In smaller type at the bottom it said BOSTON AREA ANTI-DRAFT COALITION 1971.
Another, smaller poster was a simple black-and-white photo showing two Army soldiers in decon gear taking a break somewhere. It was just dust and dirt. No grass, no trees, no plants. Their protective hoods were thrown back and they were drinking from canteens, laughing as if sharing a joke. By their feet were the fused and melted remnants of what looked like a child’s tricycle. The caption was to the point: ‘Get Drafted and See the World ... What’s Left of It.’
Carl moved a couple of textbooks from the couch and sat down. Clemmons sat on the floor before him. leaning against a pillow propped up by a coffee table. He was barefoot and lit a cigarette. Incense was burning at the table’s center, and Carl was sure it was there to mask the odor of something else. He glanced over at the bedroom, where a pair of slender bare legs were moving among blankets and sheets.
‘So, you’re ex-Army, right?’
‘That’s right,’ Carl said. ‘Now, about your neighbor—’
‘Hold on,’ Clemmons said, smiling but not looking too friendly. ‘Here’s the deal. I’ll answer some of your questions, but first I gotta couple of my own. You see, I don’t get to talk to too many ex-killers.’
Carl stared right back at him. ‘I can’t see why, since you’re so bright and charming.’
‘Hah hah, very good,’ he snorted. ‘You’re right. I’m not bright and charming, and there’s a reason. I’m going to school over at MIT to keep dear old Dad happy and to keep my butt away from my local draft board. But to tell you the truth, I’m more concerned about my butt than my dad. There’s something wrong when a guy can’t go to school and concentrate on getting ahead, instead of worrying about getting drafted and being sent to DC or San Diego or Omaha, and eight weeks later, start puking and seeing his hair fall out.’
Carl said carefully, ‘It’s been said that every precaution’s taken.’
‘Yeah, I’m sure. So tell me, when were you drafted?’
‘Listen, Troy, this is all very interesting—’
He held up his cigarette. ‘C’mon, newspaper reporter, you can dish it out but you can’t take it? Just a question or two more and then you can ask away.’
Carl thought, to hell with it, let’s leave this jerk be, but then he thought about another jerk from last night, saying those words: goddam quota baby. He said, ‘I wasn’t drafted. I joined. In 1960.’
Clemmons sat up. ‘You joined? You actually joined the Big Green? Why in hell did you do that?’
‘Because my dad couldn’t send me to MIT, or anywhere else, that’s why.’
He took a drag off the cigarette. ‘So. Where were you when JFK and his boys toasted half the world?’
‘Overseas.’
‘See anything?’
‘Nope.’
‘And where did you go when the good general brought everyone home?’
‘California. Relief and recovery. I stayed there until I was discharged, and since I could type, I ended up at the Globe. ‘
Clemmons smiled. ‘Lucky you. Wouldn’t it be nice if Uncle Sam got jobs for everybody.’ He paused. ‘Now, fair’s fair. Ask away.’
‘Your neighbor, Merl Sawson. What did you know about him?’
He shrugged. ‘Not much. Sad old guy, mostly kept to himself. I’ve lived here two years and I saw him maybe a half dozen times. Did some nice things every now and then. Like bringing in the mail if it was raining and shoving it under my door. Or shoveling the sidewalk out front during the winter. Once he complained about my music being too loud, but I could hardly blame him. He didn’t sleep well.’
‘How did you know that?’
‘Nightmares, man,’ Clemmons said. ‘Every few weeks he’d let loose with a nightmare, start screaming. Sometimes his dog would join him, howling away. Christ, what a mess. Really made you sit up in bed, make your heart pound. One night I was out partying and came in late. His screaming was so loud I thought someone was strangling him. The door was unlocked and I was drunk enough to go in and check on him. The dog was hiding in the corner and he was thrashing around on the bed, and when I flipped on the light he woke up. He was really embarrassed, shocked that I was there, and I kinda sobered up and got the hell out.’
Carl took a few notes. ‘What was he shouting about?’
Clemmons scratched at his chin. ‘Same thing, over and over again. Something about a guy named Caz. He was yelling at him, something about it was time to go. Yeah, that’s right. “Caz, goddam it, we gotta get going. We gotta leave. We’re running out of time.” Over and over again. And he was really screaming it, his voice all high-strung.’
‘And you never found out who Caz was, or why Merl was shouting like that?’
‘Nope. In fact, the time I went into his place, that was only a couple of weeks ago, just before he got killed.’
‘And did you hear anything the day he died? Argument with somebody in his place? Shouting? Gunshots?’
‘Nope,’ Clemmons said. ‘I was away for a couple of days.’
‘Doing what?’
He smiled, and Carl saw that his teeth needed brushing. ‘None of your business.’
‘You talk to the cops after they found the body?’
‘Hah. That’s a good one. More like they talked and I listened, even though they didn’t talk much.’
‘They didn’t ask you a lot of questions?’
‘Just a couple. Y’know, did you do it? Do you know who might have done it? You selling any drugs? Crap like that. Truth is, it seemed ... I don’t know. It seemed like they were just going through the motions.’
Going through the motions. Sure. If the murder didn’t count, why not just go through the motions? He scribbled a few more notes. ‘Did he have any visitors, anybody else in his apartment?’
Clemmons took a final drag off his cigarette, stubbed it out in the ashtray, and resumed talking, not even looking at Carl. ‘You know, I sure as hell have been talking a lot, and I don’t particularly like it. I don’t know you and I don’t know where you’re coming from, and I sure as hell don’t know if I can trust you.’
‘What do you mean by that?’ A motion caught Carl’s eye, and he saw the long legs moving again on the bed, kicking off the covers. He saw that the woman in the bed wasn’t wearing a stitch of clothing.
‘I mean I think I’ve said about as much as I want, that’s what.’ Clemmons was looking over at him. ‘Got it?’
Carl thought about this bitter young man, and the rest of his equally bitter generation. Their choices were limited: the draft, a connected job, or something with relief and recovery. And to know with a gnawing frustration that just ten years ago there had been more choices, more music, more food, and more freedom.
Carl said, ‘Tell you what. Here’s something you might use. Then you can decide whether I’m worthy of more information. You know Division Six police station? Well, three Army trucks pulled up there today with a couple squads of soldiers. Looks like a raid might be going off tonight.’
Clemmons seemed to tense up. ‘Why are you telling me?’
‘Thought you might be interested. You, or some of your friends.’
‘You’re wrong,’ he said, getting up from the floor. ‘But thanks for telling me, anyway. Look, here’s what happened. It sounds crazy but I heard him talking to someone in his apartment, a week or so ago, his voice real low. I was bringing down a magazine that got delivered to me by mistake. I couldn’t make out anything but I heard the visitor say something twice, the same thing.’
‘And what’s that?’
He looked around, as if concerned the woman sleeping in the next room might hear him, and said, ‘He said, “He lives.” Twice. Like he was making a point. Strange, right?’
Carl kept his notebook closed, but knew he’d jot this down once he got outside. ‘Mr. Townes, the landlord, was he the visitor?’
‘No, Townes was outside, sweeping the sidewalk. This guy was somebody else. Somebody different. And believe
me, Merl didn’t get too many visitors. You know, that Caz character might be tied into it, ‘cause I thought I heard Merl mention that name again.’ Clemmons walked the length of the room. ‘Look, are we done here? I’ve got some things to do.’
Carl dodged piles of clothing and old newspapers on the way out. ‘Sure. Have to study for an exam?’
‘Hell no,’ Clemmons said, scratching at his beard again, grinning. ‘I’ve got some phone calls to make, some people to see. About a raid tonight.’
~ * ~
Carl sat in his car taking notes. Yesterday Merl Sawson had been just a lump of cold flesh on a bed and a memory of a quick outdoors meeting, a shaking hand holding a list of names, words about dark conspiracies and the future. Now he was something more. Somebody who was once alive, who once talked and breathed, had bad dreams, was a veteran, and knew someone named Caz. And even had a mystery meeting. How convenient. Until someone had pumped a couple of bullets into the back of his head.
He didn’t care what Detective Malone had said. He knew messy. Clemmons’s apartment was messy. Merl’s was messy only because someone had trashed it, looking for something.
Robbery? Then why not take the prewar television set? It had only been the last year or two that television production had begun again. That old Zenith set was worth something. So it hadn’t been robbery. Maybe somebody was looking for something. Something connected to that list of names?
Carl made a few more notes. He didn’t make too much of the ‘He lives’ statement. Troy Clemmons seemed to enjoy chemical stimulation, and who knows how trashed he had been when he had listened outside the door, and who knows who Merl had been talking to. ‘He lives.’ He doubted Merl was part of the JFK cult. He was a vet, after all. But the fact was, he had been talking to someone. And the landlord, Townes. He’d occasionally had lunch with Merl, and had made the call to the police. Surely Townes knew more about Merl and his background, knew if there were any more friends or family in the Boston area.
This murder sure was screwy. The body was pulled out the rear to avoid photographs. His story had been spiked. Clemmons said the cops seemed ho-hum in their questioning, and even Detective Malone had said as much, that this case wasn’t going to get worked. And Merl had come to him, had come to Carl Landry looking for help, with that list of names. Now he was dead.
Still, let’s be real, he thought. After all, this was another banner year for homicides in the Hub, and at a time when the current national death rates and the results of the 1970 census were both kept secret because of national security well, if life wasn’t cheap, it certainly wasn’t worth much.
Maybe that’s all. Maybe he should forget about it.
He looked at his watch. It was one-thirty. He had ninety minutes to do a story on a press conference that he had just missed.
~ * ~
FOUR
An hour after returning to the newsroom, George motioned him over. Carl was surprised to see George stand up and say, ‘Come along, Carl. If your busy schedule permits. My office.’
The office. Due to George’s position and experience, he rated an office with a door but he hardly spent any time there. George always said that the real work was done out in the newsroom. The last time Carl had been in George’s office had been months ago when he gave the wrong name to a city councilor and the story slipped through the copy desk. This meeting promised to be just as fun as that one. He took a deep breath, put both hands in his pants pockets.
The office was small and dusty, and the desk was the opposite of the one out in the metro section. It was clear of papers and debris, occupied only by a framed photo of a young girl, her hair done up in braids—George’s niece, Tracy. There were no framed Globe front pages on the walls. Carl took a chair as George settled his bulk across from him.
George unrolled three sheets of paper. ‘I got your story here on the mayor’s press conference about the anti-orfie gang initiative. It reads like it was written from a press release and a couple of phone calls to city hall. Doesn’t sound like you were there. Am I wrong?’
Carl knew what George was looking for. ‘You’re absolutely right. I wasn’t there.’
‘From the time I told you to the time you left the newsroom this morning, did you forget about the press conference?’
‘No.’
‘So what were you doing?’
‘I was working on a follow-up. On the old vet’s murder, out in East Boston.’
George scratched at a hairy ear and said, ‘Now I’m confused, Carl. I told you to leave the vet murder alone, and I told you to cover the press conference. So what do you do? You cover the murder and leave the press conference alone. Am I missing anything here?’
‘There’s a story there, George, in the vet’s murder, and that’s what I was working on. I lost track of the time and I missed the conference, but I didn’t do it out of spite. I did it because I was working a story, not because I was goofing off.’
‘Even when I told you to leave the story alone?’
‘It’s still a story.’ He knew he was digging himself into a hole, and didn’t care. Merl’s death was worth a story, damn it.
George tapped his fingers on the empty desk and said, ‘Carl, you’ve done fine work for metro. And I hope you’ll continue to do good work. But this is a real screwup. Understand?’ He motioned to a filing cabinet. ‘See that top drawer? It’s filled with letters and resumes from newspaper reporters and journalism grads from all over the country. All looking for a job at the Globe. Hell, we could fire the entire newsroom every month and still have enough qualified people to replace them. So don’t screw up again.’
‘I won’t.’
‘Good.’ George opened up the top drawer of the desk and withdrew a sheet of paper. ‘I hope you don’t have any serious plans for tomorrow night, it being Saturday and all, but I have an assignment for you. See? I have it all written on a piece of paper so you don’t forget it.’
He slid the paper across the desk and Carl picked it up, sparing a quick glance as George continued. ‘You see, I want to make sure in my mind that I can assign you a story and feel confident that you’ll do it. So here’s the assignment. Tomorrow night, six P.M. Reception at the British consulate. The British consul’s presenting a check to the mayor for the start of the winter campaign of Bundles for Boston.’
‘That sounds like a story somebody from features could do.’
‘Right you are,’ George said, grinning as only a newspaper editor can do when chewing out a reporter. ‘Hell, even one of our copy boys could do this story with his eyes closed. But I want you to do the story, Carl. It’s all yours. Get there in plenty of time to take good notes. Find out what’s going to be in the bundles this winter. See if they’re sending over any more of that awful English sausage. Good human interest stuff like that. Think you can handle it?’
Carl folded the piece of paper in half, and then in quarters. He wondered why he wasn’t angry at George, and glanced down at the framed photo of the young girl. ‘I’ll take care of it.’
‘Good. Now get back to the newsroom. Sure you can find your way?’
Carl got up. ‘Without a doubt.’
George smiled again and leaned back in his chair, arms held wide open. ‘See? I’m already regaining my confidence in you, Carl.’
~ * ~
Usually the noise in the newsroom was reassuring and Carl could block it out and concentrate on what was on his desk and in his typewriter. Not this time, though. The sounds seemed to clatter around in his head and make his teeth hurt, and he wanted to leave. But not now. Everyone had seen him enter George’s office and then come back, so everyone also knew he had been reamed out. He didn’t want to give anyone any satisfaction by seeing him bail out. To hell with them.
He unfolded the piece of paper. A puff piece that he could have handled in the first month of his job, no problem at all. The first month. Fresh out of the Army, wearing the first civilian suit he had owned since joining up in 1960. When he had left h
e had been eighteen and from Newburyport, a little fishing town up on the northern tip of Massachusetts. Dad worked for the city in public works, his mom was a secretary in the school system, and his younger sister, Sarah, read strange books of poetry and tried to learn to play the guitar. His own grades had been so-so and, like his cousins and uncles, he decided to join up before getting drafted. See a bit of the world and maybe learn a trade along the way. He also felt that with JFK in the White House—he had no doubt he would beat Nixon in the fall—he could be part of something new, something exciting.
Resurrection Day Page 5
