Resurrection Day

by Brendan DuBois

The desk clerk picked up the creased card and looked at both sides, as if checking for dirt stains, and said, ‘I’m terribly sorry, but this is highly irregular. You really need to make an appointment.’

  He leaned forward so he was closer to the speaker grill. ‘Tell you what, sport. Here’s the deal. I’m a reporter for the Boston Globe, and I want to talk to your press attaché. You see, I’m running a story tomorrow in the paper, on the front page, saying that your consul general is skimming funds from the Bundles to Boston campaign. I sure would like to get a response from the British consul before it goes to print.’

  The man’s face paled. ‘I see.’

  Carl smiled. ‘So I know it’s fucking irregular and all that, but I need to see Douglas Harris. Now.’ He looked around for a chair and seeing none, said, ‘I’ll just stand here and wait. Or maybe I’ll sit on the floor, if you don’t mind.’

  But the man didn’t answer. He was on the phone.

  ~ * ~

  It took a half hour and sure enough, he had been sitting on the floor. But when he heard the click of the door being unlatched he stood up and faced an unsmiling and unhappy Douglas Harris. He wore jeans and a brown turtleneck sweater, and his face was puffy and red as if he had been running up and down a lot of stairs.

  ‘Come in, won’t you,’ he said, his tone clipped and proper. Carl followed him into the open lobby, and instead of taking the route he had gone last time, they made a sharp right and ended up in a tiny plain office with a dented metal desk, two chairs, and an ugly portrait of the Queen on the far wall. Carl imagined this was the sort of office in which they took care of troublemakers, people who didn’t deserve much time and attention. Like those getting turned down for visas to the UK for hospital visits. Like those being turned down, for citizenship applications. Or like irritating reporters.

  ‘Mind telling me what all this rubbish is about?’ Douglas started as soon as he sat down. ‘I don’t appreciate having to juggle my schedule to deal with the likes of you.’

  ‘And you’re going to like me even less,’ Carl said, pulling out the envelope that contained the sheets he had written only a few hours ago. ‘There is no story about your consul running in tomorrow’s Globe. I made it all up.’

  Douglas put a finger to his chin. ‘Then why in the world did you tell that cock-and-bull story?’

  ‘Because I needed to see you.’

  ‘Need or not, I could call your editor and make things very difficult for you.’

  ‘I doubt it,’ Carl said, taking out a pen and writing something on the outside of the envelope, ‘since I’ve already managed to piss off everyone in authority over there. Look, Douglas, I need for you to pass this along to Sandy Price.’

  Douglas refused to take the envelope, and Carl let it drop to the desktop. ‘What makes you think I can do that?’

  ‘She’s checked out of her hotel. I know that she’s being deported in a few days. I know that the two of you are friends. At the least. And it’s important for her to receive this.’

  They sat still for a moment or two, and Douglas abruptly leaned forward and picked up the envelope. ‘“Sandy,”‘ he read aloud. “‘Thanks for saving my butt in New Jersey. Here’s the chapter you suggested. If you want to start telling me the truth, give me a call. If not, have a nice flight back home.’”

  The press attaché looked up. ‘And what does that mean?’

  ‘It means exactly what I wrote.’

  ‘I see,’ Douglas said, tapping the envelope on the table. You know, I can’t promise that I can deliver this.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure you’ll make the effort,’ Carl said, standing up. Hell, she’s probably staying here in the compound, right? Ensuring that her last days are spent in peace, without the problems of being harassed or arrested by the local authorities. Hate to have something like that stir the pot of our fine relations with our cousins across the sea.’

  Douglas just looked at the envelope, still in his hand, and then something about his demeanor changed and hardened. ‘Do be careful, Mr. Landry. I’m not sure what you’re doing, but I believe it could be dangerous. Very dangerous indeed for a simple reporter.’

  ‘Yeah, dangerous. Look, you’ve been here for a while right? Ever been to Concord or Lexington?’

  His voice was flat. ‘I have.’

  ‘Then you know what happened when some simple people like me ran up against folks like you. So thanks for the warning.’

  Douglas said nothing and Carl stood up. He wondered if Douglas would have a new job, if the anschluss went through. Maybe a spokesman for the head Brit in Philadelphia?

  ‘Look, can you get me out of here? Or do you trust me enough to find my way out.’

  Douglas gave a chilly smile as he stood up. ‘Oh, I trust you all right.’

  But he still escorted Carl outside.

  ~ * ~

  He spent a lousy afternoon back in East Boston, doing a canvass of Merl Sawson’s neighborhood in the rain. Most of the people on the street knew nothing about Merl or his habits, what bars or stores or parks he might have frequented. Carl was hoping to find an acquaintance—maybe a fellow vet, a fellow sports enthusiast, somebody!—but all he got were quizzical looks, some nervous shakes of the head, and many slammed doors.

  A couple of elderly people gave him impassioned complaints about their newspaper subscriptions, about missing Globes past and newspapers that arrived with torn sections, and as he listened to their gripes he felt time slipping away. Out there, troops from Great Britain were getting ready for action, as were Jim Rowley and his allies. And Jim was depending on him, depending on him to find answers, when all he was getting this afternoon was a whole lot of nothing. He even spent a half hour in the tiny backyard of Merl’s apartment building on Winthrop Street, picking up large rocks, looking under the shrubbery, checking for signs of freshly dug dirt, a hollowed-out section of the house foundation, anyplace where the documents could be hidden.

  And he found nothing, except an old collection of dog droppings on the scraggly brown lawn, probably from Merl’s dead dog.

  He sat on the back stoop and looked out across the lawn to the shoulder-high fence with gray, peeling paint that surrounded the yard. Carl folded his hands together tightly and hunched himself forward, feeling the rain mat his hair and the quiet gnawing of desperation in his guts. The rain was cold against his skin. He was afraid that things were slipping away, just out of his grasp.

  Think, he thought. Just take a deep breath and think. If the old man had papers, papers that were important, then that means something of bulk. Not much of a bulk, but something. At least a thick envelope. So. If the Army and the police and everyone else had been looking in this building, they hadn’t found it, not yet. And now they were depending on a Globe reporter, who didn’t have the resources or the people to match the Army. Nice that they had such confidence in him pulling a rabbit out of his hat.

  So the papers had to have been brought out of Merl’s apartment. In a package, sent somewhere? Hand-delivered to a friend that Carl knew nothing about? Or maybe mailed to the local post office in a daze, mailed to President Kennedy at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.

  Jesus, he thought, looking up. They were here, and no-they’re gone. So they were taken out.

  How?

  He looked at the lawn again, feeling a faint trembling of hope. Jesus. Maybe. Just maybe.

  ~ * ~

  When he parked his Coronet in the tiny lot behind his apartment building just before dusk, an older man stood up from behind the dumpster and furtively looked around. He wore an old knee-length wool coat, patched jeans, old sneakers, gray gloves, and his thick black beard was streaked with white. Carl saw the old man approach and reached in his pockets, looking for a quarter or two, but the man shook his head violently and held out his hands.

  ‘No, no, no, man,’ he said. ‘I’m not lookin’ for anything. You’re Mr. Landry, am I right?’

  ‘That’s right,’ Carl said, locking the door to his car. ‘I’m sorry, do I
know you?’

  The man giggled. ‘Once upon a time I was a major, but, man, years later, I still want to forget that shit. You can call me Skyman. I’m named that ‘cause I used to be a pilot.’

  ‘All right, Skyman. What can I do for you?’

  ‘It’s Two-Tone,’ the man said. ‘He sent me to get you and bring you to his hidey-hole.’

  ‘What for?’

  The man stepped closer, almost breathing on him. ‘Two-Tone, he’s not well. He can’t really walk right now, and he asked me to come fetch you.’

  He was surprised at the tremor he felt, hearing of Two-Tone. ‘What’s wrong with him?’

  ‘He got himself beat up, that’s what. Come on, he told me he’d pay me, the minute I spotted you, and I don’t want to be wasting any time.’

  Carl walked with Skyman across Comm Ave, through the gardens of the narrow park, and then down another block on the cracked sidewalk, past apartment buildings that were twins of his own. Before them was the muted roar of Storrow Drive, with traffic heading out of Boston. Off on the other side of Storrow Drive was the Charles River, and beyond that, Cambridge and the buildings of MIT. Where Troy Clemmons, the draft resister and upstairs neighbor of Merl Sawson, went to school. Now, maybe we could—

  ‘Here we be,’ Skyman said, stepping over a low guardrail and going a half dozen yards down the side of a grassy embankment, stopping near a utility pole.

  Carl followed him, confused. They were behind a row of brownstones and apartment buildings with tiny parking areas and decks, and a narrow access road. The embankment, filled with waist-high brush and saplings, went down in a small ravine, and then back up to the boundary of Storrow Drive. Skyman looked around and said, ‘Yeah, we’re right here. C’mon.’

  He got on his hands and knees and Carl dropped, too, feeling the wet grass and soil. His guide brushed away some dead grass, until a square piece of metal, about the size of a car door, was revealed. After carefully scanning the area, Skyman huffed and puffed and dragged the piece of metal free. There was a dark tunnel inside, and Carl could make out a faint glow of light, at the far end. Skyman motioned him inside and pulled the metal plate shut behind them. ‘There it is. Two-Tone’s hidey hole. He’s waiting for you.’

  A voice from the other end, weak but recognizable, said, ‘Skyman, that you? You got Carl with you?’

  ‘See?’ the man asked. ‘What did I say?’

  Carl said nothing. He took out his wallet and passed over a five-dollar bill. ‘Thanks. You’ve done okay.’

  ‘Go ahead in there,’ Skyman said. ‘I’ll go back outside.’

  He crawled on his hands and knees, over dry pieces of wood, wincing at the pain from his sore legs, and then the dim tunnel opened up and he was in a large cavern, about eight feet tall and thirty or so feet wide. It was made of concrete and brick, and was lit by candles and a small gas lantern hissing in the corner. Two-Tone was lying on a mattress, on a bed made from scrap lumber, and he weakly lifted a hand in greeting.

  ‘Carl,’ he said, his voice hoarse, like he had a sore throat. ‘I’m glad I could get you. We need to talk. Have a seat.’

  There was an old school chair by a salvaged kitchen table, and Carl dragged it over to the bed, looking around at Two-Tone’s home. It looked like it might have been a cellar of some sort, back in nineteenth-century Boston. There were lines of shelves, and along the shelves were rows of books and canned food. A couple of posters, torn and tattered, hung on the brick walls. One showed the cherry blossoms of Washington, D.C. Another showed an impossibly handsome John F. Kennedy and an impossibly beautiful Jacqueline Kennedy. The place was crowded but clean, and it smelled of fresh air. A smaller tunnel led off to the left, next to a tiny stove that had a pipe that went up through the brick ceiling.

  He looked over at Two-Tone. His face was bruised, his left eye was swollen shut, and he didn’t have his hat on, making the bald and scar-tissued half of his head look stark in the candlelight. Carl leaned over and said, ‘Who did this to you? Some kids in the neighborhood? Is that it?’

  Two-Tone coughed and shook his head. ‘No, no, it was nothing like that. It’s because of some poker game I won, back in 1961.’

  ‘William, I’m sorry, I don’t—’

  A wave of the hand interrupted him. ‘Carl, m’boy, you’ve always been polite to me. Always. Very formal and I appreciated that. Always have. But I ain’t William no more. That was a long time ago. I’m Two-Tone, all right? That’s who I am. So why don’t you call me that.’

  He nodded, feeling something awful start to tickle at the back of his throat. ‘Two-Tone, what did you mean, this happened because of some poker game?’

  The older man giggled and burrowed underneath his blankets. ‘Sorry. A little fun on my part, nothing serious. You probably think Two-Tone has gone really crazy, right? Off the deep end and into Boston Harbor?’

  ‘No, I didn’t think of that at all.’

  Another series of coughs. ‘Of course you do. But you’re too polite to say anything. You see, the thing was, back in ‘61, I was playing a late-night poker game outside of Fort Bragg. I was doing all right and by the night’s end, I was ahead a couple of hundred bucks, and I went to cash out and get some rest. But some cranky young guy, full of piss and vinegar, he didn’t want me to leave. Said he wanted a chance to win back his earnings. Being pretty young myself, I told him where to get off and ...well, I cleaned his clock all right.’

  Two-Tone smiled at the memory. ‘Them was some good days, feeling young and strong. Nice feelings. Anyway, this guy says, one of these days, I’ll get you back. Always remembered his face. Forgot his name, but always remembered the face. Squat head, beady eyes, no neck.’

  Carl rubbed at his knees. ‘That was over ten years ago. What happened now?’

  ‘Now? What happened now? What happened now is that I’m out there, workin’, earning my keep for what you and your neighbors pay me, keeping an eye on things, and I see some guys going into your place. Again. Well, I decided I wasn’t going to just stand around and watch ‘em do their dirty work, you know?’

  He felt tired and angry and worn out, all at once. ‘Two-Tone, you didn’t have to do a damn thing.’

  ‘The hell I didn’t!’ Two-Tone raised his head, eyes blazing. ‘This is still America, ain’t it? People shouldn’t be pokin’ around in other people’s houses without their say-so. Anyway. So I saw these three guys go up and I waited outside on the sidewalk, to see what would happen. Then they come out, looking all smug and arrogant-like, and that’s when I lose it. I decide enough’s enough and I go over to them and tell ‘em to get the hell out of the neighborhood, and they start beatin’ on me. I put up a fight, best as I could, and I notice one guy, bigger than the others, and I think “full house.” And I thought, why in hell am I thinking full house? Then it came back to me, poker, and there he is, that snot Army lieutenant who got pissed at me back then. Now I get concerned, ‘cause he’s looking at me and I figure, I gotta end this.’

  Carl said, ‘So what did you do?’

  Two-Tone licked at his lips. ‘I gave up and fell and rolled up, and I let ‘em do their worst. I was on the ground and then they all punched me a few more times, and then they gave me a couple of good kicks, and then they went off, laughing about the dirty bums in this city.’ Two-Tone blinked. ‘That wasn’t nice, you know. I try to stay as clean as I can. It’s not my fault I don’t got hot water in this place.’

  Carl realized his fists were clenched. ‘What else happened?’

  ‘Oh, that was enough for one day, don’t you think,’ and he laughed and then coughed some more. ‘I sat there for a while, bleeding and stuff, and then Skyman came by and drug me back into my hidey-hole, and here I’ve been sittin’. I asked Skyman to wait around your place and to come fetch you when he could, and here you be.’

  ‘I... I appreciate everything you’ve done, Two-Tone. Everything. I don’t know how to repay you.’

  The older man moved around in his bed. ‘Don’t
worry none, don’t worry none about that. After all, we’re both a couple of vets, and us vets gotta look out for one another. Just a few more quarters and maybe some canned hams. I like canned hams, but can’t rightly afford them that much. Oh, but two more things, if you don’t mind, Carl...’

  ‘Name them.’

  Two-Tone looked around his place. ‘This is my hidey-hole ... Only a couple of people know where it is. You won’t be telling anybody, will you?’

  Carl reached over and patted his blanket-covered feet. ‘Not a soul, Two-Tone. I won’t tell anybody a thing. And look it this way. If the sirens ever sound, the next time the missiles start to fly, you can stay here and I’ll come over. You won’t have to come looking for me.’

  Two-Tone grinned. ‘That’s a hell of an idea. And the other thing ... Carl, there was something about these three guys I didn’t tell you.’