would have my allegiance; in Italy, Signor Mussolini; and in France, Monsieur Laval; but here I am in Portsmouth, New Hampshire, eager to once again swear undying fealty to the Kingfish.”
Sam clinked his bottle against Sean’s. “And then go home to curse him out in private.”
“You know me too well, Inspector. But I’m sure you’re not here out of any particular love or duty to the Party. Just here not to rock boats, am I right?”
“And now, because you work for the cops, you’re a mindreader?”
“You’ll be amazed at what I’ve learned. Ah, I see our boys from Baton Rouge are here to keep an eye on us.”
Sam looked again to the two young Southern men, and there was Marshal Harold Hanson, talking to them. Hanson went to the other side of the room, took a seat. Then one of the Legionnaires raised his head, and his chilly blue eyes seemed to look right through Sam. The Legionnaire nudged his companion, and now they were both staring at him. Sam raised his bottle in a salute and gave them a smile, and for that, he got frozen gazes in return. Fine.
“Looks like two of Long’s finest don’t like your Yankee hospitality,” Sean remarked.
Sam kept a smile on his face. “The little crawfish bastards should crawl back to their bayous or swamps or whatever the hell they call them.”
“Now look who’s talking sedition. Hold on, it looks like the show is about to begin.”
A large man wearing a Legion cap and a dark blue suit that pinched at every seam stood behind the lectern. Teddy Caruso, city councillor and a Party leader for the county. Caruso’s loud voice carried out into the mass of men—the women had their own Party auxiliary, which met at a different time—and there were some grumbles from the crowd as he said, “Come on, come on, find a seat, find a seat, we wanna get going here…”
Lawrence Young walked in, with his sharp smile that suggested a fondness for the rough-and-tumble world of politics. He joined Teddy for a moment, whispering into his ear. Both made a point of smiling at the two Southern men sitting near them.
Sean said, “I see your sainted father-in-law is up front, member of the ruling class, ready to oppress us workers. Why don’t you go up and give him a big ol’ handshake?”
“And why don’t you mind your own damn business?” Sam shot back.
“Tsk, tsk, it seems Mr. Young and his favorite son-in-law don’t get along,” Sean said cheerfully. “If that’s the case, take a number. You’re not the only one in the room who despises him. Like our boss, for example.”
“Really? I know they’re not best friends, but—”
“Oh, come on, Sam. There’s more to police work than being out on the street. You’ve got to look beyond the streets to the offices overlooking them and the men who inhabit them. Like our mayor and the marshal. Both men who crave power, who like being in the Party, and who neither trust nor like each other.”
“Even if they’re both Party members?”
“Especially if they’re both Party members.” Sean said it firmly. “Sam, m’lad, listen well and learn. In all fascist organizations, there are factions within that battle each other. Over in Germany, it’s the SS versus the Gestapo. Here, it’s the Nats versus the Staties.”
From the crowd came another roar of laughter. Sam said, “The Nats versus the what?”
“Nats and Staties. Nats are short for National, Staties slang for States. The Nats believe in supporting the Party organization no matter what, subordinating the needs of their states and their own people. The Staties believe in supporting their people and their state first and foremost. Hanson is a Nat. The mayor is a Statie. So there you go. The mayor thinks the marshal listens too much to the national organization, and the marshal thinks the mayor listens too much to the poor foot soldiers out there in the streets. They’re jockeying for position, Sam, looking for allies, to be in total control of the county Party organization and then, eventually, the state.”
The beer now tasted flat. He knew for sure what had been going on earlier with his boss and his father-in- law: As Sean said, both the marshal and the mayor were looking for allies to help them in their struggle, and why not have Sam Miller on the inside, working to betray the other?
“Too much politics for me, Sean. Look, let’s just find a seat, okay?”
Sean said, “Sure, Sam. Look. Let the dedicated ones go up front. We hang back, that means we’re the first ones out when this breaks up.”
“Sounds fine to me,” Sam said. He waited with Sean until most of the crew had taken folding chairs, and then they walked to the last row. Sean walked with a pronounced limp, revealing the true reason he worked at the police department instead of the shipyard. Two years ago, a falling piece of welded metal had crushed his left foot, putting him in the hospital for three months. As Sean once told Sam, that piece of metal had “accidentally” been tipped over by someone, someone whose brother took Sean’s job the very next day.
Sam took his seat, remembering something else Sean had said:
CHAPTER TEN
Once everyone in the hall sat down, they stood right up again as an overweight man made the audience stand for the Pledge of Allegiance. Sam shuffled to his feet—a few rows up, there was loud cursing as somebody kicked over a beer—and looked to the far corner of the hall, where an American flag hung from a pole. Joining the other men, Sam held out his arm straight in the traditional salute as the ritual began.
As they sat, Sean leaned toward Sam’s ear. “Unless you’re an immigrant, a Jew, a Negro, a Republican, intellectual, communist, union organizer, or—”
“Sean, shut up, will you?” Sam snapped, and Sean sniggered softly.
Up front, Teddy pulled a sheaf of papers from his pocket. “All right, c’mon, fellas, can I have some quiet back there? All right? Good. I hereby call the meeting of the Portsmouth District of the Rockingham County Party meeting to order. I move that the reading of last month’s minutes be waived. Is there a second? Good. All in favor? Good. Okay. Second agenda item, the Daniel Webster Boy Scout Council is looking for a donation of….”
And so it went. Sam crossed his feet and glared at the rear of the chair before him, stenciled with the A.L. #6 logo. He let his mind drift as Teddy went on, running the meeting as expertly as the Kingfish ran the Louisiana Legislature and then the Congress. Motions were made, seconded, and passed within seconds. He remembered reading somewhere
He shifted in his seat. A cynical thought but a true one: Democracy might be dying, replaced by whatever was going on here and around the globe, but at least its death made for quick meetings. Teddy droned on, then said, “All right, only three more things left on our agenda tonight. First of all, we’re lookin’ for your help for some information.”
There was a stir in the room. “There are index cards being passed out now, okay? We’ve all been asked to write down on those cards three names of people you think need to be looked at. Okay? Neighbors, coworkers, people down the street, we’re lookin’ for anybody who talks out of turn, insults the President and his people, or anybody else that needs to be looked at because of subversive activities or words. Okay?”
Some murmurs, but nobody protested. Sam felt queasy, as though the chicken stew from earlier had spoiled. Sean whispered something about how stoolies were the only growth industry in this administration, but Sam ignored him. He was thinking about his own status as a stoolie, being pressed by both his boss and father-in-law to be a rat. And he thought suddenly about that terrified writer he had put into the hands of the Interior Department
