Amerikan Eagle

upstairs apartment and fix the sink and get this long day and long night behind him. Once during dinner the phone rang—one long ring and three short rings—and they both ignored it. Their ring on this local party line was two long and two short; the other ring belonged to the Connors down the way.

He pushed his chair back, kissed her cheek, and said, “Back in a bit, girl. Boy’s asleep and—”

She started picking up the dishes. “Get along, Inspector. You still have work to do, and that boy had better still be asleep if you want to get lucky.”

“Lucky is the day you said yes to me,” he said, making it a point to look down the front of her dress when she bent to reach for his plate.

Another fleeting smile, and she moved her hand in a fluttering motion as if to shoo him away from leering. “You know what, Inspector? You are so right. Now make me proud and get to work.”

“Hope it’s not all work,” he retorted, but she was already at the sink, running the hot water. It was if she was now ignoring him. That was Sarah. Sometimes bubbling with childish enthusiasm, sometimes quiet, and now silent, thinking of who knew what. Her change of mood was as though a window had been opened, letting in a cold draft, and he knew it had to be about the Underground Railroad. He couldn’t help himself, but he thought of Donna back at the Shanty, her eager smile and sweet body, and he remembered just… how simple Donna was. No, that wasn’t the right word. Donna was uncomplicated. That’s all. Just uncomplicated. Sarah… now, she was complicated.

So why hadn’t he dated Donna back in school?

Forget it, he decided. That was then, this is now.

He went downstairs to the dirt-floor cellar, past the coal furnace and outside bulkhead, where he grabbed a canvas bag of tools from his workbench. In one corner, near the coal furnace, hung an old sheet. He pulled the sheet back. A cot was pushed up against the stone foundation. There was a pillow at one end and a green wool blanket folded at the other. He looked at the cot and thought, Well, that’s it for charity work. That was their private joke about this Underground Railroad station. But it was one thing to do what you could, when trouble was down in D.C. or Baton Rouge. It was another thing when trouble was on your front doorstep, especially delivered by your boss. What did Sam know about the Underground Railroad here in Portsmouth?

A hell of a lot, he thought. A hell of a lot.

Bag of tools in hand, he climbed upstairs, went through the living room and then outside. The rain had finally stopped. He went around the rear of the house, where an open stairway led up to the second floor. Up the creaking stairs he went, and at the top, he knocked on the door. He had to knock twice more before it opened.

“Inspector Miller!” boomed the familiar voice. “So nice of you to make it here.” The door swung open.

The apartment was even tinier than the rooms downstairs and really shouldn’t have been an apartment at all, but he and Sarah needed the extra income after promised pay raises for both of them fell through last year. Through a friend of Sarah’s at the school department—who was once a student of Walter’s—Walter Tucker had come into their lives. Blacklisted from a science-teaching position at Harvard University for refusing to sign a loyalty oath, Walter was in his late forties, heavyset, almost entirely bald. His fat fingers always clasped a stubby cigar. Tonight his eyes, behind horn-rimmed glasses, were filmy, and he was wearing worn slippers and a frayed red plaid bathrobe.

The room had cracked yellow linoleum and had been turned into a kitchen of sorts, with a scarred wooden table and three unmatched chairs. There was a wooden icebox in the corner and a hot plate on a small counter. Off to the right was a bathroom with a toilet and the offending sink. Open doorways led to two other rooms: a bedroom with an unmade bed and an office that had a desk made of scrap lumber that bore a large typewriter. Everywhere in the apartment were books and pulp magazines and copies of Scientific American and Collier’s.

A radio next to the hot plate was playing swing music, Benny Goodman, it sounded like. Sam went into the bathroom and sighed at the gray water in the sink. “What now, Walter? What did you do?”

“Nothing, my dear boy. Just preparing my evening meal. Nothing out of the ordinary, but there you go. The sink overflowed, and I wanted to make sure it was repaired before it started leaking on your head.”

“Thanks,” Sam muttered. “Do you have a coffee cup or something I could borrow?”

“Absolutely.” Walter waddled off. He came back with a thick white coffee mug with a broken handle, and Sam started bailing the water out of the clogged sink. As he worked, Walter leaned against the doorjamb and lit a cigar. “What news of the Portsmouth Police Department?”

“Had a body out on the railroad tracks tonight. By Maplewood Avenue.”

“A suicide?”

“Don’t know right now.”

“How fascinating. Maybe you’ve got a real murder on your hands, Sam.”

Sam paused, the mug slimy in his hand. “What are you doing, Walter? Research for a detective story?”

Walter studied his cigar. “No, son. Detective stories are a tad too realistic for me. You know what I write. Science fiction and fantasy. That’s where my degraded tastes have led me. Stories about rockets and robots. Evil wizards.”

“Speaking of which, rent’s due on the fifteenth. Just so there’s no misunderstanding.”

The older man grinned. “No misunderstanding. I received a check from Street and Smith yesterday and expect another one shortly. The rent will be paid in full and on time.”

“Best news I’ve gotten today.” The sink was empty. He squatted down and said, “Can you get me a saucepan or something?”

“Certainly.”

Minutes later, Sam undid the U-joint with a wrench, and brown water rushed into the pan. He reached in with his fingers and winced in disgust as he pulled out the clog, greasy lumps of potato peelings. He dropped them in the saucepan, put the piping back into place, and worked the wrench, then stood up.

“Don’t peel your potatoes in the sink, please, Walter. Do it someplace else, okay? It just clogs the sink. You did the same thing last month.”

“My thanks, Inspector, my warmest thanks.”

“You’re welcome, Walter.” Sam dropped his tools into his bag, saw a worn leather valise on the floor nearby. He never saw Walter without the leather valise, in which the former professor carried letters, manuscripts, and God knew what else. On the table was a stack of magazines with names like Thrilling Wonder Stories and Amazing Stories and Astounding Stories. He picked up Astounding Stories, studied a garish spaceship, fire spewing from its nozzles. There were three names on the cover, and he was startled to see one he recognized: Walter Tucker. He set the pulp magazine down. “How’s the writing gig going?”

“It’s a living of sorts. I’m sure the overpaid and quite cowed professors at Harvard would turn down their noses at what I do, but it can be a lot of fun, frankly. You have to tell a story quickly and to the point. Actually, I’ve learned an extraordinary amount the past few years. About astronomy, biology, atomic theory, and archaeology. Among other things. Anyway, once you’ve been blackballed, that’s it. Even industries that need workers with a scientific background won’t touch me. And the secret satisfaction of science fiction and fantasy is that you can also write about forbidden topics without worrying about censors and critics with handguns and nightsticks.”

Sam was silent, thinking about how tired he was.

“If you write a story about a suppressed group of knights who are working hard to overthrow a king from a swampland who has usurped the throne from the rightful king, who was murdered before his time, and how this swamp king has put his lackeys into places of power around the kingdom… and how they fight to return the kingdom to the old and free ways… then it’s just a fantasy. A tale that no overseer or censor will worry about… a tale that won’t get the author into trouble.”

“Or into a labor camp.”

“Exactly,” Walter agreed, dropping the magazine back on the table. “Speaking of labor camps, how’s your brother?”

The second mention of Tony in one evening. Must be a record. “Got a postcard from him last month. Seems to be doing well.”

“Glad to hear it. And I’m glad he has a brother who’s handy with tools.”

“I’ve got to get going. Remember, no potato peels in the sink.”