President Wilson during the last war… now look where I am. Do you have any idea why I’ve been arrested?”
Sam braked at a streetlight. There was a small fire in a nearby alleyway in a metal drum. Three men in shabby clothes were clustered by the drum, holding their hands out over the flickering orange flames. He had a feeling that the men would be there all night, just trying to stay warm.
“No,” Sam said. “I don’t. Look, I’m just bringing you to the train station and—”
Lippman said, “Suspicion of income tax evasion. That’s the catchall charge so they can hold you until something better comes along. But the real reason—the real reason is that I kept on writing against that damn man and his administration, even after being fired from my newspaper job. That’s my story, friend. Arrested and sent away because of my opinion.”
The light changed to green. Sam let up on the clutch and headed down Congress Street, to the local station of the Boston & Maine railroad. His eyes ached and his car now held a smell of old smoke and sweat. Lippman cleared his throat. “This has nothing to do with you, does it?”
“What’s that?”
“My arrest. That’s not a local charge, not even something your state police would care about. Look, you seem like a good man, Mr. Miller. I mean, this is a lot to ask, but… you didn’t look happy, bringing me out of my cell. I’m sure you don’t like being pushed around by the FBI, the Interior Department. So why not do something about it?”
“Like what?” Only a few stores were open on this main city street, their lights brave against the rain and lack of customers.
A nervous laugh from the prisoner. “Let me go. It’s the proverbial dark and stormy night… just help me out of the car, and I’ll just disappear. I’ll make my rendezvous up in Maine. I know it’s asking a lot, Mr. Miller… but maybe I can rely on you. A simple thing, really. A prisoner escaping? Happens all the time, doesn’t it? And why am I a prisoner? For what crime?”
Another red light. Even though there were no other cars or trucks out, Sam eased the Packard to a halt. A hell of a thing, to be arrested for an opinion. Sam remembered a time when that hadn’t been a crime. And Lippman was right—it would be easy just to open up that rear door, have the guy tumble out, and let him take his chances…
Yeah. And then what?
“Sir?” came the voice. “Please. I… I don’t think I could handle a labor camp. Not at my age. Please. I’m… I’m begging you to look into your heart, to help me out…”
The light changed. Sam made a turn onto Maplewood Avenue, past the Shanty, and one block later, he was in front of the stone and granite building of the B&M railroad station, just off Deer Street. There, parked in front as if it belonged, was a black Buick van with whitewall tires. No insignia or lettering on the side or doors. The Black Maria didn’t need such markings. Everyone knew what it was and what it carried. The Buick’s hood was open and someone was working on the engine, and standing nearby, in long trench coats and slouch hats, were two lean-looking men who looked up as Sam’s Packard approached.
“Sorry,” Sam told Lippman, tightening his hands on the steering wheel. “I can’t do it.” He got out and opened the rear door and helped his prisoner out.
Standing in the cold downpour, Lippman said hoarsely, “I suppose it was my bad luck to be transported by a man with no heart or soul.”
Sam said, “No. It was your bad luck to be transported by me.”
He turned Lippman and his paperwork over to the Interior Department men and finally went home.
His home was a small light blue house on Grayson Street, which ran parallel to the Piscataqua River, separating this part of New Hampshire from Maine and eventually emptying into the Atlantic Ocean. He pulled his Packard into an open shed, dodging a Roadmaster bicycle lying on its side in the driveway, and walked out in the rain, feeling sour over his completed errand. The tiny rear yard ran down to a low hedge; beyond the hedge was the river, a tidal river: Four times a day, the rear yard overlooked a smelly mudflat.
He looked at the house again, felt disappointment in his mouth. To be his age and have one’s own home, in this time and place, was a miracle. He remembered how, a couple of years after getting married, when Sarah was pregnant with Toby, he had promised to get the three of them out of a downtown apartment that had plumbing that knocked and leaked, and rats and roaches scurrying around, even during the day. He had done everything possible, gone to the banks, measured up his savings, went without beer for months… but when the time came, he was short five hundred dollars.
Don’t ask how he knew, but his father-in-law, Lawrence Young, the mayor of Portsmouth and the owner of the city’s biggest furniture store, that greasy bastard knew what was going on and had offered a loan. That’s all—a loan that could be paid back by Sam working weekends at the store, under Lawrence’s supervision, of course, and under the bastard’s eye and thumb.
He didn’t do it. Couldn’t do it. He had found another way—a way that still disturbed his sleep, a way that made sure coming to his home at night gave him little joy, for the money he had finally gotten for the down payment had been dirty money.
Up onto the sagging porch, past the wooden box for their weekly milk deliveries, and after unlocking the front door, he went in. Sam remembered a time when doors were always unlocked, but that was before thousands of hoboes had taken to the rails.
A small brunette woman was curled up on a small couch, reading the daily
“And you’re beautiful, Sarah Miller,” he said, taking off his coat and hat, hanging them both in the vestibule. He unbuckled his shoulder holster and slid the .38 Smith & Wesson Police Special revolver on the top shelf, away from curious hands.
The radio was on, tuned to Sarah’s favorite station, WHDH out of Boston, playing ballroom dance music. The couch, two armchairs, the Westinghouse radio, a crowded bookshelf, and a rolltop desk filled most of the room.
Sarah got up from the couch and came to him, a blue lace apron tied around her tan dress and slim waist. Her dark hair was cut in the over-the-eye look of Veronica Lake. Sarah one time said she thought she looked like the Hollywood actress, and in certain lights, her head tilted a certain way, Sam would agree. He had met her in high school, the oldest story in romance magazines and movie serials, she the head cheerleader, he the star quarterback.
Now he was a cop and she was still at school, a secretary for the school superintendent, and they were among the lucky ones in town, to have reasonably safe jobs.
A quick dry kiss on the lips and she asked, “Was it what they said when they called you? A dead man by the tracks?”
“Yeah,” Sam said, thinking of what he had to say in the next few moments, wondering how that pretty face in front of him would respond to the news. “One dead man. No ID. A real mystery.”
“How did he die?” she asked.
“Don’t know yet,” he replied absently, still working through what had to be done. “Doc Saunders will probably let me know tomorrow.”
Sarah said, “Sounds interesting. And Sam, I just saw in the paper, Montgomery Ward’s has a sale on, men’s dress shirts for a dollar forty-four apiece. Do you want me to pick you up a couple next time I’m downtown? With your promotion, you’ve got to have more than just two.”
“Yeah, I guess… Look, we’ve got to talk.”
He took her hand and led her back to the couch. He sat his surprised wife down and looked around, then turned up the radio’s volume. The thumping joy of some bigband orchestra grew louder, the trumpet piercing. Harry James, playing “I’ve Heard that Song Before.” He leaned over to her and said, “It has to stop, Sarah. Now.”
Her eyes widened. “What has to stop?”
His chest was tight, so tight it hurt. “The Underground Railroad. It has to stop now. Tonight. This instant. And we’ve got to empty out the basement of any evidence.”
