Amerikan Eagle (28 page)

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.

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.

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.

After passing through the army MPs stationed outside the Rockingham Hotel, he went into the lobby crowded with luggage in piles in the corner and shouting men in uniform and out of uniform, pressing in on the
overwhelmed staff. The shouts were in a mixture of English and German. Sam skipped the slow-moving elevator for the carpeted stairs. He checked his watch.

He knocked on the door of Room Twelve, waited, staring at the bright brass numerals. Voices came from the other side, but no one answered. He knocked again.

The door swung open. LaCouture stood there, phone to his ear, dressed in white boxer shorts and a dingy white T-shirt. “Yeah?” he said. Behind him, sitting at the table, was Groebke, sipping from a cup of coffee, reading a German magazine called
Signal
, glasses perched on the end of his nose. The Gestapo man had on a blue robe that looked like silk.

Sam said, “It’s nine
A.M
. The time I usually show up.”

LaCouture held the phone receiver to his chest, looked annoyed. “We’re busy now. Come back later.”

“When—”

The door slammed in his face.

Sam went back down to the lobby.

The noise and confusion of the lobby made his head throb. Sam went outside to the granite steps, near the MP guards, took in some deep breaths. He thought about going to the police station, maybe coming back to the hotel in another hour or so.

But … after last night’s raids, the station was probably crawling with friends and relatives of those seized, people desperate for justice or just a sympathetic ear. The thought of trying to explain to some Dutch woman who could barely understand English that her husband was in the custody of the feds and not the city—the thought of doing that all day made him queasy.