Amerikan Eagle

Minutes later, Sam undid the U-joint with a wrench, and brown water rushed into the pan. He reached in with his fingers and winced in disgust as he pulled out the clog, greasy lumps of potato peelings. He dropped them in the saucepan, put the piping back into place, and worked the wrench, then stood up.

“Don’t peel your potatoes in the sink, please, Walter. Do it someplace else, okay? It just clogs the sink. You did the same thing last month.”

“My thanks, Inspector, my warmest thanks.”

“You’re welcome, Walter.” Sam dropped his tools into his bag, saw a worn leather valise on the floor nearby. He never saw Walter without the leather valise, in which the former professor carried letters, manuscripts, and God knew what else. On the table was a stack of magazines with names like Thrilling Wonder Stories and Amazing Stories and Astounding Stories. He picked up Astounding Stories, studied a garish spaceship, fire spewing from its nozzles. There were three names on the cover, and he was startled to see one he recognized: Walter Tucker. He set the pulp magazine down. “How’s the writing gig going?”

“It’s a living of sorts. I’m sure the overpaid and quite cowed professors at Harvard would turn down their noses at what I do, but it can be a lot of fun, frankly. You have to tell a story quickly and to the point. Actually, I’ve learned an extraordinary amount the past few years. About astronomy, biology, atomic theory, and archaeology. Among other things. Anyway, once you’ve been blackballed, that’s it. Even industries that need workers with a scientific background won’t touch me. And the secret satisfaction of science fiction and fantasy is that you can also write about forbidden topics without worrying about censors and critics with handguns and nightsticks.”

Sam was silent, thinking about how tired he was.

“If you write a story about a suppressed group of knights who are working hard to overthrow a king from a swampland who has usurped the throne from the rightful king, who was murdered before his time, and how this swamp king has put his lackeys into places of power around the kingdom… and how they fight to return the kingdom to the old and free ways… then it’s just a fantasy. A tale that no overseer or censor will worry about… a tale that won’t get the author into trouble.”

“Or into a labor camp.”

“Exactly,” Walter agreed, dropping the magazine back on the table. “Speaking of labor camps, how’s your brother?”

The second mention of Tony in one evening. Must be a record. “Got a postcard from him last month. Seems to be doing well.”

“Glad to hear it. And I’m glad he has a brother who’s handy with tools.”

“I’ve got to get going. Remember, no potato peels in the sink.”

“Duly noted. No peels in the sink. Thanks again, Inspector.”

“You’re welcome. And make sure that you—”

“Yes, yes, I know. The rent on the fifteenth.”

* * *

Outside, the night air was damp and chilly. The lights from the shipyard reflected yellow and white against the low clouds, and he could now make out the faint sounds of workmen putting together the latest class of navy submarines. He stood there, seeing a place that had built ships for a century and a half, a place his father had worked after his service in World War I and a place his brother, Tony, had worked until… Sam again felt that flush of embarrassment of a law officer having a brother who had been arrested three years ago and charged with illegally trying to unionize the shipyard workers. A quick star-chamber-type trial, and now Tony was serving a sentence at a federal labor camp near Fort Drum, New York. Besides the shame and concern for his older brother, there was also anger, for he was certain his brother’s arrest had very nearly sidetracked his promotion to inspector.

The crack of a gunshot down the street startled him, the hollow boom echoing and re-echoing about the frame houses. He didn’t move. Another example of what was called by his fellow cops “a shot in the dark.” Like the gunshot at the railroad tracks, these firearm discharges—scores being settled, somebody being robbed, an argument ending—were ignored unless they were officially reported. Not a way for a good cop to respond, but he had no choice. Besides, he had his hands more than full with a corpse, the pile of paperwork on his desk, and his convict brother.

One could pick one’s friends, but one could never pick one’s relatives. Or in-laws. And both were giving him a headache.

At the bottom of the steps, he tripped over a small shape. He turned on the back porch light and stooped to see what had tripped him.

By the steps were three rocks piled on top of one another.

Three rocks.

He was positive they hadn’t been there when he had gone up to Walter’s apartment.

He bent down, picked up the rocks, then tossed each as hard as he could out into the darkness. Two fell within the yard, and he had a moment of satisfaction as the third splashed into the Piscataqua River.

* * *