Amerikan Eagle

“I hope you do. I also hope you didn’t forget that other matter from last night. About the Underground Railroad.”

Sam wondered what he could say, for he was out on a very long limb, and his boss was holding a very sharp saw.

“Suppose I found out there had been a station? But that the station had stopped operating… was no longer sending criminals north? What then?”

Sam’s heart was racing at the gamble he had just taken. From the other side of the closed door, Mrs. Walton kept on slamming at her typewriter keys. Hanson lowered his head and said, “Officially, I want you to prepare a report—in your spare time, of course—on what you learned about the station. Unofficially, I’d be very glad to hear there’s no longer any illegal activity attracting the attention of the Party.”

Hanson’s tone changed. “All right, that’s enough for now. Let me know if you find anything out about that dead man, and remember that Party meeting tonight.”

“Yes, sir. Party meeting tonight.”

Hanson picked up a fountain pen. “You got anything else for me?”

“Just one thing, if I may.”

“Go ahead.”

“I heard a… a rumor, actually, that there might be a crackdown coming down on the refugees. That we might be used to clear them out and turn them over to the Department of the Interior.”

“Who told you that?”

Sam thought of Sarah and fought to keep his voice steady. “Nobody… well, nobody of importance, sir.”

“I see,” Hanson said, writing something down. “Well, I won’t press you for your source. But I’ll tell you I don’t know anything about a crackdown, and you know how your father-in-law and I feel about it, that being one of the few things we agree on. It’s the federal government’s mess. Not ours. And speaking of your father-in-law, go see him right after you get out of the building. The honorable Lawrence Young is being a pain in the ass and requires an immediate visit from you.”

“But the case—”

“The man’s dead right now, he’ll still be dead an hour from now, but your father-in-law will still be a poisonous bastard today and tomorrow and for some time to come. So go see him and solve something, and get him off our collective asses. And Sam—after tonight’s meeting, I want you to plan to become more active in the Party. It would be a great help to the department and to me personally if we knew what was going on with the mayor and his allies. Just… information, that’s all. There are factions, groups within the Party, jockeying for funds and influence, and any information you could provide about the mayor would be very helpful to me and my friends. Do you understand?”

Sure, Sam thought with cold disgust. Be more active in the Party and be a rat as well.

“Yes, I do,” he said. “I don’t know, but I promise I’ll think about it.”

“Good. Now get out. You’ve got a full day ahead of you.”

As he left, Sam noticed the smile on Mrs. Walton’s face. She had no doubt listened to every word.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Outside, the sky was gloomy, threatening more rain. Sam walked up Congress Street, where he passed a man setting up a table on the sidewalk with a rough wooden sign that said HOMEMADE TOYS FOR SALE. He didn’t look long at the man—who had two well-dressed little girls in blue dresses and cloth coats with him, sitting on wooden milk crates—for guys like that came and went like the seasons, selling apples in the fall, gadgets and toys during the spring and summer, and—

“Hey, Sam,” came a voice. “Sam Miller.”

He stopped and looked back. The toy peddler had on a coat that was a size too small, a battered fedora, and his sunken face was unshaved. Sam stepped closer and, with a flush of embarrassment, said, “Brett. Brett O’Halloran. Sorry, I wasn’t paying attention.”

Brett smiled shyly. “That’s okay, Sam. I understand.”

Sam looked to the table and picked up one of the toys, a wooden submarine. Brett told him, “I get scrap wood from here and there, carve it at night, then paint it. Not a bad piece of work, huh?”

“No, Brett, not a bad piece of work at all.” He balanced the submarine in his hand, not wanting to look at Brett. He had been an officer in the fire department until last year, when someone found a pile of magazines and newspapers in the bottom of his locker at the fire station. PM, The Nation, The Daily Worker—just printed words, but by the end of the day, he was gone.

Brett said, “Relief ended a long time ago, so I do what I can. I mean, well, nobody wants to hire me, considering I’m trouble, you know?”

“Yeah, I know,” Sam said, throat tight, and Brett said, “These are my twin girls. Amy and Stacy. They were in the same class as your boy… Toby, right?”

“That’s right.”

Brett reached over and rubbed the top of the smaller girl’s head. “They should be in school, but I sell more if they’re out here. Tugs at the old heartstrings. Not a fair trade, but—”

Sam reached into his pocket. “How much?”

“Free for your boy. He always treated my girls okay.”