the goddamn Kingfish get killed. Why not? The bastard deserved it as much as Hitler did.
He stood still, frozen, among the happy, jostling crowd.
And yet… and yet…
There were thousands and thousands of Jewish refugees alive in the United States because of Long. Tens of thousands of Jews who hadn’t been killed, hadn’t been gassed, hadn’t been shot. And thousands more were on their way.
But Long was the key, as his boss had said. Without Long, there was no agreement. With Long dead—maybe things would improve. Maybe.
But with Long dead, thousands more—without a doubt—would die.
Sam kept moving, shouldering through the crowd, holding up his inspector’s badge, pushing ahead, seeing in his mind’s eye poor Otto, starved and beaten and away from home, Otto and his barracks mates, depending on Long’s decision, depending on the Americans, depending on Sam, goddammit.
On the platform there was a knot of people at one end, waiting to get onto the
Joining the crowd, walking deliberately, limping, Reginald Hale, carrying Walter’s old valise, walking straight toward Long and the crowd of people—
A Secret Service agent, large and wide in a black suit, shoulder holster visible under his coat, tried to block Sam, who shouldered him aside like the football player he once was, and he elbowed and spun—
“Hale! Stop! Right there!”
Reginald Hale turned at the sound of his name, his face suddenly white and frightened. He carried the valise with both hands. Sam pulled his revolver out, holding up his badge in the other hand, yelling loudly, “Bomb! He’s got a bomb! He’s got a bomb!”
Yells and screams and a phalanx of armed men grouped around the President, their submachine guns held up like spears of some old Roman guard. Hale was moving forward, too, the valise held against his chest like a prized possession, moving faster.
Sam shot once, and Reginald stumbled, fell to his knees. Men and women on the platform flattened to the ground, screaming as the guns opened up. Sam saw it all as the British army officer, his body jerking from the blows of the .45-caliber slugs, fell backward and rolled off the platform to the railway bed below, and as a couple of the braver guards stepped forward to fire again at him, the shattering
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
Sam sagged against a cement pillar, opening and closing his mouth, his ears ringing. A man came into view, kneeling next to him. Sirens were wailing. The man’s suit was soiled with coal dust and blood. He mouthed something, and Sam said, “Huh? What?”
The man yelled into Sam’s ear: “I said I need you to come with me.”
“I can’t move.”
“You better move,” he answered, “because you’re putting the President’s life in danger, you moron.” The man grabbed Sam’s arm, and Sam angrily shook it off and said, “Who the hell are you?”
“Parker. Agent in charge of the President’s Secret Service detail.”
“Is he okay? The President?”
“Oh, shit yeah, but he’s had to change his underwear. Do me a favor and forget I told you that.”
He helped Sam to his feet, Sam letting him. There were shiny spent cartridge cases and pools of blood, and by the platform edge, where Reginald Hale had fallen, there were two figures covered by stained white sheets. Expensive leather shoes poked out from under the sheets. Wooden police barricades were being set up, keeping screaming crowds and desperate photographers and newsreel men at bay. At the other end of the station platform, the
Parker gripped Sam’s arm again and said, “Come on.”
“What for? And why am I putting the President in danger?”
Parker looked at him as if he were a first-grader appearing in a high school math class. “The President wants to see you. The man who saved his life. And you’re putting him in more danger because I want him the hell out of this town. Two assassination attempts on Hitler and Long in two days is too much. The quicker I get him back to Washington, the better, and that’s why I need you.”
Sam was half dragged, half propelled to the rear of the train, which had a wrought-iron railing about the stern car, complete with presidential seal. Secret Service and two of Long’s Legionnaires stood guard there, all armed with pistols or submachine guns. “Do me a favor, okay?” Parker told Sam. “Do this thing and I owe you one, bud. Just go in there, let the President gush all over you, then get the hell out. Quicker you’re done, quicker I can get back to my job. Oh, and you need to do something for me—your sidearm. Nobody but Secret Service and his Legionnaires see him with weapons.”
Sam said, “I’m not sure where it is.”
Parker grunted, flipped open Sam’s coat, and pulled the revolver from the shoulder holster. Sam didn’t even remember putting it back after shooting Reggie Hale.
He said nothing as Parker led him past the unsmiling men. As the door opened, Sam ducked in, his ears still ringing, his legs trembling. There were men crowded in the leather- and wood-lined train car. The window shades were drawn. A Southern voice, so familiar from radio and newsreels, boomed: “Everyone get the hell out, all right? I want to see this young man, this hero, and I want to thank him myself!”
In a matter of seconds, Sam was alone with the President of the United States.
Huey Long sat on a light yellow settee, plump legs sprawled out before him on the carpeted floor. He had on a bright red silk dressing gown and blue pajama trousers. His feet were clad in black slippers, and a thick glass was in one hand. Long was grinning, but his face was red, and Sam saw his hand was shaking, making the amber- colored liquor slosh back and forth in the glass.
“So!” came that familiar voice. “The man of the hour! My personal savior. Just who the hell are you, son?”
Sam stepped forward on the fine Oriental carpeting, trying to take it all in. Part of him couldn’t believe he was here, talking to the man, and part of him was also aware of his stained and torn suit.
“I’m Sam Miller, sir. I’m an inspector with the Portsmouth Police Department.”
“You’re the one who warned us all? Who fired that first shot, eh? Against that mad bomber?”
“That’s right, sir.”
The florid face became suspicious. “You said your name was Miller. Dammit, didn’t a guy named Miller try to kill Hitler yesterday? That man a relative of yours?”
“Yes… a relative, I’m sorry to say.”
He waited, then the train seemed to stabilize as Long laughed and roared, “Damn, relatives can be a hell of a thing. If you knew what some of my relations back in Winn Parish were up to… I’m jus’ glad you were here savin’ my bacon at the last minute. How in hell did you know what was gonna happen, son?”
“Sir, it’s a fairly long story, well, I think you’d want to get out of Portsmouth instead of listening to it. It’s a pretty complex investigation.”
Long laughed again. “Damn, boy, that’s what they were tryin’ to do to me—to get my ass out of town—but hell, I told ’em, first, I don’t want to skedaddle out like some scared nigra hearing a haunt from the woods, and second, I want to meet the brave peace officer who not only saved me but saved his country.”
The President’s eyes narrowed as he took a healthy swallow. “You know that, right? You saved your country, son. Only the Kingfish could get that son-of-a-bitch housepainter over here to sign that treaty, and that treaty, son, is gonna mean millions of jobs for people at home. None of us got any taste to get into that fight over there in Europe, but if we can make some money off the deal, then why the hell not?”
Sam thought of Burdick, knew they and the others would survive with Long still alive. “That’s a good point,
