by Alan Glenn
Sam took a chair, sat down heavily. “Yeah, I can believe that. You must have learned some skills up there, to miss all the patrols.”
“You wouldn’t believe some of the things I learned.” He looked around and said, “Toby and Sarah coming back soon? I’d love a chance to see ’em, I really would.”
“They’re gone for a few days. I stashed them up in Moultonborough, at her dad’s place. Too many chances of something bad happening while Portsmouth gets crowded with every nutball in the region.”
“A good idea. Too bad there aren’t enough safe places like that in the state for people who need them. Or the country. Or the world.”
Sam stretched out his legs. “Jesus Christ, do you have to make everything into some goddamn symbol of the times or something?”
“Why not? That’s the world we’re living in.”
“So says you,” Sam said, tired of it all.
From the radio came a familiar voice, that of Charles Lindbergh, speaking at some rally. In his Midwestern high-pitched tone, he said, “It is not difficult to understand why Jewish people desire the overthrow of Nazi Germany. The persecution they suffered in Germany would be sufficient to make bitter enemies of any race. No person with a sense of the dignity of mankind can condone the persecution of the Jewish race in Germany. But no person of honesty and vision can look on their pro-war policy here today without seeing the dangers involved in such a policy both for us and for them. Instead of agitating for war, the Jewish groups in this country should be opposing it in every possible way, for they will be among the first to feel its consequences. Tolerance is a virtue that depends upon peace and strength. History shows that it cannot survive war and devastations. A few farsighted Jewish people realize this and stand opposed to intervention. But the majority still do not. Their greatest danger to this country lies in their large ownership and influence in our motion pictures, our press, our radio, and our government.”
“Can you believe that rube?” Tony motioned to the radio. “The war’s all about Europe, all about the Jews. Just stay home between the two oceans and mind our own business and beat up the Jews ourselves and we’ll all be happy little children.”
Sam said, “Some would say the man makes a point, even if he has a lousy way of making it, of staying out of Europe’s war.”
“Yeah, some point. Just because you know how to fly a plane doesn’t mean you know shit about politics and history. The next hundred years of what kind of people we’re going to be, what kind of world we will inhabit, is being fought out in the steppes of Russia, small towns in occupied England and Europe, and our sainted Kingfish has just cast his lot on the side of the invaders.”
Sam felt his blood rise. “As opposed to what, Tony? Helping Joe Stalin and the Reds? You say you know so much. Ever hear of a place called the Katyn Forest, in Poland? Russians took over the eastern half of Poland back in ’39, as part of the Stalin and Hitler peace pact. When the Krauts overran that part in ’41, they found thousands of dead Polish soldiers and officers buried in pits, hands tied together, shot in the head by the NKVD, the Russian secret police. The Krauts invited reporters there, newsreel guys, showed the world what the Russians had done to those Poles. That’s the kind of people we should be helping?”
Tony glowered at him. “Just like you can’t choose your family, Sam, you can’t choose the ones to help you in a desperate fight.”
Lindbergh’s voice kept on coming, almost whiny. “I am not attacking either the Jewish or the British people. Both races, I admire. But I am saying that the leaders of both the British and the Jewish races, for reasons which are as understandable from their viewpoint as they are inadvisable from ours, for reasons which are not American, wish to involve us in the war. We cannot blame them for looking out for what they believe to be their own interests, but we also must look out for ours. We cannot allow the natural passions and prejudices of other peoples to lead our country to destruction.”
“Come on, Tony, what do you say? Should Long make an alliance with Stalin, help him fight the Germans, is that it?”
“The Germans gassed Dad, put him in an early grave. And the Navy Yard thought so little of him and the other workers that they didn’t care when he started coughing out his lungs. Don’t you ever think about that?”
“Sure I do, but having one doctor or six at the Yard wouldn’t have made much difference,” Sam said. “And you know what? I’m sure we go back far enough, we’ll find some English lord or gent made life miserable for the Millers back in Ireland. Does that mean we hold a grudge forever? Christ, that’s what they do in Europe, and look where it’s gotten them.”
“So we just give up?”
“Christ, Tony. What the hell do you want me to do? Buttonhole Long or Hitler in a few days, give ’em the point of view from my escapee brother? Is that it?”
Tony stayed silent for a moment. “No. I … I expect you to do your job, Sam. That’s all. Just do your job and do the right thing.”
It now made sense. “Tony. It’s no coincidence you’re here now. What’s going on?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“Oh, yes, it does,” he insisted. “You just told me to do my job. And that’s what I’m doing. My job. So why are you here? You’ve been a prisoner for a couple of years, you finally escape and end up in Portsmouth just when Hitler’s coming by for a visit. A hell of a coincidence, don’t you think?”
Tony got to his feet, face set. “Sorry, brother. Time to go.”
“You’re not leaving. Tell me why you’re here. The summit … what are you going to do? Make a scene? A protest? Tell me why you’re here.”
Tony stepped toward him. “You going to stop me? Arrest me? Pull a gun on me?”
Doing his job, doing what he had done with those two Long boys, that had been one thing. But his brother was something else. The room was still.
“Tony.…”
“Still here.”
“Leave, then. But get out of Portsmouth. It’s too dangerous here. If you care for Sarah or Toby, get the hell out. Stop whatever it is you’re up to, and just get the hell out.”
“Good advice,” Tony said, brushing past him, heading to the door. “But you know me when it comes to advice. I hardly ever take it. Even if I do care for your wife and boy.”
The door slammed behind Tony and Sam wiped at his face with both hands. Such a goddamn day. He changed the radio station to some music, went into the kitchen, pulled out a bottle of Pabst Blue Ribbon beer, and emptied it before he headed for his bath.
INTERLUDE VII
When he left his brother’s house, he circled around, went to the backyard, where it seemed like so many lifetimes ago he had sneaked over to place three rocks on top of each other. At the rear steps, there was another rock, larger and flatter. He picked it up, removed the slip of paper from underneath, and then walked to the shrubbery separating Sam’s yard from the neighbor’s. He reached into the shrubbery, took out a bag he had hidden there earlier, and then looked up at the lights of Sam’s house.
He felt out of place here. He and Sam had never been close, had been rivals more than siblings, though he knew in his heart of hearts that Sam believed in the same things he did. But Sam was a straight arrow, believed in working within the system as much as possible, while he … well, he knew he was a hell-raiser, the proverbial bull in the china closet. He wished he could have told Sam more, wished he could have left him on better terms, wished he hadn’t lied about why he had come to the house, but it had to be this way. Plans were in motion, things were happening, and it wasn’t safe for Sam to know much. Even Sarah knew only her own small part of things, and he felt embarrassed, thinking of Sarah’s words in the attic, how it seemed she had been looking for an excuse to betray her husband, his brother.
A betrayal. In a way he supposed he was betraying Sam, and he hoped that eventually Sam would forgive him. But for now, all he could rely on was Sam being Sam, and sometimes, that was even too much to hope for.
; He walked away from the house, ducking into other yards and alleyways, the lights of the shipyard always out there, keeping an eye on him. He was torn, seeing them. That’s where his other family was, the ones he had organized for, the ones he had tried to help, and eventually, that’s where it all crashed down on him, with his arrest and deportation from his home state.
But now—now things were different.
Under a streetlight, he opened the slip of paper, read the address, the meeting time, and the code phrase. Memorized it all, then tore the paper into tiny bits and tossed them into an open storm drain, looked once more at the shipyard lights.
This time it was different. This time he would succeed, would go after that despicable man, would make it all worthwhile, not only for himself but for his family across the river and the family who lived in that little house just a few blocks away.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Sam listened to Frank Sinatra singing some swing tune on Your Hit Parade on CBS as he stared at the exhausted face looking back at him from the mirror and thought about what he had done to get this place for his wife and son. He didn’t feel like thinking about Tony. He washed his hands, saw the flecks of dried brown blood from the old man circle down into the drain, and remembered.
* * *
Several years back, it had been a desperate time, trying to get the cash to make the down payment. Sam had borrowed and begged, had worked as much overtime as possible, but the cash just wasn’t there. And he wasn’t going to take his father-in-law’s employment offer, not on your life.
So Sam had gone elsewhere—to Thurber Street—and there he was this cold March evening. He stood by a pile of dirty snow, looked at the row of boardinghouses stretching down almost to the harbor. Officially, these sagging wooden structures were places where sailors, shipyard workers, and fishermen rented rooms for a week, a month, or a year, but Sam knew better. Some of these buildings had illegal bars set up for all-night drinking sessions, and others had rooms that rented for thirty minutes or an hour.
Quite illegal, quite profitable, and so far, Sam’s superiors hadn’t done anything about it. No doubt some folding green was being passed around, but he didn’t particularly care. He shifted his feet in the snow and ice, shivered. Far off, a church clock chimed three times, and he winced as he recalled the lie he had told Sarah, that he was working overtime tonight. It was almost true—he was working overtime for his family.
He looked up the narrow street, waited, his hands in his coat pockets. One pocket was empty, and the other contained a leather sap, filled with lead pellets. Out there was his target, and if he was very, very lucky …
There. Coming from the middle house, the one with the peeling yellow paint, a man shambled out, wearing a long raccoon coat and thick gloves and a sharply turned fedora. William “Wild Willy” Cocannon was a big man, broad in the shoulders. He owned most of these buildings, some legitimate bars and boardinghouses down on the harbor, and other businesses as well. Sam had followed him here and there for a couple of weeks, watching where he went, knowing that on these early Monday mornings after busy weekends, Wild Willy collected from his bars and whorehouses before going home to a nice little estate outside of Manchester.
Wild Willy rambled down the street, spotlighted for a moment by a streetlight, a plume of steam rising from his face in the cold. Sam stepped out and followed him down the sidewalk. Part of him still couldn’t believe he was doing this, but in his panic the past few weeks, he had tried to justify it: Wild Willy was a criminal who was getting away with lots of crimes, week after week, and Sam was just going to deliver a little rough street justice. That’s all. His plan was a quick robbery and racing home with what he’d stolen.
He took out the sap, grabbed Wild Willy by the shoulder, and in a voice he couldn’t believe was his own, growled, “Your money, asshole, and now!”
That was the plan.
But Wild Willy had his own plan.
The big man spun around and shouted, “Fuck you!” and a switchblade flashed in a gloved hand. Sam quickly backpedaled away, but not before the blade sliced across his knuckles. Sam punched back with the leather sap, catching Wild Willy on the side of the head, knocking his hat off. The large man cursed again and lunged at him. Sam stumbled back, slipping on the ice. Wild Willy was shouting, “You fucking little shit, you think you’re going to rob me? Who the fuck do you think you are?”
Sam fell on his ass. He had never felt so terrified, so alone. Other times he’d been in trouble, he’d at least had other cops to back him up, but out here on this cold night, he was alone. And he had crossed a pretty big wide line, for he wasn’t a cop at this moment, flat on his back, with Wild Willy coming after him. He was a criminal. He kicked out hard with his feet, caught Wild Willy in the shins. The larger man fell back, and Sam scrambled up and went after him again, slamming the leather sap into his shoulder, into his neck. As the knife came at him again, Sam struck down on Wild Willy’s face.
Something went crunch, and Sam was now pissed off that he had to be out here, stealing money for a house, acting like a criminal because he didn’t get paid enough, mad that Wild Willy was putting up a fight.
Sam straightened up, breathing harshly, like a racehorse nearing the finish line. Wild Willy was on his back, gasping, wheezing, flailing, making horrible gurgling noises from what used to be his face. Sam grabbed the man’s arms, dragged him into the shadows of an alley. He knelt, wetting his knees in the snow, then went through the man’s pockets, his hand shaking so violently he dropped the thick paper envelope that he found. He picked up the envelope, trembling, and then ran up the street, the cold air burning his lungs. He ran two blocks. That’s where the shakes really hit him hard, and he threw up among some trash bins, heaving until all that was left was bile.
He got home to the cramped apartment about fifteen minutes later. He pushed himself into the tiny bathroom, washing and rewashing his hands, the brown blood from Wild Willy streaming into the sink. The water was cold, the water was always cold, and when he was done, he dried with some toilet paper, flushed it away, and opened up the envelope.
Seven hundred and twelve dollars. Two hundred more than what he needed. He put the money back in the envelope, hid it on a shelf in a rear closet, and stumbled off to bed.
A month later, when they looked at their house on Grayson Street, his very pregnant Sarah hooked her arm through his and said, “Sam, besides our wedding day, this is the happiest day of my life.”
He couldn’t say anything, for when Sarah had spoken, all he could hear was the desperate wheezing of Wild Willy, broken and bleeding, in that frozen alleyway.
* * *
So there. He looked at himself in the mirror, then at his hands.
They were clear of blood. All that covered his hands was his own skin.
He shook his head, ran the water some more, picked up the bar of soap, and started scrubbing again, knowing there were some things that just couldn’t be washed out.
Restricted Distribution
TO: R. F. Sloane, Regional Supervisor, Boston, Department of the Interior
FROM: W. W. Atkins, Department of the Interior, Camp Carpenter Transit Station, N.H.
RE: Interrogation of Special Interest Prisoner #434
The following is a synopsis of the interrogation conducted 10 May 1943 by this official of CURT MONROE, Special Interest Prisoner #434. (A full transcript is attached.) MONROE, a former employee of the Portsmouth Naval Shipyard, was arrested 09 May 1943 while attempting to cross into Canada via the border station in Newport, Vermont.
MONROE was advised that he had been under surveillance for a number of months and that it was known to this office that he was involved in a plot against the nation’s interests with TONY MILLER, late of the Iroquois Labor Camp (see previous report, dated 07 May 1943). MONROE denied any such activities.
MONROE was subjected to a number of enhanced interrogation techniques.
Upon the conclusion of the first set of enhanced
interrogation techniques, MONROE admitted he was involved with TONY MILLER and had been so since the two were employed together at the Portsmouth Naval Shipyard.
MONROE also admitted that MILLER is now in possession of a rifle and is still located somewhere in the Portsmouth area. MONROE was interrogated as to the possible target and placement of MILLER as a gunman. MONROE was also interrogated as to other participants in this plot, including MILLER’s brother, SAM.
MONROE requested a brief moment to use a bathroom. Said facility was searched and secured, as was MONROE. MONROE visited the bathroom in full presence of J. K. Alton, Interior Department Officer. At the time of using the toilet facility, MONROE distracted Officer Alton and removed an object from his mouth, said object to be a small razor blade. MONROE sliced veins in both wrists.
MONROE was declared dead at 1930 hours on 10 May 1943 by the on-duty medical officer at Camp Carpenter Transit Station, N.H.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
The next morning was Sunday. Sam had a quick breakfast of tea and toast, tried to make a call to Moultonborough and was once again blocked by the U.S. Army Signal Corps, then drove to St. James Church for weekly Mass. He managed to catch most of the eight A.M. service. He sat in the back, listening to the ancient Latin phrases, ready to sneak out after taking communion. The parish priest, an elderly Irishman named Father Mullen, preached the Gospel about charity and faith, and despite all that was going on, Sam felt the soothing power of the old man’s words. It was an odd world, he thought, where a hardworking parish priest like Father Mullen would labor in obscurity while a rabble-rouser and anti-Semite like Father Coughlin got a radio audience of millions.
Yeah, he thought, leaving quickly after receiving the communion wafer, an odd world where a Cajun thief was President of the United States.
