"It must be, for us to be infiltrating counterfeiters."
Hanson nodded agreement. "Strange case, Logan. Important though. That bunch was good. Did damned near perfect work. Different serial numbers on every bill, the right ink and paper, they were professional. That big an operation could have done real damage. Did you look close at their work?"
Logan laughed and drew a pair of twenties from a pocket. "I took these for souvenirs. Been pocket aging them since I got 'em."
"Damn it, Logan, hand 'em over. That's all I need, an agent being picked up for passing queer money."
Smiling, Logan let Hanson take the bills. "No problem, Jim, I buried a few bundles for after my retirement."
Hanson was studying the bills. With a snort he tossed them back. "You're the phony, Dell. Those bills are real."
Logan appeared surprised, "Huh, imagine that. I must have spent the counterfeit."
Hanson groaned. "Go home, Dell. Having you around will sandpaper my ulcers."
He stopped Logan before the door. "A reminder, Mister Glynn, the Geraldos are still hunting."
"God, I'd have thought someone would have laid them to rest."
Hanson sounded grim. "Right now they are bodyguards with diplomatic papers for ... hell, I can't recall which Republic. Too many new ones."
"Maybe they aren't very interested anymore."
"They've increased the rewards."
"Well, Sabot's buried deep, I hope."
"We all hope, but other countries have agencies. Who knows what their files hold, or what they can put together. World is getting too small, Logan."
"Keep an eye on them, Jim. I don't want to look up and see Vasco Geraldo with his damned brother lurking close by."
"We're watching, and unless they've got a photo of Sabot, there'll be no tie to Thomas E. Glynn.
+++
Logan slouched alongside while Mickey drove. "Here's a question for you, Mick. It's a test of superior mindmanship."
"What kind of a word is mindmanship? You been hanging around the Pentagon, Dell? They use words like that."
"Never mind. Here's the question.
"There is a painting hanging on a wall. It is of Eve, the first Eve, Adam's Eve. What is wrong with it?"
Weston was insulted. "What kind of a question is that? Nobody could answer it."
"There is only one logical answer."
Mickey thought through Duncannon and onto the Clark's Ferry bridge. "I give up, but it had better be good."
Logan was gleeful. "It IS good. What was wrong with the painting was that Eve had a belly button."
"What?"
"Yeh, she was made from Adam's rib. She was never born, so, she wouldn't have a belly button."
"That's it?"
"Superior minds found it challenging."
At Dauphin, Mickey suggested, "Adam and Eve are outside the bathroom. Which one still has to go?"
Logan straightened up. "Now that is a dumb question."
"Not for a superior mind."
"Adam and Eve didn't have a bathroom."
"You heard the question."
At the underpass, Logan said, "There isn't a sensible answer."
"Give up?"
"Yes, but there isn't a real answer."
"Of course there is. Eve still had to go."
"And how do you know that?"
"Easy, Dell, the seat was still up."
Logan snickered and then said, "Weston, that is sleazy humor and a great mind would not consider it."
"Mine already did, Dell."
+++
They rumbled down Front Street and turned left on Market.
Logan slouched lower in his seat. "Why couldn't we bring your car? This is embarrassing. Tires are so knobby we sound like a tank, manure and straw dropping off the whole way along. They'll be expecting us to be sucking straws and scratching our armpits."
"We're not picking up seed bags in the car. That's what pickups are for."
"Oh, I thought they were for displaying cheap shotguns and worn-out deer rifles in their rear windows."
There was an accident on Market Street so Mickey swung right onto 3rd, intending to detour the confusion.
About halfway down the block Logan jerked erect. "What the hell?
"Stop, Mickey. Back up. I can't believe it."
"What? I can't stop, there's a car behind me."
"Then pull over, damn it. Park right there."
"There's a fire hydrant there."
"Park anyway."
Mickey pulled in and stopped with the engine running. "What in hell is the matter with you, Dell?"
Logan reached across and killed the engine. "Mick, you're not going to believe what I just saw." Logan looked about to burst.
"Get out, we're walking back."
Reluctantly Mickey dismounted, slamming his door and joining the impatient Logan.
"If I get a ticket, you're paying for it."
Logan pulled him back toward Market Street. "You remember this alley, Mickey?" Logan pointed down the narrow way.
In an instant Mickey had it. "Of course, it's the one we got beat up in."
He jerked up short. "We're not looking in pawn shops again!"
"Never mind the pawn shops. Just look down the alley."
Mickey peered, seeing nothing notable. A sign blinked above the alley saloon. Mickey's eyes went past ... then jerked back. He stepped to a better angle and looked again.
The saloon's name riveted him. It boasted only one word: "Klubcar's."
"It wasn't named that back then—we'd have noticed."
"We're going in."
Logan started off and Mickey quickly caught up. "Dang it, Logan, we're not going in there to fight."
"Just to look around. I'd like to see that Klubcar again."
"It might not be him."
Logan stopped and stared at Mickey. "How many people have you met named Klubcar?"
"Only one and I don't need any more."
"This has to be him."
Mickey snickered as they reached the door. "Going to be embarrassing if this guy is only five-feet-five and weighs about one-twenty."
Logan shouldered through the door. "He was big, Mick."
The place was narrow and appropriately dark. A few tables lay deep in the gloom, unoccupied in the middle of the day. A long bar, with bottles and a mirrored back bar, was lined with stools and a soft looking edge to rest glass-holding forearms.
Logan slid onto a stool and a bartender appeared to serve them. The man had a weightlifter's shoulders and a craggy face that had met a fist or two in its time.
Logan said, "A draft, please." Mickey seconded and slid onto his stool.
"I think that's him, Logan." Mickey's whisper was in Logan's ear.
"Uh huh."
The big knotty hands that placed foamy mugs on the bar top held both their attentions, but the man's voice was welcoming.
"Reckon you're new. Anyway, welcome to Klubcar's."
Impulsively, Mickey stuck out a hand and it was enveloped within the bartender's meaty fist. "My name's Weston, most call me Mickey."
The craggy face splintered into a smile and the grip was no more powerful than it should be. "Glad to have you here. I'm Klubcar." He turned to his other customer.
For an instant Logan hesitated. Then he grinned and stuck out a hand. "And I'm Logan Dell, Frank. We're from up in Perry County."
Klubcar caught the use of his given name. He frowned thoughtfully, thick eyebrows lowering like a wall in concentration.
"Logan Dell. Sorry, I can't place you, Logan. I work at remembering customers, but there's too many to get 'em all."
Logan sipped at his beer and Mickey wondered how he would handle it.
"Well, it's been a long time, Frank. Back during the war, in fact."
"Which one, Logan, the Korean or the big one?"
"WW2, real early, 1942, I think."
Klubcar was pleased and amazed. "Well imagine that, remembering me after all this time."<
br />
He grinned showing a line of over-large yellowed teeth. "Now those were times. I was fresh out of the coal mines, everything was exciting, and I figured I could out drink and out fight anything on two feet."
Klubcar fell easily into reminiscence. "Spent most of the war down at The Gap. Never did get overseas. Got to hanging out in here, when I got a pass. The place was filled with servicemen back then. Most of 'em young, like me. All restless and willing to fight. Whew, those WERE times!"
"Anyhow, after a year or so of drinking and battling, I got to noticing other men who sat quiet, talked, and had a beer or two." Klubcar's features turned rueful. "A little maturity filtering in, probably.
"I spent the last of my time sittin' at a back table, talking a little smarter, and watching the thumping and bashing going on up front.
"When the war ended, I went back to Lehighton, but I never forgot the good times here. Used to come over when I could. The place had quieted with the soldiers gone. Suited me even better I found. So, I saved so's me and the bank could own the joint. Been here nearly five years now."
The grin widened. "Way it is, I'd like to just lean over this old bar, meeting and remembering until they haul me out feet first."
Logan slid his mug across for a refill. Mickey nursed his first.
"Well, Frank, maybe you'll remember Mickey and me if I refresh your memory."
Mickey said, "Oh hell, Logan."
Klubcar appeared puzzled.
Logan grinned, "It was a long time ago and I'm not wearing hard feelings.
"Mickey and I came out of a pawn shop that used to be a door or two down." Klubcar nodded, remembering the shop.
"We collided with a half dozen soldiers staggering out of this place. First thing we knew we were in a hell of a brawl and got left lying in the alley bleeding and rib kicked.
"Frank Klubcar was one of them 'cause he announced real loud 'Nobody shoves Frank Klubcar.'"
The owner shook his head, unremembering.
Mickey said, "What you said was 'No 4F shoves Frank Klubar around.'"
Memory spread joy across Klubcar's worn mug.
"That was you two? Hell, I remember that one of you kicked old Bill Tobin so hard he couldn't straighten for two days. Man those were the days, weren't they?"
Klubcar wore no guilt; that was plain.
When Logan told him he had beaten the snot out of a Second Lieutenant, Klubcar liked it all the more.
"Damnation, Logan. If I'd known that, I'd of got in a few more licks." His laughter rattled the place.
In the world of men like Klubcar, fist fighting held no particular significance. Men battled it out over imagined offenses or merely to see who was toughest that particular moment. To Klubcar, an ancient fight was an enjoyable remembrance, no matter how it began or who won in the end.
Logan and Mickey fell into the spirit of it, laughing with the big man over the incident, once so painful.
Mickey had no parking ticket, but he complained of hours wasted.
"We had a good time, Mick. I'm planning to stop in every time I come to town."
"You better not, Logan. All those lies you told about agenting on a Sioux Indian Reservation will come back on you."
"What lies? Where do you think I got this tan?"
"And you didn't have to keep repeating that I wasn't born in Perry County. He wasn't interested in that."
"Didn't want you flying under false colors, Mick. Juniata County people are always trying to claim they're from Perry.
"No, they aren't, Logan. How would you know, anyway? You aren't around enough to...."
+++
1960
Thomas E. Glynn leaned across the ferry's rail watching the ship's wake roil accumulations of trash in the inner harbor.
A figure filled the empty spot beside him and after a moment, Jim Hanson asked, "Anybody we know surface down there?"
Logan laughed softly, "Not yet, but there are likely some we'd recognize, deep down, with a few fathoms of chain wrapped around them."
Hanson shuddered and turned his back to the rail, seeming to glance casually across nearby passengers.
Logan asked, "You just happen to be in Hong Kong, Jim, or is there something special?"
When he spoke, Hanson's lips did not move, but his words came clear. "There's always something special, Mister Glynn." He again leaned over the rail, and Logan chose to face the deck and look across the milling passengers.
"I didn't think you just wanted my company. But why out here? No one sees anyone else in Hong Kong, anyway."
Hanson's voice was grim. "Because you're not going back, Logan. When you step off in Macau, you will be handed a new passport and a plane ticket. Thomas E. Glynn will cease to exist."
"I gather my cover has been broken. But, what is the urgency, Colonel? I haven't been into any unusual skullduggery. Wouldn't a phone call have sufficed?"
"Logan, the man who sold the Geraldos your Sabot and Glynn identifications collected a second time from us by telling us you were exposed."
Logan muttered, "Damn it to hell."
"Yep, and Vasco and Jorge won't take long to find that Thomas E. Glynn is—or was—in Hong Kong."
"How much lead do I have?"
"Enough." Hanson shifted awkwardly, as though uncomfortable with what he had to say.
"I went upstairs about it, Logan. Said we should end this Geraldo thing." Hanson cleared his throat.
"They turned you down, huh?"
"Yep, election coming up, no waves right now."
Logan sighed, "So, do I go to Langley?"
Again Hanson was awkward. "No, you don't. Damn it, Logan, The Company wants you out of sight—put in a safe, Geraldo-proof place. There is only one thing for you to do. Get out right now. We'll bury your records and blur everything we can. Go home, lay low, let time go by, even the damned Geraldos can't last forever."
Logan was quiet overly long. When he spoke, his voice was easy.
"You know, Jim, what you've said doesn't bother me a lick. In fact, I can feel something easing in me, just thinking about being done with all of this."
Hanson's sigh was relief. "That's good then, Logan. You've got enough years; your pension will be decent. I'll see to all that. You'll be carried as just another General Accounting Office retired civil servant."
"I think I'll raise a beard."
Hanson laughed, "Good idea. You have a number and you know what we can and can't do. I'll see you on Alumni Day or during June Week." He hesitated, "And look, Logan, I'd keep that pistol aboard for a few months."
"Hell, Colonel, it's grown to my leg."
"When Nixon's elected, we'll get an act order on the Geraldos. I'll tell you when they're gone. Maybe you'll want to come back then."
"Maybe Nixon will lose."
Hanson was scornful. "Who would vote for a Senator nobody ever heard of until a few months ago?"
"It's a sick world, Jim."
"Not that sick, Logan."
Before the ferry docked, Hanson asked, "Do you really have some of that counterfeit money stashed, Logan?"
"What money was that, Jim? You sure I was on that case?"
Hanson ground his teeth, still not certain.
+++
Until Logan's beard began filling in, Mickey didn't believe his friend's claim to have retired.
"Nobody retires at your age, Logan. You must have gotten fired."
Logan exhaled sharply. "You've found me out. It was the chairman's daughter. She threw herself at me, offered money, yachts, power. Of course, I turned her down. Logan Dell cannot be bought. Made her father mad, so he canned me."
"Liar."
Logan was offended. "Weston, no matter what I say, you claim I'm lying. Well, the woman's still in Hollywood. You want to call her?"
"Someday I'll just call one of those phony numbers, Dell. I'll probably get a YMCA."
According to Mickey, Logan looked like a bum.
Logan claimed his beard added dignity. He began carryin
g his sword cane. That too, he allowed, lent a certain professorial aura.
As soon as his renters found a new place, Logan moved into his old house. Having him home was a breath of fresh air. It was almost as though he had never been gone.
Mickey said, "Dang it, Logan, will you quit piddling off your front porch at night?"
"No one can see, unless you're peering out at me."
"You don't have to see, noise carries at night. You sound like a horse pissing on a rock. Wakes me out of a sound sleep, gets Sis to giggling, too."
"We always went off the porch, Mick."
"That was before 1938, for God's sake. We had outhouses then!"
"Ok, but I hope my plants don't die."
+++
Logan stuck his head out of his window and bellowed, "What in hell are you doing, Weston?"
"I'm going to milk cows, what else would I be doing?"
"It isn't even light yet."
"There are a lot of cows, Dell."
"Well, do you have to yell goodbye and slam the damned door?"
"I feel good in the morning. Want to come along?"
Logan groaned, "What a rotten neighborhood. I wonder if I can sell this place." His head disappeared and the window slammed.
Mickey was pleased when his truck started hard. He over-revved the engine and laid a little rubber getting away.
+++
For a few months Logan fretted. Little pleased him. Once he found a pocket filled with change. He sat down to sort out the coins. In a sudden fit of petulance he snatched the pennies and flung them out the door.
"What good is a lousy penny? There isn't even a decent penny candy anymore. Even a jaw breaker costs a dime. You know something, Mick, we ought to get rid of them."
Mickey almost agreed, but he wasn't cooperating with Logan's spite.
"You've got a short memory, Dell. You threw out at least ten cents. I can remember when we'd have fought half the town for a jaw breaker."
Logan sat down a little shamefaced. "Yeah, I remember. I don't care about pennies. I've just got to find something to do around here."
"So, find something, go back to school, take on a scout troop; coach a ball club." Mickey grinned evilly.
"I'll take you on, now that John is slowing down."
"I don't like any of that stuff."
Cronies (Perry County) Page 11
