Amerikan Eagle

“You were very convincing,” Sam managed to say, thinking of what Clarence must have overheard, must have seen, all the while toiling in the background of the police department. He remembered what the marshal had told him back in Burdick: That’s our world, Sam. Spies and snitches everywhere.

“Thanks, Sam,” Clarence replied, going through the folder. “Only the ones who desire to see the President and the Party succeed can be chosen for such a task. But you know what? I was proud of every second of my job.”

Sam thought, Back there, dammit, should have taken that chance, should have taken off when that kid said somebody wanted to see me. All those important papers he had… and his plans for them… oh, Christ.

He said, “Does your brother know?”

Clarence grimaced. “You mean my older brother, the honorable Robert Rolston, city councillor? He knows how to toss a vote for the right bribe, how to skim a city contract for money, and how to get booze and broads in return for city jobs. Other than that, he knows shit.”

Sam said, “I see.”

Clarence said, “Let’s get right to it, all right?”

Sam was startled at the sound of a shotgun blast coming from outside, but the firearm discharging didn’t bother Clarence a bit. Sam said, “Sure. Let’s get to it.”

The supposed janitor put on a pair of reading glasses and said, “What I have here is a collection of documents, Sam, all implicating you in a variety of anti-Party crimes and activities. For example, I have a denouncement saying that at the last Party meeting, you wrote down the names of Long, Coughlin, and Lindbergh when you were asked to list the names of local undesirables. I also have a canvassing report from two Legionnaires who detected suspicious activity at your house when they arrived for a visit. And I have an interrogation report concerning your brother and other plotters against the President. This report strongly implicates your participation. Finally, I have a request from a facility in Vermont seeking your immediate arrest and internment because of activities threatening national security.”

Sam stayed still, his ears roaring like tidal waves crashing over him, overwhelming him and everything in their path.

Clarence peered at Sam over his reading glasses. “Do you have anything to say about these documents, Sam?”

“No, I don’t.”

“Do you deny the information contained in these reports?”

“No.”

“Anything to say in your defense?”

Sam said, “Not a goddamn thing.”

Clarence stared, then put the papers down. “Very well, then. I have no other choice, I’m sorry to say.”

The Legionnaire lowered his hand, opened a desk drawer, and Sam watched as Clarence took out a—

Cigarette lighter. Sam was expecting a pistol, or handcuffs, or an arrest warrant.

Clarence took the papers he had read, held them over the wastebasket, and with a flip of the lighter set them ablaze. The flames quickly rolled up the sheets of paper until Clarence was forced to drop them in the wastebasket. Wisps of smoke rose to the peaked green canvas roof of the tent.

Clarence put the cigarette lighter back into the desk drawer, slid it shut. He took his reading glasses off. “Sam, you always treated me well all the years I was undercover. Every single time you saw me. Not like some of your fellow cops, who figured I was just a dummy, a moron they could ignore or tease or rough up… Anyway, how you treated me day after day, month after month, year after year, that tells me what kind of man you are. Not whatever was claimed on those sheets of paper—which, of course, no longer exist.”

The Legionnaire picked up a fountain pen. “You’re a good guy, Sam. But get the hell out of my sight, all right?”

Sam did just that.

* * *

Outside of the temporary holding areas on the football field, a small crowd of people had gathered against the fence, looking for friends or family members. A couple of the braver ones were arguing with the Legionnaires keeping guard at the gate. Sam slipped through and thought of the luck that had just graced him.

As he was going to his Packard, there was a touch on his arm and a familiar voice. “Sam? Sam?”

There was Donna Fitzgerald, face drawn, eyes puffy. She had on a shapeless tweed coat. He said, “Donna… what’s wrong?”

“Larry… he’s been rounded up… and all I know is that he’s in there somewhere.”

“What are they charging him with?”

She wiped at her runny nose. “Who knows? Who cares? He hasn’t done a thing since he’s been back from the camp, just sleeping and catching up on his eating, and now he’s gone again. Oh, Sam,” she sobbed. “Can you help me?”

His chest felt cold and tight. “Donna, I’m sorry, I’m just a local cop, and it’s a federal charge he’s up against. I can’t do anything.”

“But I saw you walk out of the compound with no problem.”