“Glad to see you made it, Sam. What the hell happened to your cheek?”
“Walked into a door.”
Frank grinned. “If you say so. Look, anything new about that body? Any ID yet? Or cause of death?”
“Nope,” he said. “Still working it. Should get a report from the medical examiner tomorrow.”
“Sounds good. But I bet you a beer that you find out that dead man’s a hobo who stole those clothes and got clipped by the train some way.”
“Maybe,” Sam agreed, and Frank said, “You watch. One beer.”
Frank wandered off, and Sam decided one beer was a good idea. There was a stir amid the crowd, and two young men came in from the rear of the room, laughing. Blue corduroy pants, leather jackets, and even in the crowd, Sam felt alone and exposed, as if he were in a crowded church and feeling like the pastor was staring right at him when sermonizing about the wages of sin. Long’s Legionnaires, the same creeps from the other night at the Fish Shanty. They dragged chairs over near an empty lectern and sat there, legs stretched out, arms folded. Here to keep an eye on the locals. Sam looked away and went up to the wooden bar, where he managed to get a Narragansett. Then there was an elbow in his side and a voice in his ear: “Inspector, I sure hope you don’t drink like that on duty.”
A short man with red hair stood grinning up at him. Sean Donovan, former ironworker from the Portsmouth Naval Shipyard and now a clerk at the department, who spent most of his days burrowed in the files in the basement, trying to clean up a backlog of misfiled papers and case reports. Most cops ignored him—what the hell was a guy doing in a broad’s job, anyway?—but Sam liked Donovan’s quick wit and ability to find some obscure bit of paperwork in just a few minutes.
“Didn’t know you were so interested in politics, Sean.”
“I’m interested in keeping my job, my belly full, and a roof over my head. That means decisions, compromises, and the occasional sacrifice that would make your stomach roll. If I was in Berlin, I’m sure I would be a fully paid member of the Nazi Party. If I was in Moscow, my party card would be red. In England, Mr. Mosley would have my allegiance; in Italy, Signor Mussolini; and in France, Monsieur Laval; but here I am in Portsmouth, New Hampshire, eager to once again swear undying fealty to the Kingfish.”
Sam clinked his bottle against Sean’s. “And then go home to curse him out in private.”
“You know me too well, Inspector. But I’m sure you’re not here out of any particular love or duty to the Party. Just here not to rock boats, am I right?”
“And now, because you work for the cops, you’re a mindreader?”
“You’ll be amazed at what I’ve learned. Ah, I see our boys from Baton Rouge are here to keep an eye on us.”
Sam looked again to the two young Southern men, and there was Marshal Harold Hanson, talking to them. Hanson went to the other side of the room, took a seat. Then one of the Legionnaires raised his head, and his chilly blue eyes seemed to look right through Sam. The Legionnaire nudged his companion, and now they were both staring at him. Sam raised his bottle in a salute and gave them a smile, and for that, he got frozen gazes in return. Fine. To hell with you bastards, he thought.
“Looks like two of Long’s finest don’t like your Yankee hospitality,” Sean remarked.
Sam kept a smile on his face. “The little crawfish bastards should crawl back to their bayous or swamps or whatever the hell they call them.”
“Now look who’s talking sedition. Hold on, it looks like the show is about to begin.”
A large man wearing a Legion cap and a dark blue suit that pinched at every seam stood behind the lectern. Teddy Caruso, city councillor and a Party leader for the county. Caruso’s loud voice carried out into the mass of men—the women had their own Party auxiliary, which met at a different time—and there were some grumbles from the crowd as he said, “Come on, come on, find a seat, find a seat, we wanna get going here…”
Lawrence Young walked in, with his sharp smile that suggested a fondness for the rough-and-tumble world of politics. He joined Teddy for a moment, whispering into his ear. Both made a point of smiling at the two Southern men sitting near them.
Sean said, “I see your sainted father-in-law is up front, member of the ruling class, ready to oppress us workers. Why don’t you go up and give him a big ol’ handshake?”
“And why don’t you mind your own damn business?” Sam shot back.
“Tsk, tsk, it seems Mr. Young and his favorite son-in-law don’t get along,” Sean said cheerfully. “If that’s the case, take a number. You’re not the only one in the room who despises him. Like our boss, for example.”
“Really? I know they’re not best friends, but—”
“Oh, come on, Sam. There’s more to police work than being out on the street. You’ve got to look beyond the streets to the offices overlooking them and the men who inhabit them. Like our mayor and the marshal. Both men who crave power, who like being in the Party, and who neither trust nor like each other.”
“Even if they’re both Party members?”
“Especially if they’re both Party members.” Sean said it firmly. “Sam, m’lad, listen well and learn. In all fascist organizations, there are factions within that battle each other. Over in Germany, it’s the SS versus the Gestapo. Here, it’s the Nats versus the Staties.”
From the crowd came another roar of laughter. Sam said, “The Nats versus the what?”
“Nats and Staties. Nats are short for National, Staties slang for States. The Nats believe in supporting the Party organization no matter what, subordinating the needs of their states and their own people. The Staties believe in supporting their people and their state first and foremost. Hanson is a Nat. The mayor is a Statie. So there you go. The mayor thinks the marshal listens too much to the national organization, and the marshal thinks the mayor listens too much to the poor foot soldiers out there in the streets. They’re jockeying for position, Sam, looking for allies, to be in total control of the county Party organization and then, eventually, the state.”
The beer now tasted flat. He knew for sure what had been going on earlier with his boss and his father-in-law: As Sean said, both the marshal and the mayor were looking for allies to help them in their struggle, and why not have Sam Miller on the inside, working to betray the other?
“Too much politics for me, Sean. Look, let’s just find a seat, okay?”
Sean said, “Sure, Sam. Look. Let the dedicated ones go up front. We hang back, that means we’re the first ones out when this breaks up.”
“Sounds fine to me,” Sam said. He waited with Sean until most of the crew had taken folding chairs, and then they walked to the last row. Sean walked with a pronounced limp, revealing the true reason he worked at the police department instead of the shipyard. Two years ago, a falling piece of welded metal had crushed his left foot, putting him in the hospital for three months. As Sean once told Sam, that piece of metal had “accidentally” been tipped over by someone, someone whose brother took Sean’s job the very next day.
Sam took his seat, remembering something else Sean had said: When it comes to jobs or your life, always watch your back, Sam.
CHAPTER TEN
Once everyone in the hall sat down, they stood right up again as an overweight man made the audience stand for the Pledge of Allegiance. Sam shuffled to his feet—a few rows up, there was loud cursing as somebody kicked over a beer—and looked to the far corner of the hall, where an American flag hung from a pole. Joining the other men, Sam held out his arm straight in the traditional salute as the ritual began.