by Alan Glenn
“Fine.” Hanson crumpled up the paper, tossing it in his wastebasket. “Goddamn Southerners forgot who kicked their ass back in ’65. Look, knock it off, all right? So far, we’re doing all right here. We don’t want another South Boston incident. Understood?”
Sam had heard a few rumors about South Boston and saw his opening. “What South Boston incident?”
Hanson hesitated, as if judging whether he could trust Sam with the information. Then he said, “Some of Long’s Legionnaires were in South Boston two months ago, trying to instill a little freelance Party discipline. Fighting broke out, got escalated, and before you know it, you had barricades in South Boston with a couple of squads of Legionnaires on one side, and some Southie Irish cops on the other, shooting at each other. Ended up with three dead, scores injured, and one police precinct burned down. Only by the best of luck did the mayor avoid having martial law declared and National Guard platoons sent in. And what I just told you is confidential.”
“I understand.”
“I hope you do. I also hope you didn’t forget that other matter from last night. About the Underground Railroad.”
Sam wondered what he could say, for he was out on a very long limb, and his boss was holding a very sharp saw.
“Suppose I found out there had been a station? But that the station had stopped operating … was no longer sending criminals north? What then?”
Sam’s heart was racing at the gamble he had just taken. From the other side of the closed door, Mrs. Walton kept on slamming at her typewriter keys. Hanson lowered his head and said, “Officially, I want you to prepare a report—in your spare time, of course—on what you learned about the station. Unofficially, I’d be very glad to hear there’s no longer any illegal activity attracting the attention of the Party.”
Hanson’s tone changed. “All right, that’s enough for now. Let me know if you find anything out about that dead man, and remember that Party meeting tonight.”
“Yes, sir. Party meeting tonight.”
Hanson picked up a fountain pen. “You got anything else for me?”
“Just one thing, if I may.”
“Go ahead.”
“I heard a … a rumor, actually, that there might be a crackdown coming down on the refugees. That we might be used to clear them out and turn them over to the Department of the Interior.”
“Who told you that?”
Sam thought of Sarah and fought to keep his voice steady. “Nobody … well, nobody of importance, sir.”
“I see,” Hanson said, writing something down. “Well, I won’t press you for your source. But I’ll tell you I don’t know anything about a crackdown, and you know how your father-in-law and I feel about it, that being one of the few things we agree on. It’s the federal government’s mess. Not ours. And speaking of your father-in-law, go see him right after you get out of the building. The honorable Lawrence Young is being a pain in the ass and requires an immediate visit from you.”
“But the case—”
“The man’s dead right now, he’ll still be dead an hour from now, but your father-in-law will still be a poisonous bastard today and tomorrow and for some time to come. So go see him and solve something, and get him off our collective asses. And Sam—after tonight’s meeting, I want you to plan to become more active in the Party. It would be a great help to the department and to me personally if we knew what was going on with the mayor and his allies. Just … information, that’s all. There are factions, groups within the Party, jockeying for funds and influence, and any information you could provide about the mayor would be very helpful to me and my friends. Do you understand?”
Sure, Sam thought with cold disgust. Be more active in the Party and be a rat as well.
“Yes, I do,” he said. “I don’t know, but I promise I’ll think about it.”
“Good. Now get out. You’ve got a full day ahead of you.”
As he left, Sam noticed the smile on Mrs. Walton’s face. She had no doubt listened to every word.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Outside, the sky was gloomy, threatening more rain. Sam walked up Congress Street, where he passed a man setting up a table on the sidewalk with a rough wooden sign that said HOMEMADE TOYS FOR SALE. He didn’t look long at the man—who had two well-dressed little girls in blue dresses and cloth coats with him, sitting on wooden milk crates—for guys like that came and went like the seasons, selling apples in the fall, gadgets and toys during the spring and summer, and—
“Hey, Sam,” came a voice. “Sam Miller.”
He stopped and looked back. The toy peddler had on a coat that was a size too small, a battered fedora, and his sunken face was unshaved. Sam stepped closer and, with a flush of embarrassment, said, “Brett. Brett O’Halloran. Sorry, I wasn’t paying attention.”
Brett smiled shyly. “That’s okay, Sam. I understand.”
Sam looked to the table and picked up one of the toys, a wooden submarine. Brett told him, “I get scrap wood from here and there, carve it at night, then paint it. Not a bad piece of work, huh?”
“No, Brett, not a bad piece of work at all.” He balanced the submarine in his hand, not wanting to look at Brett. He had been an officer in the fire department until last year, when someone found a pile of magazines and newspapers in the bottom of his locker at the fire station. PM, The Nation, The Daily Worker—just printed words, but by the end of the day, he was gone.
Brett said, “Relief ended a long time ago, so I do what I can. I mean, well, nobody wants to hire me, considering I’m trouble, you know?”
“Yeah, I know,” Sam said, throat tight, and Brett said, “These are my twin girls. Amy and Stacy. They were in the same class as your boy … Toby, right?”
“That’s right.”
Brett reached over and rubbed the top of the smaller girl’s head. “They should be in school, but I sell more if they’re out here. Tugs at the old heartstrings. Not a fair trade, but—”
Sam reached into his pocket. “How much?”
“Free for your boy. He always treated my girls okay.”
Sam shook his head. “No dice.” He laid down a handful of coins, pushed them across the table, slipped the wooden submarine into his coat pocket. “It’s really good work, Brett. Really good work.”
The coins were scooped up with a soiled hand. “Thanks, Sam. I appreciate that. You get along now, okay? And my best to your boy.”
Sam walked away, looked back one more time at the former city firefighter. His pretty girls, perched on either side of him, gently rocked their legs back and forth, lightly kicking their heels against the crates.
* * *
Two blocks away from the police station, the toy submarine weighing heavy in his coat pocket, Sam reached a storefront that had a green and white sign hanging overhead: YOUNG’S FINE FURNISHINGS.
The dangling bell on the door announced his presence, and once again, he was struck by that soul-deadening smell of new furniture. He wasn’t a snob, he knew people needed furniture, but having to spend hours in a showroom like this, deciding what fabric went with the wallpaper and between that sofa or that settee … Christ, he’d rather be hauling drunken sailors stained with piss and vomit back to the Navy Yard. On a counter by the door was a pile of President Long’s own newspaper, The American Progress. He ignored the papers and looked around, saw a customer come out of an office at the rear of the store, holding a brochure.
Sam tried not to smile. The man was dressed in a shabby brown suit with dirty brown shoes, the old soles flapping as he walked. His gray hair was a mess, and as he went to the door, he noticed Sam.
“Inspector,” he said. Sam nodded back, as Eric “The Red” Kaminski made his way to the door. Eric was a passionate rabble-rouser, passing out leaflets or holding up a sign in front of the post office protesting the government, though a stint last year in a Maine labor camp had cut back on his public appearances. He was also the brother of Frank Kaminski, the principal at Toby’s school, and a source of unending f
rustration for his straitlaced brother. One day Sam should have a cup of coffee with the principal, he thought, maybe trade frustrating brother stories.
“Eric,” Sam said, holding the door open. “Didn’t know a man of the people needed new furniture.”
As he went past, Eric said sharply, “You don’t know me, and you don’t know shit about the people, Inspector.”
“You’re probably right,” Sam replied cheerfully as Lawrence Young came out of the office, wearing gray slacks, a crisp white shirt, and a black necktie. His thick black hair was sprinkled with gray about the temples. As always, a little thump of irritation jumped up in Sam’s throat. From day one Lawrence had never hidden his dislike that Sam came from a poor family and wanted to marry his only daughter. Over the years that dislike had only grown.
“It’s about time, Sam,” he said.
“Larry,” he replied. “What can I do for you?”
“Well, Inspector Miller—or should I say, Probationary Inspector Miller?—I was hoping you could give me an update on last month’s burglaries.”
The thump of irritation was now beating in him as if it were an extra heart. “Like I told you and the other store owners, it doesn’t make sense to have the best locks on your front doors and a hook-and-eye fastener for the rear door.”
“So it’s our fault that our stores are being robbed?”
“No, Larry, it’s not,” he answered evenly. “What I’m saying is that you’ve all got to do your part to cut down on the opportunity. I’ve asked the shift sergeants to increase patrols, I’ve interrogated the pawnshop owners up and down the seacoast, and I’ve talked to your fellow businessmen. If we all do our part, we’ll cut down on the crime.”
“I see,” Larry said.
Sam checked his watch. He was going to be late for the county medical examiner. “Larry, that’s nothing new, and you know it. So now, if you’ve proven your point, I’ll get back to work.”
His father-in-law offered him a chilly smile. “And what kind of point is that?”
“The point being that as mayor, you can haul my ass over here any time you want.”
“I’m sure you’re right. But there’s other work that needs to be done. As important as your position in the police department. Political work.”
Sam counted to five silently before he said, “I’m not interested.”
“Too bad. I’ve received assurances you’ll be at the Party meeting tonight. That’s good. Your past absences have been noticed, and I’ve gotten a fair amount of grief about how my son-in-law doesn’t meet his obligations to the Party.”
“Larry, I do my job, and I go to Party meetings when I can. What else do you guys want?”
“You should be more active. Take part in the county or state committee. Make a name for yourself. I could put you in touch with the right people, and—”
Sam turned. “I’ll think about it, okay? But I’ve got real work to do.”
Larry called out, “Then think right, and think of Sarah and Toby. Think what might happen to them if you don’t get your promotion, if you’re demoted or even lose your job. I may be the mayor, Sam, but I don’t control the budget committee. The police department is always a favorite target.”
At that he swiveled. “A threat?”
“It’s a recognition of what’s going on. Who you know in the Party is going to be more important than the job you do. Even if the commission approves your promotion, it makes good sense to have important allies in your corner. And I could use you a man like you in the department … letting me know what the marshal is up to.”
“I don’t care about politics, I just care about my job,” Sam said, thinking, Oh, Christ, what a world, asked to be a rat twice in one day.
“Yeah, well, politics will sure as hell care about you. Better think about it, Sam. Do more with the Party: It’s a good career move.”
Sam stared directly at the man’s smug face, remembering a time last year when that face hadn’t been so smug. Sam had been across the river in Kittery, accompanying the cops and the Maine state police when they raided a house that had hourly paying guests. One of the guests being led out had been his father-in-law, and after Sam had a quick word with a Kittery detective, the cuffs had come off and Larry had run into the shadows. For Sarah’s sake, Sam had kept his mouth shut about what he had seen.
“Like I said, I don’t care about politics. I’m going to just do my job.”
Larry shot back, “If you don’t cooperate, if you end up losing your job, if bad things happen to Sarah and Toby, it’ll be your fault. I’m trying to be a reasonable man and show you a path to a brighter future, and take care of my daughter and grandson.”
“No, Larry, you’re trying to be a jerk.”
Out on the street, it seemed as if Larry yelled something out after him. Sam kept on walking.
* * *
In the daylight, the crime scene looked smaller and less sinister. He kicked a stone onto the railroad tracks, frustrated after his drive here. His meeting with his father-in-law had made him late to see the county medical examiner, who was now down the coast in Hampton, looking at a body that had washed up from the Atlantic. So the autopsy report would have to wait until tomorrow. He stood on the tracks, saw the gouges in the mud where the funeral home boys had retrieved the body. How in hell did his guy end up here, dead and alone?
Funny, he thought, how John Doe was now his guy. Well, it was true. Somehow he had turned up dead in Sam’s city, and Sam was expected to do something about it. He was going to find out who this guy was, and his name, occupation, and what had killed him. That was his job.
9 1 1 2 8 3.
The newly disturbed mud yielded no clues. He started walking in a slow circle, staring down at the dirt and the grass. An hour later, all he’d come up with was an empty RC Cola bottle, four soggy cigarette butts, and a 1940 penny. He kept the penny.
Now what?
Two men emerged from behind one of the small warehouses, moving deliberately up the railroad track. Both wore tattered long cloth coats and patched trousers. They stayed to the side of the tracks as they came closer.
Sam looked around. He was alone.
“Got any spare change, pal?” the man on the left called out.
“No, I don’t.”
“Here’s the deal, pal. You turn out your pockets, give us your wallet, your shoes and coat, and we’ll let you be.”
The first man moved his hand from behind his coat, showing a length of pipe. “Or we don’t let you be. Whaddya think?” The second man grinned, showing gaps in his teeth, and also the length of the pipe he was carrying.
Sam pulled his coat aside, reached up to his shoulder holster, pulled out his .38-caliber revolver. Then, with his other hand, he took out his badge. “I think we’ve got another deal going on here.” The men froze, and Sam said, “Am I right, guys?”
The one on the left gave a quick lick to his lips. His companion said, “Yes, sir, I guess we do.”
“Then drop the pipes, why don’t you. How does that sound?”
“Hey, bud,” the one on the left whined as his pipe length dropped to the ground. “We was jus’ foolin’, that’s all.”
“We’re jus’ hungry, that’s all,” the second man said. “That a crime now? Bein’ hungry?”
Sam kept his revolver leveled on them. “Here’s our new arrangement. Lucky for you clowns, I got a busy day ahead of me. So I’m not going to haul you in. But you two are going to turn around and start walking. You ever show up here again in Portsmouth, I’ll shoot you both and dump you in that pond over there. You got it?”
He could see them looking at him, evaluating him. Then they turned away. He kept his revolver up to make sure they weren’t going to change their minds. Only when they had gone about fifty yards did he return the gun to its holster.
Christ, he thought, what a week.
To the east he could make out the roof of the B&M railroad station and its sister freight station. There was also a sme
ll of smoke in the air, and he looked down the tracks, away from Maplewood Avenue, down by the grove of trees.
He started walking.
* * *
The encampment was built on a muddy stretch of ground, up against the marshland that bordered the shallow North Mill Pond. There were automobiles and trucks parked near the trees, and from the condition of most of the tires, it looked like the vehicles had made their final stop. Shacks made from scrap lumber and tree branches were scattered around, most with meager fires burning before them and women tending them. The children playing about were shoeless, their feet black with dirt. The women, with their thin dresses soiled and patched, looked up at him, eyes and expressions dull. It made him queasy, thinking about Sarah and Toby safe and warm back home. He shivered, knowing that one mistake, one bad run-in with a Long’s Legionnaire or some other screwup, could easily put his family here.
A skinny old man came over, his white beard down to his chest, his skin gray with grime, his leather shoes held together by twine. “What are you lookin’ for, fella?”
“Looking for Lou from Troy. Is he around?”
“Depends who’s askin’. You a cop?”
“I am.”
“Town cop, railroad cop, or federal cop?”
“Town cop. Inspector Sam Miller.”
The old man spat. “Haven’t seen Lou since yesterday. He in trouble?”
“No. I just want to ask him a few questions.”
“Huh. Sure. Well, he’s not here. Just me and the kids and the womenfolk. That’s it.”
Sam took in the encampment once more. “Where are the other men?”
“Whaddya think? Out in town. Day jobs. Looking for work. Other stuff.”
Other stuff, Sam thought. Rummaging through trash bins, looking for swill or food scraps. Or collecting bottles or cans. Or, like Lou, scavenging for coal lumps to cut the cold at night, when your wife and your children shivered in the rags as you lay there with them, in despair and rage, wondering again how you had ended up here, a failure as a father, a husband, a man.
“Look, last night, there was something loud coming from here … like gunshots. You know anything about that?”