Free Live Free

by Wolfe, Gene

  The witch said, “You were about to tell us our part in all this.”

  He laughed, throwing back his head and taking two unsteady steps to the rear until he leaned against the door jamb. “Your part? My dear, demonic, dumb bitch, I can’t have been about to tell you that. You don’t have one. Like Short there says, you’re in the wrong picture. There are no parts for any of you in this one. It’s the truth. You’ve been extras and bit players, all of you, all your lives. Now you can’t even do that.”

  One hand left the Thompson and groped in the side pocket of his duffel coat. In a moment it reappeared holding a silver flask. Clamping the Thompson under his arm, he unscrewed the top and drank. “Who said he wanted some?”

  “Me, sir,” Stubb told him. “Short.”

  “Catch!” He tossed the open flask. It left a narrow streak of whiskey on the floor.

  Stubb drank and handed the flask to Barnes, who offered it to the witch, then drank too when she refused.

  “Let me put it like this,” the man in the duffel coat said. “The Indians used to be Americans—that’s what an American was. Then the trappers were Americans, the Americans of their day. Then the farmers, with their buggies and plow horses and white clapboard houses. Even today when you look at a picture of Uncle Sam, you’re seeing what those farmers were like dressed up to go to the county fair. Only farmers aren’t real Americans any more. Neither are Indians. Poor bastards of Indians aren’t even foreigners, and we like foreigners more than Americans, because foreigners are the Americans of the future. The trappers are gone, and pretty soon you’ll be gone too.”

  He felt in his pocket for the flask, then seemed to remember he had thrown it to Stubb.

  “You aren’t Americans either.” His voice grew angry and a little deeper. “There isn’t one of you, not a God-damned one, that owns a designer sheet. Or a set of matched towels. You don’t wear anybody’s jeans, and you don’t jog. You’re shit. You’re just shit.”

  “I would sooner die!” The witch’s vehemence startled all three men. “I would sooner die than wear your blue jeans and be seen!”

  “You’re not American,” the man in the duffel coat repeated. “That’s what I’ve been saying.”

  “And have I ever claimed to be? Or wished to be? I am a Gypsy and a princess. And a dupe, because you have made me one. But I will speak for the Indians too, because they were nomads when they were shaped by their own thoughts and not by yours, and we are nomads now, who will remain so though you slay us.” She gasped for breath; it was almost a sob.

  “You have overcome us, but you have not conquered us. To conquer us you must beat us fairly, and you have not beaten us fairly, and so you have struck us to the earth, but you have not won. To conquer us, you must have dignity too, and for that reason you have not conquered us. A man may flee from a wasp and be stung by the wasp, but he has not been conquered by the wasp; it remains an insect, and he is still a man. You deck yourselves like fools and chatter and hop like apes, and your princes marry whores. That is why even those you have crushed to dust will not call you master, and none will ever call you master until you meet a nation more foolish than yourselves.”

  Grinning at the man in the duffel coat, Stubb applauded. Barnes took it up.

  For a few seconds the man in the duffel coat was silent, shifting the muzzle of the Thompson from Stubb to Barnes and back. Then he said, “All right, I was trying to explain. I thought maybe it might do some good. We’ve been told to send you to the top, so that’s where you’re going.”

  Stubb said, “This sounds more interesting than the philosophical stuff—I never really liked that. You’re flying us to Washington?”

  The man in the duffel coat shook his head. “I said to the top. To the people who really run things, run the whole world. They want to see all four of you, I’ll be damned if I know why. You’ll leave as soon as the other one gets here.” He chuckled. “You don’t know it, but you’re lucky. In a few more years, you wouldn’t just take a plane—you’d have to go above the stratosphere, into outer space. It’s the truth.”

  “The High Country,” Stubb said.

  “That’s right, the High Country. It started just after Pearl Harbor, when everybody was afraid the Nazis might come up Chesapeake Bay. The government was exposed as hell, but it would have harmed morale to move it to some place like Kansas City, although Senator Truman and some others were for it. So they decided to put the key men on a plane and shuttle them around.”

  Barnes asked, “You mean President Roosevelt? My dad used to talk about him.”

  The man in the duffel coat shook his head. “The President’s not one of the key people. Never has been. Basically a front man. These were the decision makers. High Country’s the code name for the plane, you see. A lot of it was wood. Saved stratetic metals for bombers and fighters. Even back then they were working on it, making it bigger in flight. Harry Hopkins, I think it was, made some joke about spruce growing at ten thousand feet. You get it?”

  Stubb nodded. “Sure. Am I supposed to laugh?”

  “In those days, they had to land and take off again every eight hours or so. But while they were in the air, nothing could get them unless Goering figured out a way to get his high-altitude fighters over here. So one of the things they worked on was ways to keep the plane up longer. Maybe you heard of Howard Hughes’s Spruce Goose? The big seaplane? That was an idea that didn’t work out. Now they never have to land at all, and pretty soon they’ll be too high for—”

  A younger man opened the door and peered into the room. “We need you out here, General.”

  The man in the duffel coat glanced at him. “Trouble?”

  “Not serious, sir.” The younger man shrugged. “But maybe you can think of something.”

  “You people stay where you are,” the man in the duffel coat told them. “I don’t want to lose you, and if you leave this room, one of the sentries will probably shoot you.” He shut the door behind him, and they heard the snick of the lock.

  Barnes was the first to speak. “Well, what did you think of that?”

  Stubb stroked the bruise on the side of his head. “What do you think?” he said. “I’m tired of being smart. I think I ought to listen to somebody else’s ideas for a while.”

  Barnes hesitated. “In the first place, Mr. Free came off that plane. ‘The High Country’—that’s what he said, right?”

  “Or he wanted us to think that’s where he came from. Or they want us to think that’s where he came from. But, yeah, maybe he did. Is there any of that Scotch left?”

  “This?” Barnes held up the flask, which was decorated with interlacing triangles. “About one good shot, I think.”

  “You want it, Madame S.?”

  The witch shook her head.

  “Then I’ll take it.” Stubb wiped the top of the flask with the palm of his hand. “Let me ask you both a question, and I’m not doing it just to keep myself entertained—though God knows I’ve been on that trip often enough. This time I really want to know. Why us?”

  Neither answered.

  Stubb upended the flask, swallowed, and shook himself. “Smooth. But now suppose this general was giving us the straight goods. What makes us so damn important that these guys who fly around up there all the time want to see us? Or suppose he was lying—that makes it worse. Why’d he want us to think that plane was where Free came from?”

  The witch said, “I have a better question. Better because you know the answer. Before you heard the young man say general, you employed an honorific. You knew him for an officer, or at least suspected. How?”

  “Nothing spectacular, Madame S. He had on plain-toed brown shoes with a spit shine, and that girl I told you about said her father was a general. Maybe he’s not her father, but she probably thinks of him as a father or an uncle—she said his name was Samuel, so that would be Uncle Sam—and when most people have to make up a lie in a hurry, they use whatever they’ve got their minds on at the time.”

&n
bsp; Barnes asked, “You didn’t believe him?”

  Stubb shrugged and drank the last sip from the flask, then paused staring at its decorated silver sides. “It seemed like he was the boss. Would they pick a guy to run things who’d get shaky and start fighting a bottle? Hell, maybe they would, you never know. Maybe he’s bankrolling them, and they had to. But if he was really a smart guy, the kind you’d expect to find in charge, and he wanted to lay a number on us, that might be a pretty good way to do it. He knows we’re going to ask why’s he telling us all this? So he gives us an answer—because he’s smashed.”

  The witch said, “That is very wise. But why does he wish us to believe these things?”

  Chapter 54

  NOW LOADING

  “All right, Lieutenant, what is it?” the man in the duffel coat asked.

  “She’s here, sir. We’ve got the shuttle plane warming up.”

  “I know, I can hear it.”

  “Only we can’t get her out of the car, sir.”

  “You mean she has a weapon in there? Use gas.”

  “She’s already unconscious, sir, or nearly. We just can’t get her out.” As they stepped into the freezing night, the younger man pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his forehead.

  The black Cadillac stood dark and silent upon the snow while two men and two women peered through its windows. The younger man indicated the men. “They brought her here, sir.”

  One stepped forward, hand extended. “I’m John B. Sweet, General Whitten. Vice President, Sales, Mickey’s Jawbreakers Corporation.”

  The man in the duffel coat shook hands with him, letting the Thompson hang from his left hand, its muzzle pointing at the trampled snow. “We’ve spoken by telephone,” the man in the duffel coat said.

  “We certainly have!” Sweet agreed. “I just wanted to let you know in person that at Mickey’s we’re always anxious to do our part.”

  “We’ll put in a good word from you. I suppose the other man is from that restaurant you recommended?”

  The second man stepped forward too but did not offer to shake hands. “I’m Walter Pearson,” he said.

  “You drove?”

  “Yes, sir. I served their meal too and helped Mr. Sweet take her out to the car.”

  The younger man interrupted to say, “How’d you get her in there? That’s what I want to know.”

  “Like you would anyone else, sir. Mr. Sweet kind of steadied her. I opened the door and gave her a little push.”

  “You’re entitled to some sort of reward,” the man in the duffel coat said. “What would you like?”

  “Just a ride home, sir.”

  “You’re a patriot, Pearson. I wish we had more like you. Mr. Sweet here will have to take this car back. It’s rented, I believe?”

  Sweet nodded. “From Avis. We always use them.”

  “But you won’t be flying home until tomorrow sometime. Take Pearson where he wants to go.” The man in the duffel coat turned to the younger man. “Now, what’s the problem?”

  “We can’t get her out, sir. That’s all. The door’s too small, and she must weigh over three hundred pounds.”

  Sweet said, “I doubt it.”

  “I do too,” the man in the duffel coat told him. “Her dossier says two fifty.”

  The younger man said, “You ought to see her, sir.”

  “You’re right, Lieutenant.” The man in the duffel coat strode across the snow. “Got a flashlight?”

  Robin Valor muttered, “This is more like it,” and opened the Cadillac’s right rear door, turning on the dome light.

  Candy sprawled across the back seat. Her eyes opened briefly when the light came on, then closed again. Heartshaped candy boxes and drifts of fluted paper cups littered the floor.

  “You were feeding her in there?” the man in the duffel coat asked Sweet.

  “I had some samples. Valentine’s Day assortments and our four-star collection of liqueur chocolates. She saw them.”

  “Umm,” the man in the duffel coat said.

  “I didn’t think she’d eat them all, just on the drive out here.”

  “I doubt that it made much difference.” He glanced from Sweet to the waiter. “Let me get this straight. You, Sweet, drove her to the restaurant in this car? She sat in front with you?”

  Sweet nodded.

  “You ate. Pearson helped you get her out of the restaurant and into the back seat. Correct?”

  Both Sweet and the waiter nodded this time.

  “You rode in back with her, feeding her candy to keep her quiet. I don’t object to that in the least, by the way. Pearson drove. Is that right too?”

  The waiter nodded, and Sweet said, “Yes, sir.”

  The man in the duffel coat studied the black car for a moment and shook his head. “Caddies used to be great, big cars. I own one. Remember how they used to be, Sweet?”

  “I certainly do, General. These are easier to park, though.”

  “I suppose. Tonight a certain elderly gentleman came in an old Packard. Magnificent car. Possibly you saw it?”

  “Yes, sir,” Sweet said. “I think I did.” He pointed. “Down between those two buildings.”

  “You didn’t by any chance note the license number too? Either of you?”

  Sweet shook his head. So did the waiter.

  “Good. Observation is a wonderful thing, but it’s like politeness—or a thirst for good hooch, or any other appetite. You have to know when to turn it off.”

  He handed his Thompson to the younger man, walked around the front of the car, opened the left front door, got into the driver’s seat, and closed the door. His head and shoulders jerked forward, and he got out again.

  “Now try her,” he said.

  The younger man handed the Thompson to Sweet and opened the right rear door again.

  From the other side, Robin Valor called, “I’ve got an idea too. I’ll get in with her, if you can handle her when she comes out.”

  The younger man muttered, “I’d rather be in North Africa with Patton. Be ready to help, Pearson.”

  Inside the Cadillac, Robin was fumbling in her purse. For a moment, the weak light caught the gleam of steel. Her right fist dropped below Candy’s gargantuan thighs and jabbed. Candy jerked far more impressively than the man in the duffel coat had, and her blue eyes opened wide. Robin jabbed her again.

  With a muffled roar, Candy turned on her, her thick arms enveloping the dark woman, who screamed. The younger man drew a forty-five automatic from beneath his coat and flourished it uselessly.

  “Shut up!” The man in the duffel coat leaned into the Cadillac and tried to grasp the struggling women, then drew back a bleeding hand.

  As though the car had spit them out, the two fell through the open door and onto the snow, Robin under Candy, whose fingers were tangled in her hair. Kip took her huge revolver from her purse and struck Candy’s head with the butt twice in rapid succession, the impacts of steel on bone nearly merging, like the left-right blows of a good welterweight at the speed bag. The younger man and the waiter rolled Candy off Robin and helped Robin up.

  “Christ almighty,” she gasped, “I thought she was going to kill me.” Flapping her arms, she tried to dust the snow from her coat.

  The waiter got her purse from the back of the Cadillac and handed it to her.

  “You did it!” Kip exclaimed. “What did you stick her with, Robbie? A knife?”

  “Nail file.” Robin was still panting, her dark cheeks flushed with blood under her makeup. “She came down on top, knocked the wind out. I didn’t have any more grit than a kitten.”

  The man in the duffel coat was looking at Candy. “Two hundred and eighty, perhaps,” he said. “Divided by four, it’s still close to a hundred pounds each. You men are lucky you didn’t have to carry her out of that restaurant.”

  Sweet had knelt beside Candy. “Is she hurt?”

  “Possibly. Kip has a good forehand, and that’s a big gun. If she hit her in the temple with it, she m
ay have done some real damage.”

  “Behind the ear, Daddy,” Kip said. She had put her revolver back into her purse.

  “Lieutenant, take one leg; I’ll get the other. Sweet, take one arm and try to get your hand under her shoulder. Pearson, you take the other shoulder.”

  All four straightened as well as they could, and Candy’s head and feet rose.

  “You’re not getting her derriere up,” Kip told them.

  The younger man grunted, “We can’t.”

  The man in the duffel coat bent for a moment as he might have to see if the muffler and tail pipe of a car were dragging. “Try to move her. It should slide over the snow.”

  It did.

  “Where we taking her?” the waiter gasped.

  “Around the far side of the building, then back to the plane.”

  Having tested his engines, the pilot had shut them off. The plane stood angular and silent at the beginning of a snowdusted runway, its propellers motionless. The leggy blonde painted on its dark fuselage looked a trifle embarrassed by the folding steps pushed against its side.

  The man in the duffel coat motioned for them to stop. “Sweet, Pearson, thank you again, on behalf of this country. Goodbye, and remember that loose lips sink ships.”

  They nodded and hurried away.

  Kip and Robin stood guard over Candy while the man in the duffel coat and the younger man went inside and brought out Stubb, Barnes, and the witch.

  “You’re going to have to carry her onto the plane,” he told them.

  “We can’t,” Barnes protested, looking down at her.

  “If you don’t,” the man in the duffel coat said, “we’ll shoot you down where you stand.” He raised the Thompson. “And if you do, I’ll tell you what became of your son.”

  Wordlessly, Barnes stooped to take Candy’s ankles.

  Stubb had knelt in the snow beside her. “We don’t have to carry her,” he said. “She’s awake.”

  Her eyes were still closed, but there were tears at the corners. Slowly, one small, plump hand came up to touch the side of her head.

  “Where’s Little Ozzie?” Barnes demanded.