Amerikan Eagle

“Burdick. Up near the Canadian border. I know a couple of the special trains went there in the past year. And that’s it, Sam. I swear to God, that’s it.”

Sam looked at the plump station manager, could smell the dread coming off of him. Something inside felt sour as he remembered how thrilled he’d been to be named an inspector, to better fight crime. And here he was, slapping a scared railroad manager, a man who had done nothing save what he could to keep his job and support his family.

Sam said, “I’m leaving. But only if you can get me a round-trip ticket out to Burdick as fast as you can.”

The man was almost pathetic in his eagerness as he picked up a pen and scribbled something on a slip of paper. “Of course, Sam, of course. Give me a call, seven A.M. tomorrow, and you’ll be all set.”

Pat put the pen down and then burst into tears. He swiped at his eyes, embarrassed. “Sorry… it’s just that… when I was a kid, I loved trains. My uncle worked at B and M in Boston, managed to get me a job as a luggage clerk, and I worked my way up. God, I loved trains, and look where I am… and what I have to do.” He fumbled under the desk, came out with a handkerchief, honked his nose. “Look at me. A job I should love… and I hate it, Sam, hate it so much. Nobody loves trains anymore. They’re crowded, dirty, and share tracks with trains full of prisoners. See that?” He pointed to the suitcase by the door. “It’s gotten so bad, I’ve got a suitcase packed, just in case. Like every other station manager I know, one foul-up, one bad decision on my part, and I’m riding one of the trains I’m supposed to love to a labor camp.”

He wiped his eyes and his nose with the handkerchief. Sam heard the voice of Pat’s wife calling. Ashamed at what he had done to the woman’s husband, he left as quickly as he could.

* * *

Fifteen minutes later, Sam stood in front of a three-story tenement building surrounded by others, all with light gray paint that was flaking and peeling. The air smelled of salt air and exposed mudflats, and radios blared jazz and swing from the windows, and somewhere, a baby was wailing. Clotheslines spanned the alleyways. There was shouting in the distance and a sharp crack as somebody fired off a revolver. He jumped a bit at the sudden noise, then ignored it. Another shot in the dark to be overlooked unless it was reported, and he was going to ignore it. He had more important things to do.

Sam went up the front door of the building, which was open, the doorknob having been long ago smashed out. A single bulb, dangling from a frayed cord, illuminated the interior of the hallway and a second door. He went up to the door and knocked on it.

No answer.

He pounded with his closed fist. A muffled voice from inside, then the snapping sound of locks being undone. The door opened an inch, then two inches, held back by a chain. A woman in a dark red robe, her hair bristling with curlers, glared at him. “Yeah?”

“Need to see Kenny Whalen. Now.”

She said, “He’s not here,” and started to close the door.

He jammed the toe of his shoe between the door and the frame and pulled out his leather wallet, showed the badge to the woman. “Kenny Whalen, dear, or if I think you’re lying, I break the door down, tear the place up, looking for him. And then you can ask the city to reimburse you for the damages I cause, and they might get back to you. By 1950 or thereabouts.”

She muttered something, turned, and yelled, “Kenny! Get over here!”

Sam spotted Kenny coming over, buttoning a flannel shirt over a soiled white T-shirt, his hair uncombed. “Ah, shit, hold on, Inspector.”

Sam said, “I pull my shoe back, that door better be open in ten seconds. Clear?”

“Oh, yeah, Inspector, I don’t want no trouble.”

Sam pulled his shoe back, the door clunked shut, and there was a tinkling sound of a chain being worked. Before the door opened, Sam took the lapel pin off. Party membership, to a guy like Kenny, wouldn’t mean shit. Kenny stood there, managing a smile, but on his face the expression looked as inviting as that of a mortgage officer reviewing a foreclosure.

“Inspector, what can I do for you?”

“I need a few minutes to talk to you. In private.”

Kenny glanced back toward the living room. “Dora has ears the size of saucers. Let’s go out in the hallway, okay?”

The two men stood in the hallway, a breeze making the dim lightbulb sway. Kenny said, “Well?”

Sam thought about lines crossed, about what was to be done, and why he was doing it, and thought of that dead man, dead and alone and cold in his city’s morgue, with that tattooed wrist. Branded like fucking cattle, Sean had said. Why?

“I need you to make me some documents. Official identification.”

Kenny stared at him in disbelief. “Shit, I don’t know what’s going on, but no way. I don’t know what the hell you’re doing, but it sounds like entrapment to me. No way in hell.”