Authors: Alan Glenn
Any other night.
He looked down at his lapel.
But on this night, he was one of them.
* * *
He got into his Packard, started the engine. Waited. Before coming to the station, he had plans.
Yeah, plans
, he thought. But the good police marshal Harold Hanson had plans of his own.
So what now?
Go home and be a good boy?
Or …
He reached up, gently undid the lapel pin, and dropped it in his pocket. He shifted the Packard into reverse, then into first gear, and went back to being a cop.
Just a goddamn cop.
* * *
It took a few minutes of driving in an upscale section of town before he found what he was looking for, a turn-of-the-century Victorian house with light yellow paint. He parked in front and went up to the front porch, turned the doorbell, and waited.
A man opened the lace-curtain-covered door. Pat Lowengard, manager of the Portsmouth office of the Boston & Maine railroad.
“Oh,” Lowengard said, crestfallen, as though he’d been expecting anybody but Sam. “Inspector Miller.”
“Pat, you don’t look like you’re happy to see me.”
“We’re about to have supper, and my mother is visiting, and—”
Sam stepped in, forcing Lowengard back. Sam said, “I need a few minutes of your time. Then you can go back to supper and your happy family.”
“Can’t it wait until tomorrow?”
“It certainly can’t. Now, we can talk here, or I can drag you down to the station. Your choice.”
A woman’s voice called out. Sam couldn’t make out the question, but Lowengard yelled, “It’ll only be a minute, Martha! Just a bit of business to take care of.” Lowengard closed the door. “This way. My office.”
The station manager led Sam down a carpeted hallway. Sam looked at the nice furniture, the framed photos on the wall, and a thought came to him—that old phrase about how the other half lived. During these tough times, it was more like how the fortunate few lived.
At the end of the hallway was an open polished wooden door, and inside the small room were bookshelves, a desk, a typewriter, and two leather chairs. On the bookshelves were a collection of model trains and some leather-bound volumes, and on the floor was a small leather suitcase. After Sam entered the room, Lowengard closed the door and sat down and said, “Inspector, please, make it quick. What do you need?”
“You know trains, Pat, am I right?”
“Yes, I know trains. Is that why you came here? To ask me a stupid question like that?”
“Special trains.”
“What?
Sam put his hands on top of Lowengard’s desk. “Special trains. And don’t bullshit me, Pat. I’m talking about trains that don’t officially exist, trains that have no outside markings, save some yellow stripes. Trains that move at night—trains full of people. What are they?”
Lowengard’s face seemed to pale, as though the blood had suddenly stopped flowing to the skin. He licked his
lips and said, “Sam, please … I could end up in a camp. Or someplace worse.”
“The other camps, right? The ones that are worse than the labor camps. Where are they? You must have an idea. The trains, where do they come from?”
“I … I can’t say anything, Sam. Please. I’m begging you …”
This close, Sam couldn’t help himself. He struck Pat across the face, the sound of the blow sounding sharp and loud in the small room. Pat gasped and brought his hand up to his cheek, and Sam said, “I’m investigating a homicide. And you’re impeding my investigation, which is a crime. Now. You may or may not get into trouble by telling me what you know, but I can guarantee you a shit-load of trouble right now unless you talk to me. It’ll make me very happy to drag your fat ass out of this nice, comfortable house and toss it in a county jail, or a state jail, or, if I get enough dirt on you, a labor camp. Think a guy in your shape will like cutting down trees at sunrise every morning?”
“Sam, please—”
Sam reached into his pocket, took out the flag pin, stuck it on his lapel. “Check it out, Pat. Know what this means? It means I’m part of something that’s not a goddamn club like the Elks or the Kiwanis. Something powerful. Something that can put you in a world of hurt if I just say the word. So. Should I say the word?”
Pat slowly rubbed his cheek, looking like a chubby child who could not believe what Daddy had done to him. “I … I’ll talk. Just for a few minutes. And you never tell anyone you talked to me, and we’re done. All right?”
Sam nodded. “Yeah. We’re done.”
Pat blinked, and Sam saw tears in his eyes. “The trains … they started a few years ago. Top priority, we had to clear tracks and sidings for them, no delays, no questions. They departed from navy installations up and down the East Coast. You hear things, you know? In this business, you hear things.”
“Was the shipyard one of the departure points?”
“Yes, but not often. Maybe two, three times.”
“Who are in the trains?”
Pat shook his head. “People. That’s all.”
“Where do they come from? And where do they go?”
“Transport ships, that’s all I know.” Pat rubbed his cheek. “From there, they mostly go to small towns down south. A few out west. And just a while ago, a place in upstate Vermont. That’s it. The trains go to these towns, and poof, they disappear. As if Mandrake the Magician made them go away.”
“What’s the name of the town in Vermont?”
“Burdick. Up near the Canadian border. I know a couple of the special trains went there in the past year. And that’s it, Sam. I swear to God, that’s it.”
Sam looked at the plump station manager, could smell the dread coming off of him. Something inside felt sour as he remembered how thrilled he’d been to be named an inspector, to better fight crime. And here he was, slapping a scared railroad manager, a man who had done nothing save what he could to keep his job and support his family.
Sam said, “I’m leaving. But only if you can get me a round-trip ticket out to Burdick as fast as you can.”
The man was almost pathetic in his eagerness as he picked up a pen and scribbled something on a slip of
paper. “Of course, Sam, of course. Give me a call, seven
A.M
. tomorrow, and you’ll be all set.”
Pat put the pen down and then burst into tears. He swiped at his eyes, embarrassed. “Sorry … it’s just that … when I was a kid, I loved trains. My uncle worked at B and M in Boston, managed to get me a job as a luggage clerk, and I worked my way up. God, I loved trains, and look where I am … and what I have to do.” He fumbled under the desk, came out with a handkerchief, honked his nose. “Look at me. A job I should love … and I hate it, Sam, hate it so much. Nobody loves trains anymore. They’re crowded, dirty, and share tracks with trains full of prisoners. See that?” He pointed to the suitcase by the door. “It’s gotten so bad, I’ve got a suitcase packed, just in case. Like every other station manager I know, one foul-up, one bad decision on my part, and I’m riding one of the trains I’m supposed to love to a labor camp.”
He wiped his eyes and his nose with the handkerchief. Sam heard the voice of Pat’s wife calling. Ashamed at what he had done to the woman’s husband, he left as quickly as he could.
* * *
Fifteen minutes later, Sam stood in front of a three-story tenement building surrounded by others, all with light gray paint that was flaking and peeling. The air smelled of salt air and exposed mudflats, and radios blared jazz and swing from the windows, and somewhere, a baby was wailing. Clotheslines spanned the alleyways. There was shouting in the distance and a sharp
crack
as somebody
fired off a revolver. He jumped a bit at the sudden noise, then ignored it. Another shot in the dark to be overlooked unless it was reported, and he was going to ignore it. He had more important things to do.
Sam went up the front door of the building, which was open, the doorknob having been long ago smashed out. A single bulb, dangling from a frayed cord, illuminated the interior of the hallway and a second door. He went up to the door and knocked on it.
No answer.
He pounded with his closed fist. A muffled voice from inside, then the snapping sound of locks being undone. The door opened an inch, then two inches, held back by a chain. A woman in a dark red robe, her hair bristling with curlers, glared at him. “Yeah?”
“Need to see Kenny Whalen. Now.”
She said, “He’s not here,” and started to close the door.
He jammed the toe of his shoe between the door and the frame and pulled out his leather wallet, showed the badge to the woman. “Kenny Whalen, dear, or if I think you’re lying, I break the door down, tear the place up, looking for him. And then you can ask the city to reimburse you for the damages I cause, and they might get back to you. By 1950 or thereabouts.”
She muttered something, turned, and yelled, “Kenny! Get over here!”
Sam spotted Kenny coming over, buttoning a flannel shirt over a soiled white T-shirt, his hair uncombed. “Ah, shit, hold on, Inspector.”
Sam said, “I pull my shoe back, that door better be open in ten seconds. Clear?”
“Oh, yeah, Inspector, I don’t want no trouble.”
Sam pulled his shoe back, the door clunked shut, and there was a tinkling sound of a chain being worked. Before the door opened, Sam took the lapel pin off. Party membership, to a guy like Kenny, wouldn’t mean shit. Kenny stood there, managing a smile, but on his face the expression looked as inviting as that of a mortgage officer reviewing a foreclosure.
“Inspector, what can I do for you?”
“I need a few minutes to talk to you. In private.”
Kenny glanced back toward the living room. “Dora has ears the size of saucers. Let’s go out in the hallway, okay?”
The two men stood in the hallway, a breeze making the dim lightbulb sway. Kenny said, “Well?”
Sam thought about lines crossed, about what was to be done, and why he was doing it, and thought of that dead man, dead and alone and cold in his city’s morgue, with that tattooed wrist. Branded like fucking cattle, Sean had said. Why?
“I need you to make me some documents. Official identification.”
Kenny stared at him in disbelief. “Shit, I don’t know what’s going on, but no way. I don’t know what the hell you’re doing, but it sounds like entrapment to me. No way in hell.”
It was as if somebody else were mouthing the words, for Sam couldn’t recognize his own voice when it answered, “You do this for me, and I’ll knock off one of those felony charges for uttering a false instrument. Get you to serve in the county lockup instead of state prison. Sound fair, Kenny?”
“Sounds crazy, that’s what. Couple days ago, you
almost arrested me for requesting the same thing. What’s different?”
“Times have changed. That’s all you need to know.”
Kenny stared at him for a moment. Then he said, “You mean that, right? You’ll broom one of those felony charges, let me get a lesser sentence?”
“That’s right.”
“Shit … All right. What kind of papers you looking for? A check? Birth certificate? Union card?”
“I need FBI identification. And something sharp and good, Kenny, something that will pass muster.”
“Are you nuts? The FBI? Jesus Christ … and whose mug should I put on it? Huh?”
“Mine.”
Kenny burst out laughing. “Hey, Inspector, feel free to put that felony charge back on my sheet, ’cause there ain’t no way I’m messing with the feds. Do you think I’m a loon? I get caught making paper like that, that’s a federal beef, that means my ass gets in a labor camp, and that’s it, story finished. Good night. And I’ll see you when my trial starts.”
The forger turned back toward the door. Sam blocked him. Kenny stopped.
“All of it,” Sam said, still not believing what he was saying.
“What do you mean, all of it?”
“All of the charges. They get dropped. Swept away. You never serve a day in jail, don’t even have to face a judge.”
Kenny kept on looking at him, blinking. “Man, you must need this something awful.”
“I do.”
“Why?”
“None of your goddamn business.”
“Then you got yourself a deal, Inspector. Let’s get to work.”
* * *
Work was in the crowded and dark basement of the tenement, in a corner that had been blocked off by a wooden wall that swung out on hidden hinges, revealing an area of about twelve feet by twelve feet, with a dirt floor and walls made of fitted rocks. There was a long workbench, a small printing press on top of another table, rows of cast-lead letters, bottles of ink, and cameras and tripods. Kenny brought Sam into the room and sat him down on a stool and said, “Just to be clear here, Inspector, what you see here … it’s um, going to stay here, right?”
“Yes,” Sam replied. “Everything I see here will stay here.”
Kenny rubbed his hands. “Very good. We’ll get to work,” and then he laughed.
Sam said, “What’s so funny?”
“Funny? What’s so funny is that I was right last time we talked. You told me you couldn’t be bought, and I said you had a price. Lucky for me, you came up with a price.”
The forger busied himself, gathering up film and camera lenses. Sam bit his lip. Then he said, “Kenny, you say anything like that again, I’ll break your nose. And then you’ll still make me that FBI identification, but you’ll be doing it through a broken and bloody nose. Okay?”
“Oh, of course, Inspector. Now, if you need this tonight, let’s get to work.” Kenny sounded apologetic, but there was no missing the glee in his eyes.
About twelve hours after Kenny had produced an FBI identification card that looked as good as the one Sam had seen earlier in LaCouture’s pudgy and manicured hands—“Lucky you’re in a grim mood, so I didn’t have to take another picture,” Kenny had said—Sam sat in a passenger compartment on the Green Mountain local, going up into Vermont. His train travels had begun in Portsmouth, then to Boston, then to a train going west, to Greenfield, Massachusetts. From there, he caught the local, heading north, one of the stops being a small town called Burdick. Before leaving Greenfield, he had rented a small locker at the B&M station, where he had placed his real papers and identification. Now he was traveling with his new FBI identification, which named him as Special Agent Sam Munson.