and German soldiers on the march were repeated, but Sam noticed that now, as opposed to during their blitzkrieg victories in ’40 and ’41, the Krauts looked exhausted, faces dirty and grim.
Trumpet tone, change of view, showing more troops, this time Japanese, swarming across rice paddies.
Sarah whispered, “I’m so sick of this foreign news. Let’s see the movie already.” He squeezed her leg as a familiar cherubic face popped up on the screen, to the assortment of scattered boos and a few cheers. A rotund man who was smoking a cigar walked through a hotel lobby through a barrage of camera flashes and questions from a mob of reporters. The man held up two fingers in the shape of a V.
Churchill stopped before a set of radio microphones and said in a tired, lisping tone, “
Another trumpet tone, another switch, and even more cheers and a few boos as the President appeared on the screen, shaking hands with a dour-faced man wearing formal clothes.
There was a quick jump in the newsreel to a bald man in a suit, hurrying past photographers in a polished corridor.
A shout from a male in the audience: “Leave the kikes where they belong!” and a couple of others laughed; Sam sat still, embarrassed at the outburst.
Another jump to a number of gray-suited men with matching gray faces, standing in front of some government office.
One more trumpet tone and a few more cheers and whistles as the the Hollywood sign came up on the screen, and then a swimming pool, and some sort of talent contest involving young lovelies in bathing suits standing under palm trees. It was hard to hear what the narrator was saying over the wolf whistles. Sarah nibbled his ear. “Like what you see, sport?”
“Like who I’m with,” he said. “How’s that?”
She whispered, “Glad to hear it. Here’s a taste of what’s yours.”
He looked down, felt a warm tingle expand from the base of his neck. Sarah had daringly pulled her skirt up past her thighs, showing the top of her stockings. She gave a soft laugh and pushed the skirt back. Sam whispered, “Never get tired of tasting that, sweetheart.”
That earned him another kiss. He bit her ear and she sighed. He whispered, “Remember the times back up in the balcony when we were dating, learning to French?”
One more kiss and she warned, laughing. “You keep it up and I’ll drag you back up there, Inspector.”
He squeezed her leg. “No room. I already checked. We’ll have to save it for later.”
“Deal,” she whispered back, fingers flickering over the front of his trousers. “Now be a good boy and watch the movie.”
He sat back in his seat, feeling warm and almost happy, despite all that had gone on this day. The feature film started, a cowboy musical called
It was, he thought, like living in an apartment building. When the screaming from the neighbors started, when the bottles were being tossed and the punches thrown, you just turned up the radio and pretended everything would be all right.
When the movie let out, they joined the other patrons spilling out onto the sidewalk. Standing by the entrance, waving, was Donna Fitzgerald. Sam gave her a wide smile and saw a skinny man standing next to her, Donna’s hand firmly clasped in his. Sam thought,
Somebody else called out, “Sam! Hey, Sam!” Standing by the theater door was Harold Hanson, accompanied by his wife. Hanson waved Sam over, and Sarah’s hand tightened on his arm. “Oh, God, his wife… I forget, what’s that shrew’s name?”
“Doris,” Sam murmured. “Come on, we’ll make it quick.”
The marshal’s wife—a tiny woman with gray hair tied back in a bun and a pinched expression—stood up on her toes and whispered something in her husband’s ear, then ducked back into the movie theater. When they reached him, Hanson held out his hand to Sarah and said, “Dear, so nice to see you out tonight.”
Sarah said properly, “And so nice for me to have him for a night. Without being called out on a case. Or going to a Party meeting. Or something else.”
Hanson seemed taken aback. Then he nodded. “Well, yes, we all have duties and obligations to perform, including the Party. Sam, I wanted to thank you for your cooperation today with the FBI and his German friend. They said they got everything they needed.”
Sam said, “Did they tell you who the dead man was?”
“No, they didn’t. And it’s not our case anymore, so let it be. They promised to inform us if they have anything we need to know.”
“I’m sure,” Sam said, and Sarah squeezed his arm again. She could sense the sarcasm in his voice, but Hanson didn’t seem to pick up on it, for his expression lightened and he said, “If you excuse me, Doris said she had to go powder her nose, and you know how long that can take.”
“Good night,” Sam said, and Hanson smiled down at Sarah and went into the theater.
“Sam, what was that all about?” Sarah asked him.
“I’m being warned off.”
“Warned off what?”
“That dead man by the tracks. The case supposedly isn’t mine. And I think the marshal saw me tonight and decided to remind me of that.”
She stopped, making him stop as well, in front of a Rexall drugstore. “What do you mean,” she demanded, “supposedly? Are you off the case or not?”
“Officially, yes. Unofficially, Sarah, it’s my first murder case. I’m not going to just give it up.”
She looked up at him, and there was something going on with her eyes. He couldn’t decipher her expression. Then she seemed to make a decision. “All right, Sam. Do you what you have to do. You’re still on probation… and well, I don’t think either of us can stand it if you get bumped down back to sergeant. Just be careful.”
“I will.”
She surprised him by kissing him on the lips. “That Harold Hanson… if he and the rest of them only knew how lucky they were to have you, Sam Miller.”
He put his arm around her, squeezed her tight, and kissed her. “As lucky as I am to have you.”
And then her mood lifted, as if changing a frock, and she chattered on about the musical they had just seen, but he was distracted as they walked up to the Packard. He always prided himself on being able to gauge Sarah’s
