by Alan Glenn
“There’s not enough bulldozers in this country to clean up all the places like this,” he said.
“Don’t matter none,” LaCouture said. “So long as it’s clean around here, that’s all I care about.”
“What about the people? What happened to them?”
“Trespassers all,” LaCouture said. “Those Long boys took care of ’em. Sent off to some transit camps, far away from the newsreel boys come summit day.”
Sam’s witness, Lou Purdue, had lived here, but he knew that wouldn’t get any sympathy from LaCouture. To the FBI, that matter was done.
LaCouture said, “All right, then, tell me what you got for me today.”
Sam took out his notebook, flipped through the pages, started telling LaCouture what he had learned. After a minute, LaCouture held up a hand and said, “All right, all right, type up your notes and pass it along. We’ll deal with it later.”
Sam closed the notebook. The smoke and the flames were finally dying down. The bulldozers and their operators had moved off to the side, the diesel engines softly rumbling. Talking with the Long’s Legionnaire, Groebke laughed, tossed his cigarette into the smoldering embers.
LaCouture leaned back on the fender. “You don’t like me, do you, Miller?”
“I don’t know about that,” Sam said. “You’re here, I’m working for you. Why don’t we leave it at that?”
“You know, I don’t give a bird’s fart if you didn’t vote for the Kingfish, but he is my President and yours, too, no matter if you don’t like him or me. Just so you know, I grew up in Winn Parish, down in Louisiana. You know Winn Parish?”
“That’s where Long came from.”
“Yep,” the FBI agent said. “That’s where he came from, and man, he never forgets that. I grew up in Winn Parish, too, barefoot, poor, Momma dead, and Daddy, he never finished grammar school. Could barely read and write. Worked as a sharecropper, barely makin’ it year to year. And that was gonna be my life, Inspector, until the Kingfish came to power.”
“You were lucky, then.”
“Yeah, you can call it luck if you’d like, but when Long became governor, he started taxin’ Standard Oil and the other fat cat companies, and he got me and my brothers free schoolbooks, built hospitals and roads. You got good roads up here. Down home, it was dirt tracks that became mud troughs every time it rained. When the Kingfish became our governor, there weren’t more than three hundred miles of paved road in the entire state, and when he became senator, that had changed to more than two thousand miles. He took care of his folks in Winn Parish, he took care of the great state of Louisiana, and believe you me, he’s takin’ care of this great country.”
“Sure,” Sam said. “Lots of new roads, lots of new labor camps, and lots of new railway lines to help fill ’em up.”
LaCouture’s eyes flashed at him. “The voters here wanted change. They wanted to make things better. If that means some losers get put away, that’s the way it’s gonna be. And for those of us he helped, those of us who got an education and got to be somebody, there’s nothin’ the Kingfish can do wrong. Maybe I serve two masters, Long and Hoover, but they both are doin’ what’s right for this country. Don’t you forget that.”
“I’m sure I won’t,” Sam answered.
On the coals, the child’s doll burst into flame.
“Good,” LaCouture said. “You talk to your marshal when you get back to the police station, Inspector Miller, and you tell him to contact Randall at Party headquarters. It’s on for tomorrow night, and that’s all you need to say. Your marshal can figure out the rest.”
Groebke joined them, smiling. He gave a crisp nod to Sam and said in English to the FBI agent, “That was nice, very nice. Herr Roland, over there, has just returned from a term of service with the Waffen-SS George Washington Brigade. He spent some time on the Estonian front with other Legionnaires, getting needed experience.”
Sam turned away from the smoldering pile of debris and wreckage that had meant so much to people who had so little. “Yeah,” he said. “Takes a lot of experience to burn things.”
Groebke gave him a stiff nod. “Fire is wonderful. It cleans, it purifies, it makes everything … clear.”
LaCouture grinned at his counterpart. “Christ, we get a job done, you get all philosophical on us, Hans. Inspector, you believe in philosophy?”
“Not today,” Sam said.
* * *
Minutes later, he was back at the police station pushing past people moving in and out of the lobby, newsreel cameras already setting up shop outside, reporters buttonholing him as he went inside. He shrugged them all off and went upstairs. Mrs. Walton said, “He’s busy talking to the governor. And when he’s finished with that call, the governor of Maine wants to talk to him. So he can’t see you for a while.”
Sam went back to his desk and started going through the top stack of file folders and—
File folders.
Records.
Dammit. Sean had wanted to talk to him.
“I’ll be back in a couple of minutes,” he called out to Mrs. Walton. He took some satisfaction in ignoring her when she called after him.
* * *
The records were kept in the basement. Sean’s desk was empty. Stretching out into the darkness were file cabinets and boxes, and Sam heard a squeaking noise approaching him. Clarence Rolston, the janitor and overall handyman for the police station, was coming toward him. A bucket of water on rollers was before him, and he was pushing it forward with the mop inside.
Clarence was the older brother of a city councilman. He’d once supposedly drunk some poisoned rotgut during Prohibition, and his brain had been slightly scrambled ever since.
Sam said, “Clarence.”
The man looked up. His gray hair was a tight ball of fuzz about his head. “Sam … I’m right, aren’t I? Sam.”
“That’s right, Clarence. Good job. I’m looking for somebody.”
The janitor shook his head. “My brother Bobby? I tell people all the time, I can’t help you. I can’t get you to see Bobby. Bobby does his own thing and I do my own. If you need a job or relief, then I can’t help you, I’m sorry.”
“That’s fine, Clarence, I’m not looking for your brother.”
“Oh.” The janitor looked relieved. “What is it, then?”
“I’m looking for Sean, the records clerk. Can you tell me where I can find him?”
A shake of the head. “I can, but I shouldn’t.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because they told me not to say anything, that’s why.”
“Who?”
“The G-men, that’s who.”
“Are you telling me that Sean’s been arrested by the FBI?”
“Darn you, you tricked me. You tricked me into saying something I shouldn’t’ve. Oh, darn it, I’m going to lose my job …”
Tears were trickling down Clarence’s cheeks. Sam grasped his upper arm gently. “Clarence. Look at me. I’m the police inspector here. And I know a lot of secrets. This is going to be one more secret, all right? I won’t tell anybody I was here, won’t say a word about you. You won’t lose your job, your brother won’t get into trouble, nothing like that’s going to happen. Just calm down.”
Clarence was smiling as he wiped away the tears. “That’s nice. That’s right nice of you to say something like that, Sam. Thanks a lot.”
“Not a problem,” Sam said.
* * *
Back upstairs he was pleased to find Hanson alone, no phone up to his ear. Sam took a seat and Hanson said, “Tell me what you’ve got.”
Sam spent the next fifteen minutes describing the requirements of LaCouture and Groebke. When he finished his briefing, Hanson pushed aside his notes and said with disgust, “Glorified travel agents and traffic cops. That’s all the damn feds and Krauts need us to do. All right, we’ll do what we’re told. Not like we have any goddamn choice in the matter. Anything else?”
“Two more things,” Sam said. “
Agent LaCouture told me to tell you to contact Randall at Party headquarters in Concord. That something is on tomorrow night and you would know what that means. Do you?”
Hanson’s face seemed to lose color. “Yeah. Yeah, I know what that means. Shit. You and everyone else in the department … we have a dirty job set for tomorrow night.”
From the bleak look on Hanson’s face, Sam knew what was going to happen. The long-rumored and long-threatened crackdown on refugees was about to begin.
“What time?” Sam asked.
Hanson scribbled something in his notepad. “Probably early evening. Damn. Okay, you said two things. What’s next?”
“Sean Donovan. He’s been arrested by the FBI. Do you know why?”
“Not my business and not yours,” Hanson said. “Donovan was taken into federal protective custody two days ago. That’s all I can say.”
“And Leo Gray? Picked up by the Interior Department the other day?”
“Same answer. Not your business. You’ve got enough to do.”
“But Sean Donovan and Leo Gray, they work for you, work for the department, can’t you—”
Hanson glared at him. “Right now I have the bigname correspondents from the radios and the newsreels wanting a piece of me, the governors of two states, the FBI, the Gestapo, the German diplomatic corps and the State Department and the President’s people in D.C. and Concord. If you think I’ve got time to worry about a file clerk and a rookie cop, you’re seriously wrong. They’ve both been charged with federal offenses, it’s nothing I can fix, that’s it. None of us are above being rousted by the feds if they’re in the mood for trouble. Got it, Inspector?”
Sam tasted ashes in his mouth. “Got it, sir.”
“Good. Remember, you’re liaison, so if the FBI and the Gestapo are finished with you, go on home and get some rest. Check in with them tomorrow and see what they want.”
“And what might that be?”
“How in hell should I know?” Hanson exploded. “If they want you to strip naked and dance the Charleston in Market Square, do it! If they want you to fly to Hollywood and bring back Mae West for the Führer’s entertainment, do that, too!”
Sam got up and left without another word. So much going on, so very much, and right now he was late for dinner.
Outside of the police station, there was a crowd of people trying to come in, trying to be seen. There were a few children holding the hands of a mother or a father, crying, not wanting to be here on such a cold night. Under a streetlight, watching with amusement, stood another squad of Long’s Legionnaires.
INTERLUDE VI
In the dirt-floor basement, once again, Curt spread a set of cards and papers on the table. He examined them and said, “Damn fine job. Ralph did great with the photos, but my compliments to whoever finished this.”
Curt grunted. “I’ll make sure to pass that along if any of us make it alive through the next week.”
Up above, the cellar door opened and the man from before, Vince, clumped down the stairs, carrying a long cardboard box that said FRESH FLOWERS in a pretty script. Vince put the box on the table. “There you go. As promised.”
He pulled the box over, lifted the top. Inside was a long object wrapped in brown paper and twine. He pulled it out, undid the twine, and unwrapped the paper. A bolt-action rifle with attached telescopic sight was revealed, along with a small paper sack. Inside the sack were six rifle cartridges.
Curt said, “Do you recognize it? Will it work?”
He felt the cool metal and smooth wood of the rifle. “Sure. It’s a U.S. Army model 1903 .30-06 rifle. Nice and accurate. Holds eight rounds. Has a sweet Weaver 2.5 scope. Will do the job perfectly.” He picked it up, worked the action, held it up to the light. Nice light sheen of oil, no rust or specks of debris.
“Well?” Vince asked.
“As advertised,” he said. “Good job.”
“You know, I can still deliver it if you’d like, won’t be a problem at all, and—”
He put the rifle down, got up, and kicked out with his good leg, catching Vince at the back of the knees. Vince fell hard to the dirt. He rolled him over and put his knee at the base of the man’s spine, reached down to the man’s chin and top of his head, twisted, and pulled. There was a dull crack, a spasm of his legs, and that was that.
He stood, brushed his hands together. Curt said sharply, “Damn it to hell! Was that really necessary?”
“Afraid it was,” he said. “He wouldn’t give up trying to find out where I wanted the rifle stashed. I think he was a snitch. And whoever he’s working for … they only know I have the rifle. They don’t know where it’s going to end up.”
Curt said, “Think or know he’s a snitch?”
He remembered the other night, seeing Vince entering a nice new sedan. “Know.”
“Suppose you’re wrong?”
“Then he died for his country.”
Curt seemed to struggle with that for a moment. Then he said, “Now what?
He went back to the rifle and cartridges, and in a few moments, everything was back in the flower box. He handed it over to Curt. “You leave now, and soon as you can, put it where I want it, along with one or two other things. But you need to make sure you’re not followed. You’re smart enough, you’ve been at this long enough, but Curt—you can’t be followed.”
“I won’t be followed.”
“One more thing,” he said. “Once you make the delivery, get the hell out of town. Don’t come back home. Don’t go to anyone you know, any place you’ve been before. Just get in the car, pick a compass point, and start driving.”
Curt looked at him, his eyes moist. “You … you think you can do this?”
“I was born in a revolutionary town,” he said, trying to put confidence in his voice. “I can do it.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
At home, Toby had gone to bed and Sarah was in the kitchen, slicing up some cold roast beef from last Sunday’s dinner as fried potato pancakes splattered and sang in the frying pan. She had on a light blue cotton dress, and her white apron was snug around her hips. She turned, a length of hair falling across her face, smiling at him.
He remembered a cold fall day back in ’31 when he came off a muddy field, football helmet in hand, and for whatever reason that day, he saw that face, saw that smile, and instantly knew he would do almost anything to see it again.
“Sorry I didn’t call, tell you I was going to be late,” he said.
“I understand,” she said, turning back to the stove. “I heard over the radio what’s going on. My word, Sam, President Long and Adolf Hitler, coming to our town. I can’t believe it.”
He shrugged off his coat, took off his hat, and deposited them in the front closet along with his revolver and holster. “Believe it. It’s going to happen, and this place is going to be a zoo for the next week.”
Back in the kitchen, he came up behind her, grasped her slim hips, and kissed the back of her neck. Sarah made a quick purring noise, like a cat happy for the attention, and she leaned back up against him, her buttocks warm against his groin.
“I’m going to be helping the zookeepers,” he told her. “I’m now the liaison between the police department and the FBI. As things happen, it’s the same FBI guy from before, the one on my John Doe case. Accompanied by his German secret-police buddy.”
He kissed her again and went to the sink to wash his hands. Sarah said, “So what does that mean for you?”
“It means lucky me, I get to be the feds’ errand boy until this summit is over. Finding places to sleep and eat for all the government types coming into Portsmouth over the next week. Lots of FBI and Secret Service, people being rounded up, I’m sure … and damn, speaking of rounding up—you remember Sean Donovan?”
She turned, spatula in hand. “Sure. That crippled guy who works in records?”
“He got picked up two days ago. Off to a labor camp.”
“Can’t the marshal get him off?”
&nbs
p; “It’s a federal charge. And Hanson can’t do much with something federal, as much as he’d like to. One other thing: As long as I’m being an errand boy, I won’t be able to investigate my John Doe case.”
She put the slices of roast beef on a plate. “What a world, what a time … and here in Portsmouth. I can’t believe it. Why Portsmouth?”
Sam yawned. He couldn’t help it. “I heard from somebody in the state police that Hitler hates the water, hates ships. He didn’t want to spend a day more on the water than he had to. So instead of New York or D.C., he’s coming to Portsmouth. A quicker trip. Plus, the Navy Yard’s an easy place to secure.”
Sarah put the potato pancakes on a plate, brought it over to the table. “Security, hah. Maybe if we’re lucky, a crane will fall on Long and Hitler at the same time. Make the world a safer place.”
He picked up his knife and fork as she sat across from him. “Maybe so, but if Long goes, some other creep takes over. What’s-his-name. That senator from Missouri. Same with Hitler.”
She placed her chin in her hand. “Oh, I don’t know. I don’t get the feeling our Vice President likes being Long’s lackey, the poor son of a gun. And I heard that—”
He put his silverware down, looked at the cheerleader who once won his heart, no longer listening to what she was saying. He thought of the boy at the Fish Shanty with the dollar in his hand. Sean warning him to watch his back. The train of prisoners heading up to Maine. The families outside the police station, the children crying. His brother, Tony, on the loose. Donna Fitzgerald and her man, Larry, back together. Leo Gray being picked up by the Black Maria. The visit last night from the two Long’s Legionnaires, who made a point of knowing the door in his living room led to the cellar. And what Hanson had said not over an hour ago.
No one was safe.
Her head came up. “Everything all right? Sam?”
He kept his face calm, picked up his knife and fork again, then laid them down. “Sarah … the next few days are really going to be hell around here. The FBI, the Secret Service, army and navy, you name it, they’ll be here. Not to mention Long’s bully boys.”
