Amerikan Eagle (42 page)

One of these buildings? Doubtful, with all the security. And the shipyard was out.

He smelled coal smoke. He was approaching the Portsmouth rail station. More people were about him, a mix of residents and police and Guardsmen and reporters and military from both the United States and Germany, some Long’s Legionnaires scattered through. He could hear a brass band playing a tune.

The President was arriving.

He let the crowd move him forward to the train station. At a lamppost he stopped, arm wrapped around the
metal to prevent him from going farther. Before him was the station, and to the left, a parking lot had been cleared. A new wooden platform, set with bunting and flags, had been raised there. At least there were no Nazi banners. A band was playing a Sousa march, and from his vantage point, he could make out the khaki uniforms of National Guardsmen and upheld rifles with bayonets attached. An honor guard, though he didn’t see any honor out there.

Up on the platform, men were starting to appear, including a line of the Kingfish’s good ol’ Legionnaires. He hoped a couple of them still had bruises from the whomping he had given them the other night. Even at this distance, he could make out his father-in-law, fresh from his furniture store, and it was good the bastard was up there. How to explain to him what had happened to his daughter and grandson? The thought made him physically ill.

There was the deep whistle of a train. The whistle sounded twice more, and then, coming down the tracks, belching smoke and steam, rumbled the
Ferdinand Magellan
, the official train of the President of the United States. The train ground to a halt in a storm of steam, and another Sousa march started up. There were cheers and shouts and waves, and he looked around at his fellow citizens and thought,
Don’t you see it? Don’t you see what has come to us?
There was no difference between this man here and that man out on his ocean liner. Both crushed and imprisoned their opponents, both had bloody hands, both did what they wanted. Both had Jews behind barbed-wire fences.

Didn’t these people see that?

There. Men filed off the train, and there was the familiar roly-poly figure with its florid face and shock of
hair. President Huey P. Long, the mightiest Kingfish in the world. When he raised both arms in greeting, the crowd roared.

No
, Sam thought.
What they see is what they desire most
. Jobs, safety, and a way of keeping the bloody fields of death out there on the opposite side of the oceans. Just end this damn Depression, get people back to work, stay out of war, and right now, President Long was promising that.

His father-in-law, Lawrence, came up to a microphone and said a number of words, most of them drowned by feedback and overamplification, and then he shook the hand of Long, and the President came to the microphone as though chatting with an old pal.

“My friends, my very dear friends,” he said in his rich gumbo-flavored voice, “I’m so very happy to receive this warm reception, even if you are a bunch of Yankees.”

There was laughter and more applause. The President started talking in his seductive voice, but the words had a sour sound. More blather about the Rockefellers, the Mellons, the Carnegies, the moneyed interests he had fought ever since Winn Parish in Louisiana, and how the rich parasites had tried to sabotage him in all his years, in all he wanted to do, merely to serve the people.

More blather. Sam forced his way back out of the crowd.

* * *

He made his way back to the center of the city, the sidewalks emptying as he got away from the train station. He was there as the President went by.

First were the sirens, and then a brace of New Hampshire State Police motorcycles came roaring up, followed by three convertible black Ford sedans, the tops rolled back. It looked like staff or newsmen were in the lead and following cars, for President Long was in the center car, waving to the few people on the sidewalk, and Secret Service agents were on the running boards, two of them holding submachine guns. Taking up the rear were two more state police motorcycles. The sound quickly rolled on, dust and newspaper scraps spun up by the speeding vehicles.

Sam reached the police station, looked up at the old building, and realized there was nothing there for him. He went to his Packard, started it, and went back to the Rockingham Hotel.

* * *

LaCouture looked as though he were being held together by coffee and cigarettes. His usual dapper style had left him; his clothes were rumpled and stained. Even Groebke looked exhausted. There was none of the manly banter or ballbusting or usual bullshit. LaCouture just looked up from his eternal paperwork and said, “Well?”

“Nothing,” Sam answered. “This place is so tightly sealed, I can’t see him gaining access anywhere to make a shot. I even went over to the Navy Yard. If anything, it’s tighter over there.”

“Friends? Acquaintances?”

“None. Tony pretty much kept to himself. And the Yard security chief said Tony’s not popular with most of the workforce. I just don’t know—”

Groebke said, “You wouldn’t be protecting him, eh, so that he could shoot our chancellor?”

“No, not a chance,” Sam said, his voice biting. “Getting him gets my family free, and if that’s what it takes, that’s what’s going to happen.”

Groebke’s pale eyes stayed on him. “Still, I know how you hate my country, hate my leader. I believe you would not mind seeing the Führer get shot tomorrow, even if it means your wife and son remain in prison. Perhaps such an exchange, a trade, would be worth it. Eh?”

“You’re right,” Sam said, keeping his voice under control with difficulty. “I wouldn’t mind seeing your Führer shot tomorrow. Or stabbed. Or drowned. But I’m a cop, a cop assigned to you characters, and I’ll do my job. Protecting Hitler, finding my brother, and getting my family free.”

LaCouture yawned, waved a hand. “Go on. Go home or go out on the streets again, but get out of here.”

“That’s fine,” Sam said. “What about tomorrow?”

“Come back at eight. We’ll figure something out then.”

Sam stood there, tired and soiled, and he said, “My wife and boy. I want to talk to them. Now.”

LaCouture shook his head. “Can’t do it.”

“Why the hell not?”

“Because I don’t want to, all right? Because it doesn’t suit me. Because I’ve got dozens of things to do before I get to bed tonight, and worrying about your family is not on that fucking list. What’s top on that list is finding your criminal brother, so I suggest you get your ass out of here and find him if you want your wife and son out of that camp. Bad enough what can happen to a woman in one of those camps. I’ve heard stories about young boys and—”

Only Groebke leaping up and grabbing his arms prevented Sam, in a white-hot fury, from leaping onto the FBI agent. LaCouture kicked back his chair and stood up, nostrils flaring, and said, “That’s right, son, you hit me and that might feel right, but your family will still be in that camp. I got the fucking lock that keeps ’em there, and your brother is the key. So find that key. Don’t come beatin’ up on me; that won’t serve you none.”

Sam broke free from Groebke’s grasp. “You better pray they’re okay. You got that, Jack?”

“I stopped prayin’ to God above the day I got into the FBI, ’cause my savior then was the Kingfish, who got me there. Get out, Sam. I don’t have time for you bullshit.”

* * *

Outside, Sam was still shaking with anger. He strode over to the Packard and got in and slammed the door. He lowered his head, thinking about Sarah, frightened, imprisoned … And poor Toby. Sam’s heart ached so hard he was dizzy, thinking about his boy there, away from his home, his bedroom, his radio, his models.

He stared blankly out through the dirty windshield. All the models broken, shattered, by those thugs of Long’s, breaking into his home without worry or legal warrant. The bastards.

He knew he should keep on looking for his brother, but for Christ’s sake it was dark, and what could he do? Just flail around from one well-guarded building to another, going through checkpoints, hopefully not get shot by some trigger-happy National Guardsmen. And going home to that violated place, no, that wasn’t an option. He
put the Packard into drive and edged himself out on the streets, drowning in his troubles.

And then it came to him.

Where did he and Tony always go when they got into trouble?

That little island in the harbor. Pierce Island.

* * *

He was surprised to see two cars parked at the far side of the island’s dirt parking lot. It looked like more people than he thought had those prized windshield passes. He got out and took his flashlight, played it around the interiors of both cars. One was empty. In the other was a man and woman in the backseat, so busy that they didn’t even notice Sam’s presence.

He scanned the lot. Called out, “Tony? You out here?”

He moved down the path, the flashlight beam slicing a wide area ahead of him, and then—

A noise. He whipped to his left, let his light play out.

A man stood there, trying to move away.

“Freeze! Portsmouth police! Don’t move!”

He drew his revolver, held the flashlight out, saw a man standing there, his back to him.

Another man scrambled to his feet before the first man, holding a hand up to his face to block the light. He wore the dress blues of a sailor. “Hey, pal, get the light outta my face, will ya?” came the sheepish voice, with a thick New York accent.

Sam saw the other man adjust his pants and shook his head at what he had just interrupted. He lowered the light. “All right, sailor, beat it.”

“Uh …” The sailor backed away, “Not sure how to get back. This fella gave me a ride.”

“Oh, Christ, the both of you just beat it. You, turn around.”

Now something was familiar, something was wrong, for he knew this man, knew him very well.

The mayor of Portsmouth, his father-in-law, the honorable Lawrence Young. With his pants around his knees.

“Sam.” His head was tilted so he wasn’t looking at the man who had married his daughter.

“Pull your pants up, all right?”

Lawrence bent over, yanked up his trousers, drew the zipper up, and fastened the belt. “Look, this isn’t what you—”

“Larry, you never gave a damn what I’ve thought, so why start now?”

“It’s just the pressure, you know? The summit and the President coming and—Just a onetime thing, that’s all. Something to take the pressure off.”

Sam edged the flashlight beam back up to his father-in-law’s face, knowing he couldn’t tell the bastard anything about Sarah and his grandson, for LaCouture had made it clear: Only by getting Tony would they get out of Camp Carpenter. Bringing in Lawrence … Christ, who knew how that could complicate things? But there was something else that had to be said.

“Larry, you ever hear of a street over in Kittery called Admiral’s Way?”

“Perhaps … I’m not sure … Why?”

“Cut the crap. Some months ago I went along with some Maine state troopers and Kittery cops on a raid at a whorehouse on Admiral Way. Nice, quiet Victorian house.
I was just observing, but you know what? Something I observed was you coming out in handcuffs. How the hell did you think you got freed that night? Because of your voting record? No, I asked a favor from one of the Kittery cops. So he went over and uncuffed you.”

Lawrence’s face was ghostly white, and he was trembling. Sam added, “Oh, and another thing I observed was the staff of that particular whorehouse. Young boys dressed as girls.” His father-in-law rubbed a hand across his face as if hiding his eyes. “So don’t tell me lies, okay?” Sam said.

“Look, can I get the hell out of here?” Lawrence’s voice was raspy.

“Yeah, you can go. And you know what? Don’t come back. Ever. I never want to see you at my house.”

“Why? Because you know one of my dark, deep secrets? Is that it? You too good to have secrets you’re not proud of, Sam?”

Sam clenched the flashlight tighter. “Go. Get out of here.”

“Some inspector. You think you know everything about me, everything about how I think and work. Kid, you know shit—”

Lawrence pushed past him, heading back to the parking lot, and Sam spent a fruitless hour longer on the dark island, looking for his brother.

He waited outside the Laughing Gull, one of the many bars near the harbor. The windows were blackened, and the wooden sign dangling outside was cracked and faded. Even with the summit crackdown, business was doing all right at this bar and its neighbors. Every time some cops or guys in good suits strolled by, he made sure to stay in the shadows. He waited, watching, in the spill of loud jazz music, the smell of beer and cigarettes and cigars. Sailors in dress whites came stumbling down the cobblestone lane, and when the laughing and singing group of men passed on, a man was standing at the street corner. He watched as the man took a cigarette out and tried to light it three times with a lighter that didn’t catch.

He walked across the street, offered him a book of matches. The man looked at him and said, “Thanks, mate.” His accent was English.

“You’re welcome,” he said. “That a Lucky Strike?”

“Nope, a Camel.”

“I see.”

The man lit the cigarette, gave him back the matches, took a drag, then dropped the lit butt on the ground. “C’mon, let’s talk private, all right?”

He followed as the man walked around the corner into another alley that stank of trash and piss. The Englishman said, “Not much time, so here it goes. Tomorrow’s the day.”

“I figured,” he said. The words seemed as heavy as stones coming out of his mouth.

“Good on you,” the man said. “But there’s been a change for tomorrow.”

The whole damn street seemed to tip on its side, making him feel like he was going to fall over. “What kind of change?”

“Target change.”

“The fuck you say.”

“Bloody hell, mate, I’m just the messenger, all right? All I know is, it’s got to be done, and I got to know, are you going to do what you’re told? Because that’s the deal you signed on for, right?”

He clenched his fists tight, then thought for a moment and said, “Yeah. That’s the deal I signed on for. You’re right. So what’s the change?”