by Alan Glenn
The old man spat again. “A couple of fellas were drunk, got pissed at each other, fired off a couple o’ rounds. Missed, o’ course. But shit, you tell me you’re worried about that, somethin’ that happened twelve hours ago? Why didn’t you come earlier?”
Sam said, “Other matters had priority, and—”
“Yeah, that’s crap. You cops, you don’t give a shit. If you did, you woulda been here last night instead of comin’ out here the next day to pick up the pieces. Well, the hell with you.”
Without warning, the man took a swing at Sam, the blow landing hard on his left cheek. Sam, stunned, stepped back and, with two hands, shoved the old man in the chest. The old man fell on his butt, snarling, “Fuck you, cop. You and your kind don’t care about us. I was a stonecutter from Indiana, made stone that built this country, and look at me and my family—livin’ like animals, beggin’ for scraps. So get the fuck out of here, leave us be. Shit, better yet, you want to arrest me? Go ahead. I’ll be fed better and will sleep better tonight in your damn jail.”
Sam touched his cheek, then turned away. Suddenly, he heard a man laughing. From one of the shacks a man stepped out, buttoning his fly. A shipyard worker, probably, Sam thought. The man strolled away, whistling, lighting up a hand-rolled cigarette, and then a woman in a gray dress emerged from the shed, holding a dollar bill, an empty look on her tired face. When she saw Sam, she ducked back into the shack, and he heard her say something he couldn’t make out.
He looked at the rails again. Hearing that woman’s voice, a memory had come to him of a time when he had been a patrolman. Along these very tracks, not far from here, he’d been part of a search party seeking an old man who had wandered off when a train rumbled by unexpectedly. Not a B&M train, just a dark locomotive with a series of closed-off boxcars, and from those boxcars, Sam remembered hearing … noises. Voices. Scores of voices, crying out desperately as the train shuttled through the night, going God knows where.
Voices he couldn’t understand.
He looked back at the trampled spot where the dead man had been found.
“Who are you?” he said. “And where in hell did you come from?”
Then he continued back to his Packard, rubbing his sore cheek.
CHAPTER NINE
Dinner was a bowl of chicken stew and some chunks of homemade bread, and while Toby drew doodles on scrap memo paper from the department, Sarah sat on the other side of the table, silent and looking paler than usual. There was a faint crackle to the air, as though a thunderstorm were approaching.
When she spoke, there was a listlessness to her voice, as if she were preoccupied with something.
“You were out late last night with that dead man, Sam. You shouldn’t have to go out again tonight. The marshal should give you a break. Especially since you got in a fight. Your cheek is really bruising up.”
“It wasn’t much of a fight, and tonight’s a Party meeting,” he told her. “You know how it is.”
She spooned up some of the stew. The radio was playing a repeat sermon of the famed radio priest Father Charles Coughlin, out of Chicago. In his musical accent, Coughlin said, “The system of international finance which has crucified the world to the cross of depression was evolved by Jews for holding the peoples of the world under control …”
Sam frowned. He despised the priest. “Why are you listening to him? I thought you liked the music from that Boston station.”
“It went off the air yesterday. The FCC yanked its license.”
The priest went on. “… from European entanglements, from Nazism, communism, and their future wars, America must stand aloof. Keep America safe for Americans and the Stars and Stripes the defender of God.”
“I’m finished. May I be excused?” Toby asked breathlessly.
Sam looked to Sarah, and she said, “Yes, you may.”
“Thanks!” He pushed his chair back with a screech and ran for his room, and Sarah called out, “And no radio until your homework gets done, got it, buster?”
“Yep!”
With Toby gone, Sarah picked up her spoon. “Sam, are you sure you can’t stay home tonight?”
“Honey, I’ve missed two Party meetings in a row. I can’t afford to miss a third. I start missing meetings, then somebody will start looking in to me. And if that happens, maybe they’ll find out about your little charity work, right?”
“Sam, I know we called it charity work, but it was much more than that,” she said sharply. “It is—was very important to me. It was once important to you, too. You always supported me before. I don’t like that you’ve changed your mind.”
“I haven’t changed my mind. Other things have changed. And if I miss one more meeting, I can get put on a list. And I’m still on probation. You know where that toy sub came from, right, the one for Toby? An unemployed firefighter selling wooden toys on the street because someone ratted him out for reading the wrong newspapers. If there are cutbacks next budget season, I could lose my job. Or end up chopping down trees with my brother if they find out what’s been going on in our basement.”
“You won’t be on any list like that. You know that. Please knock it off. You’re just trying to scare me.”
“Don’t be so sure. And something else you should know. I saw the marshal and your dad separately this morning, and they want the same thing: me to be more active in the Party, so I can be a rat and tell them what the other’s up to. Isn’t that great? The marshal and your dad have such a high opinion of me that they both want me to be a rat.”
Sarah wiped her hands on a napkin. “Maybe you should be more active in the Party. I mean, with the Underground Railroad station closed, my friends and I, well, if you could tell us things ahead of time—”
“Dammit, woman, it’s bad enough my boss and your dad want me to be a rat, you want me to do the same for you and your half-baked revolutionaries and concerned schoolteachers?”
Sarah’s eyes flashed at him. “Don’t insult us by calling us that. It’s people like my friends who can make a difference. And I wish you would stop being so mean about my dad. I don’t like it.”
“I’m sorry you don’t like it, but you know he can be a jerk.”
“Jerk or not, he’s just trying to help his son-in-law, me, and our son. What’s wrong with that? You know how he helped us with the furniture, and he wanted to help with the down payment for our house. I still don’t know why you didn’t let him.”
“Because I don’t want to be under his goddamn thumb, that’s why!”
She glared at him, and noisily clattered the dishes together. “But it’s all right to sleep in a bed that he provided us at cost, isn’t it, Inspector Miller?”
“Look, Sarah—”
His wife made a point of looking up at the kitchen clock. “I don’t want to talk about it any more. You’re going to be late to your precious Party meeting.”
* * *
The meeting was held in American Legion Post #6, off Islington Street, nearly a dozen blocks away from the police station. The air inside was blue-gray with smoke. Most of the men were smoking cigars or cigarettes; the bar was open, and bottles of Narragansett and Pabst Blue Ribbon were held in a lot of fists. Sam went up to a table near the entrance, where he paid his fifty cents and his name was checked off a list. There, he thought, I’m here, dammit, and I won’t be back for another month, no matter what the marshal or the mayor wants.
There was a burst of laughter in the corner, and Sam noted a freckle-faced man holding court. Patrick Fitzgerald, father of his friend Donna. Remembering his chilly dispatch from home, he thought again of Donna and her sweet smile, and … Why hadn’t he asked her out back in school?
Frank Reardon came toward him, giving him a satisfied nod. Unlike the other night by the train tracks, Frank wore civvies and had an American Legion garrison cap tilted on his head, as did a number of others.
“Glad to see you made it, Sam. What the hell happened to your cheek?”
“Walked into a doo
r.”
Frank grinned. “If you say so. Look, anything new about that body? Any ID yet? Or cause of death?”
“Nope,” he said. “Still working it. Should get a report from the medical examiner tomorrow.”
“Sounds good. But I bet you a beer that you find out that dead man’s a hobo who stole those clothes and got clipped by the train some way.”
“Maybe,” Sam agreed, and Frank said, “You watch. One beer.”
Frank wandered off, and Sam decided one beer was a good idea. There was a stir amid the crowd, and two young men came in from the rear of the room, laughing. Blue corduroy pants, leather jackets, and even in the crowd, Sam felt alone and exposed, as if he were in a crowded church and feeling like the pastor was staring right at him when sermonizing about the wages of sin. Long’s Legionnaires, the same creeps from the other night at the Fish Shanty. They dragged chairs over near an empty lectern and sat there, legs stretched out, arms folded. Here to keep an eye on the locals. Sam looked away and went up to the wooden bar, where he managed to get a Narragansett. Then there was an elbow in his side and a voice in his ear: “Inspector, I sure hope you don’t drink like that on duty.”
A short man with red hair stood grinning up at him. Sean Donovan, former ironworker from the Portsmouth Naval Shipyard and now a clerk at the department, who spent most of his days burrowed in the files in the basement, trying to clean up a backlog of misfiled papers and case reports. Most cops ignored him—what the hell was a guy doing in a broad’s job, anyway?—but Sam liked Donovan’s quick wit and ability to find some obscure bit of paperwork in just a few minutes.
“Didn’t know you were so interested in politics, Sean.”
“I’m interested in keeping my job, my belly full, and a roof over my head. That means decisions, compromises, and the occasional sacrifice that would make your stomach roll. If I was in Berlin, I’m sure I would be a fully paid member of the Nazi Party. If I was in Moscow, my party card would be red. In England, Mr. Mosley would have my allegiance; in Italy, Signor Mussolini; and in France, Monsieur Laval; but here I am in Portsmouth, New Hampshire, eager to once again swear undying fealty to the Kingfish.”
Sam clinked his bottle against Sean’s. “And then go home to curse him out in private.”
“You know me too well, Inspector. But I’m sure you’re not here out of any particular love or duty to the Party. Just here not to rock boats, am I right?”
“And now, because you work for the cops, you’re a mindreader?”
“You’ll be amazed at what I’ve learned. Ah, I see our boys from Baton Rouge are here to keep an eye on us.”
Sam looked again to the two young Southern men, and there was Marshal Harold Hanson, talking to them. Hanson went to the other side of the room, took a seat. Then one of the Legionnaires raised his head, and his chilly blue eyes seemed to look right through Sam. The Legionnaire nudged his companion, and now they were both staring at him. Sam raised his bottle in a salute and gave them a smile, and for that, he got frozen gazes in return. Fine. To hell with you bastards, he thought.
“Looks like two of Long’s finest don’t like your Yankee hospitality,” Sean remarked.
Sam kept a smile on his face. “The little crawfish bastards should crawl back to their bayous or swamps or whatever the hell they call them.”
“Now look who’s talking sedition. Hold on, it looks like the show is about to begin.”
A large man wearing a Legion cap and a dark blue suit that pinched at every seam stood behind the lectern. Teddy Caruso, city councillor and a Party leader for the county. Caruso’s loud voice carried out into the mass of men—the women had their own Party auxiliary, which met at a different time—and there were some grumbles from the crowd as he said, “Come on, come on, find a seat, find a seat, we wanna get going here …”
Lawrence Young walked in, with his sharp smile that suggested a fondness for the rough-and-tumble world of politics. He joined Teddy for a moment, whispering into his ear. Both made a point of smiling at the two Southern men sitting near them.
Sean said, “I see your sainted father-in-law is up front, member of the ruling class, ready to oppress us workers. Why don’t you go up and give him a big ol’ handshake?”
“And why don’t you mind your own damn business?” Sam shot back.
“Tsk, tsk, it seems Mr. Young and his favorite son-in-law don’t get along,” Sean said cheerfully. “If that’s the case, take a number. You’re not the only one in the room who despises him. Like our boss, for example.”
“Really? I know they’re not best friends, but—”
“Oh, come on, Sam. There’s more to police work than being out on the street. You’ve got to look beyond the streets to the offices overlooking them and the men who inhabit them. Like our mayor and the marshal. Both men who crave power, who like being in the Party, and who neither trust nor like each other.”
“Even if they’re both Party members?”
“Especially if they’re both Party members.” Sean said it firmly. “Sam, m’lad, listen well and learn. In all fascist organizations, there are factions within that battle each other. Over in Germany, it’s the SS versus the Gestapo. Here, it’s the Nats versus the Staties.”
From the crowd came another roar of laughter. Sam said, “The Nats versus the what?”
“Nats and Staties. Nats are short for National, Staties slang for States. The Nats believe in supporting the Party organization no matter what, subordinating the needs of their states and their own people. The Staties believe in supporting their people and their state first and foremost. Hanson is a Nat. The mayor is a Statie. So there you go. The mayor thinks the marshal listens too much to the national organization, and the marshal thinks the mayor listens too much to the poor foot soldiers out there in the streets. They’re jockeying for position, Sam, looking for allies, to be in total control of the county Party organization and then, eventually, the state.”
The beer now tasted flat. He knew for sure what had been going on earlier with his boss and his father-in-law: As Sean said, both the marshal and the mayor were looking for allies to help them in their struggle, and why not have Sam Miller on the inside, working to betray the other?
“Too much politics for me, Sean. Look, let’s just find a seat, okay?”
Sean said, “Sure, Sam. Look. Let the dedicated ones go up front. We hang back, that means we’re the first ones out when this breaks up.”
“Sounds fine to me,” Sam said. He waited with Sean until most of the crew had taken folding chairs, and then they walked to the last row. Sean walked with a pronounced limp, revealing the true reason he worked at the police department instead of the shipyard. Two years ago, a falling piece of welded metal had crushed his left foot, putting him in the hospital for three months. As Sean once told Sam, that piece of metal had “accidentally” been tipped over by someone, someone whose brother took Sean’s job the very next day.
Sam took his seat, remembering something else Sean had said: When it comes to jobs or your life, always watch your back, Sam.
CHAPTER TEN
Once everyone in the hall sat down, they stood right up again as an overweight man made the audience stand for the Pledge of Allegiance. Sam shuffled to his feet—a few rows up, there was loud cursing as somebody kicked over a beer—and looked to the far corner of the hall, where an American flag hung from a pole. Joining the other men, Sam held out his arm straight in the traditional salute as the ritual began.
“I pledge allegiance …
“To the flag …
“Of the United States of America …
“And to the Republic …
“For which it stands …
“Indivisible …
“With liberty and justice for all!”
As they sat, Sean leaned toward Sam’s ear. “Unless you’re an immigrant, a Jew, a Negro, a Republican, intellectual, communist, union organizer, or—”
“Sean, shut up, will you?” Sam snapped, and Sean sniggere
d softly.
Up front, Teddy pulled a sheaf of papers from his pocket. “All right, c’mon, fellas, can I have some quiet back there? All right? Good. I hereby call the meeting of the Portsmouth District of the Rockingham County Party meeting to order. I move that the reading of last month’s minutes be waived. Is there a second? Good. All in favor? Good. Okay. Second agenda item, the Daniel Webster Boy Scout Council is looking for a donation of.…”
And so it went. Sam crossed his feet and glared at the rear of the chair before him, stenciled with the A.L. #6 logo. He let his mind drift as Teddy went on, running the meeting as expertly as the Kingfish ran the Louisiana Legislature and then the Congress. Motions were made, seconded, and passed within seconds. He remembered reading somewhere—Time magazine, maybe?—that the record for bill passing was forty-four in just over twenty minutes, down in Baton Rouge, while Huey Long was senator and still running the state, before the assassination of FDR, the disastrous single term of Vice President Garner, and the triumphant election of Long in ’36 and his reelection in ’40.
He shifted in his seat. A cynical thought but a true one: Democracy might be dying, replaced by whatever was going on here and around the globe, but at least its death made for quick meetings. Teddy droned on, then said, “All right, only three more things left on our agenda tonight. First of all, we’re lookin’ for your help for some information.”
There was a stir in the room. “There are index cards being passed out now, okay? We’ve all been asked to write down on those cards three names of people you think need to be looked at. Okay? Neighbors, coworkers, people down the street, we’re lookin’ for anybody who talks out of turn, insults the President and his people, or anybody else that needs to be looked at because of subversive activities or words. Okay?”
Some murmurs, but nobody protested. Sam felt queasy, as though the chicken stew from earlier had spoiled. Sean whispered something about how stoolies were the only growth industry in this administration, but Sam ignored him. He was thinking about his own status as a stoolie, being pressed by both his boss and father-in-law to be a rat. And he thought suddenly about that terrified writer he had put into the hands of the Interior Department last night.