supposedly working over a decade after the stock market crash. But he saw with his own eyes what was true, from the hobo encampments by the railroad tracks, to the rush of unemployed men at the shipyard gates when a rumor spread that five pipefitters had been killed in an accident, to the overcrowded tenements in town.
That was the truth. That desperate numbers of people were still without jobs, without relief, without hope. And nothing over the radio would change what he knew. He rolled over, tried to relax, but two thoughts kept him awake.
The thought of three stones piled up on his rear porch.
A series of blurry numerals, tattooed into a dead man’s wrist.
Both mysteries. Despite his job, he hated mysteries.
INTERLUDE II
Now he was back in the shadowy streets of old Portsmouth, where there were lots of homes from the 1700s, with narrow clapboards, tiny windows, and sagging roofs. He kept to the alleyways and crooked lanes, ducking into a doorway each time he saw an approaching headlight. When he got where he had to be, he crouched beneath a rhododendron bush, waited some more. He thought about these old homes, about the extraordinary men who had come from this place, had gone out to the world and made a difference. Did they feel then what he felt now? The history books claimed they were full of courage and revolutionary spirit. But he didn’t feel particularly full of anything; he was just cold and jumpy, knowing that behind every headlight could be a car full of Interior Department men or Long’s Legionnaires.
Across the street, the door of an old house opened and a man stepped out, silhouetted by the light. The man looked around, bent over, put two empty milk bottles on the stoop, then went back inside.
In the darkness beneath the bush, he smiled. All clear. One bottle or three, and he would have left. But two was the sign. He crossed the street, through an open gate to a picket fence, then to a cellar door. He opened the door and went down the wooden steps. The cellar was small, with a dirt floor, an exposed rock foundation, and threewooden chairs set about a wooden table. There were two men in the chairs, only one of whom he recognized, and that was a problem.
The man on the left had a thick mustache and swollen hands, scarred with old burn tissue. The owner of the house, Curt Monroe. He looked to him and said, “Curt.”
“Boy, I’m glad to see you, pal,” the scarred man said.
He said, “You tell me who this other guy is, Curt, or I’m out of here.”
The other man had thinning hair and a prominent Adam’s apple. Curt said, “This is Vince. He’s all right.”
He thought about that. Then he took the spare chair and sat down. “How’s he all right?”
Vince said, “Look, I’m—”
He stared at the second man. “I don’t remember asking you a goddamn thing.”
Vince shut up. Curt tapped his fingers on the table. “I used to date Vince’s sister back when I was working, before my hands got burnt. I know him, he’s okay, and he can get what we need.”
Now he looked to Vince. “Where?”
“Huh?”
He had to struggle to keep his temper under control. “We need something particular. Something that’s hard to get nowadays, with the latest confiscation laws for firearms. So. Where the hell are you getting it from?”
“A guy up the street from my sister. He’s got a ready supply. I already paid him with Curt’s money. You just tell me where you want it.”
He thought about that and said, “I want it delivered to Curt.”
Vince was confused. “I … that wasn’t the deal. The deal was, I get paid half for making the buy and the other half for delivering it where you want it.”
“Fine. And I want it delivered here, to Curt.”
“But—”
He stared right at him. “Bud, last time I’m going to say this. I know Curt. I worked with him back when we were both employed. I was one of the first guys to get to him when his hands got burnt. So me and him, we got a history.
That was the truth. That desperate numbers of people were still without jobs, without relief, without hope. And nothing over the radio would change what he knew. He rolled over, tried to relax, but two thoughts kept him awake.
The thought of three stones piled up on his rear porch.
A series of blurry numerals, tattooed into a dead man’s wrist.
Both mysteries. Despite his job, he hated mysteries.
INTERLUDE II
Now he was back in the shadowy streets of old Portsmouth, where there were lots of homes from the 1700s, with narrow clapboards, tiny windows, and sagging roofs. He kept to the alleyways and crooked lanes, ducking into a doorway each time he saw an approaching headlight. When he got where he had to be, he crouched beneath a rhododendron bush, waited some more. He thought about these old homes, about the extraordinary men who had come from this place, had gone out to the world and made a difference. Did they feel then what he felt now? The history books claimed they were full of courage and revolutionary spirit. But he didn’t feel particularly full of anything; he was just cold and jumpy, knowing that behind every headlight could be a car full of Interior Department men or Long’s Legionnaires.
Across the street, the door of an old house opened and a man stepped out, silhouetted by the light. The man looked around, bent over, put two empty milk bottles on the stoop, then went back inside.
In the darkness beneath the bush, he smiled. All clear. One bottle or three, and he would have left. But two was the sign. He crossed the street, through an open gate to a picket fence, then to a cellar door. He opened the door and went down the wooden steps. The cellar was small, with a dirt floor, an exposed rock foundation, and threewooden chairs set about a wooden table. There were two men in the chairs, only one of whom he recognized, and that was a problem.
The man on the left had a thick mustache and swollen hands, scarred with old burn tissue. The owner of the house, Curt Monroe. He looked to him and said, “Curt.”
“Boy, I’m glad to see you, pal,” the scarred man said.
He said, “You tell me who this other guy is, Curt, or I’m out of here.”
The other man had thinning hair and a prominent Adam’s apple. Curt said, “This is Vince. He’s all right.”
He thought about that. Then he took the spare chair and sat down. “How’s he all right?”
Vince said, “Look, I’m—”
He stared at the second man. “I don’t remember asking you a goddamn thing.”
Vince shut up. Curt tapped his fingers on the table. “I used to date Vince’s sister back when I was working, before my hands got burnt. I know him, he’s okay, and he can get what we need.”
Now he looked to Vince. “Where?”
“Huh?”
He had to struggle to keep his temper under control. “We need something particular. Something that’s hard to get nowadays, with the latest confiscation laws for firearms. So. Where the hell are you getting it from?”
“A guy up the street from my sister. He’s got a ready supply. I already paid him with Curt’s money. You just tell me where you want it.”
He thought about that and said, “I want it delivered to Curt.”
Vince was confused. “I … that wasn’t the deal. The deal was, I get paid half for making the buy and the other half for delivering it where you want it.”
“Fine. And I want it delivered here, to Curt.”
“But—”
He stared right at him. “Bud, last time I’m going to say this. I know Curt. I worked with him back when we were both employed. I was one of the first guys to get to him when his hands got burnt. So me and him, we got a history.
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