Amerikan Eagle

He felt out of place here. He and Sam had never been close, had been rivals more than siblings, though he knew in his heart of hearts that Sam believed in the same things he did. But Sam was a straight arrow, believed in working within the system as much as possible, while he… well, he knew he was a hell-raiser, the proverbial bull in the china closet. He wished he could have told Sam more, wished he could have left him on better terms, wished he hadn’t lied about why he had come to the house, but it had to be this way. Plans were in motion, things were happening, and it wasn’t safe for Sam to know much. Even Sarah knew only her own small part of things, and he felt embarrassed, thinking of Sarah’s words in the attic, how it seemed she had been looking for an excuse to betray her husband, his brother.

A betrayal. In a way he supposed he was betraying Sam, and he hoped that eventually Sam would forgive him. But for now, all he could rely on was Sam being Sam, and sometimes, that was even too much to hope for.

He walked away from the house, ducking into other yards and alleyways, the lights of the shipyard always out there, keeping an eye on him. He was torn, seeing them. That’s where his other family was, the ones he had organized for, the ones he had tried to help, and eventually, that’s where it all crashed down on him, with his arrest and deportation from his home state.

But now—now things were different.

Under a streetlight, he opened the slip of paper, read the address, the meeting time, and the code phrase. Memorized it all, then tore the paper into tiny bits and tossed them into an open storm drain, looked once more at the shipyard lights.

This time it was different. This time he would succeed, would go after that despicable man, would make it all worthwhile, not only for himself but for his family across the river and the family who lived in that little house just a few blocks away.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Sam listened to Frank Sinatra singing some swing tune on Your Hit Parade on CBS as he stared at the exhausted face looking back at him from the mirror and thought about what he had done to get this place for his wife and son. He didn’t feel like thinking about Tony. He washed his hands, saw the flecks of dried brown blood from the old man circle down into the drain, and remembered.

* * *

Several years back, it had been a desperate time, trying to get the cash to make the down payment. Sam had borrowed and begged, had worked as much overtime as possible, but the cash just wasn’t there. And he wasn’t going to take his father-in-law’s employment offer, not on your life.

So Sam had gone elsewhere—to Thurber Street—and there he was this cold March evening. He stood by a pile of dirty snow, looked at the row of boardinghouses stretching down almost to the harbor. Officially, these sagging wooden structures were places where sailors, shipyard workers, and fishermen rented rooms for a week, a month, or a year, but Sam knew better. Some of these buildings had illegal bars set up for all-night drinking sessions, and others had rooms that rented for thirty minutes or an hour.

Quite illegal, quite profitable, and so far, Sam’s superiors hadn’t done anything about it. No doubt some folding green was being passed around, but he didn’t particularly care. He shifted his feet in the snow and ice, shivered. Far off, a church clock chimed three times, and he winced as he recalled the lie he had told Sarah, that he was working overtime tonight. It was almost true—he was working overtime for his family.

He looked up the narrow street, waited, his hands in his coat pockets. One pocket was empty, and the other contained a leather sap, filled with lead pellets. Out there was his target, and if he was very, very lucky…

There. Coming from the middle house, the one with the peeling yellow paint, a man shambled out, wearing a long raccoon coat and thick gloves and a sharply turned fedora. William “Wild Willy” Cocannon was a big man, broad in the shoulders. He owned most of these buildings, some legitimate bars and boardinghouses down on the harbor, and other businesses as well. Sam had followed him here and there for a couple of weeks, watching where he went, knowing that on these early Monday mornings after busy weekends, Wild Willy collected from his bars and whorehouses before going home to a nice little estate outside of Manchester.

Wild Willy rambled down the street, spotlighted for a moment by a streetlight, a plume of steam rising from his face in the cold. Sam stepped out and followed him down the sidewalk. Part of him still couldn’t believe he was doing this, but in his panic the past few weeks, he had tried to justify it: Wild Willy was a criminal who was getting away with lots of crimes, week after week, and Sam was just going to deliver a little rough street justice. That’s all. His plan was a quick robbery and racing home with what he’d stolen.