‘Go on.’
‘They said something else, ‘fore they left. I thought they was talking about me, but now, I think maybe they was talkin’ about you.’
Carl folded his hands. It felt like the walls of Two-Tone’s place were closing in about his shoulders. ‘Go ahead.’
‘One guy said, “What if it don’t work with him?” And the other guy laughed, the one from Fort Bragg... and he said, “So what. Another dead vet. It gets to be easy once you’ve killed your first.” And then they laughed some more.’
~ * ~
TWENTY-SIX
The next day he went back to the Globe. It was Thursday and he sat at his desk and looked around. The noise from the typewriters and the telephones seemed to blast at his ears, and everything seemed too bright and too noisy. His desk was clean, which was strange, and the’ next surprising thing was seeing the bulk of the city editor, George Dooley, as he ambled his way through the jumble of desks and chairs, heading over to Carl’s desk. George had once said, ‘The only place a reporter should talk to an editor is in front of an editor’s desk,’ yet here George was, in front of Carl’s desk, for the second time in just over a week.
George nodded. He had on his usual black tie, black pants, and white dress shirt, and he said, ‘Glad to see you’re back.’
‘Thanks, George.’
‘Learn anything while you were away?’
Carl almost laughed at the absurdity of the question, and managed to say, ‘Oh, yeah, but nothing I think I can use here.’
George smiled. ‘All right, then, why don’t you take it easy for a bit, and here,’ he said, handing him a folded piece of paper, ‘the mayor’s having a press conference at two. Something about the city’s participation in the American Cancer Society’s fall appeal.’
‘Sure,’ he said, putting the note down on his desk. George started walking back to his office and turned. ‘Oh, and another thing, Carl.’
‘Yes?’
‘Don’t blow this one off, all right?’
Carl felt like the newsroom had tilted up and down again George being gracious? George being polite?
‘You’ll have the story on your desk, the end of the day.’
And there were now four days left.
~ * ~
When he came back from getting a cup of coffee, there was a note on his chair.
Landry—
Please see me soonest.
—Devane
He crumpled the note and tossed it in a trash can, then walked over to the oversight editor’s office with his cup of coffee. Major Devane, still looking like a well-fed weasel in civilian clothes, stood up behind his desk, eyes glaring.
‘Do shut the door behind you, Landry, won’t you?’
Carl eased the door closed but didn’t shut it completely. There. Hope that upsets you. He didn’t wait for an invitation but sat down. Devane still glared at him and said, ‘I understand that you’re now in the active reserve, Sergeant. I also understand that you now have the confidence of General Curtis and are working on an assignment from him. Be that as it may, if you ever again take a seat in my presence without asking permission, I’ll have you brought up on charges.’
Carl took a sip from his coffee. ‘Bully for you. What do you want?’
Devane sat down, face reddening. He started to go through a set of papers. ‘What I want is to see you serving a sentence in a decon camp outside of Miami for the next ten years. I am told that even now, in the heat, the stench from that place can make a man choke to death.’
The major looked up. ‘Failing that, I have been advised to pass along the following information. As you know, Colonel Sawson was in possession of certain papers vital to the national security of this nation. They have not been recovered. Elements of Army intelligence, the Boston police, and me local FBI office have thoroughly searched all apartments in that building. Neighboring apartments have also been searched, the neighbors have been interrogated, and the postman has also been debriefed. Nothing was mailed from that building. Every package and courier delivery business in the Boston area has also been contacted. Nothing.’
‘Didn’t he have a sister?’ Carl asked, remembering the conversation with the landlord.
‘He did,’ Devane replied. ‘She’s been dead for more than six years. Her old apartment in Detroit has also been searched.’ Devane smiled. ‘So there you go, Landry. That is the status of this investigation. Last night I received a personal phone call from General Curtis himself, on a scrambler phone, telling me to give you all of this information and whatever assistance I can provide.’
‘And what kind of assistance do you have?’
The smile got wider. ‘Hardly any at all. You see, Landry, I don’t like you. I’ve never liked you. And I want to do everything in my power to ensure that you fail in this assignment, so that you fall from the general’s good graces, and into my lap.’
‘Major, hearing that you didn’t like me is the nicest thing I’ve heard today,’ Carl said, feeling an urge to toss his coffee into the man’s face. ‘The only thing that would have made me happier is to hear that you ran into a pack of dogs while you were in Manhattan. Did you enjoy your little trip there?’
A sharp smile. ‘More than you did, I imagine.’
‘And what would you have done if you had found me. Shoot me, or interrogate me?’
‘One or the other, Landry,’ Devane said. ‘One or the other. Before you leave, there’s one more thing. In the unlikely event you do come up with anything, someone has been assigned to be your liaison to the general.’ Devane picked up the phone. ‘Clair, send Captain Rowland in, please.’
After hanging up, Devane said, ‘In fact, you might know him. He spent part of his career, same as you, with the Special Forces.’
A bulky man in an ill-fitting brown suit appeared, and Carl nearly dropped his coffee. The man was built like a football linebacker, with close-cropped black hair. As he entered the office, Carl recalled a description he had heard yesterday: squat head, beady eyes, no neck.
Carl stood up and Devane said, ‘Captain Rowland, this is Sergeant Landry. Have you met before?’
The captain offered a bone-crushing handshake, which Carl did his best to return. Looking down at the thick hand, he saw marks across the knuckles, as if he had punched someone yesterday. The major cocked his head and Carl lied the best he could.
Sorry, Major Devane, I’ve never had the pleasure of meeting Captain Rowland.’
~ * ~
Later, back at his work area, he felt a bit out of breath, like he had been in a long and arduous race. In his hand was a plain white business card with Captain Rowland’s name and a handwritten phone number. ‘Any time of the day or night, Sergeant,’ Rowland had said, staring at him. ‘You locate what you’ve been assigned to find, and you call me. Then we’ll take it from there.’
Carl had nodded in all of the right places. Sure. We’ll take it right from there. Just like you did with Merl Sawson. A couple of bullets to the back of the head and you’ve got another dead vet.
He slid the business card into his shirt pocket and picked up a reporter’s notebook that he had left behind. He flipped through the pages and saw the half-scrambled notes that he had taken while talking to people the first couple days after Merl Sawson’s murder. Detective Paul Malone, now called up into the U.S. Navy reserve, and on a patrol boat in the Pacific Northwest. Andrew Townes, run down outside of his apartment building. And Troy Clemmons, MIT student and antidraft activist, either arrested or on the run after his own apartment was raided.
People who were in the unfortunate position of being connected to the Merl Sawson murder, and now they were either gone or dead. Combined with yesterday’s canvass of the neighborhood, not many leads left. About the only thing he’d found yesterday were the droppings of Merl’s dog, in that tiny backyard. So, what was next?
Four days. Jim Rowley. Anschluss.
He looked around the newsroom, noticed how people were ignoring him. So wh
at else was new. In another week he might be gone for good, and to hell with them. Then he remembered an old sergeant telling him something, years and years ago: ‘Soldier, when things get tough, just shut up and soldier.’
Good advice, then and now.
He flipped through the notebook some more, but then saw Jack Burns stroll by, and something came to him. He put the notebook down and walked to Jack’s desk, over by the far wall. Jack was wearing pressed blue jeans and a black pullover sweater. He looked up at Carl and managed a weak smile.
‘Hi, Carl. How was your exile?’
‘Not bad, as exiles go,’ he said, sitting down. ‘Look. Can I buy you lunch?’
Jack’s eyes wandered for a moment. ‘Well, I am sort of backed up on some work and—’
‘Look, I’m not going to embarrass you. If you want me to meet you somewhere, fine. But it’ll only take a few minutes, and I really need your help, Jack. I really do.’
Jack wrote something on a scrap of paper. ‘Sorry, Carl. I can’t help you.’
He passed the paper over. On it was written, Old Ale House, noon.
Carl nodded, tore the piece of paper up, and went back to his own desk.
~ * ~
The Ale House was a hole-in-the-wall lunch place a few blocks away, and Jack met him at the rear booth. They both ordered cheeseburgers and when the food arrived, Jack said, ‘Don’t take this personally, Carl, but right now you’re about as hot as downtown Omaha.’
‘I can imagine,’ he said. ‘What happened while I was away?’
Jack took a bite of his burger and spoke around it. ‘Lots of grim-faced suits, walking in and out, talking to George and Major Devane. Very hush-hush. Your desk got searched at least twice, which shows you how important you became.’
‘Because my desk got searched?’
He shook his head. ‘Nope. ‘Cause they did it in the middle of the day, with a full newsroom. They didn’t care that everybody knew what was going on. So. How’s things in spookland?’
Carl started eating. The burger was hot and good, real meat. Damn, maybe the general was telling the truth about something. Recovery was making progress.
‘Lonely,’ he said. ‘Dark. For your own sake, I don’t think you need to know any more.’
Jack’s smile widened. ‘That’s the best thing I’ve heard from you since you got back.’
‘But I do need your help.’
The smile wasn’t as wide anymore. ‘What kind of help?’
‘I need help finding someone,’ Carl said, and he took out his notebook, scribbled two words in it, and then passed it over. Jack held the paper up in the dim light of the lunch house and said, ‘Troy Clemmons? Who the hell is Troy Clemmons?’
‘Troy was the upstairs neighbor of that dead vet, the—’
‘Jesus, Carl, you’d think that guy was your own uncle or something, the way you go on. Aren’t you tired of getting in trouble and seeing your career go into the shits?’
Carl took another bite of his cheeseburger. ‘Yep. And I’m tired of being kept in the dark, being lied to, having my apartment broken into, and being treated like a three-year-old. Damn it, none of us are three years old anymore. I didn’t like being told what to do when I was a kid, and I like it even less now.’
‘And what’s so important about this Troy character?’
‘I need to talk to him, and he hasn’t been home in over a week.’
‘What makes you think I can find him?’
Carl took a cautious sip of water. ‘Because he’s an MIT student active in the Boston antidraft movement, whatever that’s worth, and I need to see him.’
Jack folded the piece of paper in half and placed it on the table between their two plates. ‘At the risk of repeating myself, I’ll ask again. What makes you think I can find him?’
Carl looked around the restaurant, saw a couple of mailmen leaning against the bar, having a stand-up lunch, and an elderly woman at the other end of the line of booths, slowly spooning chowder into her mouth while reading a folded-over copy of the Boston Herald.
‘Because you’re the only guy I know that could have contacts there, that’s why.’
‘I’m a music critic, damn you, and nothing else!’
‘No, you’re a rock critic. Jack, how many times have you told me that rock music is about the only form of rebellion this country has anymore? How many times have you quoted me rock lyrics, showing me the hidden meaning of what was being sung? Is that just talk, or are you really the counterculture type you say you are?’
Jack picked up his cheeseburger and then put it back on the plate. ‘Don’t lecture me, Carl. You might not like being told what to do, and that’s fine, but I hate being lectured to.’
‘Point noted.’
‘The thing is,’ Jack said, ‘I know I have it soft. I get paid fairly well and I write about music and I go to concerts and hobnob with fun people. Parties, free booze, food, tickets, and groupies who don’t care if you’re with the band or not. They see you as part of the scene, and when that happens, they are terribly eager to crawl into your bed at night and crawl out in the morning with no tears and no strings attached. I like that, I like that very much.’
Jack looked down at the table, spotted with water rings and grease. ‘Still, I get tired of it all, just like everybody else. I don’t like being told I’m just a kid, either.’
Carl felt like he was holding his breath, waiting to see what would happen next. Then Jack picked up the piece of paper with Troy’s name on it and slipped it into his shirt pocket. ‘No promises. None whatsoever. And that’s it, Carl. All right? No more favors.’
All right if I pay for lunch?’
‘That’s fine.’
~ * ~
When he came back from the 2 P.M. press conference that George had assigned him to, there was a thin manila envelope shoved under his typewriter. No name, no return address, just a plain tan envelope. He opened it up and there was a single glossy page inside, tom from a Boston Chamber of Commerce brochure. It showed a statue he recognized: the famed Massachusetts 54th Regiment of the Civil War, one of the first all black regiments during those bloody days. The statue was a raised mural of sorts, showing the marching soldiers and their commanding officer, Major Shaw, leading them off to battle and to the history books.
The statue was at the Boston Common, the large public park across from the State House, within easy walking distance of his apartment. He also remembered that the regiment was decimated during a battle in South Carolina. ‘Sorry ‘bout that,’ he murmured to himself, as he turned the page over. Inked in was ‘Noon, Friday, TC.’
Over at his desk, Jack looked up, and then went back to work. Carl remembered to start breathing again.
Then he remembered something else, and went through the papers on his desk. There it was. Tomorrow there was going to be a rally at the Boston Common, with a protest against the draft and a rally for presidential candidate George McGovern. It was a poorly mimeographed flyer, showing stylized drawings of students, teachers, construction workers, and coat-and-tie types, marching under a banner that said, ‘1972 BOSTON COALITION FOR SURVIVAL.’
Made sense. What better place was there for a draft resister and fugitive hideout, than the middle of a protest march?
~ * ~
When he got home that night she was waiting for him in the shadows by the front door of his apartment building. She stepped away from the empty trash cans. Her voice was tentative. ‘Carl? Do you have a moment?’
Carl stopped and looked at her, his hands suddenly prickly with warmth and nervousness. ‘Sandy. I take it you got my message from Doug Harris?’
‘Yes, yes, I did,’ she said, stepping closer.
He looked at her, at the shadows behind her. She seemed pale and haggard, and her hands were hidden in the pockets of her long coat. Carl said, ‘I wrote you a note, about what you could do. Seeing me meant that you were going to tell the truth. Is that why you’re here?’
Sandy looked down. �
�I’m sure you were told some heavy things about me, correct?’
‘Very correct. After I was rescued, I eventually ended up having a meeting with General Ramsey Curtis. We talked over a number of subjects, and he had some not-so-nice things to say about you.’
‘The general? You actually met with the general?’
‘Yeah, and it wasn’t much fun, Sandy. I wasn’t there as a reporter. I was there as an Army sergeant who had to listen to a superior officer rave on about politics and secrets. And one of these secrets involved you.’
She shuddered. ‘I was going to tell you, honestly I was, but there never... it never seemed to be quite the right moment.’
Resurrection Day Page 45
