Amerikan Eagle

The meeting was held in American Legion Post #6, off Islington Street, nearly a dozen blocks away from the police station. The air inside was blue-gray with smoke. Most of the men were smoking cigars or cigarettes; the bar was open, and bottles of Narragansett and Pabst Blue Ribbon were held in a lot of fists. Sam went up to a table near the entrance, where he paid his fifty cents and his name was checked off a list. There, he thought, I’m here, dammit, and I won’t be back for another month, no matter what the marshal or the mayor wants.

There was a burst of laughter in the corner, and Sam noted a freckle-faced man holding court. Patrick Fitzgerald, father of his friend Donna. Remembering his chilly dispatch from home, he thought again of Donna and her sweet smile, and… Why hadn’t he asked her out back in school?

Frank Reardon came toward him, giving him a satisfied nod. Unlike the other night by the train tracks, Frank wore civvies and had an American Legion garrison cap tilted on his head, as did a number of others.

“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.”