during the spring and summer, and—
“Hey, Sam,” came a voice. “Sam Miller.”
He stopped and looked back. The toy peddler had on a coat that was a size too small, a battered fedora, and his sunken face was unshaved. Sam stepped closer and, with a flush of embarrassment, said, “Brett. Brett O’Halloran. Sorry, I wasn’t paying attention.”
Brett smiled shyly. “That’s okay, Sam. I understand.”
Sam looked to the table and picked up one of the toys, a wooden submarine. Brett told him, “I get scrap wood from here and there, carve it at night, then paint it. Not a bad piece of work, huh?”
“No, Brett, not a bad piece of work at all.” He balanced the submarine in his hand, not wanting to look at Brett. He had been an officer in the fire department until last year, when someone found a pile of magazines and newspapers in the bottom of his locker at the fire station.
Brett said, “Relief ended a long time ago, so I do what I can. I mean, well, nobody wants to hire me, considering I’m trouble, you know?”
“Yeah, I know,” Sam said, throat tight, and Brett said, “These are my twin girls. Amy and Stacy. They were in the same class as your boy… Toby, right?”
“That’s right.”
Brett reached over and rubbed the top of the smaller girl’s head. “They should be in school, but I sell more if they’re out here. Tugs at the old heartstrings. Not a fair trade, but—”
Sam reached into his pocket. “How much?”
“Free for your boy. He always treated my girls okay.”
Sam shook his head. “No dice.” He laid down a handful of coins, pushed them across the table, slipped the wooden submarine into his coat pocket. “It’s really good work, Brett. Really good work.”
The coins were scooped up with a soiled hand. “Thanks, Sam. I appreciate that. You get along now, okay? And my best to your boy.”
Sam walked away, looked back one more time at the former city firefighter. His pretty girls, perched on either side of him, gently rocked their legs back and forth, lightly kicking their heels against the crates.
Two blocks away from the police station, the toy submarine weighing heavy in his coat pocket, Sam reached a storefront that had a green and white sign hanging overhead: YOUNG’S FINE FURNISHINGS.
The dangling bell on the door announced his presence, and once again, he was struck by that soul-deadening smell of new furniture. He wasn’t a snob, he knew people needed furniture, but having to spend hours in a showroom like this, deciding what fabric went with the wallpaper and between that sofa or that settee… Christ, he’d rather be hauling drunken sailors stained with piss and vomit back to the Navy Yard. On a counter by the door was a pile of President Long’s own newspaper,
Sam tried not to smile. The man was dressed in a shabby brown suit with dirty brown shoes, the old soles flapping as he walked. His gray hair was a mess, and as he went to the door, he noticed Sam.
“Inspector,” he said. Sam nodded back, as Eric “The Red” Kaminski made his way to the door. Eric was a passionate rabble-rouser, passing out leaflets or holding up a sign in front of the post office protesting the government, though a stint last year in a Maine labor camp had cut back on his public appearances. He was also the brother of Frank Kaminski, the principal at Toby’s school, and a source of unending frustration for his straitlaced brother. One day Sam should have a cup of coffee with the principal, he thought, maybe trade frustrating brother stories.
“Eric,” Sam said, holding the door open. “Didn’t know a man of the people needed new furniture.”
As he went past, Eric said sharply, “You don’t know me, and you don’t know shit about the people, Inspector.”
“You’re probably right,” Sam replied cheerfully as Lawrence Young came out of the office, wearing gray slacks, a crisp white shirt, and a black necktie. His thick black hair was sprinkled with gray about the temples. As always, a little thump of irritation jumped up in Sam’s throat. From day one Lawrence had never hidden his dislike that Sam came from a poor family and wanted to marry his only daughter. Over the years that dislike had only grown.
“It’s about time, Sam,” he said.
“Larry,” he replied. “What can I do for you?”
“Well, Inspector Miller—or should I say, Probationary Inspector Miller?—I was hoping you could give me an update on last month’s burglaries.”
The thump of irritation was now beating in him as if it were an extra heart. “Like I told you and the other store owners, it doesn’t make sense to have the best locks on your front doors and a hook-and-eye fastener for the rear door.”
“So it’s our fault that our stores are being robbed?”
“No, Larry, it’s not,” he answered evenly. “What I’m saying is that you’ve all got to do your part to cut down on the opportunity. I’ve asked the shift sergeants to increase patrols, I’ve interrogated the pawnshop owners up and down the seacoast, and I’ve talked to your fellow businessmen. If we all do our part, we’ll cut down on the crime.”
“I see,” Larry said.
Sam checked his watch. He was going to be late for the county medical examiner. “Larry, that’s nothing new, and you know it. So now, if you’ve proven your point, I’ll get back to work.”
His father-in-law offered him a chilly smile. “And what kind of point is that?”
“The point being that as mayor, you can haul my ass over here any time you want.”
“I’m sure you’re right. But there’s other work that needs to be done. As important as your position in the police department. Political work.”
Sam counted to five silently before he said, “I’m not interested.”
“Too bad. I’ve received assurances you’ll be at the Party meeting tonight. That’s good. Your past absences have been noticed, and I’ve gotten a fair amount of grief about how my son-in-law doesn’t meet his obligations to the Party.”
“Larry, I do my job, and I go to Party meetings when I can. What else do you guys want?”
“You should be more active. Take part in the county or state committee. Make a name for yourself. I could put you in touch with the right people, and—”
Sam turned. “I’ll think about it, okay? But I’ve got real work to do.”
Larry called out, “Then think right, and think of Sarah and Toby. Think what might happen to them if you don’t get your promotion, if you’re demoted or even lose your job. I may be the mayor, Sam, but I don’t control the budget committee. The police department is always a favorite target.”
At that he swiveled. “A threat?”
“It’s a recognition of what’s going on. Who you know in the Party is going to be more important than the job you do. Even if the commission approves your promotion, it makes good sense to have important allies in your corner. And I could use you a man like you in the department… letting me know what the marshal is up to.”
“I don’t care about politics, I just care about my job,” Sam said, thinking,
“Yeah, well, politics will sure as hell care about you. Better think about it, Sam. Do more with the Party: It’s a good career move.”
Sam stared directly at the man’s smug face, remembering a time last year when that face hadn’t been so smug. Sam had been across the river in Kittery, accompanying the cops and the Maine state police when they raided a house that had hourly paying guests. One of the guests being led out had been his father-in-law, and after Sam had a quick word with a Kittery detective, the cuffs had come off and Larry had run into the shadows. For Sarah’s sake, Sam had kept his mouth shut about what he had seen.
“Like I said, I don’t care about politics. I’m going to just do my job.”
Larry shot back, “If you don’t cooperate, if you end up losing your job, if bad things happen to Sarah and Toby, it’ll be your fault. I’m trying to be a reasonable man and show you a path to a brighter future, and take care of my daughter and grandson.”
