by Jack Tunney
Murphy was as good as his word. He gave boxing demonstrations to the men in his company, making Joe a special project. Joe had never been prouder than the day he held his own for ten rounds with Lieutenant Murphy in their makeshift ring, with the rest of the company looking on and shouting out the regimental motto: “Go for broke! Four-Four-two! Go for broke! Four-four-two!” Joe realized, even as he heard it, that they weren’t cheering for him or the lieutenant, not personally –they were cheering for both of them, and all the rest of the outfit. By the time they got to Italy they weren’t katonks or buddhaheads, Japanese or Irish. They were the four-four-two.
After that, they were too busy trying to stay alive to have boxing competitions.
Joe liked to say that Ryan Murphy saved his life twice. The first time was more symbolic; teaching him to box, and to turn his anger into something useful that he could channel and control, gave him a discipline he had never known. Without it, Joe believed he’d have probably bought it early in the Italian campaign.
The second time was literal. It was in a town called Belvedere. They were fighting door-to-door. A German tossed a grenade that landed right behind Joe, and he was so intent on returning fire he didn’t see it. Murphy, a few paces away, did see it –he scooped it up and threw it into an open window with barely a second to spare.
Joe wasn’t able to return the favor. It happened in July, in a town called Castellino, on their march to the Arno River. Ryan Murphy took a bullet through the lungs –again, he was right beside Joe. Once the German squad was safely dispatched, Joe turned his attention to his c.o. –pink froth was bubbling from Murphy’s lips. The lieutenant did not pass easily. But pass he did.
Murphy had told the boys stories about growing up at St. Vincent’s Asylum in Chicago. Joe felt like the orphan as he watched the life fade from his leader, and his friend. Once the war was over, Joe went all-out to become a fighter. And every punch he threw, he threw for Ryan Murphy.
***
Tommy Brennan was a tough son of a bitch.
The Irishman came out at the first bell like he was storming Normandy, and never let up. At first it was all Joe Murakami could do to weather the punches and mind his footwork. Gradually, he found the occasional openings he needed to get his jabs in. But it was the toughest fight of his life. Ryan Murphy had been an amateur compared to this guy. And that was saying something.
And all the while, the crowd was going crazy. They were hooting and cheering, and calling out Tommy’s name. And –no surprise –lots of anti-Japanese invective. It was like they wanted to re-fight the war –never mind that it was over three years ago. There was one last skirmish, in their minds, and it was going to be an easy one.
Well, Joe Murakami had a war to fight, too. Anger welled up in him, mixed with pride –pride in his country, because it was his country. Pride in his service, and his regiment, and all they had done. It was like the pride molded the anger, gave it shape from its diffuse beginning, gave it weight and mass and purpose. Just like Ryan Murphy had taught him.
Still the blows rained down on him. His eyes were swollen, and blood flowed down his face. There was no animosity in his opponent’s face –Tommy Brennan was a fighting machine, doing his workmanlike best to disassemble his foe’s ability to resist. There was a moment in the eighth round when Joe thought how easy it would be to give up, to stop keeping his fists up and his legs moving, to just give in to the darkness. But just like that day back in the compound, when the guards had piled on him, Joe could feel his passion and power coursing through his veins even as the inky clouds gathered before his eyes. But this time, unlike that day five years before, he had the skill to focus.
Tommy Brennan had him on the ropes, pummelling his ribs with lightning fast jabs. Joe reached deep inside –it was time to go for broke. He willed all his anger and pride into his fists like bombs, and let them fly. He rebounded from the ropes, twisting, delivering a powerful left hook, followed by a haymaker with his right. Tommy Brennan reeled, and Joe Murakami stepped into him. He delivered an uppercut with everything he had, snapping the Irishman’s head back.
Tommy Brennan hit the canvas like a demolished building. Halfway through the count he woozily struggled to rise, but collapsed back into a pile. The count was finished, and the ref lifted Joe’s arm.
There were no wild cheers. Shocked silence gave way to murmuring, and a few boos.
Tommy Brennan had regained his feet, and he stumbled forward, He put one arm on Joe’s shoulder, and with the other gloved hand offered him a salute, as sharply as he could under the circumstance. He spat out his mouthguard and leaned into the microphone.
“Hell of a fighter!” He shouted. “Hell of a guy. Hell of an American!”
Then Joe noticed them for the first time- about a dozen guys from his old regiment, all sitting together. They stood in unison and started belting out the fight song.
Fighting for dear old Uncle Sam, HOOH!
We don’t give a damn!
We’ll round up the Hun
At the point of our gun
And victory will be ours!
Go for broke! Four-four two!
Go for broke! Four-four-two!
Victory will be ours!
Then they broke into wild applause, and gradually –gradually –the rest of the crowd joined in.
For a moment, both Joe Murakami and Tommy Brennan thought they caught a glimpse of Lieutenant Ryan Murphy in the back of the hall.
TROY D. SMITH
Born in the Upper Cumberland region of Tennessee, Mr. Smith has loved books even before he could read them. In 1995, his first short story was accepted by Louis L'Amour Western Magazine, and he has been published in magazines since then on a fairly regular basis.
Author of numerous award winning short stories and novels, Troy is currently a Doctoral candidate in the History Department at the University of Illinois. He says, "I don't write about things that happen to people – I write about people that things happen to."
www.troyduanesmith.com
ROUND 5: THE OLD HAND
ED GREENWOOD
“I don’t want to offend, Mister Garman, but you seem more than a little reluctant to work with me.”
The shipping company boss eyed Mike Dasinger rather coldly for a moment through the thick haze of cigarette smoke that hung over his littered desk. Then he sighed, leaned back in his chair, and growled, “My experience of private detectives has been less than pleasant, to date.”
The date was the 21st of September, 1954, but at this rate, the head of Dasinger Private Investigations was beginning to think it would be well into the 22nd before he learned even the basics of why Garman had hired his company. The founder and owner of Garman Deliveries likely associated private eyes with divorce cases and expensive settlements. Dasinger swallowed a sigh and started to gently push.
“So why didn’t you go to the police?”
Silence fell. Garman glared across his desk, mouth shut like the proverbial steel trap—as silence stretched, and the unheeded cigarettes in both of their hands smoldered.
“Mister Garman?” Dasinger finally prodded, gently.
“My business, from the beginning, has been built around customer satisfaction,” Garman replied slowly. “What the customer wants, the customer gets.”
There was another silence before he added, “And in this case . . . “
“Your customer ordered you not to contact the police?”
The door behind Garman opened, and three gray-haired and unlovely men in identical dark suits strode through it.
“We ordered Mister Garman not to involve local law authorities,” the first said firmly, as the trio stopped to stare down at Dasinger.
Who suddenly felt as if he was young again, and back at school, under the disapproving gazes of teachers gathering to determine his punishment.
“The Communists,” put in the second man severely, “are everywhere.”
“I see,” Dasinger replied carefully. He’d been more th
an tired of this second Red Scare some years back, but had to admit it had been more than good for business. As far as he could judge, more Americans were darned suspicious of their neighbors than could read and write, and were busily telling anyone who’d listen all about it. More than a few of them then got scared, and hired private eyes. “And you are?”
Three arms thrust into as many suit jackets and came out with the credentials he’d expected. FBI.
Dasinger only had time to glimpse one name before they vanished again: Dunhill. He looked up at its owner, the agent who’d first spoken; the one who looked oldest and seemed to be in charge. “Mind telling me why you need me, or any private agency, at all?”
Agent Dunhill scowled, and kept silent. He had very thin lips and a very cold stare, when he wanted to show them off.
The third g-man spoke. “We’ve been trying to prevent a series of thefts, but have . . . experienced failure. Several failures. You are . . .” He seemed to run out of steam and into uncertainty, and looked at Dunhill as if seeking direction.
“Plan B,” Dasinger supplied helpfully, and was rewarded with nods from all three FBI men.
“So you need some thieves caught,” he added. “Who’ve been stealing what?”
“You don’t need to know that,” Dunhill snapped. “Just . . . shipments from one private firm working for the government to another. In Mister Garman’s specially-built armored boxcars.”
“Which arrive at their destinations apparently intact—but with the, er, sensitive shipments missing,” supplied the second g-man.
Dasinger crossed his legs so he could stub out his cigarette on the sole of one shoe, and looked up from grinding it to point out, “While I appreciate the need for secrecy, my agents can hardly guard something if they don’t even know what it looks like. A thief could stroll past them carrying it without them even knowing, if it resembles, say—” He held up the now-flattened butt. “—a cigarette.”
“The less said, the better,” said the third agent heavily to his fellow agents.
That earned him a sour look from Dunhill, who told Dasinger, “The crucial, ah, items are metal discs, about three feet across, with wires attached to them.”
Dasinger nodded. “Project Winterhaven?”
All three FBI men stiffened as if he’d suddenly grown three heads and acquired an angelic choir.
“W-what did you say?” Dunhill snarled, as the third whirled around to look at Garman, behind his desk—who responded by clapping his hands over his ears and keeping them there as he shook his head and said quickly, “Didn’t hear that! Really, didn’t catch it, I swear. Believe me.”
The shipping company president was still protesting when Dasinger rose from his chair—a movement that made the three g-men tense and start to reach for what were obviously guns in shoulder holsters under their suit jackets—and leaned forward to murmur into the Dunhill’s ear, “Winterhaven. There’s a reason I’m on your list of private eyes to work with.”
“So it seems,” Agent Dunhill agreed gravely. “Might I ask how you’ve come to know that name?”
“Brown and I are acquainted, and I read the draft of his initial proposal for him, to see if there was anything he’d overlooked. Presentation, that is, not science. I’ve been told nothing since, nor have I asked.”
“Let’s move on,” the second agent said abruptly. “You know what’s going missing. It’s happened three times in succession, now, and we may have to risk sending them by road—by a long, roundabout route, because the roads are so bad, which might avoid detection but will take much longer and give the thieves many more opportunities to take Baby—” He flushed, and explained, “That’s the codename for the next shipment of these things that have gone missing three times. As I said, the thieves looking for Baby will have more chances, and so will other, casual thieves, along any road route.”
“You don’t need armored boxcars for, ah, Baby,” Dasinger observed. “Other government shipments we can’t discuss in any detail go along on the same trip, I take it?”
“Yes,” Dunhill confirmed, “and among other things, there are volatile explosives involved. Complicating our job, and Mister Garman’s.”
“The boxcar making each trip is locked, and sandwiched between two cars—requisitioned rail post office units—of armed guards. They make the trip, and have orders to issue forth and stand guard on both sides of the boxcar whenever the train stops, if possible.”
“If possible?”
“If the stoppage isn’t in the mountains, with a sheer drop from the tracks. Some of these guards are provided by the railroad, and we’ve ordered the line to keep switching their men in and out, not use the same ones, and some Mister Garman here hires from the top firms—”
“Steelbridge, Barnwell’s, and Lewiston’s,” Garman put in. “Selected only an hour before the train departs, to make sure no one can, ah, get to them. They have orders to keep close watch on the guards provided by the railroad.”
“And these boxcars travel from where to where?”
“From Allentown to Duncansville, south of Altoona. In a continuous run, no stopovers—and we watch over the trains being made up and the boxcar being shunted to its siding in Duncansville.”
Dasinger nodded. Bethlehem Steel was in Allentown, with dozens of fabricating firms and foundries, and Duncansville had the airfield that would be needed for testing...
“Have you tried putting men in the boxcar with Baby?”
“Yes, and they’ve been found knocked cold. One of them for good. They can’t carry guns, you see.”
“The explosives?”
“The explosives. No firearms, and no metal tools; nothing that can make a spark. Or the boxcar and everything in it will go sky-high.”
“So along the way, someone’s getting into the boxcars unseen by your guards, seizing Baby—and taking care of any guards you put with Baby. They get into the cars in the usual way? The sliding cargo doors, forced from outside?”
“Forced from outside,” Agent Dunhill confirmed tersely, “and we can’t do anything more to stop that, short of welding the doors shut. Which risks explosions when we do it, and again when we try to undo what we’ve done, at the destination.”
“There are dozens of places in the mountains,” the second agent added gloomily, “where someone strong and agile, who knows the terrain, can get to the boxcar. On some of those grades and curves, trains have to move very slowly, and do a lot of squealing and banging. And it has to be someone strong, to cut the chains and locks we put on the boxcar doors.”
“Or a gang of someones,” the third agent added darkly.
“Leave it to me,” Dasinger told them. “I’ll need to have my people riding inside Mister Garman’s boxcar on Baby’s next trip, and riding with your guards.”
“That’ll mean at least three men,” the third g-man said doubtfully. “Have you got three men you can trust? That you can muster in two days?”
Dasinger gave him his best grim gray smile. “As for that: the less said, the better.”
***
Dasinger’s office was small, dusty, and impersonal. He didn’t believe in acres of real estate you could practice putting across, and he didn’t believe in trying to impress customers with expensive furniture like desks the size of warehouses with bare, immaculate, and never-used tops—or for that matter, offices the size of football fields to put those desks in. And the location of his office kept his telephone service pretty basic.
Not that he had anything to hide from the FBI.
“Hello, Ma’am,” he greeted the Chicago operator calmly, when he’d been put through that far, “please connect me with St. Vincent’s Asylum For Boys. I’m trying to reach Father Tim Brophy.”
The g-men were probably right. Not necessarily about the Communists—in Dasinger’s experience, Senator McCarthy saw more Communists in a week in a given city block than most Americans would see in their entire lives, everywhere they went in the world—but about ears and eyes being ever
ywhere. Which meant the thieves would know about who went along for the train ride. And that in turn meant that he and Kelly would have to be one sort of distraction, Brandy could be the other sort of distraction, and he’d need a man he hadn’t seen for too long to do the real work.
He’d need the Old Hand. And his twin brother.
***
“Like wow! Will you look at that!” Agent Powers gasped.
Agent Dunhill said not a word, but his hard and sudden swallow was audible ten feet away.
Which is where Dasinger was standing, and trying hard not to smirk. They were getting an eyeful of Brandy, with the precise results he’d expected.
She was coming towards them from the truck she’d just brought to a stop with that silken stride that drew every eye. She couldn’t help it. Just as she couldn’t help being, well, spectacular. Brandy was all long, long legs, liquid grace, red hair the color of a darkening sunset down past her waist, and curves. Curves that had proven very useful to Dasinger Private Investigations often enough that Dasinger paid her more than he gave himself. She was worth every penny.
With everyone gawping at Brandy, it was good odds that they barely noticed the toothless, wrinkled little old man trailing along behind her. Silver-gray hair cut flat-top, five foot tall by a generous measure, more than slightly stooped, and wearing a constant vague smile as he blinked out at the world from behind thick, rimless spectacles of elder design. Rusty Northrop, the Old Hand’s twin. Or rather, Hank Northrop’s elder by about a minute. Rusty was far less vague than he looked, but he’d never been strong, or in shape, or any sort of fighter at all. He looked every single minute of his sixty-one hard years, and Dasinger strongly suspected that he and Hank could put what he’d be paying them to very good use. Living simply in run-down rooming houses, these last twenty years, Father Tim had said. Keeping out of trouble.
