. I was the one who’d taken away his chance to prove himself innocent and make his own choices about college or the army. It wasn’t my place to decide for him. I wasn’t that much better than Basher, when it came down to it. Both of us used the system to get what we wanted, without giving Tree a choice in the matter. We had a big blow-out fight, and Tree told me to never come around again.

  I didn’t. He chose the army, of course.

  “And here we all are,” Tree said. “I thought my life was over. No college, no future. But we didn’t see this war coming. I’d be in the army anyway by now. This way, I’m a non-com in a combat outfit. I don’t know if you guys know what that means for a Negro. I’m going to fight for my country, and if I get home, I’m going to fight for myself, and my people.”

  “You’re satisfied how it worked out?” Big Mike asked. “You’re not still sore at Billy?”

  “I’m not happy I missed Pop’s funeral,” Tree said. “But that was the Deep South for you. Wasn’t Billy’s fault. Billy Boyle is a born snoop, but this time around it worked out for me. I got my gunner back.” He raised his pint to Angry Smith, and we all drank a toast to the 617th Tank Destroyer Battalion.

  Later, as we piled into the jeep to drive Tree and Angry back to their bivouac area, Tree asked Angry why he’d had such a hard time thanking me earlier that day. He took a deep breath, and his answer didn’t come right away.

  “Because I never thanked a white man before, and meant it. Colored man got to say a lot of things to keep trouble at bay, Captain. Some of those things eat at you, know what I mean? But I can’t say no white man ever did me a kindness, until you come along. I know you did it to even things up with Tree, but still, it put me in your debt. I owe you.”

  CHAPTER FORTY

  I made the drive to Saint Albans the next day to see Major Cosgrove. I told Kaz and Big Mike to head back to SHAEF, knowing that Cosgrove wanted to talk to me alone.
Saint Albans was a rest home, a hospital for those who held secrets in their heads and sometimes demons as well. It was top secret, staffed by doctors and nurses who had security clearances better than mine.

  Saint Albans was reserved mainly for those who had been emotionally damaged but who needed to be patched up, for the greater good, and sent back into the fight. There were SOE agents, commandos, and foreigners from all over Europe. Major Cosgrove of MI5 was important enough to warrant a bed here as well. Or perhaps it was the knowledge he held.

  My name was on the list, which got me past the armed guard at the entrance gate. I was taken to the back garden, where I spied Cosgrove seated in a wheelchair, reading a book. He looked up as I approached, and I was surprised at how good he looked, compared to how terrible he had looked the last time I saw him.

  “Boyle,” he said, standing and extending his hand. “Good of you to come.” He was dressed in blue pajamas and a quilted robe. The wheelchair was wicker, and looked built for comfort as opposed to transport. There was color in his face, which had been pallid and pasty after his attack. “Please excuse the casual attire; uniform of the day at Saint Albans.”

  “Are you supposed to stand, Major?” I asked, pulling a lawn chair closer and taking my seat.

  “They have me doing a bit of exercise,” he said. “This thing is for moving about the property easily, not because I need it.” He slammed his palm down as if to reinforce the point. Charles Cosgrove was not the kind of man who wanted to appear helpless, and I could tell being in the chair bothered him. “But the medicos insist, so here I am.”

  “You do look pretty good, Major,” I said. “I thought I’d find you in a hospital bed, hooked up to some contraption.”

  “I’m not dead yet, Boyle. It was a heart attack, yes. But they said I was also suffering from exhaustion. I didn’t like being taken here, but I must admit the rest has done me wonders. Didn’t really understand how tired I was.”

  “Will you be back on duty, or …?” I let the question linger. Be put out to pasture?

  “If I have no relapse, and the doctors concur, I expect I will. Desk duty, most likely. No more running about keeping tabs on you, Boyle! That will be a relief for both of us, I wager.”

  “I don’t know, Major. I’ve almost gotten used to you.”

  “Well, then I will redouble my efforts to heal from this event. Perhaps you haven’t seen the last of me yet. But tell me, your talk with Masterman, what exactly did he tell you?”

  “I’m not sure I’m at liberty to say, sir.” I waited, feeling the warm breeze on my face. I didn’t want to hold out on Cosgrove, but this was beyond top secret, as far as I was concerned.

  “Well done. I told Masterman you could be counted upon. Boyle, you must forget what you learned from him. It was necessary to tell you, but it is such a gigantic secret, the most precious of the war so far, I believe.”

  “It frightens me, knowing,” I said in a quiet voice.

  “Yes,” Cosgrove said. “There are so many things that could go wrong, so many people involved. I think about it nearly every moment of the day. The Millers, they suspect nothing?”

  “No,” I said. “I visited them this morning, to give them a report on what we determined about Neville’s death. They were relieved.”

  “You betrayed nothing? Your voice, how you looked at them?”

  “Major, I’ve been a cop long enough to know how to lie with a poker face.”

  “Very good, Boyle,” he said. “I am overanxious about this, I know. We’ve been carrying on this charade for so long it has become a part of me. I’ll be glad when it’s over.”

  “When the invasion comes?”

  “Yes, and then for some short time beyond, if we’re successful. We’ll keep Jerry looking in all the wrong places for as long as possible. Then we’ll pick up Herr and Frau Miller and deal with them as they deserve.”

  “What about their daughter, Eva? She can hardly be part of this.”

  “Likely not. But they are the ones who put her in harm’s way, not us. She may be lucky, if that term applies. If she had stayed in Germany in any one of their cities, she could have been long dead by now. Every night we bomb and burn them, Boyle. It is a terrible business all around.”

  We sat for a while, thoughts of burning cities mingling with the visions of crippled men and women all around us, enjoying the sunshine while night reigned supreme in their minds. After a few minutes, I gave him all the details of the investigation, everything that happened after he was taken away. He asked a few questions until once again we lapsed into silence. The quiet and the clear blue skies were deceptively calming.

  “Can you tell me anything about Diana?” I finally asked. “Where she was sent?”

  “She angered some very powerful people, Boyle. Politics and passion are not a good mix. But rest assured, she was not sent on a suicide mission. She is probably quite bored where she is.”

  “Here in England?”

  “In Great Britain, yes. A training facility. Sealed tight. A dilapidated country estate surrounded by barbed wire. I hope to find out about getting her back to London soon.”

  “Sounds like she’s safer there.”

  “Yes, but the Diana Seaton we know would not be satisfied with mere safety, eh Boyle?”

  “No, sir. Is there anything you need? Anything I can get you?”

  “No, thank you. You’ve done enough by telling me about the Neville case. Justice was served, official secrets kept. Well done.”

  “Thank you, Major.”

  “And your Negro friend, that case was concluded to your satisfaction?”

  “Yes, the real killer was found and Private Smith was released. He’s back with his unit, and they’re ready for action.”

  “I wish them well. And you too, Boyle. I hope our paths cross again, but if not …” This time, he was the one to let the sentence hang. He rose and we shook hands. For two guys who started out not liking each other much, it was a helluva goodbye.

  “See you in the funny papers, Major.”

  Cosgrove laughed and shook his head, settling back down into his wicker wheelchair. It’s always good to leave them laughing.

  Driving out of Saint Albans, I wondered why Cosgrove had really sent for me. Was it to hear a first-hand report about the Millers and the murder investigation, or was it something else? Cosgrove was a military man through and through, a pal of Winston Churchill’s from the Boer War. If this was the end of his career, or perhaps his life, maybe he wanted one more taste of the hunt. Couldn’t blame him one bit.

  I had nothing to do until I had to report back to SHAEF tomorrow, so I decided to go back to Hungerford for a final visit with Tree. All this talk of the unknown future had gotten to me. And I wanted to see Angry Smith back with his crew, in his element as a gunner. I headed south, navigating my way through heavy traffic, hundreds of trucks, flatbeds, jeeps, and every conceivable vehicle the army owned, it seemed. All heading in the same direction, south. Toward the invasion ports. Someday soon, a huge fleet would set sail. Me, I was probably sitting it out. Not a lot of crime in the middle of an amphibious invasion. But the 617th could be in on it. If not the first to hit the beach, then among the follow-up units once the initial landings were successful.

  I hit Hungerford in the late afternoon, and drove out to the Common where they were bivouacked. The roads were choked with vehicles, and as I maneuvered the jeep closer, I saw a dozen or so flatbed trucks, the same kind I’d seen on the road with tanks chained down on them. I was just in time; they were moving out.

  I drew closer, and could see that the tents had been struck and that men were drawn up in platoons, some of them already boarding trucks. Officers-all of them white-stood by the flatbeds and directed the men who’d driven the TDs up onto them back to their platoons. The officers were laughing, the enlisted men were quiet. The privilege of rank.

  I asked for Tree’s platoon and was directed down the line by a sullen corporal. I spotted him as his crew move
d to board their truck.

  “Tree,” I yelled, running over to him. “You’re shipping out?”

  “Yeah, we’re shipping out,” he said, not meeting my eyes.

  “What’s the matter? What happened?” I looked around to get a clue as to what the problem was. It looked like the 617th was joining the long march to the sea, along with everyone else.

  “They took our TDs away,” Angry Smith said, his voice a low growl. “They make us drive them up those flatbeds and they’re going to take them away.”

  “What? Are you getting tanks? Where are you going?”

  “We’re not getting tanks, Billy!” Tree shouted, exploding in a fury I hadn’t seen since we parted in Boston. “They’re giving our TDs to a new battalion, a white battalion! All the officers are going, all of them except the one Negro officer we have.”

  “But what’s happening to you?” It didn’t make any sense.

  “Plymouth,” Tree said, spitting out the word as if it were foul and rotten. “We’ve been designated a quartermaster battalion. Lots of ships to unload in Plymouth. Supplies for the invasion. So they take a well-trained unit like ours and turn us into stevedores, then give our TDs to white boys who don’t know them. It ain’t right, Billy.” He was up against me, his anguish paralyzing, his agony awful to see.

  “Don’t bother, Tree,” Angry said, taking him by the arm. “Don’t give them an excuse.” A squad of white MPs stood at the ready near the knot of white officers. Just in case.

  Tree took a breath and calmed himself, turning back into a US Army sergeant. “Okay men, grab your duffles and board the truck. Let’s go!”

  “I’m sorry, Tree,” was all I could get out. It was pathetic. He brushed by me, unable to look at me. His hand squeezed my arm, briefly, a sign from the depths of a childhood friendship, and then he was gone, swallowed up by the shaded darkness of the truck.