Authors: Alan Glenn
Sam reached into his pocket. “How much?”
“Free for your boy. He always treated my girls okay.”
Sam shook his head. “No dice.” He laid down a handful of coins, pushed them across the table, slipped the wooden submarine into his coat pocket. “It’s really good work, Brett. Really good work.”
The coins were scooped up with a soiled hand. “Thanks, Sam. I appreciate that. You get along now, okay? And my best to your boy.”
Sam walked away, looked back one more time at the former city firefighter. His pretty girls, perched on either side of him, gently rocked their legs back and forth, lightly kicking their heels against the crates.
* * *
Two blocks away from the police station, the toy submarine weighing heavy in his coat pocket, Sam reached a
storefront that had a green and white sign hanging overhead:
YOUNG’S FINE FURNISHINGS
.
The dangling bell on the door announced his presence, and once again, he was struck by that soul-deadening smell of new furniture. He wasn’t a snob, he knew people needed furniture, but having to spend hours in a showroom like this, deciding what fabric went with the wallpaper and between that sofa or that settee … Christ, he’d rather be hauling drunken sailors stained with piss and vomit back to the Navy Yard. On a counter by the door was a pile of President Long’s own newspaper,
The American Progress
. He ignored the papers and looked around, saw a customer come out of an office at the rear of the store, holding a brochure.
Sam tried not to smile. The man was dressed in a shabby brown suit with dirty brown shoes, the old soles flapping as he walked. His gray hair was a mess, and as he went to the door, he noticed Sam.
“Inspector,” he said. Sam nodded back, as Eric “The Red” Kaminski made his way to the door. Eric was a passionate rabble-rouser, passing out leaflets or holding up a sign in front of the post office protesting the government, though a stint last year in a Maine labor camp had cut back on his public appearances. He was also the brother of Frank Kaminski, the principal at Toby’s school, and a source of unending frustration for his straitlaced brother. One day Sam should have a cup of coffee with the principal, he thought, maybe trade frustrating brother stories.
“Eric,” Sam said, holding the door open. “Didn’t know a man of the people needed new furniture.”
As he went past, Eric said sharply, “You don’t know me, and you don’t know shit about the people, Inspector.”
“You’re probably right,” Sam replied cheerfully as Lawrence Young came out of the office, wearing gray slacks, a crisp white shirt, and a black necktie. His thick black hair was sprinkled with gray about the temples. As always, a little thump of irritation jumped up in Sam’s throat. From day one Lawrence had never hidden his dislike that Sam came from a poor family and wanted to marry his only daughter. Over the years that dislike had only grown.
“It’s about time, Sam,” he said.
“Larry,” he replied. “What can I do for you?”
“Well, Inspector Miller—or should I say, Probationary Inspector Miller?—I was hoping you could give me an update on last month’s burglaries.”
The thump of irritation was now beating in him as if it were an extra heart. “Like I told you and the other store owners, it doesn’t make sense to have the best locks on your front doors and a hook-and-eye fastener for the rear door.”
“So it’s our fault that our stores are being robbed?”
“No, Larry, it’s not,” he answered evenly. “What I’m saying is that you’ve all got to do your part to cut down on the opportunity. I’ve asked the shift sergeants to increase patrols, I’ve interrogated the pawnshop owners up and down the seacoast, and I’ve talked to your fellow businessmen. If we all do our part, we’ll cut down on the crime.”
“I see,” Larry said.
Sam checked his watch. He was going to be late for the county medical examiner. “Larry, that’s nothing new, and
you know it. So now, if you’ve proven your point, I’ll get back to work.”
His father-in-law offered him a chilly smile. “And what kind of point is that?”
“The point being that as mayor, you can haul my ass over here any time you want.”
“I’m sure you’re right. But there’s other work that needs to be done. As important as your position in the police department. Political work.”
Sam counted to five silently before he said, “I’m not interested.”
“Too bad. I’ve received assurances you’ll be at the Party meeting tonight. That’s good. Your past absences have been noticed, and I’ve gotten a fair amount of grief about how my son-in-law doesn’t meet his obligations to the Party.”
“Larry, I do my job, and I go to Party meetings when I can. What else do you guys want?”
“You should be more active. Take part in the county or state committee. Make a name for yourself. I could put you in touch with the right people, and—”
Sam turned. “I’ll think about it, okay? But I’ve got real work to do.”
Larry called out, “Then think right, and think of Sarah and Toby. Think what might happen to them if you don’t get your promotion, if you’re demoted or even lose your job. I may be the mayor, Sam, but I don’t control the budget committee. The police department is always a favorite target.”
At that he swiveled. “A threat?”
“It’s a recognition of what’s going on. Who you know in the Party is going to be more important than the job
you do. Even if the commission approves your promotion, it makes good sense to have important allies in your corner. And I could use you a man like you in the department … letting me know what the marshal is up to.”
“I don’t care about politics, I just care about my job,” Sam said, thinking,
Oh, Christ, what a world, asked to be a rat twice in one day
.
“Yeah, well, politics will sure as hell care about you. Better think about it, Sam. Do more with the Party: It’s a good career move.”
Sam stared directly at the man’s smug face, remembering a time last year when that face hadn’t been so smug. Sam had been across the river in Kittery, accompanying the cops and the Maine state police when they raided a house that had hourly paying guests. One of the guests being led out had been his father-in-law, and after Sam had a quick word with a Kittery detective, the cuffs had come off and Larry had run into the shadows. For Sarah’s sake, Sam had kept his mouth shut about what he had seen.
“Like I said, I don’t care about politics. I’m going to just do my job.”
Larry shot back, “If you don’t cooperate, if you end up losing your job, if bad things happen to Sarah and Toby, it’ll be your fault. I’m trying to be a reasonable man and show you a path to a brighter future, and take care of my daughter and grandson.”
“No, Larry, you’re trying to be a jerk.”
Out on the street, it seemed as if Larry yelled something out after him. Sam kept on walking.
* * *
In the daylight, the crime scene looked smaller and less sinister. He kicked a stone onto the railroad tracks, frustrated after his drive here. His meeting with his father-in-law had made him late to see the county medical examiner, who was now down the coast in Hampton, looking at a body that had washed up from the Atlantic. So the autopsy report would have to wait until tomorrow. He stood on the tracks, saw the gouges in the mud where the funeral home boys had retrieved the body. How in hell did his guy end up here, dead and alone?
Funny, he thought, how John Doe was now his guy. Well, it was true. Somehow he had turned up dead in Sam’s city, and Sam was expected to do something about it. He was going to find out who this guy was, and his name, occupation, and what had killed him. That was his job.
9 1 1 2 8 3.
The newly disturbed mud yielded no clues. He started walking in a slow circle, staring down at the dirt and the grass. An hour later, all he’d come up with was an empty RC Cola bottle, four soggy cigarette butts, and a 1940 penny. He kept the penny.
Now what?
Two men emerged from behind one of the small warehouses, moving deliberately up the railroad track. Both wore tattered long cloth coats and patched trousers. They stayed to the side of the tracks as they came closer.
Sam looked around. He was alone.
“Got any spare change, pal?” the man on the left called out.
“No, I don’t.”
“Here’s the deal, pal. You turn out your pockets, give us your wallet, your shoes and coat, and we’ll let you be.”
The first man moved his hand from behind his coat, showing a length of pipe. “Or we don’t let you be. Whaddya think?” The second man grinned, showing gaps in his teeth, and also the length of the pipe he was carrying.
Sam pulled his coat aside, reached up to his shoulder holster, pulled out his .38-caliber revolver. Then, with his other hand, he took out his badge. “I think we’ve got another deal going on here.” The men froze, and Sam said, “Am I right, guys?”
The one on the left gave a quick lick to his lips. His companion said, “Yes, sir, I guess we do.”
“Then drop the pipes, why don’t you. How does that sound?”
“Hey, bud,” the one on the left whined as his pipe length dropped to the ground. “We was jus’ foolin’, that’s all.”
“We’re jus’ hungry, that’s all,” the second man said. “That a crime now? Bein’ hungry?”
Sam kept his revolver leveled on them. “Here’s our new arrangement. Lucky for you clowns, I got a busy day ahead of me. So I’m not going to haul you in. But you two are going to turn around and start walking. You ever show up here again in Portsmouth, I’ll shoot you both and dump you in that pond over there. You got it?”
He could see them looking at him, evaluating him. Then they turned away. He kept his revolver up to make sure they weren’t going to change their minds. Only when they had gone about fifty yards did he return the gun to its holster.
Christ
, he thought,
what a week
.
To the east he could make out the roof of the B&M railroad station and its sister freight station. There was also a smell of smoke in the air, and he looked down the tracks, away from Maplewood Avenue, down by the grove of trees.
He started walking.
* * *
The encampment was built on a muddy stretch of ground, up against the marshland that bordered the shallow North Mill Pond. There were automobiles and trucks parked near the trees, and from the condition of most of the tires, it looked like the vehicles had made their final stop. Shacks made from scrap lumber and tree branches were scattered around, most with meager fires burning before them and women tending them. The children playing about were shoeless, their feet black with dirt. The women, with their thin dresses soiled and patched, looked up at him, eyes and expressions dull. It made him queasy, thinking about Sarah and Toby safe and warm back home. He shivered, knowing that one mistake, one bad run-in with a Long’s Legionnaire or some other screwup, could easily put his family here.
A skinny old man came over, his white beard down to his chest, his skin gray with grime, his leather shoes held together by twine. “What are you lookin’ for, fella?”
“Looking for Lou from Troy. Is he around?”
“Depends who’s askin’. You a cop?”
“I am.”
“Town cop, railroad cop, or federal cop?”
“Town cop. Inspector Sam Miller.”
The old man spat. “Haven’t seen Lou since yesterday. He in trouble?”
“No. I just want to ask him a few questions.”
“Huh. Sure. Well, he’s not here. Just me and the kids and the womenfolk. That’s it.”
Sam took in the encampment once more. “Where are the other men?”
“Whaddya think? Out in town. Day jobs. Looking for work. Other stuff.”
Other stuff
, Sam thought. Rummaging through trash bins, looking for swill or food scraps. Or collecting bottles or cans. Or, like Lou, scavenging for coal lumps to cut the cold at night, when your wife and your children shivered in the rags as you lay there with them, in despair and rage, wondering again how you had ended up here, a failure as a father, a husband, a man.
“Look, last night, there was something loud coming from here … like gunshots. You know anything about that?”
The old man spat again. “A couple of fellas were drunk, got pissed at each other, fired off a couple o’ rounds. Missed, o’ course. But shit, you tell me you’re worried about that, somethin’ that happened twelve hours ago? Why didn’t you come earlier?”
Sam said, “Other matters had priority, and—”
“Yeah, that’s crap. You cops, you don’t give a shit. If you did, you woulda been here last night instead of comin’ out here the next day to pick up the pieces. Well, the hell with you.”
Without warning, the man took a swing at Sam, the blow landing hard on his left cheek. Sam, stunned,
stepped back and, with two hands, shoved the old man in the chest. The old man fell on his butt, snarling, “Fuck you, cop. You and your kind don’t care about us. I was a stonecutter from Indiana, made stone that built this country, and look at me and my family—livin’ like animals, beggin’ for scraps. So get the fuck out of here, leave us be. Shit, better yet, you want to arrest me? Go ahead. I’ll be fed better and will sleep better tonight in your damn jail.”
Sam touched his cheek, then turned away. Suddenly, he heard a man laughing. From one of the shacks a man stepped out, buttoning his fly. A shipyard worker, probably, Sam thought. The man strolled away, whistling, lighting up a hand-rolled cigarette, and then a woman in a gray dress emerged from the shed, holding a dollar bill, an empty look on her tired face. When she saw Sam, she ducked back into the shack, and he heard her say something he couldn’t make out.
He looked at the rails again. Hearing that woman’s voice, a memory had come to him of a time when he had been a patrolman. Along these very tracks, not far from here, he’d been part of a search party seeking an old man who had wandered off when a train rumbled by unexpectedly. Not a B&M train, just a dark locomotive with a series of closed-off boxcars, and from those boxcars, Sam remembered hearing … noises. Voices. Scores of voices, crying out desperately as the train shuttled through the night, going God knows where.
Voices he couldn’t understand.