Amerikan Eagle

“It was meant to be, Long being elected the first time around,” Walter said reflectively. “Unemployment was thirty percent, factories were cold, grass was growing in city streets, people were literally starving. When people are scared, they’ll give power to anyone they think will protect them. So he promised change, and we certainly got a whole lot of change. And none of it good. We could have been a great generation, you know, something for the history books, instead of what we’ve become.”

Sam thought of the dead man, thought about his own job. Do your job and try to keep your head down. That’s all that really mattered in these days of the Black Marias and political killings and lists.

“And me,” Walter quietly went on. “Blackballed from Harvard, and all because of something I did back in 1934 that put me on a list.”

“In ’34? You were an early hell-raiser, then.”

Another faint smile. “Me and a few dozen others. We were protesting the fact that our learned institution was honoring one of its famed alumni, Ernst Hanfstaengl, who had graduated twenty-five years earlier. Good old Ernst, varsity crew rower, football cheerleader, performer at the Hasty Pudding Club, and in 1934, devoted Nazi, head of foreign press operations for the Third Reich. That Nazi bastard even had tea at the home of James Conant, the Harvard president, even though everyone knew the terror he and his friends were beginning against the Jews and others. So I protested, got on a list, and when I refused to sign that loyalty oath a couple of years ago, that’s all it took. Now here I am, back in Portsmouth—”

He stopped, as Donna dropped off the check on the table and said, “Thanks for coming by, Sam. And even with Larry back, don’t be a stranger, okay?”

“Sure,” Sam replied. “And good luck to the both of you, all right?”

“Thanks, hon,” she said. Walter watched her walk back into the kitchen, and so did Sam. “Walter, I’m sorry, I’ve got to go.”

“Oh. Excuses, I’m terribly sorry. One of the many curses of being a writer. You forget other people have jobs and responsibilities and places to be.”

The college professor reached for his wallet, and Sam thought of something. “Walter, you’ve been my tenant for more than a year. This is the first time you’ve ever had lunch with me. What’s going on?”

Walter seemed to struggle for a moment and then leaned over the table, lowering his voice. “I’m… I’m sorry to say this, but I was hoping I could ask a favor of you.”

“You can ask,” Sam said. “Doesn’t mean I’ll say yes.”

Walter took that in and nervously looked around again. “It’s like this. In my time in Portsmouth, I’ve made a number of friends with our… our foreign guests. Guests who might not have the proper paperwork. I was thinking—hoping, actually—that if you were to hear word of a crackdown, you might, well, see your way through to—”

“Walter.” Walter’s face was expressionless, as though he knew he had pressed too far.

“Yes?”

“Pay the check. I’ve got to get back to work.”

Walter examined the bill, and the next few moments were excruciating, as the older man counted out three singles and then a handful of change. Sam felt a twinge of guilt. Being a police inspector didn’t earn much, but at least the pay was regular. Depending on money to arrive magically in your mailbox from magazines in New York had to be a tough life.

“Let me help you with the tip,” he said, and Walter’s face colored, but he said nothing as Sam pulled out his wallet. On the sidewalk, Sam said, “Walter, no promises. But I’ll see what I can do if there’s a crackdown. Now. Here’s a question for you: Do any of your refugee friends have tattoos on their wrists? Tattoos of numbers?”

“No, I’ve never heard of such a thing. Why do you ask?”

“I can’t say,” Sam said. “Sorry. But I’ve really got to go now.”

“Very good, Sam. It… it was a pleasure.”

A shiny black Buick wagon with whitewalls went by, two men in the front seat. It seemed as though Walter shivered, standing next to Sam. “A Black Maria, on its rounds,” the older man said. “Such evil men out there, to drive and use such a wagon.”

“Yeah,” Sam said to his tenant. “Such men.” He quickly crossed the street and almost bumped into another man. This time the sign said EXPERIENCE IN PLUMBING & HEATING. PLEASE HELP. CHILDREN HAVE NO SHOES. The man looked up at him, chin quivering, cheeks covered with stubble, and Sam murmured a quick “excuse me” and briskly walked back to his own job.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN