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mine?” Slayton asked.
“There’s just the man you want to see, over there,” the crewman said. He pointed to a large man wearing a blue suit and a
safety helmet, who was being interviewed by a television reporter. “C.J. Tolson, general manager. He’ll have to tell you all
that business.”
Slayton thanked the crewman and walked slowly toward Tolson, not wanting to interrupt the interview.
“—a terrible disaster for the entire community,” Tolson was saying. “We at Lovebridge intend to get to the bottom of it, with
the help of the FBI and all available investigative authority here in the State of West Virginia.
“I can assure everyone listening that all the usual intensive safety procedures were in effect—”
Slayton only half-listened to the rest of the Tolson interview. The one question that was relevant—who could have planted
a bomb?— would certainly not be asked by the modern-day press, a remarkably uncurious lot.
When he was through, Tolson chatted with the hair-sprayed television reporter, inviting him to his home that evening for dinner
to insure against anything untoward being said on air that might spoil the meal. The reporter eagerly accepted, as one would
when summoned to an evening’s entertainment in a mining town by the man who heads the mine.
Tolson took off his coat when the television crew had left. It was a hot day, and he knew it would get even hotter.
“Like to ask you a few questions, Mr. Tolson.”
Tolson gave him a reassuring smile, then a brush-off.
“I just talked to the press,” he said. “You missed out. Sorry, fellow. I’ve got work to attend to, as you can plainly see.”
“You’ve got me to attend to, mister.” Slayton pulled out his Treasury Department identification.
Tolson swallowed hard and mumbled something of an apology, something about not expecting a T-man to look like Ben Slayton.
Slayton had heard that sort of thing before and found it amusing. People expected him to look like one of J. Edgar Hoover’s
crew-cut agents. Instead, Slayton was a man of highly individual style, a characteristic that often rankled Hamilton Winship.
Rarely would Slayton deign to wear a suit and tie in Washington, for instance, preferring instead his jeans and sweaters and
boots. His dark brown hair was kept longer than the current style, which particularly annoyed Winship. His choice in clothing
made Slayton appear more athletic and less businesslike than the other T-men, which was, of course, to Slayton’s advantage,
both professionally and personally. Professionally, he never quite “looked” like a T-man, which was often convenient during
those times when looking like a government agent was a death warrant; personally, he didn’t quite fit the uniform, and was
happily allowed to report to his superior —the very uniformly dapper Hamilton Winship—by telephone, from his home in Virginia.
“Tell me now, Mr. Tolson,” Slayton said, his voice friendly and open. “What are the procedures followed when the men check
in before their shifts and go down inside the mine?”
“Well, let me show you, Mr.—”
“Slayton.”
“Yes. Slayton. Come with me.”
Slayton followed Tolson to a low building about a hundred yards from the elevator shaft. Inside was a small office with roster
sheets and the like, a large communal shower room, and rows upon rows of lockers for the men. Near the door the men would
take exiting the building for the elevator shaft was a large board filled with tags, all of them with numbers punched on their
metal faces.
“Every man’s got a tag and every man’s got a number. His number’s on the tag, and that’s the one he’s got to wear. His name’s
checked off the duty roster by the foreman in charge, and the tags are collected at the end of the day,” Tolson explained.
“What about visitors?”
“Visitors get special tags, marked with letters, which are kept in the safe in my office. We can
“There’s just the man you want to see, over there,” the crewman said. He pointed to a large man wearing a blue suit and a
safety helmet, who was being interviewed by a television reporter. “C.J. Tolson, general manager. He’ll have to tell you all
that business.”
Slayton thanked the crewman and walked slowly toward Tolson, not wanting to interrupt the interview.
“—a terrible disaster for the entire community,” Tolson was saying. “We at Lovebridge intend to get to the bottom of it, with
the help of the FBI and all available investigative authority here in the State of West Virginia.
“I can assure everyone listening that all the usual intensive safety procedures were in effect—”
Slayton only half-listened to the rest of the Tolson interview. The one question that was relevant—who could have planted
a bomb?— would certainly not be asked by the modern-day press, a remarkably uncurious lot.
When he was through, Tolson chatted with the hair-sprayed television reporter, inviting him to his home that evening for dinner
to insure against anything untoward being said on air that might spoil the meal. The reporter eagerly accepted, as one would
when summoned to an evening’s entertainment in a mining town by the man who heads the mine.
Tolson took off his coat when the television crew had left. It was a hot day, and he knew it would get even hotter.
“Like to ask you a few questions, Mr. Tolson.”
Tolson gave him a reassuring smile, then a brush-off.
“I just talked to the press,” he said. “You missed out. Sorry, fellow. I’ve got work to attend to, as you can plainly see.”
“You’ve got me to attend to, mister.” Slayton pulled out his Treasury Department identification.
Tolson swallowed hard and mumbled something of an apology, something about not expecting a T-man to look like Ben Slayton.
Slayton had heard that sort of thing before and found it amusing. People expected him to look like one of J. Edgar Hoover’s
crew-cut agents. Instead, Slayton was a man of highly individual style, a characteristic that often rankled Hamilton Winship.
Rarely would Slayton deign to wear a suit and tie in Washington, for instance, preferring instead his jeans and sweaters and
boots. His dark brown hair was kept longer than the current style, which particularly annoyed Winship. His choice in clothing
made Slayton appear more athletic and less businesslike than the other T-men, which was, of course, to Slayton’s advantage,
both professionally and personally. Professionally, he never quite “looked” like a T-man, which was often convenient during
those times when looking like a government agent was a death warrant; personally, he didn’t quite fit the uniform, and was
happily allowed to report to his superior —the very uniformly dapper Hamilton Winship—by telephone, from his home in Virginia.
“Tell me now, Mr. Tolson,” Slayton said, his voice friendly and open. “What are the procedures followed when the men check
in before their shifts and go down inside the mine?”
“Well, let me show you, Mr.—”
“Slayton.”
“Yes. Slayton. Come with me.”
Slayton followed Tolson to a low building about a hundred yards from the elevator shaft. Inside was a small office with roster
sheets and the like, a large communal shower room, and rows upon rows of lockers for the men. Near the door the men would
take exiting the building for the elevator shaft was a large board filled with tags, all of them with numbers punched on their
metal faces.
“Every man’s got a tag and every man’s got a number. His number’s on the tag, and that’s the one he’s got to wear. His name’s
checked off the duty roster by the foreman in charge, and the tags are collected at the end of the day,” Tolson explained.
“What about visitors?”
“Visitors get special tags, marked with letters, which are kept in the safe in my office. We can
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