 
### Train to Anywhere

By

David George Howard

Smashwords Edition

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Train to Anywhere

Copyright © 2014 David George Howard

Second Edition

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All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Amazon.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

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I would like to thank my sister Barbie Fleming and friend Debbie Springer for providing their many valued comments. I also want to express my appreciation to Alan Williams, a friend and classmate, who helped with the editing of this edition.

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# 1

## August 1929

Eddie turned on the lights to the main factory floor and then closed the switch box. The sound of the metal door on the box echoed through the empty factory for a few seconds and drifted off to every corner of the building before disappearing altogether. To earn extra money, the owner of the plant let him work a few nights during the week to clean up, perform maintenance, and restock the workstations. Mr. Aron was a decent boss, as bosses go—usually uncomfortable to approach, but a fair man. Eddie had been there for about three years, hiring on not long after he arrived in Providence, and he worked the extra hours to help cover the cost of the classes he was taking. The work was tedious, and the pay was meager, but after serving time for a couple of years, it was what he could find. Eddie had been through a bad time and was a victim of where he came from, but Mr. Aron was willing to consider that behind and done with.

The cart he was pushing was for collecting leftover cloth from the various stations around the factory floor. During the day, his regular job was to bring materials out of the storeroom and move cloth to the correct stations. The seamstresses did the real work of making the shirts and suits that now hung from lines high overhead. They referred to him as "Hon" and "Darling" as he made his rounds during the day to check on their supply of material, thread, and other items they needed. Many of them had worked there for better than twenty years, since Mr. Aron's father first started the business. Now Eddie was part of "the Family," as Mr. Aron called it, though he did not intend to work there longer than he had to.

After Eddie finished cleaning the stations, he made a few minor repairs and adjustments to one of the cutting machines, and then ran it through a couple of cycles. He took about ten layers of waste cloth, put it in the cutter, stepped on the pedal, and watched the knife blade slice smoothly through the material as it was supposed to. Eddie pulled the cloth out of the cutter, and the factory was quiet again.

Eddie went up to the managers' offices to empty trashcans and sweep the floors. He lingered in the office belonging to Mr. LaRue, the chief designer, to look at a few of the sketches on the drawing table. Eddie had no sense for fashion, though he knew enough to understand that Mr. LaRue always wore nice clothes and took frequent trips to New York to see shows and make sales. The drawings were in colored pencil and quickly sketched. They were all of angular young men supposedly wearing shirts and suits Mr. LaRue was designing for Mr. Aron. Eddie flipped through about seven or eight of the sketches before spotting a stack towards the back of the table. He quickly glanced at these and found they were of a woman in fancy clothes. He guessed this was the woman he had seen visit Mr. LaRue from time to time. Eddie did not know her name, only that she would go directly to his office, stay for a few minutes and then leave.

Before going down to the production floor to continue his cleaning, Eddie decided to take his break, since it was now around 10:00 pm and he had not eaten since lunch. He walked out of Mr. LaRue's office to the balcony that ran around the second floor of the plant. The manager's offices were all on the second floor, overlooking the entire factory layout. During normal working hours, the place hummed with the sound of sewing machines, moving material and stock, as fifty women worked to produce shirts and men's wear for department stores in Boston and New York. Now, as he leaned against the railing, it was quiet except for a slow-running ventilation fan somewhere in the rafters. Hundreds of finished shirts hung from conveyer lines above the production floor, almost as if they were alive and ready to board a train.

Eddie walked about a quarter of the way along a catwalk that ran across the middle of the plant and sat down to eat the sandwich he had bought earlier. He had just started eating when he heard a door open and footsteps as a number of people entered the plant. Hidden amongst the shirts hanging around him, he was not able to see the entrance where the people had come in. His first thought was that they were robbers. Eddie pulled his legs up so he could hide between the shirts or run if he needed to. It was then he heard a familiar voice.

"I'm telling you gentlemen, I don't have it." Eddie instantly recognized the eloquent voice of Mr. LaRue. He was able to see enough to make out four men besides Mr. LaRue. "She gave the package to the man at the train station."

"Who was that? It never got there," one of the four said. Eddie looked at him, and he thought the man seemed familiar. The other three larger men stood in a semicircle behind him as he spoke. "When I give her a package to take to New York, I expect it to arrive on time, with all the contents in there."

"Clarence, how many times do I have to tell you? I don't know anything about it. I think we usually meet with Eugene. But this time there was no visit."

The man was Clarence McBride, a local businessman with political ties. His picture had been in the paper a number of times, though Eddie had never seen him in person. The other three were street thugs that looked to be about twice the size as McBride, all dressed in similar cheap suits.

"I don't think the faggot's gonna give us any answers," one of the men said to McBride.

"I've known Eugene for ten years. The two of you were supposed to meet him last Thursday. You work for O'Connor, right?" McBride asked.

"I know him."

"Eugene's never lied to me or my cousin. You work for O'Connor. Now who do you think I'll believe?" McBride said.

"Boys," LaRue pleaded a tight smile on his face. "I'm telling you all I know."

"Come on. Let's have a look in your office." McBride led the group of men up the stairs along the sidewall and around the balcony over to LaRue's office. Eddie had no choice but to wait it out. For the moment, if he stayed down, the shirts hanging from the overhead lines gave him a place to hide. But if he went forward or backward, they would see him. He was not able to hear what they were saying in the office, though the voices continued to get louder. Eddie parted the shirts just enough to see through. The four men were going through the contents of Mr. LaRue's office, opening and closing drawers, pulling boxes from beneath his worktable. At first, they were orderly. LaRue appeared to be placating them as much as he could, but the search continued. McBride made him sit in his chair as the search went on and continued to become more urgent. Soon they were dumping all the contents onto the floor and tipping over the furniture. Between McBride and the three thugs, they had everything destroyed in a matter of moments.

"Where's the money?" McBride asked.

"I don't have it," LaRue said. The man behind him grabbed the back of LaRue's head and slammed it onto the desk. Crimson blood freely ran down onto LaRue's honey colored shirt.

"O'Connor put you up to this?" McBride said.

"No," LaRue said. The man hit his head on the desk again, breaking his nose further. LaRue's mouth hung open as he gasped for breath.

"Let's try this. He'll keep banging your head until your brains are jelly on the floor. Where's the money?" McBride bent forward and grabbed the back of his neck.

"Gloria's got an account. In Boston," LaRue said his voice a wet mess.

"Keep talking," McBride said, removing his hand from LaRue's neck.

"In Boston, in a bank deposit box. Said she was saving it." LaRue let his head slump forward, the words draining him of any self-respect.

"She there now? Waiting for you? You were getting ready to skip town, weren't you?" McBride said.

"We were going overseas. I don't know where she got it. Leave her alone," LaRue said, not looking up.

"Sure." McBride pulled a pistol out of his jacket and aimed it at LaRue's chest. A muffled explosion echoed through the empty plant. The sound of the second shot echoed off the high ceiling of the plant, and Mr. LaRue crumpled forward onto his desk. Eddie scurried as fast as he could, trying to stay low. One of the men with McBride turned as he ran away.

# 2

"I saw something move," the man said stepping out of the office. Eddie stopped breathing as he heard them come onto the balcony. "Right there, I seen somebody move." Without a moment's delay, the man pulled out a gun of his own and started firing. Eddie crouched down as much as he could, as the shirts around him blew to pieces and bullets sparked off the catwalk. If he stayed in one place, he would be dead. If he ran, he might have a chance.

"Stop!" a voice rang out. Eddie turned to see McBride lowering the other man's gun with his arm. Then he pointed to Eddie. "Hold on. You, stay there."

Eddie climbed to his feet, surprised he was even able to stand. After a moment, he started running along the balcony. McBride began to fire just ahead of him, the bullets making small eruptions in the concrete wall about five feet ahead of him. Eddie stopped and tried to go the other way, only to see one of the men bounding up the stairs and headed in his direction. McBride was pointing the gun directly at him from the floor below.

"Stand against the wall," McBride said, lowering the gun. A few seconds later, the man who came up the stairs walked up to Eddie and twisted his arm behind his back hard enough to make his shoulder pop.

Eddie bit his lip as he felt the tendons stretch. He looked at the grinning man holding his arm. The face was one of a man who had enjoyed delivering his share of beatings. They went to the stairs, and at the bottom, the man shoved Eddie forward against one of the workbenches. Eddie fell on the floor and received a kick to the back of his thighs. "Get up, boy. He wants to talk to you."

The man stayed behind him as he made his way through the sewing machines and large fabric cutters. McBride and the others were walking across the plant from the other direction. The man gave Eddie another shove in the back for good measure, though there was no chance of him slipping away.

When he walked up to McBride, the first thing he noticed was that McBride was even shorter than himself. This brought him no comfort, as he knew that LaRue was dead, and McBride had killed him.

"What's your name?" McBride asked

"Eddie Griffin."

"You work here nights or something?" McBride said, moving closer.

"I work a few nights a week," Eddie answered, his voice not much above a hoarse croak.

"Not supposed to be anyone here on a Wednesday night."

"I traded days earlier this afternoon."

"Bad timing on your part. That's what working too hard gets you." The three men standing behind McBride moved around closer. "Did you see what happened?"

"He seen it all," one of the men said.

"Answer me, Eddie," McBride insisted. "What did you see?"

"I saw you shoot Mr. LaRue."

"I don't think you saw that at all. Keep in mind what happens to people who won't cooperate with me." One of McBride's men walked over to one of the fabric cutting machines Eddie had just serviced. He ran his finger along the blade.

"Let me ask you again. What did you see?" McBride asked.

Eddie did not say anything, considering his first answer had not been satisfactory.

McBride pointed to one of his men. "Fingers. Bring him over here."

The man he had called Fingers was standing at the cutter. He came over, grabbed Eddie by the wrist, and dragged him over to the machine. A few hours before, Eddie had seen the cutter slice through ten sheets of cloth in one swipe. He had adjusted the blade to be sure the cut was clean and straight with no tearing. Many times, Eddie had seen machine cut through much more.

"Put his hand here," McBride said, pointing to the space under the blade.

"Goddamn! What're you doing?" Eddie said. Although no one had their foot on the pedal, his hand was still in it.

"Get ready," McBride said, pointing at the actuation pedal.

Fingers put his foot on it.

"What do you want?" Eddie shrieked.

"I think he wants you to answer his fucking question right this time. Give 'im a better answer," Fingers said, very close to Eddie's ear. "Then again, I'd like to see you lose a couple fingers."

"Nothing, I didn't see nothing," Eddie said, pleading. "Please, let me go. I didn't see nothing at all. I don't even know you."

"Exactly. And in case that story ever changes—well, let's hope it doesn't. Let him go."

Fingers jumped onto the pedal and let go of Eddie at the same time. The blade nicked the end of his index finger as it sliced down. Eddie crawled away from the cutter and looked up at the four men, who suddenly appeared to have no interest in him. McBride glanced around the area. "Pull down those shirts you shot up." Doing what they were told, the three men grabbed the long hooks sitting by one of the machines. They reached up and took the shirts down. "Bring them. You," he said, pointing at Eddie, "stay here until we're gone. Cops might show up soon, so don't waste any time getting out of here."

Eddie watched them weave their way through the production lines and out the door on the other side of the plant. He heard a car start and drive away, and then Eddie scrambled away from the cutter. He stayed there for a few moments, before running out of the side entrance.

# 3

Eddie had been trying to stay out of trouble while figuring out how to move ahead. He was wise in the way certain people become when they have few options in life. He was also smart enough to realize this was going to turn out wrong. In his haste to leave the building, he had left his coat there. Normally, he walked home when he finished cleaning, the two miles being easy to cover on most evenings. Tonight, he had no idea where he was going, only that it took an effort to walk at a normal pace. Eddie had caused and seen his shared of trouble in his life, but this did not change the effect of what he had seen. He continued along the sidewalk and then turned down a few unfamiliar streets in a reflex to hide from whatever happened, conscious of whatever and whoever else might be around.

He developed a shiver that he kept telling himself was due to the cool weather that evening. Walking faster and faster, his teeth began to chatter as he kept looking around in the shadows and cars that were parked along the streets. A few cars drove by, and each time, Eddie put his head down and turned his face away. There was small chance that the men he had seen that night would jump out at him, but the fear was there nonetheless. He took his door key out of his pocket with his right hand. Before opening the door, he opened and closed his hand a couple of times, thinking how close he had come to losing it altogether. There were too many people going around missing parts of their bodies—fingers, toes—and he was in no hurry to join those ranks. He opened the door and stepped into the hallway. Warmth and a sense of security came over him.

Once in his apartment, he tossed his keys on the only table in the room and collapsed onto the ratty couch that sat along the wall. He sat with his hands behind his head, looking at his meager possessions. A few pieces of furniture, basic kitchen utensils, and enough books to keep him busy. He could not afford a radio, so he often went to Bert's apartment next door to listen to _Amos 'n' Andy_ and baseball games. Bert was a Red Sox fan, and being from Buffalo, Eddie favored the Yankees. Right now, Eddie wished his life only had to be concerned with how the Babe was going to do that year. He took his shoes off, lay down, and pulled a blanket over himself. For about thirty minutes, he stared at the ceiling, rolled onto his side, then over on his back again. The image of the three thugs, faces like used-up prizefighters, kept coming back whenever he closed his eyes. If the police were to ask him to describe them, he would end up describing half the useless, petty street criminals in the city. Finally, he managed to fall into a tense, dreamless sleep.

***

Eddie woke up the next morning feeling like he had not moved the entire time he was asleep. His neck and shoulder ached so bad, he winced when he tried to sit up on the couch. Standing up slowly seemed to help, and the pains began to recede as he moved around the apartment and got dressed for work. He changed his clothes and cleaned up as much as he could. There were some biscuits in the cabinet, and between this and an egg, he made a crude breakfast. As he sat down to eat, he knew he needed to talk to someone who might know how to handle this problem. If he was able to get there early enough, he could talk to his friend Herman at the dealership before work began. In a few quick mouthfuls, in finished his breakfast and left.

The Packard dealership was a nice building, with gleaming cars arranged on the lot and inside the showroom. It was closed that early in the morning, but Eddie knew the mechanics arrived beforehand, and they sat around back to have a smoke and drink coffee before the day began. It was there, seated at a picnic table with a group of other mechanics, that he saw Herman.

"Hey, Griffin," Herman called when he entered the area. When Eddie had moved to Providence, he had taken a room at a boarding house and first ran into Herman. They became fast friends. For most of that first year, they worked odd jobs—dishwasher, doorman—until Herman took some training in auto repair. This, in a way, was an inspiration for Eddie to start taking accounting classes, where he was able to apply his knack for numbers.

"'Morning," he said when he approached. One of the mechanics, a man he had been introduced to, but had forgotten his name, handed Eddie a cigarette, and offered a light. Eddie thanked him and listened to the joking for a few moments, but he was not inclined to join in as he normally did.

"So," Herman said, "some girl got your shorts in a bunch?"

"I wish that's what it was," Eddie said. "I, ah, got a deal I want to pass by."

Herman stood. "What's up?" he said.

"If you got a few minutes, let me tell you." Eddie led him over to the back fence of the yard, where they were away from the other workers. Still he felt a need to turn away and keep his voice down. "Ever heard of a McBride? Clarence McBride?"

"Sure, who hasn't?" Herman said. He had been drinking from a cup of coffee while holding the cigarette in the other hand.

"I saw him kill a man last night," Eddie said. Herman dropped the cigarette and almost spilled the coffee. His eyes widened for a moment. "Almost killed me, too."

Herman wrapped one of his big hands around Eddie's arm. "What the hell?" Herman managed to say. He spilled the coffee on the sleeve of his coveralls.

"You can't tell nobody, for both our sakes."

"Damn that," Herman said, his jaw still dropped open. He dumped the rest of the coffee on the ground next to the forgotten cigarette. "What happened?"

"I was working late, and he came in with the designer at Aron's, Mr. LaRue. They went up to his office, smashed his face in, and shot him," Eddie said. The words came out in a quiet rush.

"Goddamn," Herman uttered.

"They saw me and took a few shots. McBride stopped them, and they threatened to chop my hand off in the cutter. McBride said if I told the cops, they'd find me and kill me." Eddie considered adding more, but Herman still had not looked away from him. He thought Herman had heard enough to get the idea.

"Don't tell nobody," Herman said. Eddie remembered Herman had had his scrapes with the law, though not to the extent he had. They both came from the same background and had a similar idea of how law enforcement worked. "You know how they are. The cops aren't no good. McBride could find you in a heartbeat."

"But, the cops'll want to talk to me," Eddie said. There was no disguising the fact he had been there that evening.

"Then lie your ass off. Lie 'cause your life depends on it. I'm telling you, these jokers got long arms. You did time. They'll drag you in."

"I gotta show up today," Eddie said. He was scheduled to start in about half an hour.

"I'm telling you, act like you weren't there. Just say you finished up early or something. Make anything up. Tell them you took off early and went home. Got lost, what the hell, anything." Herman shook his head.

Eddie wiped a knuckle across his forehead and tried to piece together a story that would add up. "I'll tell them, sure, it was late and I walked home. I was there alone so nobody saw me leave. Busses don't run that late."

"Anything," Herman said. He reached into his pocket and took out another cigarette, and lit it. With the cigarette between his first two fingers, he pointed at Eddie. "These cops, they make shit up if they have to. You gotta do the same. They're stupid. They arrest people so it makes it look like they're doing their job."

"I don't know," Eddie started. "It's just.... I was there. I saw it, I saw what they did."

"Look," Herman said, using the cigarette for emphasis, "McBride's a big fish. Think the cops'll take him down? Might act like they are, but he runs so much liquor, pulls in so much dough, he can do whatever he wants. You can't fight that. Just dummy up."

The shop boss stepped out of the door and called them all in. Herman had to leave, but before doing so, he said, "Don't say a damn thing."

# 4

Most mornings, Adrian Aron was the second person to show up. Usually, the man who turned on the machines and power to the building was there around the same time as him, except he normally was in the basement for part of the morning. Adrian walked into the main plant at about 6:45 and noticed that a few lights had been left on. The wrong lights. This was not an important detail, but he would make a point to mention it to Eddie when he came in later that morning. After walking through the main area, he went to the second floor offices and dropped his coat off in his chair. A few seconds later, he went by LaRue's office and saw him face down on the desk. The office was torn apart, with papers and equipment strewn everywhere.

Adrian stood in the doorway a moment. He knew Jackson LaRue would occasionally display an artistic temperament, but he never knew him to destroy his belongings. "Jackson," he said. "What happened? Jackson?" It dawned on Adrian that LaRue was no longer alive. It was then he noticed the red stains on the papers covering the desk. Adrian went over and touched his neck. Cool. He had seen enough death in the trenches in France during the War to recognize what he was looking at. He went back to his office and called the police. In about thirty minutes, the first of the workers would start arriving. He went to the basement and told the maintenance man to wait at the door for the police, and to tell everyone else they would open later that morning. Then he locked the front doors.

A few minutes later, the side entrance door opened and two cops strolled in. Adrian stepped over to the railing and motioned to them.

"I hear you got a dead one up there," one of the cops said as they started up the stairs.

"Seen enough of them in the past month," the other said.

Adrian met them at the top of the landing. "I'm Adrian Aron, owner of the plant."

"Yeah, we know who you are. I'm Officer Stewart, and this here's Evans," the taller of the two cops said. He looked to be maybe around mid-thirties. "Let's see who you got."

The three of them walked to the office. Adrian stayed in the doorway while the policemen went in. "He was my designer, Jackson LaRue."

"Any idea what happened?" Stewart asked as he stepped around behind the desk to take a better look. Evans went to the other side and gently pulled LaRue's head up and moved him to a sitting position.

"None," Adrian said. "I came in here this morning and found him like that. He was a good man, who did a fine job at designing and marketing my shirts."

"Looks like a hit of some sort," Evans said. "Seen a bunch of these in the past six months. How many have they solved?"

"Aw, they're all the same," Stewart said. "You, uh, Mr. Aron. Last night, was he working late or anything?"

"No. In fact, he would have been getting back from New York yesterday afternoon. The only one here would have been a young man cleaning the offices."

Stewart looked at Evans, then said, "Any way we can talk to him? Whoever worked here last night?"

"He should be in this morning."

"Tell you what: Why don't you go down and wait for him, and we'll take a look at things here?" Adrian hesitated, then did as Stewart suggested.

"What do you think, Stew?" Evans asked once Adrian was out of earshot.

"Looks like this, uh, LaRute fella, he was messing around with those boys that like to kick people around," Stewart replied as he began leafing through the papers scattered around the floor. He looked at the door for any signs of forced entry and tried to guess where the shooter had been standing. LaRue was sitting up in his chair, leaned over to the left, and except for the dried blood on his cheek and hole in his forehead, he looked to be taking a nap in a very uncomfortable position. Evans moved the chair back from the desk and looked underneath.

"Suppose what's-his-name's going to show up?" Evans asked as he squatted down to look around on the floor and under the chair.

"Shit," Stewart exclaimed. He readjusted his hat. "That fucker's going to be here and start yelling at us for something."

"Mr. City Prosecutor, Jerome Harris." Evans stood up and looked at the blood on the desk. He picked up a few of the blood-smeared sketches. "Does he really think he can take them? Look at this. They shot this fella and just left him here to be found. They don't care. I bet they want this to be in the papers so's others will see what happened."

"Mr. Jerome Harris better watch his scrawny lawyer ass, or he'll end up like LaRude, here. That happened in Wilmington a few weeks ago."

Evans put the sketches back on the desk. "Better put this body back like we found him." Stewart pushed the chair back under the desk and pushed LaRue over onto the surface. His head and chest hit the surface with a loud thump.

It was only a few minutes later when the door flew open, and in walked Jerome "Jerry" Harris. Trailing behind, trying to keep up, were an investigator, a police photographer, and a newspaperman. When Harris was elected a few months before, the local press quickly learned to camp out by his house or office. Whenever trouble jumped up in town, Harris always ran out to the scene. Harris, for his part, was open about having them along, thinking that the more the bosses knew he was running them down, the more nervous they would be. Crime had been running at a steady clip for a number of years, and he had been elected on a promise to clean it up. This was proving harder to do than he had originally thought. It seemed that the organization had woven its way into all forms of government and law enforcement, to the point of making any real impact nearly impossible. It was the same in cities all across the country. When Prohibition kicked in, this provided money for more criminal activity.

Harris bounded up the stairs, with the clatter of photography equipment not far behind. The two policemen were still in LaRue's office when he came in. "What do we have here, gentlemen?"

Stewart glanced at Evans. "Looks like some sort of hit. He's an employee here. Designer, from what Aron says."

"Aron?" Harris asked.

"Adrian Aron. Owns the place."

"Fine. You two step away. Let's get some pictures." Stewart and Evans backed away to the corner of the office while the photographer moved in. The photographer was about to take a picture when he stopped. "What?" Harris asked walking over to him.

"It doesn't look right."

Harris went over to Stewart. "Who moved the body?"

"We didn't touch nothing. All we did was look around," Stewart said.

"Don't give me that. How many times do I have to tell you?" Harris said, nearly yelling. "Don't contaminate the scene."

"That's exactly how we found him."

"Impossible," Harris said, stepping back to the desk. "The blood stain on the desk is a foot away from his head."

"Dead bodies move," Evans said. "I seen it. They kick and twitch."

"Not for six hours," Harris countered. "This man's been dead for about six hours, and he has recently been moved."

Stewart and Evans stared back at Harris. Very seldom had anyone ever questioned what the police did, especially in such an open fashion. "We looked around, but we didn't do nothing," Stewart said.

"Damn it," Harris exclaimed. The photographer and reporter both jumped to attention. "How many times do I have to tell you not to contaminate the scene?"

"All we did," Evans began.

"No arguing with me. Understand? With a murder like this, you secure the area. Touch nothing, and wait for investigators." Harris was repeatedly exasperated by the actions of the cops at a murder scene. The majority of the time, the evidence they gathered was of dubious use, since the scenes had been tampered with. He was not sure if this was on purpose, planned incompetence, or complete stupidity. "I know this body has been moved. Tell me exactly what you did when you came in."

Finally, the police investigator spoke up. "Ok, boys, let's calm down now. Harris is right. This body has been moved recently. Tell me everything you did since you arrived." As the two cops began to explain what they had done, the investigator took notes and the photographer began recording the scene.

# 5

Harris found Adrian downstairs and asked him if they could talk for a few minutes. They went up to Adrian's office and closed the door, while the investigation continued across the walkway. From where they were, Harris would be able to keep an eye on what the police were doing.

"Have a seat, Mr. Aron," Harris said, pointing towards the chair behind the desk. Adrian went ahead and sat down while Harris remained standing by the window. He kept glancing out into LaRue's office. Thomas, one of the few policemen in the city that he trusted, stayed in the room with the other officers. "Do you have any idea what any of this was about?"

"None whatsoever," Adrian said. "This is a complete shock. Jackson has worked for me for a couple of years."

"You're not aware of any untoward activity he may have been involved in?"

"Nothing apparent," Adrian replied.

"Let's start with this. What did he do for you? Describe his duties and general work habits." At the start of any investigation, Harris always found there appeared to be no indications of what happened. He always saw it as a puzzle, and his job was to find the pieces and put them together, though the lack of cooperation from the law enforcement community often made this difficult. So far, few cases he had seen came to any concrete solutions. He knew whatever forces were behind this murder were also behind many of the others he had seen since he took office. These forces also had enough influence on the system to be able to run two or three steps ahead of him. It annoyed the police to no end when he appeared at the scene with Thomas in tow, but he had found no other way to be certain of the facts.

"I hired Jackson a couple of years ago to design shirts for me and also help sell the designs."

"Where was he before he worked here?"

"He had worked for a film company in Los Angeles doing costumes, and he wanted to move closer to New York, since that's where most of the fashion business is based. He has no immediate family, not married, so he was able to travel freely."

"Did he have any formal training?"

"Not a lot. He went to an art school in California for a few years. He learned the craft well, working for films. His knowledge was more self taught, and I have to say he was very good at what he did."

Harris looked around at the shirts hanging from the racks down below. He had no patience for shopping for clothes or using an iron. "Frumpy" was how people often described him. "Social life. Any idea who he associated with?"

"We never knew each other on that level. There was a young lady he had been seeing for about a year. She often traveled with him on his trips, though they were not married. Very attractive. Always wore nice clothes, as you can imagine. Gloria was her name, I believe."

"Know where we can find her?" Thomas asked.

"Sorry, no, but I'm sure there would be information in his personal effects," Aron said.

"You say he traveled often. Where did he usually go?"

"He went to New York about once a month. He did sales visits and attended shows, keeping tabs on what the department stores needed, and fashions trends. About every two months, he traveled west to Chicago, and some of the smaller markets in that region. And about twice a year, he visited California. He still had enough contacts to make a few sales for us. As I said, he was very good and generated a large amount of business." Aron tapped a pen he had on the desk. "I'm sure you can track his travels. He kept a log book of his visits."

"Can you show me where he kept that information?"

"Yes, I can."

"About last night. Any idea what he was doing here that late?"

Adrian thought about this for a few seconds. "None. I know he was due back from a trip yesterday evening. It wasn't his habit to come in here right after a trip. It's highly unusual."

They were looking for something, and had not found it. "Was there anyone else in the building last night?"

"There was a young man doing cleanup work, but I'm not sure when he left. I did notice he left the lights on, though," Adrian said.

"Is that unusual?"

"I don't remember him doing that before."

Harris took a small notebook out of his coat pocket and began scribbling down the bits of information Adrian had been telling him. After about a minute, he asked, "Did he clock out last night before he left?"

"I'm not sure. I usually don't check those things every morning."

"Let's go take a look."

Adrian led Harris down to where the time cards were kept, along the back entrance to the building. They were in a panel of metal slots attached to the wall. Adrian flipped through columns until he found Griffin's. He pulled it out.

"Looks like he checked in yesterday morning but never checked out last night," Adrian said.

"Show me how you know that," Harris replied. Adrian quickly ran through the markings on the card and how the punch clock worked. He pulled another card and showed the punch-in and punch-out marks. "I need to keep this for evidence." The two of them then went back upstairs and went by LaRue's office, where the investigation was winding up.

"I don't really need to go in there, do I?" Adrian asked.

"No. When is this fellow Eddie Griffin supposed to arrive for work?" Harris asked Adrian.

"He's probably waiting outside now."

"When he shows up, bring him up to your office. Evans," he said turning to the other men in the office, "go down with Mr. Aron and wait for this Griffin. Thomas, when you're done, check the rest of the building for anything else, and register this card. It shows he never clocked out last night."

***

Eddie stepped off the trolley and came up the street towards Aron's. Right away, he saw a crowd of people waiting outside and knew Mr. LaRue had been found. For a moment, he thought of turning around and going the other direction. On the trolley ride over, he had considered how to explain his not calling the police the night before. The only story he was able to come up with was what he had talked to Herman about. The image of McBride telling him that nothing happened ran through his mind every time he tried to come up with a different explanation. For now, he would have to do his best to convince himself that he saw nothing. Hopefully, the police would believe him.

He approached the crowd and asked one of the seamstresses, "What's going on?"

"They found a body. Cops are in there, and they're not letting us in," she said. Eddie was not sure what her name was, but he knew she had worked there for years.

"Who was it?"

"Mr. LaRue," one of the other ladies said. "Mr. Aron found him this morning. He was tangled up in one of the machines, shot through the head. I'm not sure how they're going to fix the machine. I don't want to work next to it any more."

Eddie knew this was a wild rumor they were passing around. There was no sense to it, but he played along. "That's horrible. Any idea why?"

"Probably that tarty girlfriend of his," the first lady said.

"Sure, you know how those design types are," the second lady added.

The door opened, and Mr. Aron and a police officer stepped out. At first, they talked to a few people around them, to which Eddie could tell they received no answer. The policeman then spoke up. "Is there an Eddie Rifken in the crowd?" Mr. Aron corrected him. "Eddie Griffy. Anyone seen him?" Again, Mr. Aron spoke in his ear. "Griffin, Eddie Griffin."

Everyone around Eddie turned and looked at him. He raised his hand. Eddie rehearsed his story in his head as he walked to the front of the crowd.

"There he is," Mr. Aron said when he walked up.

"Follow me," the policeman said.

"Mr. Aron, what's going on?" Eddie asked.

"The prosecutor wants to ask you a few questions," Mr. Aron answered, quietly. Mr. Aron had a brisk walk most of the time, but this morning he seemed to drag along. His business had just been torn apart. Everyone knew how much he cared for his employees, and to lose one like this had to be devastating.

They came up to Mr. Aron's office. "Wait here," Evans said. He continued down to Mr. LaRue's office and spoke to someone inside for a few seconds. A moment later, a man hurried out of the office and down the walkway towards them.

"Eddie Griffin? I'm Jerry Harris, Prosecutor." The greeting was abrupt, with no pleasantries extended. "Let's go in the office and talk a few minutes. Gentlemen," he said to Evans and Mr. Aron, "if you'll give us some privacy?"

Harris closed the door and asked Eddie to sit in the chair by the desk. "Mr. Griffin," Harris said, pulling a chair up by Eddie's, "I'm not sure if you heard what happened here last night."

"Just the rumors outside. They said something about Mr. LaRue?" Eddie felt fairly calm, considering what was happening and who he was talking to.

"Jackson LaRue was murdered in his office last night," Harris said. "Mr. Aron says you worked last night."

"Yes, I did, but I don't remember this. I mean, I certainly would've noticed."

"Go ahead and explain what you did last night, starting from when you first started your duties." Harris took out the small notebook and started jotting down a few notes.

In his mind, Eddie ran through the story he had come up with. "I took about a half hour off after my normal shift to eat. I spent it in the break room downstairs reading a magazine. When I work evenings, I usually start with all the heavy work on the main floor."

"What do you mean heavy work?" Harris asked.

"Clean up the debris, straighten up the benches, maintain the machines, sweep. Then I look for any materials that might be low, and bring them out of the stock room."

"How long does this usually take?"

Eddie had worked out a time of when he would have needed to leave in order to miss the arrival of McBride. "Three or four hours." Harris nodded, and Eddie continued. "Once everything is in order, I begin to clean the offices on the main floor, take out the trash, clean windows, things like that."

"Time?"

"About another hour."

"To be specific, do you remember about what time it was when you finished that part?" Harris asked.

Eddie ran the clock backwards from the time of the shooting. "Around 10:30."

"Ok, continue."

"From there I went upstairs to clean the offices."

"So you went into Mr. LaRue's office."

"He'd been gone for about a week, so there was no need to clean. I went in for a few minutes to see that all was in order."

"Anything changed, at all?" Harris asked.

"I only do this shift about twice a week, but no, there was nothing unusual." Seeing no reaction from Harris, Eddie finished his story. "From there, I finished by straightening up the stock rooms. I left about 12:30."

"Did you go home?"

"I went back to my apartment."

"How well did you know Mr. LaRue?"

"I rarely ever talked to him. He did his work and passed it to Mr. Barger for the layout. I know he traveled often."

"Do you know anything about his personal life? Any rumors?" Harris asked.

Eddie knew that people always talked about the managers of the company. Most of it was nothing more than gossip. "There was a woman he was seeing who would stop by on occasion."

"Was it always the same one?"

"Yes, everyone recognized her."

"Do you know of any problems he had with Mr. Aron or anyone else here?"

"None that I know of. Mr. Aron works well with his employees. I never even remember seeing him get mad."

"We'll need to talk to you later." Harris took a piece of paper out of the notebook and wrote his phone number and office address on it. "Call me at home or at the office if you think of anything else. Thanks for stopping by."

# 6

It was close to noon before the police had finished with their investigation and cleaned up the office. At first the workers had a difficult time getting back to work. They kept looking up at the office and ignoring the tasks at hand. Talk was rampant, and Eddie was asked repeatedly about what had happened. He told them what he had told Harris, but they seemed to want to hear it over and over. Once the rhythm of production started, they turned their attention away from the office and concentrated on the work.

It was a long day for Eddie, and though he was busy trying to help get production back up to speed, by three on the afternoon he needed to take a break. He stepped out the back door for a moment to take in the fresh air and silence the alley offered. The alley was empty, and except for a few cars driving by on the street, he was by himself. He sat down on a large wooden box about ten feet from the door he had come out of. It was a relief to rest, and he leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes. When he had come down to Providence a few years before, he had hoped to escape exactly the problem he was in now. His life was starting anew, with a dependable job and night classes. Providence was a decent place to live, and he had hoped to settle down there. Well, Eddie told himself, opening his eyes, there was no way they could pin this on him. Harris would figure it out, though Eddie was not sure how much his lie had bought. He looked down at the right hand that had been in the cutting machine the night before, and vividly remembered anticipating the agony that could have happened. Eddie would need to keep his mouth shut. He was about to get up and return to work when the door opened. Mr. Aron stepped out.

"Sorry sir, I was about to return," Eddie said, standing up.

"Sit down a moment," Mr. Aron said. He sat next to Eddie on the box and leaned forward with his hands on his knees. He was a smallish round man, with thick spectacles, though he often displayed more energy than his appearance would suggest.

"Thanks," Eddie said. "I needed a break."

"Likewise," Mr. Aron said. "It's one thing to have a designer leave to work at a design house in New York, and another to have one killed in his office."

"I understand. He'll be difficult to replace." People seldom left his employ, and when they did it was only under the best circumstances. The few who Eddie remembered that had left were designers and managers headed for more lucrative positions. The line workers had stayed relatively unchanged for years.

"It's not just that. He had a few relations. Gloria, the young lady he was seeing."

"Sure. I forgot about her."

"You understand," Mr. Aron started to say. He looked at Eddie. "You understand, this may sound selfish, but people I sell to see these types of things, and begin to question the business relationship. I expect orders will begin to drop off."

"I hadn't thought of that."

"In the past ten years, I haven't had to let anyone go because of lack of business."

There was more concern on Mr. Aron's face than losing a valuable and respected person. He looked at the small community he had gathered under him and was now worried.

"Mr. Griffin, did you see anything last night?" Mr. Aron asked.

"No sir, I didn't. It must've happened just after I left. I wished I could've helped the police more."

"You know you left the lights on when you vacated the premises last night and also neglected to punch out."

Mr. Aron had been looking at him when he said this, but then he went back to staring at the wall of the building across from them. Eddie had never forgotten to do those things anytime before. Leaving the lights on? That could have been the killers. But not clocking out looked very odd. "I'm not sure why those things happened."

Mr. Aron got up and said, "Make sure you work with the police. I wouldn't want you to get into any trouble, you know. We've talked about that. Take a few minutes and come back in when you're ready."

Eddie waited until Mr. Aron had gone, then he got up and went back to his duties.

***

The trolley stop was about two blocks from the plant. Eddie saw a seat next to an elderly woman who appeared to have come to town for groceries. The trolley was crowded, and she had two sacks of food in the empty seat next to her. Reluctantly, without saying a word, she put the sacks in her lap and Eddie sat down. He had not been seated for more than a minute, before he nodded off. When the lady next to him squeezed past to get out, he woke up and saw a newspaper sitting on the seat across from him. He picked it up and found the story of the murder on the front page. There was no real information other than a short background on LaRue and the fact that he was employed at Aron's. Luckily, his name was not mentioned, at least not yet. For some reason, he knew that before this was all settled, his name would show up in the papers, connected to the murder. His stop came, and he took the paper with him to read later.

# 7

O'Connor leaned back in the barber chair. He rarely left his home anymore, and he had decided the best way to get a shave in the morning was to have his personal barber, Angelo, come to his house. He had had a custom-built chair installed in his basement a few years before. O'Connor could shave himself, but his hands were not as steady as they once were, and Angelo made for quiet conversation in the morning. Instead of being driven down to the shop before opening, he only had to make his way downstairs, though this still was a struggle with his sore knees and feet. Leaning back, having the warm, strong-smelling lather put on and shaved off by a trusted expert made getting up in the morning worthwhile. This morning, as before, he settled in, with Angelo leaning forward, brush in hand.

"Good morning, sir," Angelo said. "Were you going to need your hair cut today as well?"

"No, not today. Say, how did you make out at the track yesterday?" O'Connor asked.

"Ah, yes. Angelo did not do so well. Yes indeed, I bet on the ponies you told me to. But no, no winnings for me," Angelo said. He began to work the brush over O'Connor's face, massaging in the thick lather.

"I'll talk to the trainers. See if I can improve your luck next time," O'Connor said. He smiled a sly smile and closed his eyes again.

The warm lather on his face made him feel sleepy, and for a moment he began to doze off, but he awoke at the first swipe of the straight edge razor. No pain, just a gentle pull across the stubble on his neck. "Sir?" he heard someone say.

O'Connor at first ignored the visitor, but knew his grandson would not visit him if it were not for a good reason. "Yes Patrick?" he said.

"Sir, there's been an incident, a problem," the young man said.

O'Connor had not opened his eyes, but now began to peek around to get a look at Patrick standing in the doorway. "Go on, you've already disturbed my shave."

"Mr. Jackson LaRue was found dead this morning in his office." O'Connor raised a hand and gently held Angelo's arm back before the next pass.

"How?" O'Connor asked.

"He appears to have been beaten and shot. Shot twice. Aron found him this morning when he came in," Patrick said. He moved inside the room, and was now standing at the end of the barber chair.

O'Connor leaned back again and let Angelo continue with the shave. "You sure? Beaten and shot?" he asked.

"Yes. No suspects yet, according to the papers."

"He was a good man. I could always count on him. It's a shame, a shame," O'Connor said. Jackson had come in handy over the years, since his job took him to all the major metropolitan areas of the country. He would never be big time or try to take over the organization, so O'Connor trusted him with using his charm to make arrangements and talk to people. In fact, they had met at a show of some sort, and O'Connor had taken a liking to the well-dressed man with the well-dressed woman on his arm. They had struck up a conversation, and when O'Connor had asked if he would be interested in making extra money on his trips, LaRue had smiled and said he would be delighted.

"Is there anything I can get for you?" Patrick asked.

"No, just keep tabs on what's going on with this. It looks bad," O'Connor said. Patrick left the room, and O'Connor fell into a quiet pose as Angelo hurried through his work. After the shave was done, O'Connor paid him. "Sorry to be such poor company this morning. Try Widow's Walk this afternoon. I think this might be his day."

"Thank you, sir," Angelo said, packing his tools and leaving the room.

Years of being in the business had taught him that taking out an associate in such an obvious manner was a direct challenge. Jackson was high-profile enough that his name would be known in various established circles around town and across the country. Retiring was never really an option in this line of work, but O'Connor had curtailed his activities in the past few years, and he suspected this was a rival looking to move in and take over. There were only a few people in the city who had the audacity to do this. One of O'Connor's virtues was patience. His mind was not working on a plan to drive out the person responsible, but he did begin thinking about where to look and wait. This person would not be able to stay quiet for long. Unfortunately, this would get worse before it was over. He took the towel from around his neck and placed it in the chair. The next few months were going to be difficult.

# 8

McBride had no choice but to deliver the funds out of his own account. He knew the organization would not look kindly on having funds "disappear." The idea of how to do this and then track down the real funds was occupying his thoughts when his wife came downstairs. With her were their eight-year-old daughter and three-year-old son, both in pajamas.

"They're all ready for bed," Rita said. The kids ran across the room and jumped into his waiting arms.

"You two have a good night," he said kissing them both on their cheeks. It often amazed himself how he treated the kids, spoiled them really, then went out and did the things he did. He looked at his son William and wondered. The boy was smart—he had already shown signs of being ahead of other boys his age—and McBride wanted the best for him. Bea...well, she was a girl, and girls did not do the things he did.

"Okay, off to bed," Rita said, sending them scampering up the stairs. She came down a few minutes later.

"What are we going to do with those kids?" he asked her.

"I'm not sure what you mean, Clarence." She sat down and picked up a magazine.

"You understand. We've talked about this before. William—should I bring him into the business?"

Rita set the magazine on her lap. "You know how I feel about it. I don't like you doing this. Why would I want my children to?"

"I know. We both agreed."

Rita came over to his chair and sat down on the arm. She draped her arms around his neck and kissed him on the side of his head. "They're kids. Let's keep them out of this. I don't want either of them in the business." She was the only normal thing in his life. Rita had come from a middle-class family in Hartford, and as far as they knew, he was simply a successful real estate developer. There was always a calming effect with her, and as she began to kiss him, he felt his troubles ease away. Of course, she was right. William would be a doctor or businessman, or some other honest profession, rather than run around with hoods and people who had nothing better to do than steal and cause violence. Rita stood and went up the stairs to go to bed.

"I'll be up in a few minutes," he said as he watched her disappear.

"Don't wait too long," she said quietly.

He laughed to himself and went down to the basement. A few years ago, he realized that the banks were getting better at tracking funds, so he had to devise other ways of moving money around. One of the things he did was to have safes hidden in various places at home and in his business office. He pulled aside the chair and rug and opened the access door. A few turns of the dial, and the safe unlocked. There was enough there to cover what was missing, but it went against everything he had tried to do. His people were paid well, and stealing from him was never tolerated. Clarence closed the safe and knew that somehow he would track it down and figure it out, and the message would go out to not try it again.

The next morning, McBride took a train to New York to make the delivery to his cousin. When he arrived at the train station, McBride saw Billy waiting for him, leaning against a post, reading a newspaper. They often talked two or three times a week, though they only met together a few times a year. Billy was not a direct cousin, but they had been friends and confidants for years. They used to play together, though Billy, being a couple years older, moved onto other, more serious games. By the time he was in his late teens, he was running a bookie outfit, and he asked Clarence to join him. From there, they had been working together, with Billy serving as the ultimate insider for both in many social circles.

"Billy! How have you been?" McBride said as he stepped off the train.

"Been better," Billy said.

"Let's talk when we get to your office."

It was a short drive over to Billy's office, which turned out to be a penthouse suite in a hotel. McBride always admired Billy's sense of style. Billy removed the money from the briefcase and placed it in a cabinet, not bothering to count it. McBride was staring out of the window down at the street below.

"I had a problem with that LaRue," McBride said.

"Didn't think he'd try anything smart. Wasn't he one of O'Connor's men?" Billy said, sitting down on a couch. He settled in comfortably and let out a quiet sigh.

"He was. I had my reservations about him and Gloria getting together. Surprised he had the balls to try something like this. He was stealing from us. I had to do it," McBride said. He had been thinking this all along, but he wanted to see what Billy thought of it. They both were good judges of character.

"Obviously. So what? They both got greedy fingers," Billy swung his feet up on the couch and looked at McBride.

"Gloria. Sure," McBride said, sitting down on the edge of the desk. "It's just...I brought her up through the organization."

"What did LaRue say when you talked to him?" Billy asked.

"He told us what we needed to know," McBride said, thinking now they could have gotten more out of him if he had not shot him.

"Clarence, you gotta control your temper. Just out and knocking a chump off, now, that makes it harder to find out. Now you got O'Connor to deal with."

"O'Connor's old and tired. I can deal with him. For all I know, he put them up to this. I can't have them steal from us."

"But just killing someone? No. We got better ways. You can work an answer out with persuasion."

"I let that kid go," McBride said.

"Why'd you do that?"

"I thought there was some way to use him. Don't know what for, but it was tough to do."

Billy got up and walked over to his desk, and pulled out a ledger book. "Good thinking. You took this money out of your own pocket, didn't you?"

"I did. That's why I have to find what they stole. All of it."

"Let's just for now say this is all they stole. If you find more, great, send it on. Otherwise, we'll keep this to ourselves," Billy said, making a ledger entry.

"So what do I do now? I gotta go to Gloria. She's got something to do with this." McBride moved away from the window.

Billy tapped his pen on the desk and said, "Well, don't pop her before you find out. Use her. You got leverage now. Figure it out, I mean she works for you, she owes you in more ways than just what she and LaRue took. Leave the killing to when the time is right."

As usual, Billy made sense. McBride would work on how to use Gloria, and then get her to pay him back. Having a person's life in your hands was the most leverage you could have.

# 9

The phone call that morning had been from Harris. Eddie never received calls that early, so he knew it was not good. He was barely awake when he answered, and for a few seconds he had a difficult time figuring out what the caller was talking about. Although Eddie tried to put the meeting off until later—he did not want to miss another day of work—Harris insisted he come down to his office right away. He dressed and headed out the door with a minimum of delay to catch the trolley downtown. Within twenty minutes, he found himself at the front steps of the city office building. He walked up the two flights, passing a few policemen and other people, and arrived at the office. He opened the door, expecting to find a bustle of activity, only to find an older woman sitting at a desk looking up at him. It was still early.

"What?" she barked.

"I'm here to see Mr. Harris," he said.

"Got an appointment or are you just wandering in off the street." The woman barely stopped typing long enough to say the words.

"He called me this morning and asked me to come in." Eddie would have been perfectly happy to leave if she told him so.

"Griffin?"

"Yes."

"Sit over there," she said, indicating over her shoulder with her left, ink-stained thumb.

Eddie looked to where she was pointing but wasn't sure where she was indicating. There was no real waiting room. "Uh..."

"What, are you blind? Pick an empty desk and sit." Eddie did what he was told while she went to an office door in the back and opened it. She said a few words and then closed the door quickly. The room was crowded with desks that in a few minutes would probably be occupied by another ten or so people.

After about fifteen minutes, the door to the office opened, and Harris came out. "Griffin," he said, looking across the room. "Griffin, get in here."

Eddie jumped up and went into the office. For some reason, Eddie had thought the office of a public official would be the picture of order and efficiency. Harris's office was just the opposite, with file cabinets overflowing with papers, while his desk had cardboard boxes full of more papers. The window was dirty, but it was probably just as well, since it looked out over a factory.

Harris sat down at his desk. "Sit," he said, indicating towards a chair. "You need to explain this." He reached down under a reference table behind his desk. Eddie heard the tinny sound of a small metal box. Harris slapped it onto the table.

Eddie recognized it as his lunch box, except it was bent out of shape, with a big hole blown through one corner. After that night, he had completely forgotten about it when the shooting started on the catwalk.

"We found this when we started to look around. I wanted to call you in sooner, but I needed to get more evidence. I think these are your initials here on the side," he said pointing to the _E.G._ on the box.

"Yes, they are."

"We found this and were able to track down the bullets in the wall opposite from LaRue's office. The shots were fired from there."

Eddie knew where this was heading, but there was little he could do. He looked through the hole in the corner of the box and could see an apple still laying inside.

"You understand this places you at the scene at the time of the murder? We also know you never clocked out and failed to finish your duties that evening."

Eddie remembered what Herman had said, but this was a turn he had not counted on. There was no use in dragging this out any longer than he needed to, and Harris had enough to start looking further into his actions that night. "You're right. There's more."

"Good. I thought so. If you were going to say otherwise, that would've meant you were a suspect, and I didn't want to do that." Harris settled back in his creaky wooden chair and waited for Eddie to start talking.

Eddie looked at his right hand and considered what he was getting himself into. This seemed all too familiar, him talking to a lawyer about what happened. Maybe he just needed to "dummy up," as he had heard people say.

"Eddie," Harris said. "Tell me what happened, or I have a right pull you in. I don't think you did it, and I want to keep believing that. But help me out. Why was this lunch box right there?"

"I have a problem telling you this. You'll know why when I finish." Eddie recounted the story as it actually happened, leaving out no details from the time he started his shift to the time he went back to the apartment. Harris only interrupted a few times to ask questions, but for the most part he just listened intently. When he was done, Harris slowly shook his head from side to side.

"McBride. I should have known. No other details on what LaRue did?"

"They were talking about a delivery that didn't happen, then they went up to his office and tore it apart."

"No one's ever had any hard evidence on McBride. I know he wants to run for office. It's not like he doesn't already have enough influence with them now."

Eddie was not listening too close to what Harris had been saying. "Mr. Harris, McBride was very direct in wanting me not to tell anyone."

"What you said won't go outside this room. Eventually I'm going to bring him to trial, and then you'll have to speak."

Eddie could no longer look at Harris. This was more than he was willing to deal with right then. "Won't McBride be looking for revenge? I mean I was there, and he knows it. He probably knows everything about me."

"Probably. Probably, but this story doesn't leave this room until I absolutely need it to. How else are we going to catch and stop them? Don't you hate having them in this city?" he asked.

"It's just that...McBride...there's no telling what he'll do."

Harris leaned forward. "There are thousands of decent people living in this city, and McBride and his kind are ruining it. That's why I wanted this job. I was sick of seeing people murdered and scared while a few men run around causing trouble. It starts with people like you."

Eddie was not entirely convinced or sure if he could carry through with this. In Buffalo, he had dealt with a prosecutor like Harris, and he knew how long this would take and the twists along the way. This would never be as clean as anyone thought. He considered telling him about the robbery and incarceration, but this would come out soon enough. If Harris felt he needed to know, he would ask.

Harris must have read his mind, because he said, "There are a few people I trust around here. When the time comes, you'll be taken care of. In all honesty, as harsh as it sounds, you have no choice in the matter. Like I said, you were placed at the scene by the evidence, so if you don't cooperate, you'll become a suspect. I'm not trying to scare you. Those are simply the facts."

"There has to be a way to leave me out of this. My being there was just bad luck," Eddie said. If there was some way for him to hide away until this blew over, he would strongly consider it. He had heard of people doing this.

"We're well past that," Harris said. He swiveled in his seat and then turned back around to where his legs were under the desk. He picked up a folder that was on the top of the pile and opened it. Only a few pages were in the file, and Harris carefully let them slide out onto the desk. "You saw what that man did, what he was capable of."

Eddie looked at the pages and could read the heading. The name on the report was _McBride, Clarence_. "What is that?"

"You would think a man like him would have a file so thick it would fill my desk. But look at this." Harris handed the three sheets to Eddie.

"Am I supposed to see these?" Eddie asked.

"No, but what difference does it make? Take a look," Harris said, pointing to a box on the top sheet.

Eddie glanced over the information. The report was of a traffic violation, for parking in a no-parking zone. He turned to the second page and found a report of an excessive noise complaint due to a construction project he had been supervising. The third report concerned a report of a lost dog. "There isn't much here."

"Do you think a man like that could live in a city his entire life, do the things he does, and have a record that totals one parking ticket and a lost dog?" Harris took the folder back from Eddie. Harris spread his arms in a grandiose over-expression. "And excessive noise. Well, those are grounds for prison. I ought to have him hauled off right now. He's got a lost dog! Hang 'im!"

Harris's conclusion was anything but jovial, and Eddie was well aware of the point he was making. Eddie felt Harris took the job because he wanted to address these very problems. He was not sure if Harris had counted on the innocent people who would become involved along the way. Eddie was watching the file as Harris plopped it back onto the desk. He looked down at the floor. "I don't want to get hurt in this. I have friends that he could get to."

"Look," Harris said. "I'm afraid you're already involved. What you need to decide is if you want to be involved with us, or with him. With him, you're going to get hurt. With us, I can't guarantee anything, but you stand a much better chance."

"Sure," Eddie said. "But either way is a problem for me."

"You have to do what's right, or you will never be able to live with yourself. Work with us on this. We'll do the best we can to keep it confidential."

"Okay," Eddie said. "How do you know I didn't do it? Why don't you think I'm a suspect?"

"You don't work with us, and you can be assured you will be. Cooperating goes a long ways."

# 10

At 5:00 on Friday, his work week finished, Eddie looked forward to meeting Herman and another friend downtown for dinner. Everyone filed out of the building towards various trolley stops. After wishing coworkers a good weekend, he boarded the trolley that was headed downtown. The trolley was crowded, but after a few stops, seats started to empty out. Eddie moved around to a seat, and as he sat down, he noticed a man looking at him. For a moment, Eddie was alarmed, but he told himself he was being paranoid after what happened earlier in the week.

Eddie got off at the Dorrance Street stop and went down to the deli to meet his friends. As soon as he walked in the door, he heard his name being called from across the room.

"Eddie, where you been?" Herman said. With him was Arnold Brown, a friend of Herman's, who worked as a clerk at the Biltmore hotel a few blocks away.

"How long have you two been here?" Eddie asked as he slid into the booth. The deli was a former bar and was now a popular place to meet after work. They no longer served alcohol legally. Now, instead of the smell of cigar smoke and spilled beer, they were greeted by the aroma of baked bread and cooked meats. The owner was one of the few that had made a successful transition to another business, though it was a poorly kept secret that if you went around back, the bar was still open.

"A half hour at least. Wouldn't you say, Arnold?" Herman said.

"Oh, sure. We've already eaten and were just waiting for you," Arnold said. It was not unusual for them to stay out until all hours of the night and arrive at work the next morning without having slept.

"Sure," Eddie said, laughing. "Let's get some food. I'm starving." They all went to the counter, ordered their meals, and returned to their seats.

"What a week it's been," Arnold started out. "We had some sort of meat packers' convention or meeting, I don't know. And all they wanted to do was find the hookers and booze. The hotel dick was running all over the place trying to chase these women out of the lobby."

Herman said. "An ex-cop or something, right? Fat German twit."

"Oh, hey, I heard something happened at Aron's this week. It was in the papers," Arnold said. "There was a hit?"

"That's about it," Eddie said. "The lead designer, Jackson LaRue. They found him in his office a few mornings ago."

"Shit, they have any idea who did it?" Arnold asked.

"Not really. The cops talked to me about it. I worked the night before. They said it looked like the mob." After Eddie said this, he thought of his conversation with Harris.

"He must have been messing around," Arnold said. "Tell you what, that's one thing you don't want to do. They'll take you out at a moments notice. That happened all the time in Boston. Those Irish mobs are tough. Wouldn't be surprised if they were down here."

Eddie winced when he heard that, and he glanced over at Herman. Instead, Herman was looking into his soda glass. Eddie looked outside across the street. It was beginning to get dark, but he swore he saw the man with the brown hat, the one looking at him on the trolley, walk by. Eddie leaned forward to get a better look, but the man walked under a street light and turned a corner. Probably, Eddie told himself, the man simply had business to attend to downtown. That would not be unusual. Or he could live in the area. After all, he was on the same trolley, though Eddie had not seen him get off at the stop he did. There were a number of stops close together in that area. He felt a sharp stab in his shoulder.

"Hey. Did you hear what we asked?" Arnold said, leaning on his Boston accent a little hard.

"No, sorry. I was thinking about what I need to do tomorrow," Eddie said. He had no idea what anyone else had said the previous few moments.

"What do you want to do? Tonight, not tomorrow. Aron's making you deaf?" Since he had known Herman for so long, there was a healthy give and take between the two of them. The verbal jab was to be expected.

"Thought you wanted to see a movie," Eddie said. The day before, they had talked about going to one of the movie houses for the evening.

"Nah," Arnold said. "I seen 'em all the past few weeks."

"Hey," Herman said leaning in close. "There's a show in town. Dancers."

"Willard was talking about that today," Arnold said, excitedly.

"Who's Willard?" Eddie asked.

"The valet at the Hotel. Said these women do a fan dance," Herman said.

"I have a friend down there. He'll let us in," Arnold said. Arnold always seemed to know people who could do him a favor. He had gotten them into sold-out baseball games, movies, and always knew where to find a drink.

"That's not going to start until later," Eddie said. "I don't want to sit around here for four hours."

"I guess we could go see a movie," Herman said.

"What the hell, let's go," Arnold said.

They quickly ate their sandwiches and left for the movie house a few blocks away. They sat through the cartoons and newsreel. A round of boos came out of the crowd when an article about the Yankees came up. These boos reached a crescendo when they flashed a picture of the Babe swinging a bat. Would he make the record that year? Eddie smiled but kept his mouth shut. The movie started, and the three of them settled back. Eddie tried to follow along, but as far as he could tell, the movie was just a bunch of solders running back and forth. His thoughts drifted back to the events of the last couple of days and to the man in the brown hat. He dwelled on this until he started to find himself drifting off to sleep. The movie ended without him knowing it. A couple of light slaps awakened him.

"Glad you enjoyed the movie," Arnold said, as Eddie came back to consciousness. "Get your money's worth, Snow White?"

"One of the best," Eddie said, stretching and getting out of his seat.

From there they went to the club where the dancers were supposed to be performing. True to his word, Arnold disappeared for a few minutes, then he came back and said everything was fine with his friend, and the three of them went inside. The club was a dimly lit room with tables scattered around. There was a four-piece band scratching out music between each act as the crowd of mostly men waited, smoked, and waited some more. Instead of the expected dancers, they sat through numerous comedians, singers, jugglers, and other people who believed they had talent. After each performance, an emcee would come out and announce another act. A few whistles and calls could be heard from the corners of the room, apparently from patrons wanting to see the star attraction.

After about the six or seventh short act, Eddie got up from the table to use the restroom. He walked into the bathroom and was followed in by another man. Before he had a moment to think, the door was locked, and the man in the brown hat was standing in front of him.

"Know who I am?" the man asked.

The man was about the same height as Eddie. However, his face and stance indicated he was much older and had lived an undesirable existence for most of his life. "No, sir, I don't," Eddie said quietly. This was no playground bully.

"That's right, you cocksucker. Now listen up," the man said, blowing cigar smoke into Eddie's face. The man, though his clothes looked clean, had the odor of not having bathed in a considerable time. "You been talking to the cops?"

Eddie had a sinking feeling. "I'm not sure what you're referring to."

"Fuck that," the man said. He punched Eddie in the cheek. He fell back against the sink and landed on the floor. The man came over and kicked him in the ribs hard enough so he felt it. "You know exactly what I'm talking about. You start talking to anyone, and you'll be lookin' at the Narragansett from the bottom up. I put one or two down there myself. We know where you live, where you work, how often you wipe your ass. One peep to Harris and that will be the end of it. Understand?"

"Yes, sir," Eddie said.

"Fuckin' straight." The man emphasized his point with a harder kick. Then he unlocked the door and left.

Eddie pulled his knees up to his chest for a moment and then tried to straighten his legs out. He sucked in as much air as he could, but his left side felt like a dagger was stuck into it. Getting to his hands and knees was difficult, but he managed. Using the sink as support, he hunched over into a stance. After about thirty seconds, he stood up as much as he could and looked at himself in the mirror. A panicked face looked back. A few days ago, his life was like one of the many his age. Young men moving out into the world, trying to find their place, having future plans made and a past left behind. One moment of being in the wrong place, and now it was all turned around. The thought crossed his mind to just leave and go home. Leave Harris to figure out what happened, and let men like McBride do whatever it was they did. Mr. Aron could find another stockroom worker. Another man came into the bathroom, used the toilet, and then came to the sink to wash his hands.

"Got some of that bad hooch, eh?" the man said with a wink.

"Yeah, have to watch out for that," Eddie said. Eddie washed his hands and dried them on the towel. At the table, Herman and Arnold had not noticed he was gone. They paid no attention to him as a few dancers began to come onto the stage. Eddie did his best to look around the room to spot the man in the brown hat, but he was unable to see anyone that fit that description.

"I think I'm going to head on home," Eddie said.

"Come on, don't quit now. We haven't even started yet," Arnold said. Then he looked closer at Eddie. "What happened? You don't look good."

"Some goon in the bathroom took a few swipes at me."

Herman and Arnold glanced at Eddie. "Damn," Herman said. He turned around in his seat and scanned the audience around them. "Who was it? We'll take him outside."

"He's gone."

"Get the bouncer," Arnold said.

"No, really, I'm fine. He didn't rob me or nothing," Eddie said. He ran his hand over his sore ribs.

Arnold was out of his seat before Eddie could stop him. In a few minutes, he came back with the man who had been at the door when they came in.

"Let's have a talk, pal," the man said to Eddie. They went out to the lobby and stood away from the crowd. "Your friend there said you had a problem."

"It really wasn't much, just a bum in the bathroom wanting to take a shot at me."

"That so?" the man said. He stood back a moment and crossed his arms, giving Eddie a look up and down. "Look, we run a clean place here, understand? You hurt at all?"

"He kicked me in the ribs, but I'm fine."

"Let me put it this way," the man said stepping closer. "I'm willing to give you some slack, but I don't like getting me a bad reputation, got it? In fact, why don't you get out of here for tonight. Next time I see you around here again, you better be minding your business, or we'll toss you out for good."

"Honestly, I just walked in there and he followed me in. I don't even know who he was," Eddie said. He fully intended to leave for the evening, but he was surprised that the man was not interested in knowing what had happened.

"If you got trouble like that following you around, don't bring it in here. Don't care what it is, just keep it outside."

"Let me tell my friends I'm leaving."

Eddie went back into the theater and found Arnold and Herman had become interested in the dancers as they were entering the stage.

"What'd he say?" Arnold asked, trying to pull his attention away from the show.

"He wants me to leave for the night," Eddie said.

"What the hell?" Herman said. "Didn't he even want to find out who did it?"

"No, he doesn't want to be bringing the cops in." Eddie knew this was the issue. The last thing the owner wanted was to have the police come snooping around. And come to think of it, it was probably best for Eddie if they did not.

"Well, come on, we'll get you home," Arnold said, getting up from the table.

"I'm fine, really I am," Eddie said. "You two enjoy the show."

"What if he's outside the door? Come on, we're all going," Arnold said. He stood up, but Herman stayed seated.

"Oh, all right," Herman said. Catching one final glimpse at the girls on the stage, Herman joined the other two as they made their way through the tables to the lobby. "Didn't see a damn thing."

The manager who had spoken to Eddie watched them as they crossed the lobby and went out the front door with no expression other than a slow nod of his head as they passed. They came out of the door and onto the sidewalk in front of the theater. After a few moments of looking around, the manager walked by inside and glanced out at them. "We're moving along, fat ass," Arnold said.

"So, now what do you want to do?" Herman asked. He was upset from being pulled away from a show he had been looking forward to all week.

"Really, I can make it home fine. I'm sore, but not too bad," Eddie said. He knew that whoever did this could have done much worse, and probably wanted to. The thought occurred to him that it was probably meant by McBride to just scare him.

"You sure? Come on, we'll wait for the trolley," Arnold said.

"He's fine," Herman complained. "He just got pushed around by some hood. Eddie's tough. He'll be fine."

"I'll make it home. You two have a good evening. I have to get up early tomorrow anyway, and I didn't want to stay out real late."

Eddie watched them walk away. There was a good crowd out that evening, and they blended in with the rest of the people and disappeared. The trolley showed up a few minutes later. He found a spot about halfway back and carefully lowered himself into the seat. His ribs were tender to the touch, but he knew there was no real damage. Eddie was not sure how he was going to manage meeting with Harris while keeping McBride from finding out. Then again, if he did not cooperate with Harris, everything put him at the scene during the murder, and he became a suspect. Eddie balled up his fist and put it to his mouth. Damn it. Damn it all to hell. He had moved here to get away from this, and now he was right back in it. He had served his time and had started a good life. Now he was back in it, worse than ever, getting crushed by both sides of the law. He watched the city roll by slowly as the trolley went from stop to stop, and wondered where he was going to end up now. In jail again, or running away.

# 11

Gloria was a young woman who had grown up on the side of town that people were ashamed of. Although one would not know by looking at her today, she had not been much more than a grimy factory worker a few years before. Her longing for the good life had led her to McBride, and she had begun working for him. Gloria's connection with LaRue and other men in the fashion business had been everything she had ever wanted, and it allowed her to put distance between herself and the filth she came out of. The connection between Gloria and LaRue had been an uneasy arrangement for McBride at first. McBride had trusted Gloria and thought she might bring in information on O'Connor. It had been good for a few years, but he suspected the relationship had taken a turn that he did not like. Now he was going to fix the problem.

McBride knew she liked to stay at the Copley in Boston, and as soon as he figured out that was where she had gone, he was on the road with one of his men, Jimmy. They arrived at the hotel around 10:00 am. He went in and left Jimmy in the car. Gloria has developed expensive tastes, he thought, as a bellhop ushered him into the lobby. There was the bustle of activity that always happened in the lobby of a nice hotel. The sound of expensive shoes walking across the marble floor echoed throughout as he decided where he needed to go next. A valet was standing at a small counter off to the side of the lobby. McBride thought he might have more luck going to him rather than the registration desk.

"Yes, sir," he said as McBride approached.

McBride knew that she would be suspicious of him if his arrival were announced. "I'm here to surprise my sweetie," he said.

"Sure. Which room is she in? I can call her for you," the Valet said.

McBride slid a twenty across the counter. "I said this was a surprise," he said, lowering his voice. "Gloria Jorgenson. Find out which room she's in."

The valet was apparently no dummy. The look on his face was one of caution. People who slid twenty-dollar bills towards him wanted something either very good or very bad. However, when he delicately placed his forearm over the bill, he showed that he knew the rules. The valet easily brought the bill to the edge of the counter and dropped it into his other hand. Then he went to the registration counter and returned a few moments later. "5012," he said. McBride passed by without further comment.

McBride went to the bank of elevators and up to the fifth floor. Her room was about halfway down the hall, on the right. He instinctively looked around and saw that there was no one else in the hallway. He knocked on the door.

"Just a moment," said a muffled cheerful voice through the door. The door opened. The expectation on her face changed to shock, but she recovered a split second later. "Oh. I was expecting someone else."

McBride stepped into the two-room suite that was divided between sleeping and lounge areas. "Who were you expecting?" he asked, watching her close the door and move to the center of the room.

"Room service. I haven't eaten breakfast yet."

A nice recovery, McBride thought. Then again, he had always admired her quickness. "Well, you have to have a good breakfast, though 10 o'clock is late to be eating. It's almost lunchtime."

"I was out with friends last night. I woke up about an hour ago. Have a seat," she said, motioning to a chair by the small table.

Gloria sat on the edge of the bed, crossed her legs, and pulled her robe around herself. From what he could tell, she had nearly made the transition from a girl out of the poor part of town to a young lady with fancy friends and nice things. The only telltale sign was a hardness around her eyes. The struggle to pull oneself out of those surroundings was difficult to completely hide. "Really? Where did you go? I've always enjoyed Boston myself."

"We went dancing at a club downtown, then we ended up at someone's house. We danced and listened to music until about three in the morning."

"You certainly seem to be enjoying yourself. You're looking well."

"Ah," she said, getting up and setting her lithesome body in the chair opposite of his at the table. "I can thank you for much of that."

Her perfume wafted up to him. He ignored its purpose. "You've done it yourself. Anything you've gotten, it's because you've worked for it. That's the best way."

"What about yourself? You've done the same."

"Prohibition was the best thing that happened to me." McBride never would have guessed how a nonsense law would turn out to be the road to wealth. His influence and power had grown steadily since the 18th Amendment came into effect. The amendment was a joke anyhow, with Rhode Island and Connecticut not even ratifying it. Rum and whiskey came into the states unabated. It would only be a limited time before it was reversed, and he was determined to make the most of the opportunity. His ambitions were much higher than keeping the eastern cities in liquor, however. City council, then mayor and maybe higher. But right now, he had a problem that had to be sorted out.

"I'm glad you came by," Gloria said, re-crossing her legs so the robe revealed more. She was an alluring and interesting package, physically attractive and mentally tough.

"I came by to ask if you've heard from Jackson lately," McBride asked. No hint of surprise showed on her face. He had arrived with the assumption that she had not heard of his murder. It had been a few days, but news between the cities was not always accurate.

"No, I haven't. I wasn't going to see him until I returned to Providence next week," she said.

"The two of you have worked together for some time now." Finally she shifted in her seat.

"Sure we have. He's a wonderful man. He's introduced me to all kinds of fun people."

"It has worked well," he said. "You go with him, on occasion, to New York?"

Her eyes narrowed, and she sat up in the seat slightly. "Not always. I love to go to New York when I get the chance. Why do you ask?"

McBride knew she had guessed why he was there, probably from the time she opened the door. Still, other than concern, there was no fear. "Did you go with him this week?"

"Yes. Why? What happened? What's this all about?"

"Gloria, the money never arrived. You never made the connection and drop-off." He let the words hang in the air as she worked out a response.

"Of course I did. How do you know? Did you ask him?" Gloria clasped her hands together on the table. Her lips pursed together in a small knot.

"The drop-off goes to my cousin. And he never lies."

"What are you saying?" she said, her voice getting tighter. Then with remarkable control, she added, her voice calm, "I met with him and made the drop."

McBride stood up. "My cousin never lies. We talked to Jackson and he said he had no idea what happened." He stepped a few feet away from the table and looked down at her. He lowered his voice. "And you know what happens to people who lose my things and can't find them."

"You killed him," she whispered.

McBride reached into his pocket and pulled the gun out, then slid it back.

"You killed him," she repeated.

"Tell me where the money is," he said.

"I don't know what you're talking about," she tried.

McBride stepped over, grabbed a handful of hair and twisted as hard as he could. She grabbed his hand, but his grip was too solid. McBride dragged her out of the chair and onto the floor. Despite the obvious pain, she bit her lip and did not utter a sound. She tried to kick him, but she was too small to really do any damage. All it did was cause more pain. This young lady was going to be difficult.

"We shot him and left him at his desk."

"You murderer," she managed to say.

McBride twisted harder and tried to pick her up off the floor by the hold on her hair. This time he heard a grunt of pain, but that would not be enough to get her to talk. He took the gun out and pressed it against her temple. "People don't steal from me. He got what he deserved. You will, too, if you don't start remembering. I know you picked it up, but between you and Jackson, it disappeared."

"I never received it, I swear," she gasped.

McBride cocked the hammer back on the gun. "I'll kill everyone along the path of that delivery until I find it."

"Ok," she said. "Let go and I'll tell you."

"I better hear words that make sense."

"Let go," she yelled. McBride turned loose his grip and shoved her to the floor. The robe around her came loose, exposing her bare chest. She laid there for a moment, while his attention was momentarily diverted. Seeing the opening, Gloria jumped to her feet, and went for her handbag laying next to the bed. McBride had to fight the impulse to kill her at that moment, but he knew she had the cash hidden away and he needed her to find it. Before she could reach the handbag, he was able to grab her foot and pull her away. Using his knees in her back, he clamped her to the floor, and crunched the gun barrel into the back of her head.

"You are going to get up, get dressed and we're going to get the money." McBride knew that people like Gloria had a strong will to survive, and this would eventually win out. The will was stronger than honor, and once she was convinced she was going to be shot, she would cooperate. She continued to squirm for a few seconds, and then he eased the pressure on her back. "Don't try anything. Get up and get dressed."

"What good's that going to do?" she asked, now able to turn her head.

He pressed into her back again, producing the little grunt sound he heard earlier. "Where is it?"

At first there was no answer, but then he dug the gun into her neck and leaned his full weight onto his knee. He knew she had to be in pain, but still she held her composure. Admirable. "In a bank. Around the corner."

"Get up," he said, taking his knee off of her, but keeping the gun planted. "Get dressed where I can see you."

Gloria slowly got to her hands and knees, and then sat back, stretching her shoulders and rolling her head around to make sure everything worked. "You boys always think you're so tough. I've been through more shit than you'll ever see." She stood up and walked over to the closet.

McBride was careful to follow her over and make sure she only took clothes out. "I know where you came from. I've been there."

Gloria looked like she was going to say something, but decided not to. Instead, she put her clothes on the bed and took her robe off. McBride watched her as she dressed. There was a big ugly scar running down the back of her otherwise smooth left thigh. Some unpleasant mishap, maybe. Other than that, she was a nice looking young woman. Too thin for his tastes, perhaps. Small.

She put on her underwear and started rolling her stockings on. After she was fully clothed, she asked, "Will you allow a lady to fix her makeup?" as she walked towards the bathroom.

"No. Stop. We need to go. You look fine."

She tried to pout, but in this case the acting was not enough to cover what she must have been thinking. "You want me to look like an old baseball glove."

"Quit messing around. Let's go."

They left the room and took the elevator down to the lobby. Jimmy had not moved the car since McBride had gone inside. McBride and Gloria both got into the back seat. McBride asked, "Where's the bank?"

"Boston State. Take a left. It's four blocks down on the right."

"Jimmy, do what she says." Jimmy started the car and drove in the direction she said. "Did you deposit the money?"

"It's in a safe deposit box."

"When we get there, you and Jimmy will go in and get the cash, then come back out."

Gloria was quiet for a moment, looking at McBride's face. "I'm sorry Clarence. I really am. Jackson thought he could do this and you wouldn't notice."

"I keep track of everything. I notice everything. It was a stupid thing to do."

"Well, the important thing is that you'll get it back. Jackson talked me into it. Said we could do this and catch a train to Montreal. He knew so many people. He always had a place to stay. I never realized what he was really doing until it was too late."

He stared straight ahead until they arrived at the bank a few minutes later. "I trusted you with him. I know he worked for O'Connor, and I should have stopped you from seeing him."

Gloria watched the people walking along the sidewalk, going in and out of stores. "I didn't go to school. Left when I was about seven. Ran away from my mother at twelve. She never really bothered to find me."

An odd comment, McBride thought. In many ways, she was still that age. McBride often marveled at how resilient she could be and yet not realize the mature consequences of the business they were in. He had seen this before in her, and now understood she was not prepared to engage in this type of venture. There were aspects of her he admired, nurtured and relied on, but he now realized he had made some mistakes. "This isn't a game. Real people get plugged with real bullets. They disappear in the night and become fertilizer in a field."

"Fertilizer," she said, drifting away from the people on the street to the back of Jimmy's head. "Should we get this taken care of?"

Jimmy got out of the car and opened the door for Gloria. He put his hand on her arm and guided her to the door. There was nothing else for McBride to do but wait. McBride hated having to do this and how this would all turn out, but he knew there was no other way.

Ten minutes later, they came back out of the bank, with Jimmy carrying a small brown leather bag. They got in the car. "It's all there, Mr. McBride," Jimmy said as he started the car.

"Good."

"What now? Are you going to take me back to the hotel?" she asked.

"Jimmy, turn around and head back to the hotel."

He did a u-turn in the street and started back, when McBride said, "Pull in behind that building for a moment, we need to talk."

Jimmy stopped the car where he was told. "I thought we were going back?" she asked.

"Take a break, Jimmy. Go smoke a cigarette." Jimmy got out of the car and left the two of them alone. "Okay, now listen up. You owe me, so I got a deal I need you to do for me."

Gloria looked scared, but her expression changed when she realized all McBride wanted to do was talk. He knew what happened to LaRue was not far from her thoughts, and in fact, if it had not been for his cousin Billy, Gloria would be floating in the harbor right now. "Thanks for giving me another chance, Clarence."

"I didn't want to get tough with you earlier, but I had to. I'll give you another chance, but you got a long ways to go before you work your way back into my graces. I understand what happened. LaRue was persuasive and you have to be careful with men like that. Especially since he worked for O'Connor. I got other things to worry about right now. There's a kid that works at Aron's, I need you to get to know him real well. Name's Eddie Griffin."

"What you want with him?" She asked, stretching out like a small cat, some of her bravado returning.

"Never mind what. You get to know him. Spend time with him. Be seen together. From now on, you do exactly what I say." Gloria did her best not to look concerned, but McBride knew her too well to think otherwise. To her, the gutter was only a few steps away, and she knew he could put her there. It was all about survival. He planned to use every bit of this knowledge and see how he felt once this was all over. Billy had his points, but they both knew eventually it came down to surrounding yourself with people you trust, and getting rid of the others. It could be dirty.

"Show me who he is and how I find him," she said.

"Good. We'll get your things and drive you back to Providence," McBride said.

***

Later that afternoon, when McBride returned, the man with the brown hat walked into the front office of the real estate business. A woman sitting at a desk, punching away at a typewriter, asked, "Can I help you?"

"I'm here to see McBride," the man said, not slowing down on his way to the door.

"But, uh, sir," she tried to say as he passed by.

He opened the door and walked straight into the office. McBride spun around in his chair, one hand holding a telephone receiver to his ear. The other was under his desk. "Can I call you back?" he said to the person on the phone. McBride hung up, and motioned to a chair on the other side of the desk.

"I trailed your scrawny rat."

"You got a lot of nerve, just walking in here like this," McBride said. His hand was firmly around the handle of the pistol he kept under the desk.

"Get your hand off the heater. I'm not going to try nothing smart, Clarence."

"Fine," McBride said, bringing his hand back. "Horace, I don't want you walking in here anytime you want, understand?"

"What, you think there's something wrong with me now? You asked me to do a job and I did it. Pay me." Horace fidgeted, squirming around, and adjusting the position of the chair.

"What did you do?"

"Talked to the kid like you said."

"Well?"

"Kid acted like he had no idea what I was talking about. That rat thought I didn't know what was going on."

McBride never liked Horace, but at times he could come in handy. He had known him since they were kids, and McBride had a habit of using people he was familiar with, even if they were at times cantankerous. "Did you ask if he had talked to the cops?"

Horace thought about this and said, "Sure I did. You think I'm stupid? At first he acted like he didn't remember, but I made him remember."

"Did you mess him up?" McBride asked. He knew it was too early in the game to start applying that type of pressure. It was not needed with this kid yet.

"A little."

"Didn't I tell you not to do that? Don't you listen?" McBride said, his voice suddenly getting shrill. "I told you to keep your hands off him. When we want to rough him up, I'll tell you when."

"Come on," Horace said. A sneer swept across his mouth. "What is this? You think I don't know how to handle a scrawny kid like that? When you hire me, that's what I do."

"Listen to me. When I ask you to do a job, you do exactly what I say. That's how it always is," McBride said. He was close to yelling, but held it in. Men like Horace were hard to teach.

"Whatever. You gonna pay me or what?"

McBride reached into the top drawer and pulled out four five-dollar bills, and shoved them across the table at Horace. "I shouldn't be paying you the full amount. You didn't do what I told you to."

Horace stuffed the bills into the lapel pocket in his jacket. "I don't get it. Why keep this kid around anyway? Why not take him out? What good is he? I'll do it for $500."

McBride slid the desk drawer closed, and said, "You don't need to know. I don't have to explain anything."

"It doesn't make sense."

"There's a reason why I'm running this organization, and you're walking around popping people in the jaw for twenty bucks."

"Prick," Horace said, standing up fast enough to tip the chair over. He walked out of the room, slamming the door hard enough to emphasize the point.

# 12

Eddie recognized Gloria when she had come into the factory earlier that day. Everyone knew who she was, with the fancy clothes, makeup, and jewelry, much of which was bought by LaRue. Whenever she came in, the women whispered to each other, and the men watched and smiled, letting out a few low whistles, and then it would be back to work. Today, when she stopped by Aron's, everyone saw her but kept to their own business. Eddie was surprised, then, to find her waiting at the trolley stop when he left work. He had never pictured her as one to ride a city trolley, her tastes seeming to be more of climbing into the large dark sedan Mr. LaRue drove.

She was an attractive woman, though he had not realized how young she actually was. In her brief visits to the factory, Eddie had never gotten anywhere close to her, and now he could see she was about his age. The look she was trying to project was of a lady five to ten years older, with her movie-star hair and clothes. Eddie thought her hat did not look right, though, as if it were too bright or large for her. Arnold had a nickname for girls, young women, like this, the ones walking in and out of hotels and clubs late at night. He called them "Dandy Girls," and if he saw her, that would have been what he would say: "Now there's a Dandy Girl." Eddie was trying not to be impolite, but she noticed him looking at her and smiled slightly.

"Hello, did you just come out of Aron's?"

Eddie was not sure if she had actually spoken to him, but there were only a few other people at the stop. An old man was sitting on the bench, and a woman with children was busily trying to keep them under control. Having stayed an hour after closing to clean up, Eddie was the only employee from the factory. "Oh, well, yes, I work there."

"I thought you looked familiar," she said.

"I've worked there for a few years. I saw you in there today."

"So you know what happened? I mean, with Jackson and all?" she asked.

"Yes. I worked that night, but I didn't see anything happen." Eddie was not sure how much he should say.

"Jackson and I were close. I just stopped by today and talked to Mr. Aron. He said he had a few things that might belong to me, and the new man was trying to move into the office."

Eddie looked away for a moment. "I'm sorry, I really am. He was very good at what he did."

"Thank you. Oh, by the way, my name's Gloria."

"Good to meet you. My name is Eddie Griffin."

"What do you do there, Eddie?" she asked.

He was about to answer when he saw the trolley coming. "Here's my ride."

"Where you going?"

"Home. Federal Hill area," he said.

"What a coincidence! That's the same area I'm going."

The two of them got on and sat together. They talked throughout the entire trip back to his neighborhood, with Eddie telling her what he did at Aron's. Her story was more obscure, and she seemed to have no occupation at all.

As they were getting off, she said, "You know, I might be early. I don't want to walk all the way down there and find out they aren't home."

"Do they have a telephone?"

"I believe they do."

"You can use mine. I just got it a few months ago."

Eddie walked up the steps to his apartment building, knowing he was being watched by the landlady. Although he was supposed to be on his own, Mrs. Galati kept an eye on all of her tenants. If she disapproved of how they were behaving—this included bringing home friends, male or female—she had no hesitation in kicking them out. He opened the door and cringed when he saw he had not cleaned the apartment in the past couple of weeks. Clothes were scattered around, though the kitchen was very clean.

"Have a seat," he said, clearing a few business books off the table.

"Thank you," Gloria said, taking a seat.

"The phone is right here," he said, handing it to her. The cord was rather short, so it only reached to where she was sitting.

Gloria picked up the earpiece and waited a moment. She looked up at him and smiled, then said into the phone, "Yes, I need Harbor 9-3390. Thank you." She put her hand over the mouthpiece. "If you have something you need to do, don't mind me."

Eddie went into the bedroom, put his coat away, and changed his clothes. When he came back out, Gloria was hanging up the phone. "Were they there?"

"No, no answer. I'm kind of early. Thanks again."

"Is there anything else I can get you?" Eddie was not sure what to do.

"No, that's fine. I'll just do some shopping to pass the time. Would you like to join me? You've been very kind letting me use your phone."

He was surprised at the invitation. "I only have a few minutes. I can walk you down to the corner." Again he looked at her and considered the clothes and jewelry she was wearing, and he wondered if she was truly out of his reach.

"Sure," she said, crossing her hands in front of herself. "I'd like that."

Eddie could feel his face begin to flush. He was not sure exactly what was going on, but Herman and Arnold would really be impressed.

Gloria put out her hand and Eddie helped her from the chair. "I really appreciate it," she said as they stepped to the door.

It only took them a few minutes to reach the corner. "You familiar with the area?" he asked.

"I've been here before. Sure you don't want to window shop with me? I have about an hour to kill," she said.

Before he knew what he was doing, he said, "Maybe another time."

She smiled a small, mature smile. "That sounds grand. I really does. It's been a difficult few days, and it would be nice to spend time to relax."

"How can I reach you?" he asked.

Gloria opened her small purse and produced a pen and scrap of paper. She scribbled down her phone number and handed it to him. "Aren't telephones great? How did we ever get along without them?"

"Absolutely. Oh. Thanks. I, uh, will give you a ring," he said.

Gloria held out her hand. "It was nice meeting you, and I look forward to it."

Eddie shook her hand, and then watched her turn and walk away, and then remembered he needed to head off to class.

# 13

Gloria came into McBride's front office as she had been asked to do. It was only a few years earlier when she had first met him, when she was a worker in one of his saloons. It was the only job she had been able to get, since her mother was incapable of taking care of her. She had, for the most part, moved away from the dried-up hag and her garbage-strewn apartment by the time she was twelve. Gloria had been living with friends and other people, doing whatever she could to stay fed. Though the temptation for the easy money was always there, she had not resorted to prostitution, knowing that was a quick dead-end.

The lady at the front desk said that Clarence was with a customer and would be ready in a few minutes. Gloria did her best to make herself comfortable in an empty chair. The thought of what he had done a few days before was clear in her mind, and she felt lucky to still be alive. She had been skimming a small amount of money every few weeks from what she was taking to New York. It was easy to do, since nobody kept really close watch on the accounting, and they did not miss a few dollars here and there. She and Jackson were getting set to leave in a few weeks. Gloria had turned twenty-three not long ago, and she wanted to live in Paris. Jackson knew he could make a living with his skills as a designer, and he often talked to her about his time there. She had pictured herself going to parties with the cultured people that Jackson knew, drinking well into the night and getting up late to lounge in a café until lunch. Her grimy background would be left far behind, and she would disappear into her new life. That would have to wait for a few months, now, until she was square with Clarence. At the moment, she could not run, since she knew he would track her down.

Jackson must not have known that she had taken the full amount she was supposed to carry to New York. Something had gone wrong, though, and she was not sure what. Clarence had that portion back, but he probably did not know about the rest. There still might be enough for her to go alone. That might work. Why not? Once she took care of whatever Clarence wanted her to do, she could skip town and start over. She looked over at the door and saw a man walk out, and then Clarence motioned her to come in.

"What's this all about?" she asked. For some reason, she had no intention to sit down, and apparently neither did Clarence.

"I talk, you listen. That kid you met, you going out anytime soon?" he asked.

"Sure, we're going to the Valent Friday night." Eddie had called her and asked her out the day after she had gone to his apartment. There was no feeling on her part for him; he was too young and wouldn't be able to give her what she wanted. Still, he was a nice, decent young man.

"Good. I want you to be seen by the people there. Sit in the bar beforehand. Let the bartender see him come in and meet you." Clarence went back to his desk and picked up a sheet of paper.

"No problem, but listen, I'm not doing anything with him. He's not my type, understand?" she said, testing him.

"You go out, you be seen with him. Parade him around. What you do after that is your own damn business."

"What's this about?" Gloria

His voice got quiet and he stood very close to her and lightly grabbed a handful of hair. He pulled it to get her attention. "Remember what I said. No questions. You do as I say."

Gloria jerked her head to the side and pulled his hand away. "Fine. I got it. Should I buy a convertible and run it screaming through the streets?"

McBride began to laugh, as he must have realized how silly his request was. He backed away a few steps and said, "No, just be seen with him. But it is very important that you do this. Sorry about getting tough with you."

She fixed her hair and checked how she looked in a mirror behind his desk. "You can't hurt me, you know that," she said.

"You do this and there's $500 in it for you," he said.

"$500? A girl can use $500," she said before walking out of the door.

***

Eddie had called her and set up the date the day after they had met. However, in the few days that followed, he began to have his doubts about the entire business—how she seemed to show up and not have a real purpose for being in his neighborhood. He had decided not to tell anyone about going out with her, other than to say that he was meeting a friend that evening. When he thought this through, on the surface he kept telling himself he wanted to keep this quiet, in case it did not work out. Gloria was out of his social circle, and apparently liked to frequent expensive places. Valent's was an extravagance he seldom enjoyed. He tried to remember when was the last time, if ever, he had eaten there. If this was the kind of place Gloria liked to go, the relationship would be short.

As he got dressed in the only suit he owned—she said a suit and hat were required at this place—the real reason for his doubts about this was how this all related to the killing of Jackson. Eddie finished dressing, sat down on the bed, and thought it would be best to call it off. This made no sense at all. She certainly seemed like a decent girl, about his age. How could she be mixed up in this in any way? He got up, went into the living room, and put his hand on the phone. Her number was lying on the table. No, he thought, one dinner was not going to be a problem. They would eat and then say goodbye.

Eddie arrived at the restaurant and paused a moment before he walked up the covered entryway. There was no erasing the fact that he was in a setting he was completely unfamiliar with. A line of large and shiny cars were sitting at the curb. Young men, much like him, in uniforms opened the doors and allowed women in furs and men dressed in fine coats to step onto the carpet. Sometimes the valet would take the keys and park the car, and sometimes the car owner's chauffeur would pull away to take the vehicle to some unseen place. Eddie put his hand in his pocket and rubbed the thin fabric between his fingertips.

The doorman opened the door for him, but there was no grin and nod that was reserved for the other guests. Gloria had said to meet him in the bar area at 9:00, about half an hour before their dinner reservations. It only took a moment to see her through the window around the bar. The hallway was darker than the interior, and Eddie had to resist the temptation to turn around and leave. She was dressed in a well-fitting outfit with a few ruffles and feathers. Two men were standing next to her table, talking and laughing. Eddie knew if he left, it would be the best thing he could do, knowing a girl like Gloria would not be much disturbed by being stood up. However, he had made a commitment and felt he had to follow through with this.

"Hey, Eddie," Gloria said when he came through the door. He walked over to the table, where the other two men were standing. "These are a couple of friends of mine, Ray and Ernest."

Eddie shook their hands. Neither said hello or really looked at him. They said goodbye to Gloria then went back to another table. "How are you doing?" he asked, sitting down across from her.

"Excellent, except all they serve here are soft drinks. This is cherry soda, if you want something. There's a room upstairs that serves the real thing if you want to go up there later. That is, if you drink the real stuff."

"Sure, sounds fine. So, have I kept you waiting?" he asked. A waitress came by, and he ordered a root beer.

"No, not at all. I have a few friends here. If you want to hang up your hat and coat, there's a coat check just around the corner in the hall."

Eddie checked his hat and coat. The soft drink was waiting for him when he returned. He took a long drink. It was absurdly sweet. "Nice place. I heard the band starting up when I came in. Do you come here often?"

"Not really, but they always have a good dance band playing, and the food is excellent."

Eddie drank more of the root beer and looked around at the other patrons in the bar. "So, uh, what do you do? I mean, do you work somewhere?" Eddie asked. This question had been bothering him since the afternoon they met. He had realized all they had done was talk about him.

"I'll be going to school in the fall, in Paris. I'll be doing cultural studies," she said.

"That sounds exciting. Have you ever been there before?" he asked.

"No, I haven't. Have you?"

Eddie laughed. The idea of him traveling to anywhere like Paris sounded absurd. "Oh, no. The farthest I've ever traveled was to Ohio to visit a relative, and that was a long time ago. What classes did you take? With the cultural studies. I mean, are you going to study language or something?"

Gloria nodded her head. "I'm not sure entirely. I'm going to start the program and see how it goes. Say, do you like to dance? We can go into the ballroom and dance before we sit down to eat." She stood up and began leading him out of the bar and down the hall. When they entered the dining area, the man at the door winked at her and then let them through without checking the reservation book.

The dance floor was in the center of the room, with dinner tables surrounding it on three sides. When the two of them walked in, the band was just finishing a tune, and the six or seven couples that were dancing applauded. The maître d' showed them to a table and handed them menus. The tables were about three-quarters full, and there was the general noise of people enjoying an evening on the town. At that point, the lights began to dim in the dining area, and the band started another number.

"We need some folks dancing," the bandleader said. "These lovely couples need some company out here." At that point, a singer came on stage, to appreciative applause around the room. "Ladies and gentlemen, the lovely Miss Ginger Dupree."

The bandleader stepped back, and the young woman approached the microphone, "Thank you," she breathed before picking up the beat and following it into a song.

"Oh, I know her," Gloria said. "Come on." She took his hand and began leading him onto the floor.

Besides a handshake, this was the first real physical contact the two had had as she pulled his hand, causing him to stumble slightly. There were only a few people on the floor, and besides the fact, he was not much of a dancer. "Really, why don't we wait until we order?" he said, as they stepped onto the floor.

"Do you know how to dance?" she asked, stopping for a moment.

"Sure, but I'm not that good." He glanced around at the people sitting at the tables nearby and noticed a few of them looked up in their direction. The small sparse crowd of dancers had begun moving to the music as Gloria edged him further onto the floor.

"Don't be shy. I'll teach you, it's not that hard." They continued until they were towards the front of the stage. She gave a quick wave towards the singer, who waved back at her. It suddenly occurred to Eddie that what she was doing might not be right. The killing of Jackson LaRue would have been news to many of these people, and here she was spending an evening on the town with him. The two of them joined hands and began dancing among the other people on the floor. Eddie did the best he could to lead her, but it was only a faint imitation of what would be termed "dancing." All the time, he could not help but wonder what this was about. Gloria was an active dancer, and she seemed to move around him as if he were just there to hold her in place. Eddie moved his feet around and did his best to appear to find the rhythm. She brushed up against him, sending an odd shiver through his system. Maybe it was a miscue, maybe not, but she did this a number of times, and each time he saw a small mischievous grin on her face.

After three songs, they sat down and ordered their meals. The food was served, and the two of them chatted. Miraculously, their drinks began to taste as if alcohol had been added. Neither of them asked for this, but there was no doubting the buzzing that was going on in his head. She seemed to loosen up even more. They finished eating and again joined the growing group of people on the dance floor. By this time, Eddie was beginning to feel more comfortable with the larger group around him, and he actually began doing fairly well at staying out of the way of her feet. The other dancers crowded in more than before, to the point where she was practically being pushed into him with every step. He put his hand on her tiny waist to keep her from being jostled around. When he did this, she did not hesitate, and in fact, he felt that her small body seemed to have a need to stay in physical contact with him.

They returned to the table, and he looked at his watch, learning it was close to midnight. He had not intended to stay out this late. "I hate to say this, but I really should be going."

A hurt look came across her face, and she said, "I'm just getting started! Are you sure?"

"I have to work tomorrow morning. I really should be getting back." He signaled the waiter, who brought the bill in a small leather envelope. Eddie opened the envelope, looked, and was nearly in shock, finding an extra zero on the bottom number he had not expected. The cost was nearly a third of his weekly salary, and he hoped he had brought enough money along. He took out his wallet and carefully counted out the amount and placed it on the table, but he kept his eyes on it for a few seconds. That sure wasn't worth it. The waiter came by, collected the payment, then left. "Okay, well, you ready to go?" he asked Gloria.

"Sure."

They left the dining room and claimed their belongings from the coat check. After leaving a tip, he had about two dollars left. They walked down the hall and exited through the front and out onto the sidewalk. The cold air and sudden quiet of the outside were refreshing. He stopped for a moment and looked at Gloria. She said, "I had a wonderful time tonight. You're a much better dancer than you think. Once I got you going, you kicked it up as smart as anyone out there."

He knew she was just being kind. Most of the time, he had just been trying not to fall over and to stay out of other people's way. She must have realized both that and the fact that he rarely went to expensive restaurants and night clubs. There was no point in pretending otherwise, and to carry on would only make it worse. "I had a great time. Gloria, I have to be honest, though. I don't think this is going to work. We don't really have much in common."

She turned her head to the side. The air was cold enough that, with the streetlights, he could see her breath. "I did have a nice time tonight. You're a perfect gentleman. I only live a few blocks from here. Would you do me the honor of walking me home?"

"Of course."

The two of them started walking, and she linked her arm inside of his. "You know, I don't want you to take this a wrong way, but you're really a decent person. I don't run into men like you too often."

"Thanks. I'm afraid I don't visit places like Valent's. You looked like you belonged there," he said. As they were leaving the bustle of the restaurant, he glanced at her profile as they passed under a streetlight. Her face seemed to relax into a pleasant smile.

"I've been there a few times. I know many of the people who go there. The singer, she lives in my building, so I see her all the time."

"Do you go out late often? I don't mean to be rude."

"No, I'm not offended. To be honest, most nights I'm looking for a party. Most people would call me a Jazz Girl. But there are times when I like to just stay home and read a book or listen to the radio."

Eddie laughed at the term "Jazz Girl." "You know, I have a friend who would call you a Dandy Girl. A girl that likes to dress smart and go dancing."

"Dandy Girl," she said, almost to herself. "I like that. A Dandy Girl. That works."

While they walked arm in arm, Eddie realized that in many ways, she really did seem to be a girl about his age but intent on going somewhere else. There was an urgency or need that he could not define. Maybe his earlier thought of them dating so soon after the murder of Mr. LaRue was simply a case of immaturity on her part. She did seem to have a view of the world that could be as unattached as anyone he knew, with her stories of going to Paris to study and then traveling around for a few years before settling down. In fact, settling down did not seem to be part of her vocabulary.

"Here we are," she said after they had come around a corner. They had walked about half a mile from the restaurant and entered a street of new apartment buildings. Eddie remembered the news about the construction of the neighborhood and how luxurious the apartments were reported to be.

"You live here? By yourself?" he asked. Her parents must have been insanely rich.

"It's a nice place to have a home."

They stopped in front of her building. "This is really quite a place."

"Would you like to come in for a few minutes?"

"Sure," he said without really thinking about it. She unlocked the front door, and he followed her into the darkened hallway. Quietly, they went up the stairway to the second floor. They entered her apartment, and once inside, she went around and turned on a few lights. Eddie was not sure what he had expected, but he was glad to find out it was not overdone like he had seen in magazines of places belonging to the Vanderbilts or Rockefellers. It was pleasant and quiet. For a young woman with the lifestyle she led, the furnishings were nice, but subdued and comfortable.

"Like it?" she said, standing in the middle of the room with her arms spread. "Jackson picked it out for me."

"Very much."

"Here, let me take your coat and hat," she said. He handed these to her, and she hung them up in the closet. "Have a seat. Would you like something to drink? I have a friend who gave me some Canadian whiskey. It's much better than that rot you buy in the speakeasies."

"Sounds good," he said, taking a seat on the couch. She came over a few moments later and set the drinks on the table. He took a small swallow and felt the exquisite, smooth burn down his throat that only a good whiskey can accomplish. "You're right. Much better."

Gloria leaned back on the couch and crossed her legs. "So, one thing you haven't talked about is if you're seeing any one else right now."

"No, uh, actually, I haven't seen anyone steady for about a year. Even then, it wasn't anything serious."

Gloria nodded and looked at him for a moment. A smile flicked across her face then was gone. He had not noticed how gray her eyes were before. "Where you from? Are you from Providence?"

Eddie took another drink of the whiskey and knew there was no use hiding his past from her. After all, what difference did it make if she knew? "I moved down hear a few years ago to get away from some trouble."

"Hm. Family problems?"

"Not exactly. I had a friend that thought he could make up the law as he went. Turned out he was wrong and I spent a couple of years in the bin for armed robbery."

Eddie had been searching the room with his eyes as he said this. His gaze settled on the door to the kitchen, but he could tell she was staring at him. "Two years. That's rough," she said.

"I made it out. Sam's still in. He pulled the trigger. With my luck, I just happened to be in the car."

"Making a better life for yourself here, it looks like," she said. Gloria took his hand in hers. "You must have figured it out."

"What do you mean?"

"You must have figured out how to get your life back. A lot of people," she said stopping then continuing in a soft, confident voice. "Once they start like that, they can't stop,"

"Until the problems lately," he said, then realizing he should have kept that thought to himself.

"How do you mean?"

He rubbed her hand in his, thinking of a delicate way to express himself without going into detail. "It's just that—what happened at Aron's—I don't know. Maybe I should just leave it there."

"I think we're more alike than you know," she said, lightly leaning against his shoulder.

"How so?"

"If you knew where I came from, you would understand."

Eddie waited for her to continue, but after about thirty seconds, he realized she would not. Whatever was back there, she was not about to visit it right then. Maybe that was the need or urgency he noticed earlier when she seemed to keep touching him on the dance floor. At some point, she might tell him, but that would have to wait for another opportunity. Her silence was, in a way, a relief and seemed to indicate they had connected in an unexpected way.

She looked back at her hands and said, "Jackson and I were close."

"I'm sorry. The loss must be terrible."

"He was a good person, very kind to me. I didn't have much growing up, you know, and he helped me out." Gloria continued looking at her hands, but she started to breathe more heavily. She closed her eyes, and he could see the moisture forming at the corners. "I'm so comfortable with you. Your life is so normal. I just wish...." She stopped, and he saw the moisture form into a small tear and hang on the side of her face.

"Yes?"

"I wish I was that normal."

Eddie picked up her hand, and she opened her eyes. It was a look he was not able to resist, and he leaned over and kissed her. She responded by hugging him and kissing, almost desperate in her reaction. After a few minutes, she began to calm down and simply placed her face on his shoulder. They stayed like that for a long time. She curled against him as he wrapped his arm around her shoulder. Soon she seemed to relax and even appeared to be falling asleep. Eddie shook her a little and she opened her eyes slightly. He was content to stay like that for a good while but finally realized he could not take this anywhere. Gloria had problems or something going on that he would not be able to settle, and it would be improper to pretend. He straightened up and gently let her lean back on the couch. "Gloria, remember what I said back at the restaurant. I don't want to be improper in any way. If you ever want to talk, you can call me, though. I'd be glad to."

"Of course," she said quietly. "Sorry, sometimes, I...never mind. You're a decent man. Considerate. I understand." He got up from the couch and helped her to her feet. "I'll get your things."

"I wish I could get to know you better," he said, not really sure what that meant. Maybe he was just being nice, but there was not denying a connection of sorts. Gloria went to the closet by the door.

Eddie put on his coat and held his hat in his hands. "I mean that. Take care of yourself."

She nodded, and walked him to the door. "Eddie, you're the best. Stay safe. You'll do fine. You know how to survive, and that's the best thing anyone can know. You know when to run. Can I kiss you once more?" They kissed again, slow and sad. When they stopped, they were holding each other.

"Run? What do you mean?"

She stared into his face for a moment, not blinking. "I can't explain. It's just a feeling."

The thought spun around in his mind, and was oddly similar to what he had been thinking the past few days. "Good night," he said, stepping out of the door. Eddie went down the front steps of the apartment building. He passed a woman coming in, and he recognized the auburn hair of the singer at the club that night. They both waved to each other, and he continued on his way.

A few moments after Eddie left, there was a knock on Gloria's door. She opened it a crack to see Ginger staring back at her. Ginger took one look at her, and said, "Dear, do you want to talk about it?"

"No," Gloria said quietly. "I'm fine. He was a perfect gentleman. I'll come up for breakfast in the morning." Gloria smiled as best as she could.

"Take care of yourself, sweetie. Get some sleep." Ginger left and went up the staircase.

She shut the door behind herself and listened to Ginger open and close her door a flight up. When McBride called the day after she left his office, he asked if she could get Eddie's wallet. Gloria went back to the couch, sat down and pushed her hand between the cushions to find the wallet she had pulled out while they were kissing. Eddie was a decent man, and here she was again taking orders from McBride, getting herself further into trouble. She met Eddie, and despite everything she had scratched and clawed for, she would give it all away to have the life he was trying to achieve. The tears she shed were not so much for Jackson as they were for her desire to start over and live the normal childhood, without the hungry nights sleeping on a cold floor in her mother's place with dirt, disease and stench all over. Gloria picked up the whiskey glass and consumed the entire contents in slow, steady swallows. Often, when she was alone in the apartment at night, these thoughts ran through her mind, and spending the night on the town was the only way to hold them at bay.

Gloria took the empty glass into the kitchen, then went over to the radio and turned it on. It took some searching around, but she found a station still broadcasting that late in the evening. The music was soothing, and she leaned her head against the console and let the tiny vibrations from the speakers go into her temple. The sensation was pleasant, and made her wish she could melt into it. She straightened up and saw a slight movement out of the corner of her eye from her bedroom. "Hey," she said. Whoever it was moved silently and quickly across the room and landed a blow to her head. Gloria's last thought was of herself and Eddie relaxing together on a park bench in perfect comfort. Nothing more than quietly enjoying each other's company. It was all she ever wanted.

Jimmy picked her up and placed her on the couch. When the order came in to take her out, McBride said to not let her suffer or try anything funny. Jimmy knew what that meant and had agreed. However, when he saw her sprawled across the couch, he thought otherwise. Gloria was a beautiful, interesting woman, and far out of his reach. Besides, he thought before laying his hands on her, he knew that cops would be looking for a motive, and what he was about to do would make the entire scene look more believable. Though it was a rarely mentioned crime, Jimmy knew how people in law enforcement felt about it. He tore her dress and ripped off her underwear. It was only a few minutes, and he was done. The entire time, she was unconscious. Using one of the couch cushions, he then pressed down on her face with all his weight. She kicked some at the end, but he was much too big for her. There was one last attempt to breathe, then no more. When he took the cushion off, he saw she had not even opened her eyes. The wallet was laying between her side and the back of the couch, out of immediate sight, where the police would find it as soon as they moved her body. Jimmy waited a few minutes to be sure no one was out on the street. It had been a quick, clean job. He slipped out the door and left her to be found by a worried friend.

# 14

Harris walked to the door and saw Thomas inside the apartment. Thomas came over to him as soon as he appeared, and by the look of the pushed-back hat and sideways glance, Harris knew this was only going to get worse. "What do you have?" Harris asked.

"Young woman. Gloria Jorgensen. Looks like a rape and murder," Thomas said. He turned around and let Harris into the room. Three men were working around the body. One was taking pictures and the other two were writing down observations.

"I'm done," the photographer said. One of the policemen pulled a sheet over the body.

Thomas and one of the officers came over to Harris. Harris asked, "Anything else? Info on the victim?" When he first received the call, he again had been afraid of one of the police goons tromping all over the scene. He was relieved to see that had not happened in this case. Maybe they could make some sense out of this one. Mayor Porter had been calling him in recent days, asking what he was doing on his promise to reduce crime. In private, the mayor had a habit of yelling when he did not like the answer, and Harris's ear was still ringing from that morning's verbal assault.

"A friend of hers lives in the building, found the body," Thomas said. "I talked to her briefly. Said she came down to invite her to breakfast and didn't get an answer. Came back three or four hours later and still didn't get an answer. Landlord let her in and then she called."

"She still here?" Harris asked.

"Upstairs."

"Okay, we'll talk to her in a few. Let's have a look around. Go through what you did when you arrived," Harris said.

"I arrived about ten minutes after Morgan there. He had done a preliminary search of the scene and determined the body was cold. He didn't touch nothin' else until I got here."

"Good. You sure about that?" Harris asked. They had walked into the kitchen to get out of earshot of the other policemen working in the apartment.

"No problem, he's straight up," Thomas said. "So anyway, I came into the apartment, noticed there was very little to show any kind of struggle, except the cushion there. Appears she was suffocated with that. There were two glasses of alcohol on the table."

"Two. Any good marks on the glass?"

"Looks like she had a visitor, and it must have been friendly for a while. Hers had lipstick and was empty. The other was half full."

"Anything else in the kitchen?" Harris asked.

"Naw. Clean. Looks like she didn't use it much. Anyway, let me take you back to the bedroom."

Harris followed him down the hall, past a bathroom and back to a well-appointed bedroom. Nice furniture. Reserved. Whoever this young woman was, she was well taken care of. "The bed's made."

"Looks like she hadn't slept in it, or whatever, last night. Well, we started going through the items on the dresser and look what we found." Thomas handed him a framed picture.

"LaRue," Harris said. The picture was of the two of them in an outdoor formal setting taken by a portrait studio in Boston. Harris set the picture down on the dresser, knowing he would see it again. "Interesting. Make sure we bring it for evidence."

"Kind of a strange connection, uh?" Thomas said. "Anyways, we went through the other rooms and closets. We only found personal items that would belong to a young lady. Nice stuff, though. She could spend some money."

The two of them walked back out to the living room, where the other three policemen were finishing up. Standing in the doorway were a couple of workers from the morgue to pick up the body. When the policemen had gotten everything they could from the crime scene, they moved into the apartment. "Just a second," Harris said to the two men from the morgue. They were getting ready to pick her up to carry the body out to a waiting ambulance, but the two men backed off. Harris bent over, pulled the sheet down from her face, and studied it for a moment. Except for the bruise on the side of her head, she looked calm, almost serene.

"Whoever did this also violated her," Morgan said. "At least it looked that way."

"Shame," Harris muttered. She was young and pretty, and someone had taken advantage of that. "All right, if you're ready, take her away."

"What's this?" Morgan said as they lifted her body away.

Thomas and Harris joined him over by the couch. "A wallet," Thomas said, picking it up. He opened it and carefully began laying the contents onto the table by the couch. "Get the photographer back in here," he said to Morgan.

Besides about two dollars in cash, and a few slips of paper there was not much in the wallet, until Thomas took out a paycheck stub. "Edward B. Griffin. Sounds familiar."

"Remember the kid at the factory where LaRue bought it?" Harris said. "That's him."

"I'll be damned," Thomas said. The photographer set up, took a few pictures, then left.

Harris picked up the stub and looked at it again. "Better call him in," he said.

"This is going to get interesting. The kid was here last night, or at least his wallet was." Thomas began putting the contents back into the wallet and then carefully folded it shut.

Harris had a difficult time thinking that Eddie would have anything to do with the woman's murder, but he had to push aside any sentiment he might have and look at the facts. They were still early in the case. Too much was unanswered for him to form a judgment. "Odd. I didn't get the impression he'd be involved at all."

"People can fool you. Had one last year, a barber. Turned out he also liked to rob banks in his spare time. Quiet little fart who turned out to have dirty fingers."

Harris considered what Thomas had said, and this did not seem to add up. Slow down, he told himself. "Let's go talk to this woman upstairs."

Harris and Thomas went upstairs to visit the woman who had come to meet Gloria that morning. As they were walking up, he began to get a dreadful feeling about finding Eddie had been involved in some fashion, and he felt this case was going to veer off in an odd direction. There was going to be more to this than a young man in a love triangle or trying to make a few quick bucks. When the press let this out to the public, Harris knew the Mayor would be yelling at him soon. He shut his eyes a moment and shook his head. These kinds of things he would just need to get used to.

They came up the top of the stairs and walked about half way down the hall to the door. Thomas knocked and a pleasant looking woman in a pink silk robe answered the door. "Yes, I've been thinking you might come back," she said. "Come in."

"How are you doing?" Thomas asked.

"Better," she said. At the moment, Harris thought he noticed a whiff of alcohol. Not a surprise, he thought. The two men came into the apartment, and remained standing while the woman sat at a piano bench. "Mind if we ask you a few questions, Miss?" Thomas said

"Not at all," she said, drawing out the words.

"Why don't we start out with your name," Harris asked. "If you don't want to talk right now, we can do this later."

"No, no, no. There is no time as now. My name is Ginger Dupree. I sing for the Jack Casey Orchestra," she said.

"Ginger," Thomas said, quietly to Harris. He looked at her, no doubt evaluating her ethnicity. Then to Ginger he asked, "What's your real name, dear?"

Ginger sat up a moment and said, "Gretel Dumbrowski. Not too jazzy, is it? Please, call me Ginger."

"Sure," Harris said. "Why don't we start with how you knew Miss Jorgensen?"

Ginger stretched out some and looked down at the floor, "Ah, see, we met about a year ago, when I started singing at Valent's. Jack got the gig as the house band, and we played there twice a week. We were on the road last summer but came back and started playing again. Have you two ever seen us?"

"No," Harris said. "I haven't had the opportunity. Miss Jorgensen—did you meet her there?"

"Actually, the first time I remember seeing her was in New York. She was with the designer she was dating. The one that was killed. Oh, that's kind of scary, isn't it? He knew Jack, and they met us after a gig one night at a party."

"You two became friends, then?"

"Sure, she was a sweet girl. Real open and fun to be with. Spent a lot of time together, late night at parties and things," Ginger said, reaching down and fixing one her slippers.

Thomas asked, "How long have the two of you been living in the same building?"

"Isn't this a great place? She said about six months ago there was an apartment opening up. Young women don't usually live alone, but we thought with both of us here it would be better." Suddenly she looked up at the two of them. "You don't think they'd come after me now, do you?"

"No, there's very small chance of that," Harris said. "Anyway, go on."

"Not much to tell, really. We became friends and often had breakfast together."

"When was the last time you saw Miss Jorgensen before today?" Thomas asked.

"Last night, at the club. She came in with a young man and had dinner and danced some. He wasn't much of a dancer, from what I could tell. It's like he read the steps in a book and was trying to remember them. We were playing hot last night. Say, if you're interested, why don't the two of you drop by? First set's at 9:00."

"No, thank you," Thomas said. "So what did you notice about the man she was with? Had you seen him before?"

"Oh, wait, when I came home, he was leaving the building. I knocked on Gloria's door, and she opened it. She looked sad. We didn't say much, just that she would have breakfast with me in the morning."

"Sad? How do you mean?" Thomas asked.

"I don't know, maybe she had been crying a few minutes before. She said he was a gentleman. Understand?" she said turning her head to the side, rubbing her hands across her thighs.

Harris knew what that meant. "This was the same man at the club?"

"Yes, that's what's odd. I hadn't seen him before last night, and he looked young for her. Kind of plain, you know. Not her type."

"Not her type?" Harris asked.

"Well, what I mean is, I mean I only knew her when she was seeing Jackson, but Gloria liked nice things. This fella didn't seem to be right, understand?"

Actually, Harris did. He knew enough to know that people tended to stay within their personalities, and who they associated with followed that trait. A person wants to be with others they are familiar and comfortable with. "Can you describe what he looked like?"

"Below average height. Dark hair, kind of a boyish face. Slender. They were dancing and the lights were down." Ginger placed a well-manicured hand on her thigh as she thought about the question. "Gloria was by the stage when I came out. I didn't know she was going to be there at all. There were only a few couples out dancing. You know, people don't like to be the only ones out there."

"Did Gloria go there often?" Thomas asked.

"When she's in town, I'd say once a week. Everyone knew her there. She was real pretty. I think the boys in the band were sweet on her." Ginger put her hands on her face. "This is real bad, isn't it, fellas?"

"Sure is," Harris said. "Hate to see this kind of thing happen."

"Gloria and I talked a number of times. She came from over by the coal yards."

"That so?" Thomas said. Everyone knew those were the worst slums in the city, a world away from where they were now. After the flu epidemic wiped out half the people there, they forced everyone out and burned it all down.

"She told me once when she came back from seeing her mother. I found her sitting on the floor in her apartment with the radio on. I went in and hugged her and asked her what was going on, and she told me about growing up. Nothing to eat, her mother leaving her for days at a time, and showing up at odd hours. Gloria was on her own since she was a girl."

"Know where her mother lives now?" Harris asked.

"No, I don't. Gloria said she was never going to visit her again. As far as she was concerned, she had no mother." Ginger straightened her back and exhaled. "If it hadn't been for Mr. McBride, who knows what would have happened to her?"

Thomas stopped writing in his notebook with his pen poised above the page.

"So anyway, I saw her last night, and," Ginger started to say.

"Back up a moment," Harris said. "Could you talk about her connection with McBride?"

"Well, I don't know much. Just that she worked for him for a number of years. She never talked about it, except to say she had known him and he helped her out."

"How? How did he help her out?" Thomas asked.

"Gosh, she never went into detail." Ginger stretched again, and placed her chin in her hands, looking like the nightclub singer she was. "She just said she owed him for everything she had."

# 15

When Eddie arrived at work and put his belongings in his locker, the first thing that anyone said to him was that he was to report to Mr. Aron's office. Other than to clean, the only other time he had actually been in the office was when he was hired. Mr. Aron had personally talked to him and hired him on the spot. To be called up there, no matter how congenial the man, was not something to be looked forward to. He went up the stairs and walked around the aisle until he could see the office. At that moment, he stopped in his tracks when he recognized Harris and the policeman he had met before. He continued on, knowing he had no choice. Even if he had tried, Eddie could not help but look back at the catwalk where he had been when this all started.

He came up to the office and Harris and the policeman had their back to him. Mr. Aron said something to them, and the two men turned around and looked in his direction. A few comments were exchanged between them, and Mr. Aron stepped out of the office and met Eddie on the walkway. He put his hand on Eddie's shoulder and said, "I'm not sure what they want, son, but I think you need to cooperate with them." Mr. Aron continued on by, and Eddie entered the office.

"Eddie, I'm sure you remember Detective Thomas," Harris said. The three of them stood facing each other in a kind of uneasy standoff. Thomas moved over and closed the office door.

"Have a seat," Thomas said to Eddie.

Eddie sat down, while Harris made a space on the corner of the desk. Thomas stayed by the door. "What can I do for you?" Eddie said, trying to sound confident, but instead finding his voice thin and reedy.

"It's been quite a few days, hasn't it?" Harris began.

Eddie could not help noticing the collar of Harris's shirt. It was all frayed and wrinkled, also showing the signs of being a cheap shirt to start with. Much less quality than the shirts they made at Aron's. After observing the collar, he looked back at Harris. "It's been difficult, but I'm doing fine," Eddie said.

"Good to hear. Have you thought any more about what happened that night? Any other information you want to pass along?" Harris asked.

"No. As far as I can remember, it happened just as I told you before."

Thomas shifted from foot to foot, and put his hands behind his back. There was no mistaking that Thomas was a cop, with the dull blue suit and dark tie. The shirt, though, looked to be in better shape than Harris's. "I read your description of the murder," Thomas said, in a slight Boston accent. "Sound's like you were caught in the middle, the way you describe it."

Eddie looked at Harris, shocked that anyone else had inside knowledge of what happened. What he had reported to Harris was supposed to be confidential. No one else was even supposed to know he was there when it happened. Harris must have sensed his dismay because he held up his hand and said, "It's all right. I told him about what you said about McBride."

"I thought that was a private conversation between the two of us," Eddie said.

"To do my job means I have to share certain information. I take the responsibility seriously, and I'm very careful about who knows what," Harris said. "We can trust Thomas."

"I could have been killed a few feet from this door, but for some reason I wasn't."

"Why do you suppose that was?" Harris asked.

Eddie was still apprehensive about talking about McBride with Thomas in the room, but he knew there was no other choice. "I've thought about it, and I don't have an answer."

"You said McBride's men were shooting at you. Then were told to stop," Harris said.

He played the incident back through his mind and made sure he had it all straight. The sounds of their voices were still clear. Then the firing started. At that point, there was too much commotion to see what was going on, but when McBride called him down he had a good look at their faces. "For some reason, he ordered them to stop firing. I was trying to hide behind the shirts, but they kept shooting through them."

"Did McBride say anything at all about letting you go?" Thomas said.

"He just told me to forget about what happened."

"Or else?" Harris said.

"He didn't say." Eddie had gone over all this before with Harris and knew there had to be another reason for the questioning. "I think they mentioned O'Connor."

"O'Connor? What about him?" Harris asked. The mention of the name made Thomas lean forward.

"I couldn't tell. I thought maybe it was one of the men with McBride," Eddie said. The name meant nothing to him, but apparently was important to Harris and Thomas.

"O'Connor's another mob boss. He's run this town for years," Thomas said. He crossed his arms and paced a few steps away.

"Hm," Harris muttered, looking at Thomas. Harris looked out the window of the office to the work going on below and stayed there with his back to Eddie for a few moments.

"Hey, I don't know why he let me go. I was right there, and they had me trapped, and he told them to stop firing," Eddie said. Harris stayed at the window, appearing not to hear what had been said.

"How well did you know Jackson LaRue?" he asked finally.

"I barely knew him. About all I did was clean his office. He was only here about half the time."

"How would you describe him?" Thomas asked.

Eddie was not sure what this meant, whether that was a physical or personal description. "I hadn't thought about it much. He seemed to know what he was doing. As far as what he did, I don't know much about fashion, but I think Mr.Aron liked his work."

Harris turned around from the window and paced back to the desk. "How would you describe him physically? What did he look like?"

"Well, about five ten. Dark hair," Eddie said, doing his best to remember exactly what he looked like.

"That's a wide open description for a man you saw about every other day," Thomas said.

Eddie put his hands in his lap, not realizing how tight his shoulders had been since he had sat down. Try as he might, they would not relax. "Like I said, I never talked to him directly. I almost always saw him from below, in his office."

"Nice clothes?" Harris asked.

"I imagine. That's the business he was in. Sure."

Harris picked up a pen from Mr. Aron's desk and toyed with it a moment, then put it back. "Eddie, be honest with us here. We want you to tell us everything you know about Jackson LaRue. His friends and family."

Eddie was out of things to say about Mr. LaRue. He had never spoken to the man, or spent time with him. "Mr. Harris, I didn't have anything to—" Eddie started to say. Then, of course, he figured out what they were driving at. As soon as he knew, he could tell by the quiet way Thomas was leaning against the wall and how Harris stared down at him that that was the reason they were questioning him. "You want to know about Gloria."

"You know her?" Thomas asked.

"I, uh, only met her a few days ago."

"Go on. How well have you gotten to know her?" Harris asked.

"Not well. We went out once. Last night. I doubt if we'll see each other again," Eddie said.

"Where did the two of you go?" Thomas asked.

"We went to Valent's for dinner, and then I walked her back to her place. That was it."

"Valent's," Harris said. "That's a nice place on your salary."

"It cost me almost a week's pay. It was a mistake for me to go there. I don't know how she affords places like that. Besides, it was one date. That's where she wanted to go, so I took her. You have to understand that," Eddie said. There was no response from either of the other two. "Really, I just met her. She stopped by my place to place a phone call, and..."

"Oh, so she came over to your place? I thought this was just one date," Thomas said.

"Okay, okay. When we met, we rode the trolley over to my side of town. She was going to meet someone, and she wanted to call before she went over. I let her use my phone."

"I think there's more here than the kid's telling," Thomas said to Harris.

"Agreed. We're not getting the full answer," Harris said. "What else happened on the date? Anyone see you two together?"

Eddie was stunned. That was all there was. They had to understand there was nothing else to it. "We went to Valent's. We danced. Gloria said she knew the singer. I guess she might recognize me. Then I walked her back to her apartment, and I went in for a few minutes, then left. There is nothing else."

"A young buck like you doesn't go into a pretty girl's apartment and turn around and leave," Thomas said.

"What is this? We kissed a few times, sitting on the couch. She gave me a glass of whiskey. I left a few minutes later." Eddie could not remember if anything else had happened, and sitting here talking to the two of them, he was beginning to doubt what he was telling them.

"See, Eddie," Harris said, getting up from the desk and standing in front of him. "Here's our problem. A friend of Gloria's, the singer, found her dead in her apartment. The woman was the singer at the club, and she described you fairly well. Let me ask you this. Are you missing your wallet?"

"What?"

"Your wallet. Did you lose it?"

"Uh, yes, I did."

"We found the wallet on the couch, next to Gloria. I got a problem now," Harris said. "I got two dead bodies that have a connection to each other, and you were with both of them."

"What? Dead?" Eddie said. This entire incident had gone too far. When he had left her the night before, there had been no doubt they would not go out again, but this did not add up. It must have happened not long after he left. "I have no idea who would have done this."

"Eddie," Thomas said, looking at the floor. "The part you ain't getting is that you are the prime suspect in both these murders now. We got possible evidence placing you at the scene about the times of both murders."

"Honestly, you don't believe this, do you?" Eddie asked Harris.

"This is where it stands," Harris said.

"What do you mean? This just is not possible. We went out once, and she was very much alive when I left. I must have dropped my wallet when I was sitting there. There's no proof I did it, I mean, just because my wallet was there doesn't mean I did it." Eddie was sure this had been an evil coincidence of some sort, like when Mr. LaRue had been killed. "I had to be set up some way."

"Come on," Thomas said, pulling a pair of handcuffs from his pocket. "We'll take a ride down to the station, hold you for a few days, and see if your memory returns."

Eddie flashed back to all the previous times he had seen this, and remembered what one of the lawyers had said. Throw a bluff for time, often the cops will be stopped. "Let me call my lawyer. I'm not talking down there without him. You don't have any evidence to say I did it. I was there, but I left. Gloria was alive. The singer saw me leave."

"A lawyer? Come on, let's go," Thomas said, though he did stop and did not open the cuffs.

"I saw the singer when I was leaving the building. Talk to her. Gloria was still alive when I left. We kissed, and she was upset about something she wouldn't talk about. But I left. You don't have a motive, a weapon, or anything that points to me killing her." Eddie knew he had them on that. There was no solid evidence pointing towards him, other than being in the same place as the murders. He knew it looked funny to have been there for both, but nothing supporting him committing the crime. Thomas tapped the cuffs in his hands, and Eddie guessed that if the cop really wanted to drag him downtown and lock him up, there was nothing he could do about it.

Harris held his hand up a moment, and Thomas backed away a step. "Yes, we would need more to arrest you."

"Did you talk to the singer?" Eddie asked.

"We did, and you're right, she saw you," Harris said standing up, straightening his rumpled suit coat and shabby tie. "All that means is that you left as you said. She was killed not long after, which puts you in a bad spot. Right? Thomas? Anything else."

"We're going to keep an eye on you over the next few days. Don't be surprised if we call you in for questioning," Thomas said, putting the cuffs back. He stepped over to where he was about a foot from Eddie's face. "I don't care what anyone says, but it all looks too convenient."

The two of them left, leaving the door open. Eddie stayed there a few moments, and then found his way out of the office and back down to the factory floor.

# 16

The remainder of the workday was a blur as Eddie continually recounted the previous evening in his head. That afternoon, Eddie left the plant at his usual time and went to the trolley stop, where he sat down on the bench. Coworkers came by and said hello, to which he replied with a halfhearted wave. It was only three days ago that he had met her at the same stop and started a conversation. The thought that they had sat on the couch together only the night before was unreal. She had been murdered within hours, maybe minutes, of him being there, and the thought occurred to him that the murderer may have been waiting outside, or even in the apartment.

The trolley pulled up and Eddie got on. Not finding a seat, he stood in the aisle and hung onto the handle as they went about making the stops. Little more than a month ago, he had been enjoying a life that consisted of working and going to class. In every aspect, he had been looking like a young man who had begun his adult life and was seeing that he gave himself the best chance possible. Now, in the span of a few days, he had been involved in some way with two murders. Though Harris did not come right out and say it, Eddie knew they thought he had done it. He could have lied, but the wallet and the singer at the club both proved he was with her last night. The trolley began to clear out and Eddie sat down in a rear-facing seat in the middle. An older woman, oblivious to the others, was looking straight at him. Eddie could see her staring at him out of the corner of his eye. "I didn't do it," he almost said aloud.

Eddie stepped off the trolley and decided he needed to talk to Herman. He knew Herman's advice would not be the best, but he had to talk to somebody about what had happened over the last couple of days. Eddie came to Herman's apartment building and found he was not home yet. As he was sitting down on the stoop in front, he saw Herman coming up the sidewalk, his coveralls spattered in oil and dirt from the days work at the garage.

"Hey, friend," Herman said, spinning his door keys from his finger. He came up the steps and continued straight to his door. Eddie followed him into his apartment. "We had to pull an engine today, and we just could not get the bolts loose from the transmission. They were rusted down tight, took us most of the day."

Herman went to his icebox and reached in the back to pull out a couple of cold beers. He popped them open on a bottle opener attached to the kitchen cabinet and handed one to Eddie. "Where'd you get these?"

"My cousin. Knows this old man up in the woods still brewing a few now and then, I guess. Illegal's the best kind, right?" Herman took a long satisfying drink of the beer and sat down in one of the two chairs in the living area of the apartment. "How's your problem with the mob?"

"Funny you should ask," Eddie said, settling into a seat, an old, worn-out dining room chair long since separated from a set.

"This can't be good," Herman said, taking another drink and placing the half-empty bottle on the floor.

"Last night I went out with a girl," Eddie started.

"Pretty?" Herman asked.

"Yes, very. That's kind of the problem." Eddie stood up and walked over to the small metal sink in the kitchen area of the apartment.

"Where did you go?" Herman asked.

Eddie stayed there for a moment, looking at the few dirty dishes sitting in the washbasin. "We went to Valent's." Herman made a low whistle. "Out of my normal price range, but that's what I mean. We went there and had dinner and danced, and now she's dead."

"Huh?" Herman picked up the beer bottle and took another drink. "What do you mean, dead? Wait, you went to dinner, and now she's dead. You're not making any sense."

"I know, it doesn't make sense, any of it. I met her on the trolley, we went out, and she was alive when I left her place, but now she's not. The cops are on me."

"Hold on," Herman said. He stood up from the chair and went to the window where he turned around and faced Eddie. "Just a minute. Back up. Start at the beginning. Who was she and where did you meet her?"

"She's—she was—Mr. LaRue's girl." Eddie had never seen Herman make the expression he did. Herman had come away from the windowsill and had both hands on his face, palms pressed against his cheeks. There had never been a time when Eddie remembered Herman being speechless. "She met me after work, we started talking, and she rode over to my side of town. Anyway, she seemed interested in me, I didn't—wasn't."

"Wait. Get to it. What happened?

"Herman, she was beautiful, a real sharp gal. I thought she was lonely. I don't meet girls like her," Eddie said. Herman had dropped his hands from his face, but his mouth was still hanging open. "So, we went to Valent's and ate and danced. I walked her back to her place."

"Go on, what happened?" Herman said.

"We had a drink, kissed some, and then I left," Eddie said.

"Left? What do you mean? You don't kiss a girl at her place and just leave," Herman said.

"It wasn't right, you know? She was out with me, a stock boy, and she's a party girl. Went out with a fashion designer." Eddie came back to the chair he had been in before. This had played over in his mind the entire time since he left her place. "It didn't make sense. She cried when I was there, Herman. She cried."

"Well, okay, that's something." He sat down as well.

"She cried and got real sad. I said, knew, whatever was going on, I mean, there was no way we could have any kind of relationship. Then she said something strange. She said I know how to survive and when to run."

"That's a new one. How do you know she's dead?" Herman said.

"Cops came and talked to me. They found my wallet at her place," Eddie said.

"Oh, goddamn it. Oh goddamn," Herman said. This time he went over to the sink and put his head down. "Shit, this is bad." He turned around.

They stayed like that until Eddie thought Herman was going to pass out. "I think I've been set up."

"McBride. Oh, goddamn," Herman said quietly. "You need a lawyer. I got a cousin that got drunk and wrecked his car one time, he called this lawyer and he got him off. I'll get his name."

"I didn't wreck a car. They think I murdered her. No lawyer'll be able to take care of that. My wallet was there. I was there."

"The cops, can't trust 'em. Eddie, you have to shut up about this. You can't tell nobody else. I'll get the lawyer's name. Don't talk to the cops 'til I you talk to him. They can try whatever they want. You know how the cops are. They make shit up and toss people in jail just to look like they're doing their job."

Eddie turned this over in his mind. Going through the court system was hell last time, and he was not accused of murder. The prospect was bleak, no matter how he looked at it, no matter how talented this lawyer might be, but he had to get whatever protection he could. "Sure, give me his name. I need to do something."

# 17

Harris had been sitting in his office, looking at the stack of folders in his chair. Each one was a new case that had opened in the last week, adding to the stack that was on the table behind his desk and the ones that were on his assistant's desk. He had been sitting there for about fifteen minutes, trying to figure out how he was possibly going to take care of all them. He needed more staff, but the city budget was not going to allow it. Fortunately (or unfortunately, depending how he looked at it), he had no social life and was not married, so he could devote his time to working on these cases.

Harris let out a quiet sigh and thought back to when he was in law school, proclaiming to all his classmates that he was going to be a city prosecutor. His professors and classmates told him that it was a quick way to high stress and low pay. He had decided to not follow them into the private sector or academia. He had a knack for research and could have gone into teaching, having worked for the law library and helped many of the professors while in school. He reached over and carefully pulled one of the files out of the stack. The pile began to slide over, and he reached over with his other hand to prevent them from falling onto the floor, and in the process, he dropped the one he was trying to get. Harris was scrambling around on the floor picking up the papers when he noticed a pair of feet in his doorway. He looked up and saw that it was his secretary staring down at him.

"An Officer Thomas to see you," she said, as he slowly got to his feet.

"Okay," he said as she went away. Thomas stepped into his office and closed the door behind him.

"We didn't get much of a chance to talk about the kid this morning," Thomas said.

Harris was going to ask him to sit down, but all the chairs except the one at his desk were covered. He quickly emptied one off and indicated for him to have a seat. Harris sat down behind his desk and leaned back. "Of course. Not sure what to think of him. As near as I could tell, he was telling the truth. I mean, he said he was there, said he went out with her."

Thomas opened his hands, in a questioning gesture.

"Exactly," Harris said.

"A person like this is usually lying. You know, seen it dozens of times. He gets in trouble and tells a fairly good lie. You keep diggin', and guess what, there's all this stuff he forgot to tell you. This wouldn't be the first time."

The entire episode seemed too obvious to Harris. "You really think this person could have done this?"

"I seen it before. He looks all innocent. Tells a good story. I mean, how much do we really know about him? Have we looked into his background, who he pals around with?" Thomas said.

Harris had respect for Thomas, a man who had been on the police force for over twenty years. Since Prohibition had come along, organized crime had been on the rise, and Harris had found it hard to figure out who to trust. One of the first things he did was find out who had a tough-but-honest reputation. In the short time he had been there, Thomas had always been up front with him. "Why? Truthfully, what's he got to gain from all this?"

"Hell if I know. Until we know more about him, how're we to know? For all we know, he could be working for McBride. One of his runaround punks, causin' trouble for us," Thomas said.

Harris put his feet up on the desk. He had always been good at sizing people up, and his impression of Eddie was that he ended up in the wrong place. "The date with Gloria doesn't make sense. What do we know about her?"

"Not much. We checked out the restaurant. Seems her and this LaRue would go there all the time. You're somebody, if you're goin' there regular. Anyway, we asked a few questions, and she was the real friendly type. With the boys. A pretty girl that liked parties."

"And Eddie? What's your impression of him?"

Thomas tapped his fingers on the arm of the chair a few times. "Sure, I know where you're goin'. On the surface, it don't make a damn bit of sense."

Harris put his feet back down on the floor and leaned on the desk. He pushed a few stacks of folders and took the one that he had been working on. Eddie's case. He opened it to the front and began to scan through the pages. "We don't have much yet, do we?"

"We don't have shit, and we ain't gonna get shit until we start working the case. We gotta talk to his pals, coworkers. Let's get together tomorrow morning and lay out a strategy."

"Tomorrow's good. This going to be in the morning papers?" Harris asked. He already knew the answer, and knew the mayor would be on the phone before ten to yell at him about how his city was being torn apart.

"I'm sure it's being printed already. Those press clowns don't miss a juicy story. Party girl gets raped and murdered."

That was a fact he had forgotten since they visited her apartment that morning. There had been no communication with the coroner's office, so he had not heard an official report. "You sure about that?"

"Talked to the staff in the basement before I came over. Looks like your boy's got some trouble ahead of him."

This was the worst possible thing he could have heard. Now he had a rapist and murderer out there. The media was sure to splash this all over the front page, and the public couldn't care less about a fair trial. Harris could see this turn into a circus, with Eddie in the middle. Even if he was innocent, once they started the trial, the jury would just be looking to convict anyone who was on the stand. "It's getting late. Let's talk about it in the morning."

"Sure," Thomas said and he got up to leave.

"One thing," Harris asked before he stepped out the door. "What do you think of talking to McBride?"

Thomas shook his head. "I know it's gotta be done, but that's a tough one."

"I'll do it myself. I understand if you don't want to be included."

"Sure. He's more likely to talk to you alone than both of us." Thomas left the office.

After their strategy meeting tomorrow, Harris was planning to track down McBride and have a few words with him. He looked out the window to the street below and saw the lights beginning to come on. The file he had dropped on the floor earlier was lying on the table behind him. He opened it up and began to run through the details of an attempted armed robbery that took place at a small grocery store. The man got away with about ten dollars and was identified a few miles away standing on a street corner wearing a new coat. If only all the crimes were that easy to figure out.

# 18

Harris had just arrived at his office when he was told there was a call waiting for him. He unlocked his office and tossed his overcoat and hat into a chair in the corner. They crumpled out of the seat and onto the floor, along with a few file folders. Harris noticed this but decided to take the call first. He picked up the receiver. "Harris. Put the call through."

There were a series of clicks, then "Hello?"

"Harris. What can I do for you?"

"This is Thomas. We found out where the girl's mother lives. Wanna go pay her a visit?"

"Sounds like a good idea. We can talk on the way over."

"I'm goin' over to the girl's apartment first for a few minutes," Thomas said.

"Good, meet me downstairs when you get in." Harris hung up the phone and did his best to straighten up his desk before meeting Thomas downstairs. Despite the evidence, Harris still felt McBride had her taken care of, rather than Eddie killing her. McBride was now a few steps ahead of him. The man certainly would know how to cover his tracks, so Harris would have to do the best he could. What worried Harris more than anything else was that he knew McBride had political ambitions, as he had stated to the press a few times. His wealth and influence had gained considerable momentum in the past few years, and now he was setting himself up for further power. If someone like that were running a city, it would be complete chaos. Right now, his only clear link was the kid who saw the murder. Harris was not sure why McBride had not killed Eddie when he had the chance, since men like that seldom leave problems hanging. Possibly Eddie was working for McBride, but this did not make sense. He had to convince himself to keep to the facts for the time being. They would have to keep digging until a clearer answer came up. It was then that one of his assistants came to the door and tossed a newspaper on his desk.

"Looks like you made the front page," the assistant said then left the office.

In bold letters, in an article along the right side was the title, MURDER OF YOUNG SOCIALITE. Harris scanned through the article and was relieved to learn nothing had been said about the rape. Possibly the editors never mentioned that in print, but Harris knew that word would get around nonetheless. Towards the bottom was a paragraph stating, "Jerome Harris is working the case personally, but so far these types of crimes are continuing unchecked." This stung, though he had always tried to ignore such comments. Harris put the paper down on his desk and looked at the title for a moment. The mayor was going to be calling any minute, which would take up half the morning, so he needed to leave the office as soon as possible. He got up and grabbed his coat and hat. Right now, he had more important things to do than be yelled at by the fat ignoramus of a backslapper that was his boss. "I'll be out the rest of the morning," he informed the secretary as he walked by her desk. "If Porter calls, tell him I'm working on the Jorgenson girl's case."

Harris met with Thomas a few minutes later. Once they were under way, Thomas said, "I talked to the landlord this morning, told him we'd want to see him."

"Let's go there first. I'm going to contact McBride later today. I have a feeling he won't want to talk to me without his lawyer, so it may be a couple of days before I can see him," Harris said. Men like McBride rarely approached a legal issue without a few lawyers in tow, so Harris had no choice but to do his best to talk to him as soon as he could. He was expecting a hostile reaction.

About fifteen minutes later, Harris and Thomas were standing in front of the very upset landlord who ran Gloria's apartment building.

"Sir, we need to look in her apartment," Thomas said to the man.

"This is highly irregular," the landlord said. He was a skinny, older man, obviously not accustomed to having authorities appearing at his building in the morning.

Harris knew this was a minor impasse, and the man would have to let them through. "We need to search her apartment again and talk to you about Miss Jorgenson," Harris said.

"Well, all right. Please be as quiet as you can."

The landlord led them up the stairs to the second floor. He opened the door and let them in. Harris went to the picture of Gloria and LaRue, a formal portrait with him sitting in a chair, with Gloria standing. "Is this Miss Jorgenson?" he asked the landlord, pointing to the woman in the picture.

"Yes," the landlord said. He looked to be in a state of shock, no doubt wondering how he was ever going to rent the apartment again. Others in the building would be frightened by this, since they had moved there to get away from crime problems.

Thomas came over to them and looked at the photo. "Nice lookin' broad," he said.

"Did she have any visitors?" Harris asked.

"She always did. She was a good tenant, but people were always stopping by. This gentleman was here quite often. Nice looking young women always attract attention."

The landlord was carefully walking through the apartment. "Do you know if she has any family in town?" Harris asked him.

"She did list a mother on her application, but I didn't really pay attention," the landlord said. He was looking at the kitchen to see if there was any damage.

"We're seein' her next. Lives over by the docks," Thomas said.

Harris felt a queasiness in his belly. The landlord turned. "She's moved quite a ways from that."

Thomas took a quick look around the room. His facial expression indicated his concurrence. The landlord had moved to the back of the apartment in the bedroom, but came out in a few moments. "Had you talked to her very often?" Harris asked.

"Only a few times. She kept very late hours, and me and the missus were usually asleep by then," the landlord said. He was still moving around the room, looking for minor damage, though the apartment was in very clean condition.

"Did you ever see her coming and going with anyone else besides the man in this picture?" Harris asked.

"Sure. I'd see her with Miss Dupree, the woman upstairs, the singer."

"Ginger?" Thomas asked.

"That's the one. They'd go in and out together sometimes, but it might be days before I would see her. The people who live here like their privacy," the landlord said, apparently finishing his survey. He was standing next to Thomas with his hands folded in front of his chest.

"Any idea what she did for a living?" Thomas asked. "Young women her age generally can't afford a place like this."

"Sir, all we ask is that the tenants pay their rent on time, and she always did."

"Still, you must have been curious," Harris said.

The landlord moved a few steps away and appeared to be interested in the furniture in the room. "True, but it was never my place to ask. So I didn't."

"Two nights ago, did you notice anything unusual?"

He remained a few steps away and again folded his hands in front of himself. He thought for a moment and had a lost look on his face. "I'm afraid not. If it was past nine o'clock, I would have been asleep."

Harris looked at Thomas. "I don't think there's much else here for us." Then to the landlord, he said, "We'll be in touch if we need anything."

***

"Are you Gloria Jorgenson's mother?" Thomas asked through the screen door.

"I don't speak to no cops," she answered.

They had driven across town to find Gloria's mother. It was the worst slum that Harris knew in town. Garbage and grimy children mixed in the streets and alleys. The living quarters were barely shacks, leaning and leaking onto one another. Knifings were a regular occurrence in the area, usually between drunks who managed to find the cheap liquor. They had parked in the street and walked up the rotting wooden stairs to Mrs. Jorgenson's living quarters.

"Mrs. Jorgenson," Harris said, "we may have some disturbing news about your daughter, and we need your cooperation." She stepped away from the screen, and the two of them entered. They were standing in the kitchen, as it was, and really had no desire to go further into the quarters.

"What about Gloria?" she asked.

"When's the last time you saw your daughter?" Thomas asked.

Mrs. Jorgenson rubbed her hands across her stained housedress. Her hands were a display of ground-in dirt and ragged fingernails. "Been about six months, last time. She was all dressed up like some flapper. Woun't even sit on the furniture."

Harris knew it was going to be difficult to get her to cooperate, but they had to do the best they could. "Was she with a man named Jackson LaRue?"

"She mentioned someone like that. But no, she was alone. She wouldn't even tell me where she lived. She left home at 14 or 15 and didn't tell me much after that. For all I know, she was living on the moon," she said, letting a gravelly laugh slip out.

"Do you know the names of any of the people she worked with or associated with?" Thomas asked.

"No. Boys were always after her."

"Does the name Clarence McBride sound familiar?" Harris asked. He waited for any kind of expression to see if the name was the least bit of interest. None.

"Don't know the man. Why? You said something happened to her."

"We're sorry to say she was found dead in her apartment yesterday. Looks like a murder," Thomas said.

"Hm," she said. "She leave any money?"

"We're not sure of the state of her assets," Harris said.

"Don't care about assets. Just want her money. A girl dresses like that, has to have money."

Thomas took the picture from his pocket that he had brought from her apartment. "Is this Gloria, ma'am?"

Mrs. Jorgenson looked at the photo for several long seconds. A hint of emotion crossed her face, but then it fell away. "That's her."

"Does she have any other immediate family?" Harris asked.

"Her Daddy ran away and died in some rail yard. My boy's in jail."

Harris turned to Thomas. "Well, that's about all we can do here."

Thomas said, "Yes. Thank you, ma'am."

Mrs. Jorgenson made no reply, other than to look beyond them out the screen door. The two of them left and went down to the car, which had gathered a small crowd of curious children. The kids scattered as soon as they walked up, but they remained close enough to watch the pair get into the car.

"That's got to be the saddest thing I've ever seen," Harris said once they were in.

"There's thousands more just like her," Thomas said. "Where'd you come from?"

"Middle class. Graduated from University of Maryland," Harris said. Thomas started the car and began to pull away. "Yourself?"

"Boston. We were poor, but nothing like this. My mom and dad are still together. Army did the trick for me." Thomas guided the car around the potholes and ruts in the road as they drove out of the area.

# 19

Mr. Aron had hired a replacement for LaRue, a young man from Louisville who came in with an armful of coats he had designed. Eddie took vague notice as the new man quickly became involved in much the same work activities as Mr. LaRue. The other workers did much the same and let the new designer go about his job. For the next week, he heard nothing on either Mr. LaRue's or Gloria's murder, nor did Harris contact him about any further details. As he was waiting at the trolley stop after work, a new Lincoln Coupe pulled up to the curb. The passenger window was rolled down, and the man inside leaned over to talk to Eddie.

"Hey, pal, how are you this afternoon?" the man asked.

"Fine. What can I do for you?" Eddie asked. He stayed a good distance from the car.

"Tell you what," the man said, checking his mirrors and looking around. "I'm not going to be cute here, but I think we need to talk. Hop in and we'll take a short ride."

"Just leave me alone."

"Let's do this. I'll pull up a ways and shut off the motor. I'll even let you have the keys. Got a friend who wants to pass along some information. To be honest, you're going to hear what he has to say whether you want to or not."

McBride had to be behind this, but Eddie also knew he might have no other choice than to hear what this man had to say. He walked ahead about fifty feet, and the car followed him. The man shut off the engine and opened the door. Eddie stood there a moment, then the man tossed the keys to him, which he caught and put in his pocket.

"Come on, pal. I'm not going to hurt you."

"I'm leaving the door open," Eddie said as he approached the coupe.

"Suits me. Nice car, huh? Top of the line. Got a strong engine. It'll run a V-8 Caddy off the road. Unfortunately, I didn't come here to talk cars. We got a mutual friend who wants to be sure you understand him."

"McBride?" Eddie asked.

"Sure. Sorry, I promised not to get cute." The man had been facing forward, but now turned in his seat towards Eddie. He was pleasant looking, Eddie thought, and could have been a grocer in a nice suit. "Let me start over. I'm Mike."

"No last name, Mike?" Eddie asked.

"None needed. My friend McBride is worried about his welfare. He's really a good man, got a wife and two kids, you know."

"Is that so?"

"Sure. This thing that happened at the plant a few days ago could look pretty ugly if anything happened, understand, if the cops started digging around."

"I saw who did it. McBride killed LaRue." Eddie was not sure what made him say that, boldness was never one of his virtues. Still, Mike's reaction was interesting to watch. It was almost like he had stubbed his little toe.

"Yes, an unfortunate accident. We both know what happened, but all we can do is be sure no one else gets hurt." Mike waited a moment, and then his expression turned serious. "That includes you. If you start talking to the cops, there's going to be more trouble than you'll ever want. That includes you and your family. No one talks to the cops."

"Who killed Gloria?"

"Now, that's a sorry problem," Mike said. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel for a moment.

"Somehow they think I did it. I was there, but she was very alive when I left." Eddie was surprised at how he was unafraid of talking to this man. Maybe it was the fact that Mike knew everything about the murder that made this easier.

"See, I don't know much about that. A dead girl? Naw. All I can tell you is that you need to keep your mouth shut. No cops, no lawyers, nothing. You got too much to lose." Mike stopped drumming his fingers and ran his hand along the top of the wheel, then down to his left side.

"How can I say nothing? They think I killed her. They want to send me to jail, and all I did was go out on one date. I lost my wallet at her place." Eddie was sure the police would come and arrest him eventually. Now, he was sure he had been set up, and it was likely McBride.

"Did you get your wallet back?"

"Not yet."

"I wouldn't worry too much about that, if I were you. It's real simple. Talk to the cops, you're dead. You know how people disappear in this city," Mike said. He had kept his voice low the entire time, giving the chilling affect of sounding friendly, but dangerous at the same time.

Eddie reached into his pocket and took the keys out. He slid them across the dashboard, and the man caught them with a quick sweep of his hand. "Thanks for the advice."

Mike's face relaxed, then he said, "We both know what happened, but there's no reason to go around talking about it. That's only going to make things worse."

Eddie stepped out and shut the door behind him. Mike started the engine, and pulled away, the big motor effortlessly moving the car away from the curb and into traffic.

# 20

McBride was upset. He was sitting in his car in front of the courthouse, waiting to go in to talk to Harris. Not only had he found out that morning that he was having a difficult time securing funding for a group of houses on the west side, but he had also been called in to talk to this weasel, Harris. He knew Harris was going to be nothing but trouble as soon as he was elected. McBride should have tried harder to keep him out of office, but he had not imagined Harris would win the election. There had been no indications that he was anything but a backwater candidate, well out of his league. Still, he was not going to talk to Harris without his attorney at his side, and McBride would wait in his car all day if he had to.

He did not have to wait long, for a few minutes later he heard a tapping on the passenger window and saw that it was Donald Bowers. McBride got out of the car and said, "Where you been? I don't have all day."

"Kiss my butt," Donald said. "If you'd stay out of trouble, we wouldn't be down here."

"I do whatever I want. I pay you to keep me out of trouble. Got it?" McBride said as they walked up the steps to the City Hall building.

"Like we said yesterday, he doesn't have a thing on you. All he said is he wants to talk. That means he talks to me. You keep quiet unless I say so," Donald said.

"Keep quiet. It's what I do best." McBride had known Donald Bowers for years, and each knew the other's limits. Donald had gotten him out of numerous scrapes with the law.

"Go fuck yourself," Bowers said as they walked up the steps to the building. "Now, where's this idiot's office?" They went into the lobby and found a board listing all the offices in the building. After a few moments, they were able to locate the correct office and began to climb to the third floor.

More than a few people had recognized McBride when he and Bowers had entered the building. The attention McBride had brought was not lost on either of them, and he was not sure if the people were glad, scared, or indifferent to see him. Probably some of each, he reasoned. "Press," McBride said, when he saw a familiar person sitting on a bench on the other side of the lobby.

"Him? He's an ass for sure. He's coming over here to see if there's some trash he can dig out."

"McBride," the reporter said, as he approached. "Don't see you here too often."

"Stay out of our way, if you know what's good for you," Bowers said, not bothering to slow.

"Just saying hello," the reporter said, going back to the bench.

They climbed the stairs to make their way down the hall to Harris's office. Before going into the office, Donald put his hand on McBride's shoulder and stopped him for a moment. "Remember what I told you. I do the talking," Donald said.

McBride stepped forward and started pushing the door open. "Agreed."

As soon as they entered the office area, everyone working there turned around and looked at the two of them. After a few seconds, work started again, but McBride could tell they were still being watched by most of the people sitting at the desks. Scared rats in a bunch of cages, he thought. Once, when he was young, a local grocer paid boys in the neighborhood to kill rats, paying them five cents for each one caught. McBride found some younger boys to catch them for him at two cents each. When he started presenting them to the grocer in groups of ten and twenty, the deal ended.

"Where's Harris?" Donald asked the closest person.

"Third door down," the young man said.

They walked to the office door. Harris was reading a report and started when they walked in. The head rat, McBride thought, as the scruffy man quickly closed the report he was reading and did his best to compose himself.

"Don't you two knock before entering a room?" Harris said.

"Why? What good is that going to do us?" Donald said. "You called us down here. What do you want?"

Harris looked at them for a moment, clearly deciding how to respond, a reaction that Donald had no doubt counted on. "Have a seat. I need to ask the two of you a few questions about a couple of things."

"Don't waste our time with that nonsense," Donald said. "If you can't figure it out on your own, why'd you take the job?"

Harris paused to consider what was just said. Instead of engaging them in any verbal sparring, he pulled out a file from the top of the pile to his right. McBride honestly could not believe the condition of the man's office. If this was the best man for the job, McBride could do whatever he wanted in this town. Maybe if he could keep Harris's caseload flooded with petty crimes, the cops would be too busy to do much else. Harris took the file, opened it up in front of him, and began to scan the sheet before pulling a newspaper from a table behind him.

"There was an incident you may have read about in the paper a couple of nights ago," Harris said, folding the paper and tossing it across the desk so they could read the headline.

Donald shrugged his shoulders. "Sorry to hear that, but what's that got to do with us?"

"I'm afraid I did not catch your name. I'm Jerome Harris. Jerry."

After a few moments, Donald said, "I'm Donald Bowers, attorney for Mr. McBride. Now, what the hell does this have to do with my client?"

"Very simple. We know there was a connection between Mr. McBride and the victim, Gloria Jorgenson."

"She worked for me at one time," McBride began to say, before Donald put his hand on McBride's arm.

"Can you elaborate on that relationship?" Harris asked.

"I need to talk to my client privately for a moment," Donald said.

"I thought you would have done that before coming up here. There's an empty office two doors down. Take a few minutes, but we don't have all day around here."

Donald groaned and stood. McBride and Donald went to the office and closed the door. "Now what have you gotten me into? Did you know this girl?"

"She worked for me a few years ago. I own the apartment building she was living in." McBride knew that Harris had learned all of this already, since any investigator, no matter how inept, could put that together. Aside from that, he did not intend to talk about any other aspects of their acquaintance.

"Did you know this had happened? I mean, if you'd known her, seems you'd hear this had happened." Donald was getting agitated and was pacing around the room, fumbling with the change in his pocket.

"The building manager called the office. I called him back. He said the cops were all over the place," McBride said.

"Looks like this snitch thinks you're involved some way." Donald stopped pacing around the small office. "You weren't, were you?"

"Hell, no."

Donald looked McBride straight in the eye for a few long moments, then said, "Start talking about how you know her or you'll be going back in that room alone."

One thing McBride never liked was being told what to do. The only people he seldom objected to about this were his wife and Donald Bowers. Donald had gotten him out of so many problems that McBride had come to respect his legal acumen. Part of the verbal pushing and shoving was just how Donald did business. McBride had come to expect this and often worked the same way. "She walked into one of my bars about seven years ago. She was a skinny kid. Dirty, ignored, abused. She didn't have nothin'. For a kid that never went to school, she did real good. I don't think she had eaten in a couple days, so I put her to work cleaning the place. She stuck around, continued to work for me from time to time. I put her up in the apartment so's she have a nice place to live."

"What was she really like? What kind of person was she? She turning tricks, too?" Donald asked.

McBride wondered what the point of the question was, but then he could not help thinking of pinning her to the floor in the hotel room with a solid grip on her hair. She had worked for him but then turned and decided to start skimming cash. Now he had to have her taken out. "She was no whore. Her life was hard from the start, and a person can't get that out of themselves. Nice clothes and good manners don't cover everything. She was tough. Could take anything dished out to her. I'm sad this all happened."

Donald stuffed his hands into his pants pockets and paced around the room a couple of times, his head down. "Let's go back in."

They went back to Harris's office and sat down in front of the desk again. Harris had been reading the newspaper article, and he put it back on the desk when they were seated.

"Did you come to any conclusions?" Harris asked.

"My client knew her. Worked for him for a few years," Donald said.

"Do you know of anyone who would want to harm her?" Harris asked.

"Come on, copper," Donald said. "Where's this all going? Do you really think we're going to help you out here? You got elected to this job, go do it."

Harris appeared to let the comment pass without acknowledgement. "You fellas need to give me some information. We got a case. I know you own the building she lived in. An acquaintance said the victim had mentioned she knew you."

"So what the hell. She knew lots o' people. You're going to call all them in, too? You do and we'll start talkin'. 'Til then, you're on your own," Donald said.

"I can get a summons to get you to talk, if that's the way you want to play it." Harris said.

"That's the way we want to play it," Donald said, mimicking Harris. "I think you got nothin' and you're trying anything you can think of. We all know this is more than a routine questioning. You think Mr. McBride had anything to do with this?"

"All I know is that there was a relationship here. I can't form any conclusions from that."

Donald got up from his seat, and McBride did likewise. "Looks like you got nothin' but a handful of bad police work. Same thing you dimwits always have."

Harris looked up at the two of them. McBride could not help noticing the rings under his eyes and the vague attempt at covering a receding hairline with a homemade haircut. This guy was not going to last a year. "You got nothin', and you need to leave me alone," McBride said.

"One thing before you leave," Harris said as they stepped over to the door. "I want you to take a look at this report. Normally, it's against practice to do this, but I think it's important."

Donald took the sheet out of his hand and began to read through the description. McBride looked down the sheet and saw cause of death as suffocation. Jimmy had done his job. Before he turned away, he saw the words, "sexual violation." The report went on to state that there were indications of forced intercourse not long before her death. McBride read the line over three or four times, and had a difficult time believing that Eddie would have done that. Jimmy was the one. "I don't get it. Why do you want us to read this?" Donald asked. He started to hand the report back to Harris, but McBride took it from him.

"What else do you know about this?" McBride asked.

"Most of it is there," Harris said. He took the report from McBride and put it in the folder. Harris placed the folder with the stack of other folders scattered around on his desk. "The thought is that she was knocked unconscious, a fall or something, and then was suffocated. Somewhere in that time she was unconscious, she was raped."

Those last few words hung over McBride like a gathering cloud as he turned the events over in his mind. No funny stuff, that's what he had said. Jimmy would have knocked her out before he killed her. He knew what to do, but then what had he done from there? "What's the time for something like that?"

"A rape and murder? I would guess twenty years to life, if he's lucky," Harris said.

"Serious crime?"

"Very."

The three of them remained silent; Donald and McBride standing, and Harris sitting behind his desk, all three staring at the report. There was a light knock at the door. "Give me a minute," Harris said.

"Let's go," Donald said. The two of them left the office and went down the hall to the stairway. Donald stopped before stepping off the top stair. "You going to be fine with this?"

"Don't worry about me," McBride said. Then went down the stairs to the foyer and out the front of the building.

"Give me a call if he gives you any more problems," Donald said, then went to his car.

McBride watched him drive away and thought over what he had heard a few minutes ago. Gloria was supposed to die, but not that way. Her death was an unfortunate fact of doing business, but he did not want to have this type of thing happen. Make it easy. Don't let her suffer. No funny stuff. Everything he had told Jimmy, and come to expect from him, but now he screwed it up in a few minutes of bad judgment. McBride got into his car, and he was about to start it up when the advice from his cousin entered his thoughts. He turned this over in his mind for a few minutes before an idea began to form, and he saw that maybe Jimmy had done him a favor. A smart smile crossed his face as he pointed the car down the street. He had some planning to do, but he needed to act fast.

# 21

Mayor Porter was a large man in body and personality. He had never heard a discussion or argument he did not voice his opinion on, or a steak he did not like. This was what he had built his political life around. There were enemies and bruised emotions, but he was never one to lose sleep over anything. This morning, as he settled into his chair behind the enormous oak desk that was built at his request, he picked up the paper and began to scan the headlines. After a few seconds, he found the article on Gloria's murder, and knew he was going to have to call in Harris. The guy was elected with his backing to fight crime, but this kind of problem kept coming up. He hated to do this on a Tuesday before his lunchtime bridge game, but it had to be done. After that designer guy was knocked off, Porter thought there had to be some reckoning. Now he had no choice, so he picked up the phone. "Get Harris over here." He also called down to the coroner's office to get what information he could on the murder. Then it was time to look into a new road construction project that was giving him problems. The governor would be at the bridge game, and he owed him a favor, plus about $50.

At 2:00, he returned from the game refreshed and ready to take on the rest of the day. Porter bounded up the steps of the city building and burst into his office. "Mr. Harris is waiting for you," his secretary said.

"Shit," Mayor Porter said under his breath. "How long has he been waiting?"

"About thirty minutes."

Porter stood before the entrance to his outer waiting room wondering if it did much good to keep Harris on ice any longer. In a way, the long card game had served a purpose besides getting his highway plan settled. Harris would no doubt be on edge. Porter decided to just get on with it and stepped into the room. "Harris," he said as soon as the door closed. "We need to talk about the girl's murder. Get in my office."

"Mayor—Billy—there are a few interesting circumstances with this case," Harris said following him in.

"'Interesting'? Why don't you just tell me what the hell is going on? I got people running around killing each other in my city," Porter said, walking over to the window.

"This would seem to be a fairly simple case, but it looks to be related to another murder a few weeks ago," Harris said.

"That designer guy? What's the deal with that one? How come you haven't caught anybody yet?" the mayor said, continuing to look out the window.

"We're still looking into that one also."

"Now, you said there was some connection." The mayor tilted his head back and crossed his arms. He had been a trial lawyer in the past and seldom missed a chance to begin the theatrics. "I need to get to the point on this. I have a council meeting in thirty minutes. If you want a budget for your office, I better hear some progress."

"Actually, yes, we have gotten somewhere. It seems the same man was present at both murders, though we can't say he actually performed the murders," Harris said.

"You pulled this guy into custody, right?" Mayor Porter said, moving away from the window.

"Like I said, we don't have the evidence to link him up yet."

"Wait," the Mayor said, pointing at Harris while keeping one arm across his body. "You have the same person in the vicinity of the murders, and you haven't made an arrest?"

"There are some circumstances..." Harris started to say. However, he was cut off by the Mayor's fleshy fist coming down onto the desk. His penholder jumped up and clattered back into place.

"What the hell do you mean? He's at the same location—you must have proven that—and he's still out there?" Porters face began to turn a shade of red. "I don't understand. What more do you need? Isn't the fact that he was in both places enough? By this time, he should be thinking about how he looks in stripes. Oh, sure," Mayor Porter said, spreading his arms in a sweeping gesture. "A murder happens, and this Houdini just magically disappears. Is this man Houdini?"

"Well, the cases are related."

"Harris, I asked if this man is Houdini?"

"There are circumstances."

"Is...this...man...Houdini?" Porter yelled. "Answer the question."

"No, he is not."

"Then go arrest him, or I will have it done."

"I just can't do that. It looks like Clarence McBride is also involved with each case," Harris said.

"I don't care if Pontius Pilate himself was there. Get this man off the street. Do your job."

"I am," Harris protested. "This has to be done correctly, or an innocent man goes to jail. With McBride being in the mix, it complicates the matter."

Porter put his head down and crossed his arms again. He took a couple of deep breathes. "Tell me the McBride connection."

"Sir, I have to be careful who I talk to about this," Harris said.

"Jerry, who are you talking to here? Give me the details."

Harris hesitated a moment, then said, "What's mentioned does not leave this room."

"Agreed."

"It's very simple, the man at the crime scene at the shirt factory claims McBride performed the murder. The victim's girlfriend, the young lady on page one there, used to work for McBride. He even owns the building she was living in."

Porter paced back and forth a few times. "Tell me more about how this man turns up at both locations." Harris went into some of the details of the investigation. At the end of the description, the Mayor looked at his watch and said, "This young man shows up at both places. I want his ass off the streets. I got a meeting in a few minutes I have to get ready for."

"What about McBride?" Harris asked. "There's no way to ignore he's involved with both."

Mayor Porter clapped his hands together lightly. "No, there isn't. So what do you do about it?"

"How well do you know him?" Harris asked. This was a loaded question since every politician in the city knew McBride or knew of him.

"I've talked to him a few times, but haven't we all?" Porter said, fixing a stern glare at Harris. "I know when you got elected, he was very upset, though he thought you wouldn't last a month. He'll give you the runaround, Jerry."

"How dangerous is he? Would he do something like this?" Harris asked.

"I wouldn't know. We're only political associates. Anything outside of that, and I can't help you. People talk, but how much can you believe?"

Porter began moving towards the door, intending to have Harris leave. "He's hard to get to," Harris said.

Porter slapped him on the back as he opened the door. "Never said it would be easy."

Harris was ushered out of the office with no further discussion, though he tried. Mayor Porter shut the door and sat down behind his desk. The news he had just heard was disturbing, to say the least. McBride had a reputation, but he was also a man who had quietly helped sway voters in his favor during the last election. To say they were associates would be an exaggeration, but any connection like this could be a political problem. This had to be shut up quickly. It was then that he noticed the report on his desk he had asked for earlier. He opened it up and found a typed copy of the coroner's report, with the words describing forced sexual intercourse too prominent to miss. He closed the report. Not only was there a killer out there, there was a rapist, certainly not a style he would attribute to McBride. Still, two high-profile people had been taken out in a matter of weeks, and there was a path, however weak, back to one of his benefactors. Not good, but interesting. Then he tried to put it into context. The man Harris described probably did it, so Harris had to do his job and get him behind bars. Then, if McBride were in some way related to the crimes, there might be a brief embarrassing time where Porter would claim humility and shame of having worked with him. Public life was never for those who worried. In the end, this would work out. Porter put the problem in the back of his mind and left to find out why they were having problems putting streetlights up in Lower South Providence. He had voters there.

# 22

When LaRue was murdered, Harris started looking into Eddie's background. At first, that background looked like any one of thousands of young men living in Providence. Eddie had moved there recently, but this in itself was not unusual as people drifted around all the time, looking for work or needing to move on in life. The Houdini reference was typical of the mayor, and despite the situation under which the question was delivered, a tired smile crossed his face. Harris looked at the clock on the wall—he had an aversion to wristwatches—and saw it was now 7:00pm and a couple of hours of work ahead of him. He had been doing this for years, he told himself, trying to rub the fatigue out of his eyes. The files he needed to read were small enough that he could take them with him and read as he ate dinner. He took the folders, stuffed them into a dilapidated leather briefcase, and headed out the door. A few minutes later, he was at a delicatessen eating a corned beef sandwich.

Harris loved corned beef and ate too much of it. He took a few more bites and remembered the café in Baltimore his father would take him to on Saturdays. Week after week he would order the corned beef, and every time his father would ask him to try a different sandwich. His reason then was the same as now. He liked corned beef. He washed down a bite with black coffee, and with his spirits much improved, opened a report about the background on Eddie. As he began to scan from page to page, the sandwich was forgotten, and the sour mood came back. He had a problem.

***

"Eddie, hurry up." It was Sam, one of Eddie's best friends from school. They had just slipped out of class, past the watchful eye of Sister Margaret, the nun the boys referred to as "Sister Broomstick." This nickname was not given to her because she resembled a witch, but because she always had a wooden handled broom in her hand. This was often used to bring the boys back into line by smacking them on the head, or poking them in the ribs.

Eddie pulled his collar up around his ears as much as he could, trying to ward off the springtime wind coming off of Lake Erie. "It's too cold for fishing," he said to Sam as he followed him out onto the pier. Sam was a ringleader among the boys from the home, a position he had secured by sheer charisma, attitude, and a quick pair of fists.

The two of them had just sat down on the pier and dangled the hook in the water when a car pulled up and a man stepped out. "You boys stay right there," he said. He went around to the passenger side door and opened it. Sister Margaret stepped out and glared at them for several seconds before she reached into the back seat and pulled out her broom. An hour later, Sam and Eddie were back in class, each with a new lump on the back of their heads. Although all the boys hated her, they were amazed at how skilled she was with the broom. She had developed a talent for hitting them hard enough to inflict a considerable amount of pain and raise a large bruise but not break the skin.

Eddie had ended up in the school after his mother died during the influenza outbreak in 1918. A few years before that, his father had died on an ore boat on Lake Huron. Once they were all orphans, Eddie had lost contact with his two sisters and brother when they were sent to different schools. At first he was lost at the school, until he realized that the boys had formed a kind of alliance against the nuns. The nuns' mean and unforgiving nature united the boys. The leader of this group was Sam, another boy who had lost a parent to influenza. Neither of them talked about what happened to their parents—just that they were no longer around. Sam and Eddie became close friends, and they stayed that way throughout their time there, as other boys came and went.

When they left the school, they both stayed in Buffalo. Sam started to become more brazen in his actions. He began to commit small petty crimes to which Eddie was always an accomplice. They were picked up a number of times, and both began to get records. The crimes were always small enough to only end up with a fine or a day in jail.

About a year after they were out of school, Eddie had taken a job in a grocery warehouse and had started to not see Sam as often. As Sam continued on his trouble causing way, Eddie began to see the pattern his life was taking and they drifted apart. However, one morning, as he was just beginning his duties, Sam came walking in the door of the warehouse. Eddie saw him come in the large lifting door on the north end of the building. Sam stopped and asked someone a question. The person pointed in Eddie's direction. Sam turned and saw Eddie, then he waved and came walking over.

Sam had a big grin on his face as he approached. "Hey, you have to see this," he said.

"What? My boss is right over there. He'll see me if I take off," Eddie said. He had been working there for about two months. The man who had hired him had not bothered to check into any past problems Eddie may have had with the law. People working on docks and warehouses generally came and went on a regular basis, so background questions were rarely asked. If you could work and show up on time, you had a job.

"One minute. That's all. This is really something." Sam seemed to have the smile permanently attached to his face.

"Okay, one minute, then I have to be back."

Eddie could barely keep up with Sam as they went through the warehouse and into the bright morning sunlight. They walked off the premises to an alley between two buildings. Eddie saw the nose of the thing and knew exactly where Sam was going. Sam walked over and leaned on the fender of the Stutz Bearcat like he had owned it all his life. "How's this for an automobile?"

There was no question how Sam had obtained such a car, but Eddie had to ask the stunned question anyway. "Where the hell did you get that?"

"I borrowed it. Some guy said I could use it for a day."

Eddie looked at Sam for a moment with a combined awe and alert. This was a very expensive and highly noticeable car that had been stolen, and yet he was not able to pull himself away from it. He had wanted a car like that ever since he saw one go down the street a couple of years before. He still remembered the sound it made. In a way, he wanted to be Sam, with the audacity to pull this off. "Can I get in?"

"Sure, jump right in. I don't want to let you drive, since I promised the guy I would be the only one driving it."

Eddie opened the door and climbed into the tiny bucket seat. The hood looked like a big metal doghouse stretched out in front of him. The interior was straightforward, built for speed and nothing else. The driver's door opened and Sam got in next to him. "Ready to go for a ride?"

"Look, I have to get back to the warehouse. Earl's probably screaming already," Eddie said, getting out of the car. "Besides, you have to get rid of this car. The cops will pick you up in no time.

"The cops ain't a problem," Sam said, staring straight ahead. "Tell you what. Tonight we'll take this car for a spin. You and me will drive around before I get rid of it."

"I'm done at 5."

Eddie heard the whine of the electric starter, and the big six-cylinder engine roared to life. Sam put the car in gear with a mild mechanical click, and then slowly pulled away, like he had been driving the car for years. The car sped up as he went through the gears, and then it disappeared around a curve. Eddie went back inside and found that Earl had not noticed his absence, so he would not be receiving the slap to the head that came with meeting with his disapproval. Earl was like a big hairy nun.

That night, Eddie met up with Sam, and they took a ride through town. They had been driving for about half an hour when Sam pulled into a gas station. The service man came out and filled the car with gas. Sam pulled the car over and parked in front of the door. He left the engine running as he climbed out. "Want a Coke?" he asked.

"No, I'm fine," Eddie said. Sam disappeared into the gas station. Eddie was just starting to become mesmerized by the idling engine when he heard a yell. Sam came running back out the door and jumped into the car. He threw something into Eddie's lap, then jammed the car into gear and drove off, leaving flying gravel and a cloud of dust behind him.

"Let's go!" Sam yelled over the roar of the engine.

Eddie looked in his lap and saw a wad of money. He guessed there was maybe fifty dollars there, and he put the story together in an instant. Sam was piloting the car at an ever-increasing rate of speed. The wind coming over the windscreen roared in Eddie's ears. "Stop the car!" he yelled over the noise. "Stop the car! Let me out!"

"What? It's not like we haven't done this before," Sam said, a big grin on his face.

Eddie had been trying to go straight the past six months. Now he was riding in a stolen car being driven by a man who had just robbed a gas station. He could not believe what had happened, after all he had managed to do in the past few months. The new job was steady and had given him a good paycheck for the first time in his life. Sam had been out of his life for a period of time, and he had not thought too much about that. At the first opportunity, Eddie would get out of the car. He did not care where that was; he knew he had to get out and figure a way to go back to the boarding house.

Whether or not Sam saw the stop sign, he would never say. However, when he drove through it at a considerable rate of speed, the policeman immediately took off after them. Within a few minutes, they were pulled over to the side of the road, both of them face down on the ground with a boot in their backs. The car had been reported stolen earlier that day. The cops standing over them had no idea that Sam had just robbed a gas station, though this would come out later at the police station.

***

Harris closed the folder. Standard procedure from there. Sam got five years and Eddie three. Eddie served two years and then left Buffalo for Providence at the first opportunity. Either way, he had a considerable record behind him, a pattern of trouble, and this did not bode well for his prospects. Perhaps Harris had been wrong about Eddie. Maybe he really did do the crimes. He shook his head. There was no hope for him at this point. Any jury would look at that record and the evidence that put Eddie at the both murder scenes, and they would convict him in an instant.

Harris felt the weight of his job press in around him as he questioned Eddie's innocence. Harris opened the folder again for a second and realized Eddie was going to wind up on death row, and there was nothing to be done about it. There were too many details standing out there, and he had to consider that maybe he had been wrong about Eddie and should have pulled him in right from the start. Gloria might still be alive if he had. But the singer saw her, alive, right after he left. The deli was closing down in a few minutes, and he was the only customer in there. It just did not make sense. No sense at all. He closed the folder, put it back into his briefcase, and tried to go back to his dinner. After one more bite, though, there was no use in trying to finish. He left the food on the table and walked out, knowing he was going to have another sleepless night.

# 23

Eddie stepped off the trolley and began to walk down the sidewalk towards his apartment. He was in a hell of fix, with two men wanting to pull him one way or another. His choices seemed to be go to jail or wind up dead. He felt Harris would look at the problem and the facts as well as he could, but the odds were stacked against him. Eddie had been through this before, and he knew how a jury would look at a suspect with a questionable background who happened to be in the wrong place. Harris would somehow be forced to throw him in jail. The other choice was that if he went against McBride, he would end up dead before he had a chance to do anything.

He came to a trolley stop and sat on a bench to think through this. Once again, he had gotten himself into a problem. The problems with Sam started innocently enough, and he wound up in jail for two years. This time he happened to be working late, putting his life back together, and two people were dead. Two people he did not really know, but now were somehow knit into his life. He put his head in his hands and squeezed his eyes shut. What a messed up life from the start. Life was good until his father disappeared in a storm. Even after that, his mother did a decent job raising him, and life began to return to normal. Then she died, and he was cast out with the other unwanted children. Any time things started to get better, they quickly became worse than before. Even now, when he was doing everything right—job, school, good friends—he was going to end up right where he was a few years back.

Eddie put his hands on his knees, pushed himself up from the bench, and started walking back to the apartment. Then it occurred to him that there was a third choice that he had been considering but had not taken seriously. He could run. That's what Gloria told him. He turned this over in his mind and wondered if this might be his only real choice. Of course, Harris would have no alternative but to pursue him, and if he were caught, he would certainly be convicted. But how was that any worse than where he was now? At least this gave him a chance. And McBride—what would he care if he disappeared into thin air? Eddie had heard of people heading out west and changing their names, starting a new life. Many men were riding the rails as anonymous people hoping to blend into the landscape. All he had to do was keep his mouth shut about where he came from and no one would know. Just another jobless man in a crowd of jobless men. Maybe he would go out west. He could get a job on a ranch where people never asked questions as long as you did the work you were supposed to. Eddie saw all this in his mind and wondered how long before he would convince himself that this was the only real choice he had.

When Eddie came to his apartment building, a young man about his age that he had never seen there before was sitting on the front step. As he approached, Eddie did not give him any notice, but the man stood up and asked, "Are you Eddie Griffin?"

The hair on the back of Eddie's neck stood up for a moment, as he had been through too many of these moments in the past month. "Who wants to know?" Eddie said, setting his feet as best as he could.

"My name is Patrick, and my grandfather is Larry O'Connor. Have you heard of him?" Patrick asked. The young man was quiet, for some reason not what Eddie had been expecting.

"I've heard the name, but that's about it." Eddie said. He looked at Patrick for a moment, trying to sense if there was any danger in his appearance, or if he might be a distraction for someone else.

"He's an enemy of Clarence McBride's. He knows the trouble you're in, and how Harris will probably need to arrest you," Patrick said, his voice steady and level.

"How do you know this?" Eddie asked.

"Not much happens that he isn't aware of." Patrick held out an envelope that Eddie took. Inside was a slip of paper with a phone number on it. "He's prepared to help you out, if you want him to."

"What's in it for him?" Eddie said. O'Connor and his type never offered help unless there was payment or obligation in return.

"I have no idea. Call the number and talk to him yourself. There's no commitment on your part if you call." Patrick stayed there for a moment, and then added, "That's all I have. I encourage you to at least call him. He might be able to help you out. I think you're in a bad position right now and could use whatever help was provided."

Patrick walked by Eddie, leaving him standing on the first step holding the envelope. Eddie watched him disappear around the corner of the building. He looked at the slip of paper again. The idea of a person offering him a way out was appealing, but at what cost? After all that had happened in the past few weeks, Eddie was not surprised at the offer. He went into his apartment and left the slip of paper on the table while he did his best to fix some beans and a small piece of meat for his dinner.

The apartment was mostly quiet as he ate. By that time of the day, he always heard numerous people come in and out of the building. Radios would be turned on to catch to the news; kids would be told to go out and play while mother fixed dinner. These were the sounds he was used to, but today he wondered if he would be hearing them for much longer. O'Connor must have had a plan for him to go to this kind of measure. Calling and talking to him would not do any harm. Patrick was right, and it only confirmed what Eddie knew: the deck was stacked against him at that point, and there would only be one result.

There was really no choice. Eddie knew that if he did not call, he would always wonder what this option was. Besides, he knew, having been down this road before, that it was only a matter of time before Harris and Thomas pulled him in and locked him up to await trial.

Eddie dialed the number and on the third ring, an older man answered.

"Are you Mr. O'Connor?" Eddie guessed.

The person on the other end cleared his throat. "Yes I am. I'm assuming this is Eddie Griffin?" he said in a slight Irish brogue.

"Yes," Eddie replied. He had the sudden thought that he should have prepared a few questions before he called to try to find out what this was all about.

"I take it you have been told of my offer," O'Connor said.

Eddie thought for a moment, and wondered if he should simply hang up. Maybe this would all go away. He thought better of it. "I'm not accepting anything. I want to know what your real plan is."

O'Connor laughed quietly. "Maybe we should meet in person."

"No," Eddie said. "Not before you tell me what my obligation is in this. I know you don't want to do this just to take care of me."

"You're correct. I had a feeling you would want to know these things. Briefly, I want to trap McBride, and you're part of that. You saw him kill this LaRue, or you at least have valuable information concerning that matter." Eddie could hear O'Connor take a deep breath. He continued, "I'm going to try to be legitimate about this, and I know Harris can't protect you. I'm the only person in the city who can."

"Protect me? Do you really think they can get McBride to stand trial?" Eddie had never heard of a crime boss being stopped by legalities.

"I don't know, but let's talk about this in private."

They stayed like that for several moments, but Eddie knew O'Connor was right. "Tell me where, and I'll be there tomorrow morning."

"You need to make a decision now. You don't have time. Come out this evening."

Eddie wondered how come he had not already been arrested. O'Connor was right. He had to do this right away. "I'll be there are soon as I can."

After getting directions, Eddie left on the next trolley, and then he caught a bus to get to the part of town where O'Connor lived. He had to walk the last half mile through a quiet, deserted neighborhood of large, stately homes. As he had been told to do, he knocked on the front door, and after a few moments, someone inside let him in. The man who led him through house said nothing as they passed through a few rooms to a small library, where another man, presumably O'Connor, was sitting before a fireplace, reading a newspaper.

"Mr. O'Connor?" Eddie asked.

"Please have a seat," O'Connor said, indicating to a chair across from him. "Excuse me for not getting up. My knees are very painful today. Can I get you anything?"

Eddie had not come there for food, drink, and pleasant conversation. His patience with this entire ordeal had come to an end, and he had no further need to dance around the questions. "What do you want with me?" he asked.

"Hm," O'Connor said, sizing Eddie up. "We're going to need to work together. I don't want to start out improperly."

O'Connor's position in the local crime community came back to Eddie. "I'm sorry to be impolite, but this has been a long difficult time."

"I understand. I'll be brief." O'Connor shifted around in his seat, grimacing as he did so. Eddie guessed that more than his knees were hurting. "I hate McBride. He's an arrogant bastard who's pushing in on my territory. He's unnecessarily violent. I believe the only reason you're still alive is so he can manipulate Harris. If it wasn't for that, you'd be dead."

Eddie had not thought about McBride using him to pull down Harris. It made sense. "All true. How does my being with you change this?"

"There are many ways to stop a man. You can kill him, injure him, cause him to be his own worst enemy, anything. I have a chance to take care of this through the law." O'Connor put his long, heavy fingers of both hands together in front of his face. "I can be the law if I want to be. If I have a chance to parade McBride in front of the public, I'm going to do it. It's very simple. Given enough time, Harris may find enough evidence eventually to tie these two murders to McBride. I don't think he has that much time. But I can buy him time, and you're the key to this."

"I was there at both. If Harris needs me, can't he provide protection?"

O'Connor laughed the same laugh Eddie had heard over the phone. "The cops in this town can only do so much. Besides, once they drag you into jail, you won't stand a chance."

"Have you talked to Harris about your plan?" Eddie guessed there must have been some cooperation.

"Absolutely not. A good, hard-working man, but he has no idea how this city works." O'Connor leaned forward. "I run it and will continue to do so. I need to get rid of McBride and control Harris. You're my best bargaining chip."

"How would this work? Where would you keep me?" There was no denying he was intrigued—plus a chance to sit out while the dust settled was appealing.

"I have places. You'll be safe and anonymous. You'll be safe, basically working for me."

Eddie watched the old man, certainly battered by years of running a criminal organization, yet still alert. "You're a long ways from convicting anybody. What happens to me if this doesn't work?"

O'Connor moved his hands away from his face and leaned forward in the chair. This time he did not grimace. "You have to understand. If I need evidence, I can produce whatever is needed. As for you, if this doesn't work, you're on your own, which is better than what you're facing right now, conviction and prison. Death row."

"You can do that?" Eddie asked, though he already knew the answer. O'Connor leaned back and smiled, answering the question without saying a word. Eddie gave this a few more seconds thought. "What's to keep me from just running away?"

"Then you'll be a fugitive. Everyone will be looking for you," O'Connor said. "I'll tell them where to look. You won't have a chance."

"Won't I look like I ran anyway?" Eddie asked.

"I'll talk to Harris and the mayor. They'll be under pressure to pull you in, but I can hold them off for a few weeks until we get what we need."

"Okay, let's do it. Can I get a few things from my apartment?"

"We'll drive you back. Take what you need, but pack light."

# 24

After a quick visit to Eddie's apartment, Charlie, one of O'Connor's men, drove into the early evening, not saying much. Charlie drove quickly, but not fast enough to attract attention. Eddie settled in as best as he could under the circumstances. The car was nice and comfortable; at least that was a relief.

"Where we going?" Eddie asked.

Charlie moved his hands on the wheel a bit. "Don't worry about it."

There was nothing else for Eddie to think about, so of course he worried. A few hours ago, he was going to run away completely, and now he might be in deeper than before. He had to find a way to contact Herman or Harris—or someone. But for now, he was trapped where he was, with a problem he could do little about.

They drove through the night, not saying much other than occasionally talking sports. Long periods of silence fell in between. Eddie only learned that Charlie, a well-dressed man probably in his late 30s, did things for O'Connor. Eddie tried to find out what these things were, but he only received vague, uncomfortable answers, and he guessed there was occasional violence involved. Eddie had met a few men like him when he was doing time. Most used a plain exterior and could be friendly in normal conversation. However, there always seemed to be a point at which they would turn, and the open smile and banter would drop away. During most of his incarceration, Eddie kept to himself and stayed out of trouble. Things happened—fights, disagreements, guards pushing people around—but he was good at laying low and not being noticed. This was another case where he had to use that skill.

"I'll wait and see where we end up, I guess."

Charlie let out a sigh, and repeated, "Don't worry about it." This was the last word said for the next two hours.

Through the rest of the drive, Eddie had made up his mind that he would go along with whatever game O'Connor and McBride were playing, with the thought that he was more valuable to them alive than dead. This would buy him some time until that value went away for any reason. Eddie had to think about that. This was probably his only advantage at this point.

They had driven west for three or four hours, but the roads were still decent. As near as Eddie could guess, they were somewhere in central Connecticut, maybe north of Hartford. Charlie had stopped for gas once.

"You know there aren't any more filling stations open this late," Eddie said. They had been silent for the last hour, and the statement just kind of came out without him thinking about it.

"We're almost there," Charlie said.

"Where's that?" Eddie asked stretching his legs as best as he could. "And what are you planning to do with me for the next few weeks?"

"Let me answer the first question. I'm taking you to a friend's house, who'll keep an eye on you while you're gone. He's a good friend of mine. As for the second question, I don't know. Once I drop you off, that's all I have to do."

"So what happens if I just run away? What if I call Harris and tell him what happened?"

"If you run, you won't get far. If you do run, everyone'll be after you. Us, McBride, the cops. I imagine you can call Harris if you want, but that might be even worse. Maybe he'll believe you, maybe not. Doesn't really matter. Think about it. O'Connor rewards loyalty, and he's doing you favor. Don't screw it up." Charlie slowed the car down and pulled into a driveway that was on the edge of a small town. The drive went up a hill and eventually broke into a clearing where a house was. The place looked fairly nice, as much as he could make out in the dark. Charlie pulled around behind the house, where there appeared to be at least three more cars. He stopped behind them and said, "Time to get out. This is where you're staying for a few days."

Eddie took the suitcase out of the back seat and proceeded to the door. Charlie was behind him, preventing any sort of escape. From inside he heard some men talking, followed by laughter. Then there was a lady's voice. She sounded older. Eddie stopped at the door, not sure if he should knock or walk in. Charlie solved the dilemma by reaching around and opening the door for him.

When they walked into the house, all conversation stopped and everyone looked at them. There was a pause, then a general acknowledgement of recognition. Everyone seemed to know Charlie, but Eddie noticed there was as a chill in the banter from a moment before. They invited them to sit down at the dinner table in the main room.

Once they were settled, the other men in the room went back to joking and smoking cigars, though they all seemed to be stealing sidelong glances in his direction. After a few minutes, an older woman came into the room.

"Hey Margie, look what Charlie brought in," one of them said. "Looks like we're babysitting some shitkicker now."

A round of laughter went through the room, though Charlie only smiled weakly. "You know the rules, Nelson. No swearing in my house," Margie said, glaring across the room. The laughter quickly subsided, and Eddie immediately knew who was in control. "You use that language in here again, and I'll have you thrown out. I feed men like you; give you a place to stay now and then." She turned to Eddie and Charlie. "You two gentlemen need a bite to eat?"

Eddie had not been hungry all day, despite the fact they had not stopped to eat. Still, he felt he would need something.

"Sure," Charlie said. "Whatever you got will be fine." Margie disappeared into the kitchen.

"So, looks like you're doing well for yourself," Nelson said, getting up and leaning against a doorjamb.

"Not bad. Can't complain," Charlie said. The room was fairly quiet as the other four men began paying attention to what they were saying.

"I mean, you got some mighty fine clothes there, and you're drivin' what? Something with a big motor? That's what I heard drive up."

"Hey Nelson, take it easy. He's just here to drop him off," another man said.

"Don't worry about it," Charlie said. "I do what I have to do. You know that."

There was a general stiff nodding of heads in the room when Charlie said that. Eddie could guess there was a tinge of fear and envy. Charlie looked to be much smoother than the others in the room; his clothes were nicer, his hair was trimmed, and his hands were clean.

Nelson smiled. A display of poor dentistry showed itself. "You always were the one to take care of people. I guess that pays well."

A few moments later, Margie came back into the room with two plates with what appeared to be pot roast and assorted cooked vegetables, and a couple of rolls. "I had this left over from earlier. You two eat up. There's more if you need it; just help yourself. I'm turning in for the night." A general chorus of good-nights came from around the room as she left.

Charlie positioned the plate of food in front of him, placed a napkin in his lap, and began to eat in small, measured bites. Eddie, to his surprise, found the food was tasty and well prepared. Nelson joined the other men in the sitting area, leaving Charlie and Eddie at the table. A few seconds later, they were joined by the man had stopped the conversation between Nelson and Charlie.

"So who's your friend?" he asked Charlie while looking at Eddie.

"Name's," Charlie said, and then paused. "Ed? What do you call yourself?"

"Eddie. I go by Eddie."

The other man stretched his hand across the table. "Carl. Carl Nickels." They shook hands, then he asked, "So why you traveling with Charlie? You working for O'Connor?"

Eddie was not sure how to answer that, but Charlie spoke for him. "This is who we're supposed to watch."

"Oh, him. I wasn't expecting him for a few days."

Charlie kind of lowered his head and continued eating. He looked at Eddie and said, just loud enough for the three of them to hear, "Remember what he said. We keep him out of sight for now, but that's it. We'll let you know what to do after a while."

"What's up? He do something we need to know?" Carl asked.

Charlie took a few more bites of the pot roast. He leisurely chewed then swallowed. "Don't ask me that."

Carl moved in his seat. Eddie knew Charlie was much more dangerous than his demeanor would indicate. Carl put his hands on the table in front of him. "Ok. I'll just have to take him with us wherever we go. He might see a few things, you know. We got booze coming in from Canada tomorrow."

Charlie thought about this. "That's fine. Keep him out of sight. Put somebody on him so he doesn't get away."

Carl went back to the sitting area and Eddie and Charlie finished their dinner in silence. When the food was gone, Eddie asked, "So, what happens now?"

"Hell if I know," Charlie said. He leaned in towards Eddie. "Look, you're in a mess. You upset the wrong man—McBride—but for some reason, you're alive. In my book, you're one lucky son of a bitch. I'd do what O'Connor says and stay with them. They're not as selective as I am. Nelson'll shoot you on the spot if you tie your shoes wrong, assuming he knows what wrong is." With that, no goodbye or a word from anyone in the house, Charlie left. Eddie stood by the door for a moment, and then turned around.

"I'm glad he's gone," one of the men said.

Eddie came back to the dining table and sat down. He was not sure what to do or why he was really there. The others seemed to be ignoring him as he twisted a napkin around his finger. He thought back to what Charlie had just said about him being lucky, and thought it was, in fact, just the opposite. This had all started long before LaRue was shot, or even before he met Sam. The day he was told his father had gone down in a shipwreck was when all this began. He had been sitting on the front porch of their house when a strange man had come up the sidewalk and stopped by him. "Your mother home?" he asked. Even at age ten, Eddie had known the tone of the man was one of sadness. Eddie had said she was inside. He had patted Eddie on the head as he had gone up the steps and knocked on the door. His mother had apparently recognized him when she had come to the door; Eddie had seen the look on her face when she let him in. These types of visits had happened before to others, and she had known who the man was. A few minutes later, Eddie had heard her crying and trying to talk around the dissolve of her composure. The man had come back out and left without saying a word to Eddie. His life had changed dramatically that day. Since then, he had seen one batch of trouble follow another. His mother would be gone a few years later in the influenza outbreak. From there, he had spent his growing up years in the orphanage. The events following from there had led him directly to where he was at that moment. Some people had done well. Many had bet on the stock market and done amazingly well. Eddie had worked late one night for extra money and now was a hostage of some gangster.

"So what's your story, anyway?"

"What?" Eddie said, looking up. He had dropped into such a state he had not noticed Nelson had sat down at the table across from him.

"Why's O'Connor want us to watch you?" Nelson said.

Nelson had a look about him that was not altogether focused. Eddie knew he was the type that might be talking, smiling, and laughing, but would always seem to be looking at a place beyond you. To say men like Nelson were crazy would be too simple, but Eddie had few other words to describe it. They seemed to believe they had control over those tendencies that got them into trouble, but they kept leaking out. Eddie saw no reason to lie. "I saw McBride kill a man."

"Shit that," Nelson said, pushing back from the table. "Everybody in this room seen that, or heard of it."

"I wasn't supposed to see it," Eddie said. Nelson displayed the broken discolored teeth again.

"So what do you do? You supposed to be running with us?" Nelson asked.

"I was working late one night and McBride come in. They shot a man, and I saw it. He's been after me ever since."

Nelson took one of rolls left on the table and took a bite. He chewed it with the seriousness of a man who occasionally did not have enough to eat. "Aw, McBride, he ain't nothin'. So what. You had a real job?"

Eddie thought about this for a moment, and struck upon an idea. "I was working as a janitor. It's hard to find a job when you've done time."

Nelson stopped chewing on the roll. His big brown eyes lit up. "What the hell for? A clean shit like you?" He turned around to the other men in the room. "Hey, come on over and hear this."

The other three men gathered around the table. Eddie looked each man in the face. "Armed robbery. Did two years." He recounted the story about him and Sam. Eddie embellished in a few places to make it look like he had more of a hand in the robbery. "I've been straight ever since I got out," he said finishing the story. If it was possible to get respect from these men, Eddie guessed he had gotten some.

"I'll be goddamned," Nelson said.

The other three returned to the sitting room. "So tell me," Eddie asked, "what's the story with Charlie?"

"Charlie," Nelson began. His face dropped and he seemed to grit his teeth. "He's what you call an arranger. O'Connor asks him to take care of his problems. If he needs to talk to somebody, he talks to them. If he needs to make them disappear, they disappear."

"Don't like him much?" Eddie asked. He should have read Nelson better than he had.

He placed both hands on the table and practically spat the words out. "He runs errands, and can afford nice clothes and a fast car. Me and these boys," he said, with an exaggerated sweep of his hand, "we're out here doing the real work. Charlie's back in Providence, driving fast cars and paying to keep his dick busy."

Eddie was not sure if he should change the subject. Instead, he decided to make a neutral comment. "We didn't talk much on the way out."

As fast as the anger came on, it was gone. Nelson stood up and said in a loud voice, "I'm turning in." He went up the stairs.

After Nelson had left the room, Carl came over to the table. "Now what do I do?" Eddie asked him.

"Well, I got a strange problem with you. O'Connor said to keep an eye open and not let you get away. But, on the other hand, he wants you taken care of like the rest of the boys here." Carl pulled a pouch of tobacco out of his pocket and started rolling a cigarette. "You wanna smoke?"

"No, thank you. So what's this mean? I just travel around with you?" Eddie asked.

"That's the way I see it. Don't try anything funny or Nelson will have his fun. There's a room up the stairs to the left. When you're ready to go to sleep, we're going to lock you in. We're waitin' here to meet some people in a few days." Carl finished rolling the cigarette and lit it with a match he ignited with his thumbnail. He blew a cloud of smoke towards the ceiling.

Eddie studied Carl for a moment. He appeared to be the man in control of whatever this operation was. "You don't like having me around, do you?"

"No, I don't. I don't need another person to keep track of, especially if I'm having to baby-sit his ass. Unless..."

Eddie waited for him to complete the thought. He had a feeling Carl would want him to pull his weight with the group. He had already gained a certain respect from them. If he could earn their respect, he might have a chance to get on better. "I can help out. No use just driving me around."

"Got any special skills?" Carl asked. He appeared to be interested. "You act like you got some education."

"Not much really. I have about a two semesters' worth of business school."

"Really," Carl said. This seemed to perk him up. He had appeared like he was ready to fall asleep, but now his eyes opened wide.

"Accounting, really. I can keep the books for you. Other than that, I don't know, I can load trucks, drive a car." Eddie could see that he had struck an interest with Carl. He had not dreamed that he might be able to help the mob by using his accounting skills, though one of his professors said a college education would pay off in ways he could never imagine.

"You know, none of the other boys got a lick of book smarts. They're good boys. Nelson's a wild one, but sometimes.... Let's just say they're not always the swiftest." Carl laughed. "Freddie over there once drove a truck of Canadian into a pond. We met back on this dirt road to make the exchange. He tried to turn the truck around on the road and got the one of the back wheels off the side. He gets to panicking, screams and jumps out and the truck slowly slides over the edge. We 'bout pissed our pants, it was so funny. Took us all day to get it out and back on the road."

The pleasant manner Carl was portraying put Eddie at ease for a few moments. He did his best to laugh at the story. "I don't know if you want me driving a truck, but whatever you need."

Carl smiled and exhaled at the same time. He stretched and yawned. "Margie makes a good pot roast. This is a good place to hang out until we need to move on. Go to bed. We'll talk in the morning."

Eddie picked up his small suitcase and went up the stairs to the room Carl had described. He went in and turned on the light. What he found was a small yet comfortable bedroom, with a nicely made bed and a small dresser with a washbowl on it. He was there for a few seconds when Carl came up, closed the door behind him, and locked it. There was a window in the room with the curtain closed. He opened the curtain and found that the window was bolted shut. He truly was locked in. After a moment's contemplation, he realized his best chance was to play this out for a few days before trying anything. He could not remember for sure, but he thought there did not appear to be a telephone in the house. Eddie turned off the light, took his clothes off, and got into the bed. Margie also kept a tidy house, since the bed linens felt clean and ironed. After some rolling around, he eventually fell asleep thinking he might actually be able to figure a way out of this.

# 25

After talking to Mr. Aron, it only took Harris a few seconds to suspect Eddie had left town. When he arrived at the shirt factory, he had a difficult time stopping Mr. Aron long enough to find out if Eddie had even shown up. As it turned out, he was running around trying to cover for the work Eddie would have been doing. Mr. Aron was none too happy to see the authorities in his factory, and he spared no time blaming them for Eddie's absence. On the ride over to Eddie's apartment, Harris could only imagine the reaction he would receive when the Mayor learned of Eddie's disappearance.

Harris was alone when he went into the apartment building. Considering all that transpired, Harris wondered if he needed to call in some help. After all, McBride would not hesitate to have Eddie taken out, since he was now an inconvenience. Harris balanced that with the thought of someone inside, dying, or recently killed. In an attempt to be safe, he stepped to the side of the door and knocked. He waited a moment, and then knocked again.

"Eddie, you in there?" he said. There was no sound or indication that there was anyone inside. He tried the door and found that it was unlocked. He stepped in.

What he expected was to find a person dead, or at least a sign of commotion. Instead, he found relatively nothing. He stood in the living room a moment to give it a good examination. There was nothing but the usual clutter of a man living a bachelor life. This would cause considerable problems. The mayor, and the general public for that matter, would assume Eddie was guilty, since he had run, yet there was still a possibility he had been taken by force. A suspect who runs automatically has the guilty label attached to him. It was not fair, but that was how juries looked at these cases. McBride was surely behind this. Harris had to give him credit: the man was smart. He had been outmaneuvered by him at every turn so far and was probably not done yet. McBride was likely threatened by having Harris investigating him and would not stop until he was removed from office.

He went into the bedroom and saw that some of the drawers looked empty. Harris was careful to touch as few of the surfaces as he could, since there was likely a person other than Eddie in the room in the last day or so. There could be a match with the strange fingerprints they lifted from Gloria's apartment, though she had been known to have a constant stream of visitors. Harris left the apartment to call Thomas. A formal investigation of the scene was needed.

***

Harris was sitting in his office later that day when one of his assistants brought in a late edition of the _Providence Journal_. There was no use in getting up from his chair to see what the headline read.

"Set it on the table," he said. The assistant left the paper on top of the stack of files, and then went out the door. The curiosity got the better of Harris, and he picked up the edition.

KILLER ON THE RUN

He scanned over the first few paragraphs and found that some of the facts stated were true. Others were suppositions arranged to support the facts. His name was mentioned once or twice, and he was sure he would not get out of the building without being mobbed by the press. The article really was not going to add anything to the case, so he put it back on the desk and leaned forward in his chair. Harris closed his eyes and tried to imagine what might have happened.

The paper made it sound obvious that Eddie had simply run. However, people disappeared all the time, both on their own and by force. Being taken by force seemed the most logical to him, which would lead to McBride. This made more sense than anything, since in any case against McBride, Eddie would be a star witness. He tilted his chair back. God, he was tired. The phone rang.

"Harris," he said into the receiver.

"My office, now," the caller said, and then hung up. Harris put the phone back on the cradle. He knew Mayor Porter's steak-fed growl anywhere.

***

The Mayor's face turned bright red. "What the hell happened?" the Mayor roared as soon as Harris closed the office door.

"I'm not entirely sure. I went over to talk to him and he wasn't at his apartment," Harris said. His voiced sounded forced and tight.

"Well, if you would've tossed him in jail like I said, we wouldn't be having this conversation." The Mayor sat down in his chair with a theatrical movement of throwing his arms in the air. "Didn't I say I didn't want this guy out on the street? Doesn't that mean go get him and drag his ass in?"

"There was no solid proof to have him arrested."

Porter slapped both hands on his desk. "What do you mean there was not proof? He was at both murder scenes wasn't he? What more do you need?"

"I think he's being set up."

Mayor Porter rolled his eyes to the ceiling. "Fine. How could he be set up? Tell me your fabulous theory on how he's been set up."

Harris recounted his conversations with Eddie and McBride. To his credit, the mayor listened closely to everything Harris said. Harris began to describe what he saw at the apartment. "I went into the apartment, and it looked like he had packed a few things."

"So, you think there's some connection with this young man's disappearance and McBride?" the Mayor said in a much quieter voice.

"Yes, I do. Eddie does not seem the type to simply run."

"What's this guy's background?"

Harris tightened his lips across his teeth. Eddie's prior record was not going to help. "The guy's an orphan. Grew up getting smacked by nuns and started doing petty crimes. He was in a stolen car one night when a friend of his robbed a gas station. He served two years."

"Goddamn it, Harris."

Harris paced back and forth in the office for a moment. He had been in there numerous times and had never noticed the carpet had small marks where the nap was disturbed. This was an odd time to see this, but for some reason it came through. "I still don't think this guy did it."

"I think he did. Either way, he has to be caught."

"I hate calling the Feds. Makes it look like we messed up." As soon as he said it, he wished he could take the words back.

"You did mess up. Miserably. The man is guilty in my book. I know the law says innocent until proven guilty, but let's be honest. When a guy goes on the run, it's guilty until proven innocent. I don't know how you're going to keep your job after this. Look at this." He held up a copy of the edition that Harris had seen earlier. "Your name's all over this. This kind of crap keeps us out of office. I'm on the hook for it, too."

"I'll make the call. There's a picture in his file. We'll get it posted."

By the middle of the afternoon, Harris had contacted the BOI. They sent over a person to gather the information and begin putting the wanted notice together. It would be a few days before they could get the photonegative from Buffalo, but in the meantime, they started putting together the rest of the notice with all his vital statistics. They made plans to distribute the poster throughout the region and hit cities farther west. Harris and Thomas knew about where McBride's operation extended to, and they made an educated guess of where Eddie might be. They then began to look at various train lines and where they might lead. Unfortunately, the train system had grown so fast in the previous few years, in a week's time he could be most of the way across the country.

Harris returned to his office later that day, after many of the other workers had left. When he was getting ready to sit down at his desk, he noticed a piece of paper in the seat, stating that he was to call a certain number. The office secretary had long since realized that putting notes on his desk was useless, so she started putting them in his chair. He dialed the number and sat down as the phone on the other end rang. An older man answered.

"This is Jerry Harris returning your call, what can I do for you?" Harris said.

"Mr. Harris, I'm Larry O'Connor, we need to talk about Eddie Griffin. Would you like to come out to my house for a few minutes?" O'Connor said.

For a moment, Harris thought this was a prank call, but then he thought back to what he had heard about O'Connor. He had been seldom seen in a few years, though everyone knew he still controlled a vast organization. "We can talk over the phone. First, let me say, I don't deal with criminals in any way."

Harris heard a slight low laugh come over the phone. "Let's start by agreeing on a few things. We both want to bring McBride down."

This was a point of agreement, barely, thought Harris. "For different reasons. I want to stop him, and also, frankly, people like you, because of what you do. You want to stop McBride because he's in your same territory."

"All true," O'Connor said. "I can't disagree with you in any way."

"We agree on a relatively small point. Now, what about Eddie Griffin?" Harris said. He felt he had no patience for extended conversation, especially with a crime boss.

"I have Eddie. He's safe and will remain so," O'Connor said.

"Where?" Harris said, picking up a pencil, preparing to write down any information. "What did you do to him?"

"Nothing. He decided to come on his own. He knew there was no way the cops could protect him. Am I right that you were going to arrest him?" O'Connor said.

"Yes. We have to," Harris said, setting the pen down.

"I think we both know it was only a matter of time before McBride got him. Do you think he's innocent?" O'Connor asked. Harris knew O'Connor had him on this point.

"A man is innocent until proven guilty, but some of the facts are confusing." Harris could not volunteer a true answer, since he himself was as unsure as he ever was.

"That's not much of an answer, so let me tell you what I want to do. Yes, I want McBride gone, and I want to take over his organization. I know Eddie is key to doing that. He saw the murder of that designer LaRue, and LaRue worked for me. I have to do this. Eddie was there at that woman's place, but he's McBride's pawn in this whole thing. If you can find a way to arrest McBride, I'll produce Eddie," O'Connor said.

"Real noble of you. Why would you help me?" Harris asked.

"I can produce evidence if it's needed. I have the star witness. I can save your career. Porter's, too."

"And I—we—would owe you for that," Harris said.

"It's always a negotiation. You're a lawyer; you know that," O'Connor said.

Though tempting, Harris had no intention of ever cutting these kinds of deals. "The BOI, state and local officials will be looking for him soon. I don't need your help."

"Feds," O'Connor said, almost snorting. "When have they ever stopped me?"

Harris knew O'Connor wielded more power and influence than anyone in that city, but Harris had few options except to let the BOI know. "Just promise me one thing: that you won't harm him."

"I have no reason to, but I can't guarantee anything. Eddie didn't do anything to me. However, McBride will be looking for him. Once they put a price on his head, every crooked sheriff will be watching, too. I can't control them. I'd recommend you not tell the Feds about this conversation; give your boy a better chance to survive."

O'Connor hung up. Dealing with criminals as partners was a quick way to an end. He was not so naïve as to think this did not happen, but he believed partnering with criminals had to end if there was any hope of stopping men like O'Connor and McBride. Harris crumpled up the phone message and tossed it at the trashcan. The wad of paper bounced off the rim and fell to the floor. He did not bother to pick it up. As he looked at the paper, he wondered if what O'Connor said about Eddie's safety was true. There was no need to tell the BOI that O'Connor was involved, but he could tell them where to look. Harris groaned and picked up the paper wad, thinking for some odd reason that he might need that number again. He smoothed the message out on the desk before putting it in his pocket.

# 26

Once the photos came in from Buffalo, Harris had his doubts whether they would be good enough. Thomas was in his office when he opened the package. Harris handed the first one to him.

"Hm," Thomas said as he stared at the picture of the nineteen-year-old. "He's changed a lot in the last few years."

"It's all we got. Any way to touch up the photos?" Harris asked.

"I don't know. I can talk to the boys in the photo lab, but I don't think there's much we can do. We'll do our best with a good description."

They both thumbed through the pictures for a few minutes. "This is probably the best." Harris held up one of the mug shots. The quality was grainy, but many of the prison photos were like that. The last few years had seen a big improvement in photography, but some of the prisons and police departments still used older equipment and developing processes.

"Good as any," Thomas said. "I'll get it started."

A few minutes after Thomas left, BOI agent Henry Silvia was standing in his office, wanting information. They had met before under more agreeable circumstances. "Give me more on this, Jerry," he said, leaning on the desk.

"Haven't you read the reports?" Harris had sent carbon copies of the reports over to Henry a couple of days before.

"Come on, Jerry, anybody can read a report. There's always more on a person that can't be wrote down. Let's be honest here. We're both cops, right?"

Harris knew that Henry Silvia was aware of his background, and it did not include being a cop. He just wanted to hear Silvia say it. "Cut it out. You know I'm not a cop. I was elected to this office."

Henry pulled his hand off the desk and stood up straight. "Right. So tell me this: Why do my boys need to run all over the country looking for this guy? Why didn't you get him here?"

Harris stared at the man for few moments. He laughed. "You're so predictable. Do you know who Clarence McBride is?"

"Of course I do. We all know what he's about."

"I have a suspicion that Eddie Griffin is being set up by McBride." Henry was not known for being the quickest mind in law enforcement, but he was thorough. The man would want to know why they needed to do this, and the complete story.

"McBride might do that. But you have to admit, being an ex-con and having two dead bodies looks bad. What's McBride's deal in this?"

"Honestly, I think the only reason is to make us run around. When we look bad, he looks good. Me, especially. Seems to be working fairly well so far." Henry's outlook visibly changed. He took his fedora off and rolled it around in his hands.

"McBride's one mean, smart bastard. Thank God most of them are just mean. They're easier to catch. You're wanting to pin this on McBride, and the only way to do this is to bring this man in?"

"Exactly. I should have arrested him, just for his own protection." This went against everything he stood for, but the thought did cross his mind. If he could have locked him up somewhere, Eddie would at least be safer. "For all we know, he's already dead."

"Chances are he is. You only get a few days before the odds catch up. The longer he's out there, the worse off he is."

He had made too many mistakes on this one, and now he was doing the one thing that was hardest for him: ask for help. At least he felt Henry was now receptive to what they were trying to do. "How's the notice coming along?"

"It'll be ready tomorrow. We got the picture, and the printer's putting it together. We'll run off about a thousand copies and start putting them up in post offices and police stations."

"Okay. I've been thinking. If he ran west, what are the most likely places he would be?" Harris had been thinking about this since the morning he went to Eddie's apartment and learned he was gone.

"Follow the train lines and highways. Maybe he knows people that way. He got friends that way?"

"A few. I'll let you know," Harris said.

"Sure." Henry toyed with his hat some more. "Anyone see him leave?"

"Nobody that wants to admit it." They both knew that dead ends were a common part of case like this, and the only choice was to keep investigating and hope that an idea or good piece of evidence turned up.

Henry put his hat back on. "We'll keep working it," he said, then went out of the door.

Harris heard him walk out his office and through the room outside his door. A few moments later, he heard the outer entry door open and close. Although he knew he had a considerable amount of manpower behind him, he felt as if he were out alone on this. His face was in the papers and his job that was in jeopardy if this continued to get out of control. Eddie will turn up, he told himself. He had to.

***

McBride was sitting in his office, reading the various newspapers reporting Eddie's disappearance. They were so easy to manipulate. They had no idea how they were being used to serve his purpose. Once Harris was driven out of office, he would have no trouble running anything he wanted in town. Harris was a mistake that had gotten elected, and now McBride was going to fix that mistake. This was almost fun, with him working the press and the mayor to his advantage. Jackson and Gloria stealing from him had almost become a blessing, since he had figured a way to use that to his advantage. By his calculations, paying to have a public official eliminated would cost roughly half of what Jackson and Gloria had taken. Not a bad bargain, really. McBride set the paper down on the table behind him and stretched out in his chair. Just a little remorseful, really. Too bad that young man had to be caught in the middle of this, but that was how the business went.

Eddie was tied up in this by chance, and there was no way for him to go back and change what happened. Now, though, Eddie was out there wandering around, likely to be caught or involved in a shootout. McBride turned this scenario around in his mind and found it bothered him that he did not know where this man was. There was an agreeable level of control when he knew Eddie was right where he could find him and be manipulated. The papers gave no clue as to where he disappeared to, but the more he thought about it, he began to think he should step in and find him. Eddie was an asset he needed to keep. If McBride knew where Eddie was, he could control all the stories and hysteria. So far he had been doing that to some extent, and Harris and the Mayor were getting the brunt of the press's wild speculations. McBride folded the papers and put them into the trashcan by his desk. He would have to make an effort to find Eddie. There was no clear path to doing so, but he had the connections and knowledge to start, and that was usually enough.

McBride had spent many hours trying to find a person intent on hiding, and he knew this would become painful for some people. There was a point at which McBride had to make a choice of either going down the path he had taken or staying a small man in a big city, selling two-bedroom houses. McBride could not think of when that moment was crossed, though he knew the first time he killed another man that his choice was final. He was smarter than the other men working with O'Connor. O'Connor was not sure if this was a threat or a help, but McBride knew he was being tested when he was in charge of shutting down a prostitution ring that was moving in on their business. McBride knew what was needed, and he put together the right crew to carry it out. They waited in an alley most of the night until these men (McBride never even learned their names) came out of a door. He fired the first shot, and it was over in about five seconds—a complete success, and O'Connor could not have been more pleased with how McBride had handled everything. Eddie was insignificant. Eddie had been to prison once, and he should have known what the stakes were. Using him to work Harris was a stroke of genius. Finding him and destroying Harris would be even better.

# 27

Mike never liked to meet McBride in person. In reality, he never liked to form a connection with anybody who hired him. McBride was also not a person to be trusted, and he had the annoying tendency to assume Mike worked for him exclusively. Mike was a private contractor and generally only took jobs he wanted to take. There was also the worry that McBride might try something to get Mike into trouble or worse. Mike was quick, but getting ambushed by a group of goons was a no-win situation. With that in mind, when McBride had called, asking to meet with him, Mike had insisted they be in an open area, preferably outside with other people around. While on the phone, McBride had started yelling, and Mike quietly hung up. A few moments later, McBride had called back and offered to meet in a park downtown. When Mike arrived, he saw McBride sitting at a bench, overcoat on and fedora pulled down low enough to obscure his face. Funny, really, if Mike had a sense of humor.

When Mike approached, McBride looked up and asked, "What happened to him?"

After a few seconds, Mike could not think of what he was asking about. "I'm afraid I don't know who you're talking about."

"Don't you read the papers?" McBride asked, his voice rising.

"No I don't, why would I need to start doing that?" Mike remained standing, watching McBride look around the park. When he had approached, he did not spot any of McBride's "helpers," but he was still uncomfortable being with him.

"Eddie, that kid you scared for me. You met him when he came out of Aron's not long ago. He disappeared. It's all over the news," McBride said, standing as well.

"What's that to me—or you, for that matter? I thought you wanted him dead." A few weeks earlier, when Mike had met Eddie, McBride had told him to not kill him, yet. Mike had made the assumption he would be hired sooner or later to finish the job. When he met Eddie, he thought it would be a good opportunity to learn his patterns for when he needed to perform the hit.

"Well, I don't know where he is. If I can't find him, I can't control him. I need you to find out where he is and bring him back," McBride demanded.

"That's not what I do. If that's all you want, I'll be on my way," Mike said, turning to leave.

"Hold on. You do what I hire you to do. That's how it works," McBride said, moving around to block Mike's departure.

"About that. Don't bother calling me to pass along threats, or nanny, or anything like that anymore. I'm done with those jobs. If you want a bounty hunter, hire a bounty hunter. If you want to scare a man, call one of your two-fisted hoods. It's not what I do," Mike said.

"What the hell is so hard about this? Talk to people you know, ask around. A snot-nosed school kid could do it. I'll pay you your regular fee for just finding him," McBride said. Mike reminded himself how much he did not care one way or another for McBride.

"It's not like there's a club where we sit around, smoke cigars, talking about who we're going to whack. For all I know, I'm the only one in this business. You find him and tell me where he is, I'll take him out. That's how I work." Mike put his hands into his pockets. His piece was in his left coat pocket, but he did not intend to use it on McBride. It was just there, and his hand naturally wrapped around it.

"I never could trust you. Maybe I'll start finding help elsewhere," McBride said.

"That's fine. If you know a better man for the job, by all means. It doesn't make any difference to me." Mike never had feelings one way or the other if he was hired. He knew he was good, maybe the best, but it was such a personal profession, comparisons were never spoken of to him. "I'm clean and efficient at what I do, but if that's not what you want, there are others around. Clarence, when you need me to do the job, I'll do it right. Other than that, we're done here."

Mike could feel McBride looking closely at his face. What the man was thinking, Mike could not really tell, other than this meeting had not gone as planned, and he was not pleased. "What does bother you? Anything get on your nerves?"

"Sloppiness. A man who thinks he can do what I do but makes a mess of things."

Mike had to give McBride credit. He understood, and by the look on his face, a drop of the scowl around the lips, he had accepted this answer. "We'll be in touch," McBride said before leaving. He watched him for a few moments, then went the other direction, among the young mothers and their children enjoying a spring morning. A few kids crossed his path, and he politely let them go on their way.

# 28

When Eddie got up that next morning, at first he thought he was in his own apartment and needed to get ready for work. After a few seconds, he knew where he was and fell back in the bed. There was some movement coming from downstairs, and he smelled bacon cooking and coffee brewing. After a few minutes, his door was unlocked, and Carl stuck his head in. "Margie's got breakfast on the table. Come on down."

The table was covered with food, and the gang was wasting no time eating. "Mind your manners," Margie scolded one of the men. "Use the fork like I showed you! What are you, some kind of white nigger?" The rest of the men laughed at the crude joke, though by her creased brow, Margie did not seem to think it was funny. Eddie took a seat next to one of the men who had ignored him the night before.

"What's the deal? We movin' today?" the man asked Carl.

"I ain't got no word yet. Maybe today, maybe a week," Carl said as he read the morning paper.

"What the hell we going to do? Sit on our asses?" Nelson said.

"That's exactly what you're going to do. There's a movie house in town, but don't go around causing trouble. We don't want to draw attention," Carl said. There was a general grumbling around the table.

"What are you waiting for?" Eddie asked.

"There's a truck load of Canadian coming through here," the man next to him said. "We's meeting up with it to take delivery. I'm drivin' it to Harrisburg."

"You do this often?" Eddie asked.

"Yes," Carl said. "Part of the load's going to Bridgeport. We need to do some collections there, too."

"Who's driving the second load?" the other man asked. Eddie had not paid too much attention to him, though as far as he could remember, these were the first words he had said.

"We're going to have you drive it. Eddie, me, and Nelson are going with you," Carl said. The man smiled broadly. Carl turned to the man next to Eddie. "When the load comes in, we'll split it up, and you and the guy driving the first truck go on to Harrisburg. The next load will follow in about ten days."

"You drive trucks?" the man next to Eddie asked.

"I've driven a few. Why?" Eddie said.

"This is good money. I make twice what I used to haulin' steel. I made a hundred dollars two months ago. Real steady, ain't it?" he asked the other truck driver.

"It's good money. Keeps my boys fed," he said.

"These guys have been doing this for a couple of years, and we haven't had a bad month yet. Most of them worked for me before O'Connor hired us," Carl said.

"Except for me," Nelson said, that crazed smile spreading across his face. "I'm on my own."

The other men finished eating, again leaving Carl and Eddie at the table. Once they were far enough away, he said, "These boys aren't real smart, but they're good. O'Connor saw my trucking company was going out of business and made me an offer to run this operation. I knew trucking, and I had the equipment and drivers. These two were the only ones that stayed on, but it worked out fine for them. They make about twice as much as they used to, and their families are taken care of."

Eddie always knew people running most of the liquor were everyday men being lured by easy money. Take a few men with some skills and not much future, pay them well, and of course they were going to haul illegal booze around and not ask questions. Not too many years ago, he would have done it without hesitation.

"You still haul other things?"

"Sure. When Earl there goes to Harrisburg, he'll have a load of furniture and the delivery. Coming back, he'll have produce. It's still a legitimate business. We just haul for all customers." Carl poured himself a cup of coffee and rolled a cigarette.

Eddie felt out of place asking too many questions about what Carl did. Carl seemed to be a decent person doing an indecent job, probably working independently or at least partly owned by O'Connor. Nelson was there to take care of the crude part and probably worked for O'Connor directly. "So what do I do?"

"Simple: You stay in the house until we leave. Then you go with us." Carl finished rolling the cigarette and lit it. He looked over at Nelson and added, "You run out of here, then that's no longer my problem. Trouble's going to hunt you down."

Eddie understood what he meant. He got up from the table and picked up the morning paper. He leafed through it, half wondering if his name would appear anywhere, but he never found a mention. They were not that far from Providence, but news took a day or two to reach out from the city. All he could do was sit and wait for his moment. He looked over at Nelson, who was listening to the radio with his head leaned back. The last thing he wanted was a crazed gun-toting man chasing right behind him. Nelson was the type who would keep firing until he hit something, whether it was what he was aiming for or not. In prison, the guards liked to keep people like him away from the other inmates.

Eddie waited through the day. Some of the men left for a few hours and came back. In the evening, a few of them went to a movie that was playing, while he spent the time reading or listening to the radio. Margie was in and out, but she never said much as she cleaned the rooms. She too left for a few hours and came back with a load of groceries. The men helped her bring them in, and Eddie helped her put the items into the pantry. She generally acted like a stern grandmother, to which they responded accordingly. Eddie was curious how she was connected to all this, but felt it was better not to ask.

# 29

The wanted poster went out the next day. They printed a thousand copies and distributed them to post offices and police stations from Philadelphia to Boston and straight west for three hundred miles. In talking with the Feds, Harris felt that this covered O'Connor's and McBride's territories. They had some connections farther west, but there was only a limited amount of time to get the word out. Harris had briefed the Mayor on the progress, but he appeared more interested in distancing himself from the problem. Harris continued tracking down leads and acquaintances to find Eddie. He considered talking to O'Connor again, but the less they talked, the better. When Eddie learned he was on a wanted poster, he would likely be moved even farther away, if he was even still alive. Harris and Thomas talked to Eddie's neighbors and to his friends. They even talked to Sam, but everything turned up empty. It was still early in the investigation, he was reminded numerous times, but that did not make the problem any easier.

The bigger problem for Harris was what this would do to his ambitions. He had always seen the election to prosecutor as a step up the political food chain. When he was working his way through law school, he often read up on the biographies of well-known mayors and governors. Many had established themselves at lower elected posts, where they were put to the test and made the right connections. When he ran for the office, there was talk that such a position was really to groom him for higher office. The party faithful had backed his tough stance on attacking organized crime and violence in general. To do that, he would have to show that criminals had been put away during his tenure. Now, the entire plan had taken a strange twist.

When the first murder was committed, Harris thought that Eddie could not have done it, but it was completely feasible that McBride could. The story of chasing down one the most high-profile members of organized crime was everything he had hoped for, and Eddie had given him a perfect opportunity. Now the entire problem had been turned around. Eddie could very well have done the crimes, with or without McBride. Maybe he was working for him all along. In any event, in order to keep his career going, he had to avoid a big case going awry. He was beginning to feel he had to lock up someone just to salvage his reputation. This was getting so much publicity, he had started to believe that if he never found Eddie and put him away, or used him to put McBride away, he was done politically. He had been fretting about this, wondering if locking Eddie away for any reason was worth his political livelihood. He seemed to be getting driven that way. Maybe Eddie was guilty. After all, he did have a record that would make a conviction easy to get through. Harris brushed the thought away and went back to work on the other cases piling up on his desk.

# 30

Eddie was rousted out of bed as he had been the day before. For being locked up, the setup was not very bad. He had good food to eat, and the others mostly left him alone. He had talked to Nelson a few times, though Eddie found him difficult to communicate with. Eddie noticed that Nelson never sat still, and the other men tended to not include him in a card game unless he asked. Even then, the tone of the game would always change when he joined. The joking stopped and the game would end early, though no one would say why. This morning was a little different, as the shipment was coming in and an exchange was to be made. They all sat down to breakfast, and Carl began to describe what was going to happen, while Margie served up a continuous stream of pancakes, fried ham and coffee.

"The load's going to be here in a couple of hours," Carl said. "We's meeting the driver about ten miles out of town."

"At the pond?" Earl asked.

"No, I moved it. I don't like to use the same place too often. Never know when the Feds might drop by," Carl said.

"Fuck the Feds," Nelson said. He appeared to have heard nothing else in the conversation.

"We'll drive a good ways out 'til we hit 82. We'll turn left and go about a half mile 'til there's a red barn. The dirt road leading to the barn goes on back into the woods. There's a clearing back there."

"How much they got?" Clay asked.

"Almost a full truck. We gotta split it with the other truck before moving the furniture behind it. Should cover it up until somebody wants to crawl all the way back there," Carl said.

"We'll make it quick," Earl said.

"What's he doin'?" Clay asked, pointing at Eddie.

"He's got talents besides counting and carrying boxes," Carl said, turning towards Eddie.

"I know some accounting. I took a few courses back in school."

"You'll keep the books," Carl said.

The others looked at him with what seemed to be expectation. Over the past few days, he learned Carl was right: none of these men had much in the way of schooling, certainly not the arithmetic needed to do rudimentary accounting. "Sure. That's what most of my classes were about."

A big smile went across Carl's face. "Good," he said. "You guys finish up and we'll get going."

Everyone finished eating and got up from the table. As he was standing up, Carl said to Eddie, "Just a second." Eddie sat back down at the table. "I need you to keep track of what we got coming in. Those big boys keep track of that, and if the numbers don't add up, I start getting questions from some of the uglies."

"I know how they work," Eddie said, having been mistakenly involved with two murders at the hands of McBride.

"Clay and Earl are good men, but they can't count much past twenty. Nelson, well, he doesn't care one way or the other. I want you to help count what they sent so's I can enter it into the books."

"I can do all the recordkeeping, if you want."

Carl waved his hand quickly. "Not yet. Not until I can trust you. I might have you look over everything when I'm done."

"Sure," Eddie said.

Carl went upstairs for a moment and came back down. "Nelson!" he yelled up the stairway. "Let's move it."

A few seconds later, Nelson came down carrying a large revolver. He looked at Eddie and smiled while he put it in a holster inside his jacket. "Got my friend right here," he said to Eddie, winking.

Carl led them out the front door and into a car. Carl and Eddie got in the front, and Nelson climbed into the back. When Carl started the engine, Eddie had the uncomfortable feeling of having Nelson being out of sight behind him, with the thought of that big revolver foremost in his mind. This did not seem to be a set up, but there was no way of totally trusting the people he was with. He started to dwell on what his options were when he heard a truck engine start and then roll out from behind the house. Clay and Earl were in the cab. Carl took off, and the truck followed not far behind.

The two vehicles traveled out of the small town and into the farmland. As Carl had said they would, they drove for about thirty minutes until they came to the road he had described. A few minutes later, they found the barn, and Carl, with the truck behind, turned down the rough dirt road and around the barn. The woods were about a quarter mile back from the road, out of sight from any passersby. The small clearing, barely enough to turn the truck around after a few back-and-forths, was a good ways into the woods. They parked the vehicles, and everyone got out.

"So, where are these jokers?" Nelson asked.

Carl looked at his watch. "We might have to wait a few hours. Depends on if they're making good time."

Earl spoke up. "The drive down from Plattsburgh can be kinda slow. Some of them roads are still barely paved. I been up there a bunch."

With nothing left to do but wait, Clay went to the back of the truck and opened the door. Eddie went around to see what they had inside and found it about full of boxes and crates of furniture. Eddie crawled up to have a look. "Looks like nice stuff."

Clay came up behind him. "It is. There's a factory outside o' Hartford makes it. I takes a load down with me whenever I go. Give me a hand. Might as well move it now while's we got a few."

Eddie helped him pull some of the things out and set them on the ground. The rest they pulled towards the back of the trailer, presumably to make room for the booze up front. Eddie guessed the items they moved out would be going with the incoming truck. Good thinking on Carl's part. He obviously was trying to still run a reputable business, besides using it as a cover. Just then, they heard a shot fired outside.

"What the hell you doin?" Carl yelled. Eddie jumped out of the truck to see Nelson with the gun in his hand, standing like a gun fighter in the old west. "Put it away."

Nelson had that same wide-eyed grin Eddie had seen earlier that morning. "Gotta make sure it works," he said as he holstered the weapon. Earl and Clay each stayed by the back of the truck with Eddie.

"Keep that thing put away. How many times I have to tell you? We can't let people know we're here." This was the first time Eddie had seen Carl visibly upset.

"How am I supposed to protect you guys if this doesn't work?" Nelson said. standing taller.

"The last thing we needs is to have somebody pokin' around when they hear a gun shot."

"And what they going to do when they start pokin' around?" Nelson said, moving closer to Carl until they were about a foot apart. "What they gonna do, huh? Think they're gonna mess with me?"

Carl stared back at Nelson for a moment. From his earlier conversation, Eddie knew that Nelson could go off with the smallest provocation, and Carl had been around Nelson enough to realize this, too. "Leave the gun away. I'm sure at some point you might be needing it. Just not now."

"And what, you're the boss here? Hey, I know you and your guys just do this 'cause O'Connor owns part of you. I'm my own man. I don't owe nothin' to nobody." Nelson had moved until he was a few inches from Carl's face.

"It's real simple. Me and my boys don't get paid if this load don't get through," Carl said in a surprisingly calm voice. "I don't know how you work, but if we get stopped, we go to jail and don't get paid. Their kids don't eat."

Nelson did his best to understand what Carl had just said. He turned away and spit on the ground. "Son of a bitch," he said, just loud enough for everyone to hear. He went over to the edge of the woods, then came back about fifteen seconds later. "So what do you guys think? How many is the Sox going to make it this year?"

With that, the incident was over. The five of them sat on or around the back of the truck as the morning went along. None of them, even Nelson, seemed to be the least bit worried about the other truck showing up late. Occasionally someone would mention it, but the comment was more of a small topic of conversation than a major concern.

After almost two hours, Carl began to get nervous and starting looking at his watch a few more times. "Earl, when you supposed to be in Port Jervis?"

Earl scratched his head. "'Bout three," he said.

Carl looked at his watch again. "You won't get there before evening. If they ever get here, I'll try to call ahead and let them know. We gotta get the other shipment back to Bridgeport before tonight. Damn it, I wish they'd get here."

Carl was the only one concerned about when everything arrived. The others, including Nelson, were still content with sitting in the grass and waiting for the truck. In fact, Eddie guessed they would all be happy just to spend the entire day there waiting. For some reason, he had imagined O'Connor ran a tighter operation than this, but then again, they were basically smugglers. Eddie looked at the men sitting around and almost felt comfortable being around them. He had spent the last day as sort of a prisoner, but other than Nelson, he did not feel in any danger. They had for the most part gotten used to having him around.

Eddie stepped off the back of the truck and walked around to the front. They had left the house about three hours before, and he needed to urinate. After a quick pause he started towards the woods. He had not gotten more than ten steps when he heard someone behind him.

"If you go too far, you'll give me a chance to shoot you in the back," he heard Nelson say.

Eddie stopped and turned around to see him standing about ten feet behind him. "I need to pee. I'm just going to the edge of the woods."

Nelson smiled. "Why stop? Keep going. Give me a chance to hunt you down. Make it fair."

The smile was disarming, and Eddie was not sure what to think. Nelson did not have a humorous bone in his body, so Eddie had to take him literally at what he said. He was not sure what to do. He really needed to go, but was that worth a bullet in the back from a half-crazed gunman. Eddie figured it was best just to go right there, so he turned his back to everyone and did.

"Need to wash up?" Nelson asked.

"No I'm fine," Eddie said, zipping his pants up and turning back around. Nelson started to walk away. It was then that Eddie saw a cloud of dust, and heard the whine a large truck moving in low gear. He joined the other men at the back of their truck. Within a few moments, the other truck appeared out of the field and drove towards them.

"Where the hell you been?" Earl said when the other truck pulled up along side.

The driver, a small blond-haired man, shut off the engine and climbed down. "Part of the road was washed out south of Albany. Had to go way around. How you want to do this?"

Carl came over. "It's best to back right up to the other truck and start carrying the load over. Come on, let's get movin'. Y'all held us up enough already."

# 31

The two trucks were backed up to each other, and the men started to unload the liquor. Eddie did the count as they went, though most of it was the same brand, and there really was not much more to do than add as they walked by.

"Nelson, you going to help?" Carl asked. The truck that arrived was loaded full to the back, and there was a considerable amount of work to do.

"I'm not paid to move fuckin' boxes," Nelson said. He was leaning against the fender of the truck, looking out over the field and down the road, smoking a cigarette. As he looked around, he toyed with the handle of the gun. He had long ago replaced the bullet he shot, though he always seemed to be preoccupied with handling the gun, rarely leaving it in the holster.

The men paid no attention to Nelson's not wanting to lend a hand. If anything, they appeared to be better without it. The morning began to get warmer and they started to work up a sweat, mechanically moving boxes from one truck to the other, not saying much except an occasional instruction. The clinking of the bottles in the boxes was the only constant sound.

Occasionally, Carl would ask for the count. When they reached, 400, they stopped. "See if you can get a count on the rest of them. They're going on with those."

Eddie did his best to look at the stack and determine the width, height and depth. "About three hundred."

Carl looked at the sheet Eddie had been using for the tally. He compared it with the one the driver of the truck had given him and with another sheet in his pocket. Eddie could see the one from his pocket had listed about ten cases more than what had been delivered. The sheet from the trucker agreed with Eddie's count. Carl carefully folded the sheet and slid it back into his pocket. "Right," he said to the group. "Looks like we're good here."

Eddie was not surprised, as he was sure a few cases had disappeared or had been sold off the back of the truck during the trip. "Except for thirty cases of Scotch, it's all Canadian."

"They had Scotch in there?" Carl asked.

"Yes. Is that a surprise?" Eddie said.

"I just didn't think they would have that." Carl looked at the men standing around waiting for an order. "Ok, everyone, come over. Let's be sure what we got."

In a few seconds, all of them gathered around Carl, even Nelson, to get some last minute instructions before setting off in their separate directions. "Earl, you're heading up to Port Jervis. Be sure they pay you what they owe. Artie up there has a habit of coming up short. Don't want to send Nelson up there."

Nelson's ears perked up at the sound of his name. "Why? Need him taken care of?" he said smiling.

"No. Calm down. Everyone know where they going?" There were positive nods all around. "Right. Let's go."

Earl joined the man who drove the truck in that morning, and they climbed into the cab. After a few moments, they fired up the engine and started the dusty crawl back to the main road.

"Clay, you follow us. We got a bunch of stops to make before we get done."

Carl, Eddie and Nelson were back in the car, with Clay by himself in the truck. Eddie was in the front with Carl, and he was handed a map of the stops they needed to make. Carl took the map again and pointed out a few of the stops on the way to Bridgeport, making sure Eddie knew where they needed to be. As far as Eddie could tell, Nelson laid down in the back seat and went to sleep. They bounced along the path back to the road and were on their way.

Though Eddie was an outsider to their group, Carl seemed to enjoy the company. If Eddie had not been there, Nelson would have been the only person to talk to. Eddie learned Carl had a family in Hartford and really wanted to get back home to see his wife and kids in a few days. The money he had made in the past few years had allowed him to buy a new house. "Sure it's dangerous, but what ain't?" he said. "I worked on the railroads for fifteen years. Saw enough men get killed just doing what they're supposed to that it don't make much difference what I did.

"You work for O'Connor?" Eddie asked.

"Sure. O'Connor more or less contracts, but I work for him. I haul, I get paid. That's about it. That's why I gotta have a good count of what we got. Pays me by the case. Pretty simple. I haul so many, he pays me. I toss it in with another haul of furniture, lumber, whatever, and I make double."

Eddie liked Carl. He handled the men well and even had a sense of how to keep Nelson under control. When they were in the field, the other men looked to him for guidance. Carl only had to instruct them on what to do, and they did it.

"Tell me," Carl said. "What's your story? I only really heard he wants you hid away."

Eddie saw no reason to disguise what he was saying, so he told the entire story from beginning to end, leaving no small detail out. Even to his time with Gloria and his meetings with Harris. When he was done, Carl's gaze did not shift from the road. Eddie could only guess at what was going through his mind. Maybe Carl thought he was lying. "You believe me?" he asked after a few moments.

"Not sure. I never met McBride, but his reputation is known. Not sure you have a reason to lie either."

Suddenly, from the back, Nelson said, "I believe him. Every word."

"How's that?"

Nelson sat up and leaned forward so he was looking over the back of the seat between Eddie and Carl. "McBride, he don't give a shit about nothin'. Guys like that never do. They do what they want, and fuck the rest of the world. If this La Rule and Gloria, if they tried to screw him over, a guy like him, he'd've popped 'em."

"I have no idea what they did," Eddie said.

Nelson sat back and spread his arms across the seat. "That's what I'd do. Son of a bitch did that to me, they'd be gone before they knew what happened. POW! One shot."

Carl looked out the side window at the fields as they passed along at a decent rate, then he reset his hands on the steering wheel. "Drove trucks to Buffalo many times. Got a good bar down by the lake." He continued on talking about all the places he had traveled both on the railroad and while driving trucks. Eddie was content to listen. From time to time, he would catch a glimpse of Nelson in the back seat, aimlessly watching the same country scenes he was. Eddie found himself continuing to look at Carl enough so that he could see Nelson out of the corner of his eye.

They made deliveries to garages and small warehouses in towns all around the area. In most, Clay would pull the truck in, and then Carl and the buyer would unload and exchange money. Carl was friendly and open to the men he dealt with. There was laughter and slaps on the back as booze and money changed hands. Finally, as dusk was starting to move in, there was one last delivery to make. Clay backed the truck out of the warehouse they were in and then waited a moment while Carl did the same with the car. Carl sat for a moment and then set a map in Eddie's lap. "Need to get us to that red circle," Carl said. Eddie looked on the map and saw the circle was in the middle of a road, with no towns or cross roads shown.

After about a half hour of bouncing along back roads, they came to where the map said and drove up to a garage much like all the others. Carl took a deep breath. "This should be it for today. I'm getting kind of tired of driving. My back's killing me."

Eddie looked at the map, then folded it up and placed it on the seat. Nelson had been quiet since the last few stops and was now sitting in the corner of the back seat.

"Let's wait for a moment," Carl said. "You stay here. Let me talk to Clay real quick." Carl got out and went over to the truck. The sun was starting to sink down, and Eddie saw a light come on inside the garage. A few minutes later, a small, overweight man stepped out and came over to the truck. Carl shook hands with the man and came back over to the car.

"I need to talk to him. You stay here."

Eddie said, "Sure." Nelson only stared out the window towards the man who had come out to meet them.

Carl disappeared into the garage. Eddie turned to Nelson and said, "Have you met that man before?"

"Yeah," Nelson said. He had been keeping his eyes on the door through which they had gone. Eddie tried to think of anything to talk about, but he realized Nelson was not one to enter into idle chatter to pass the time. So he sat there, watching the sunset behind the trees, and the shadows slowly disappear, hearing Nelson breathing and moving around from time to time.

"This ain't right," Nelson whispered.

"What?" Eddie asked.

"This ain't right. What's goin' on?" Nelson said. "Fuck it. We're not waiting out here." Nelson started getting out of the car.

"What?" Eddie said, as Nelson started opening his door. A moment later, he opened  
Eddie's door.

"Get out," Nelson said.

"Where—" Eddie started to say, before Nelson grabbed his arm and hauled him out.

"We're going to find out what they're talking about." Eddie walked ahead of him as they approached the door. He glanced over at Clay sitting in the truck. Clay looked back a moment, then looked down.

Nelson went to the door and drew his gun before entering. He kicked it open and stepped in. Carl and the other man were sitting at a small table. There was a boy about fifteen years old standing behind him. The boy jumped back a foot as soon as he saw Nelson come through the door. "Wait," the man said.

Carl held his hand up to Nelson and said, "We're working it out. Give us a few."

"He ain't paid the last two times, but he will now," Nelson said. He went over to the small man, grabbed him by his greasy shirt, and pulled him to his feet.

"Dad!" the boy said. Nelson swung the gun around to the boy for a second. The boy stepped back a few more feet.

Nelson stuck the gun in the man's mouth, then pushed him backwards fast enough that he tripped and landed in a dusty heap on the floor.

"Stop," the man said, before Nelson straddled him and jammed the gun in his mouth again. Eddie could hear the barrel contact the man's front tooth, knocking it out. They stood there for a moment, and blood began to trickle out of his mouth and around the barrel of the gun.

"Nelson," Carl said. Nelson did not move. "Nelson," he said louder.

"He ain't paid the last two times. He knows what happens."

"We're working it out," Carl said. "He'll get it."

"I'll get it out of him," Nelson said. He cocked the hammer on the gun. The man's eyes were wide with terror, and Eddie could see a small wet spot spreading in the crotch of his pants.

"Nelson, stop," Carl yelled.

"Stop for what? This is what I do. People pay, they talk to you. They don't, they talk to me." The man began to gag on having the barrel rammed deeper into his mouth. Saliva and blood was coming out and running down his face as he was struggling to breathe. He began to kick in an attempt to move out of the way. Nelson kept the gun right where it was.

"Nelson, stop, now!" Carl said, putting his hand on his shoulder, trying to pull him back. Eddie knew that Carl was smart enough to know any sudden movement would set off the gun. Nelson had a grip on the trigger and he could squeeze it at any moment.

They stayed like that for several long seconds, before Nelson uncocked the gun and ripped it out of the man's mouth along with the tooth. He then turned the gun sideways and hit the man along side the head. Nelson stepped away, and the man rolled over on his side and coughed up a long stream of phlegm.

His son ran over and gave Nelson a push out of the way. "Look boy, he pissed his pants for you," Nelson said moving back out of the way.

"Dad," the boy said, kneeling down holding the man's head.

"I'm fine, Joey," the man said. "I'm fine, I'm fine."

Carl came over to Nelson and said, quietly but firmly, "Get your ass outta here."

"I don't think you can take care of this," Nelson said, setting the gun back into his shoulder holster inside his jacket.

"Thinkin' ain't your job. If I need you, I'll let you know."

"Yeah," Nelson said before going back to the door and leaving the garage.

Joey was holding a rag to his father's forehead to slow down the bleeding while helping him to his feet. He was still coughing lightly.

"Stan," Carl said, walking over to them. "We can't leave you anything."

"I got the one payment with me. I'll have the rest next week. I owe you one, Carl."

Carl looked at the two of them, Stan hunched over leaning on the table and his son trying to steady him. "Pay up and get out of this business. It gets rough. Too many like Nelson running around, and I can't stop them all the time."

Stan pointed to a storage cabinet along the wall. "Joey, it's on the second shelf." Joey went over, brought back a small cardboard box, and set it on the table. Eddie helped count the money out and marked it down in the book. As he was doing so, he noticed that Stan was much further behind in his payments than they had said. He looked up at Carl, who gave him a knowing look.

Carl placed his hand in the middle of Stan's back. "Listen carefully," he said in a steady voice. "This here can get worse. Do whatever you have to do to get them paid off. Sell whatever you need to. They got you and won't back off until you do."

"Game's up," Stan said. "Gottcha."

"Listen, I'll stop by in a few days. Just me. Not Nelson. I ain't bringin' you no more booze. I don't want this. Pay up then."

Stan finally sat down and placed his head in his hands, still holding the rag against the gash above his eye.

Carl and Eddie left him there like that and walked out of the garage. Eddie walked beside Carl back to the car. Carl held his head down. Eddie knew Carl was a good man in a business that required violence, and there was no way around it. He climbed into the passenger seat of the car. Before Carl started the engine, Eddie could hear Nelson in the back only a few feet away, spinning the chambers of the revolver. "Fat ass spit all over my gun."

# 32

Harris picked up the flyer with Eddie's picture on it and read through the description.

Wanted for Murder

25 years old, brown hair, brown eyes

5'5" approx. 130 pounds

Included were his fingerprints, list of past crimes committed, and details of his previous incarceration. The picture was taken from his prison file and doctored to show his present haircut. Not a bad rendition. The fingerprints were acceptable and could be used for identification if he were caught, but they would need to compare his to the originals for it to hold up in court. Harris looked at the picture again and thought he looked like any of thousands of young men around the country. In a way, though he would never admit this, he hoped he would never be caught and would disappear into society, or at least stay hidden until evidence proved his innocence. At this point, if Eddie came back, he would never get a fair trial. Porter was convinced and did not want this on his record. McBride had too many strings in his hands for Harris to battle right now. Men like McBride had the funding and influence to operate almost without restriction, and they had no compunction about doing so.

Harris took another bite of his corned beef sandwich and tossed the flyer back into his briefcase. Failure was always a part of any career, but this was difficult to take. This was not so much a failure as it was being set up. Part of the profession was the constant vagaries of working with people's opinions and unpredictable ways. That was the excitement for him, but it was also the cause of a great deal of uncertainty. Harris took out a piece of paper and began to list the facts as he knew them. On this list he put Eddie's story, McBride's response, Gloria's connection to McBride, and so on. With Eddie's background and involvement in most parts of the crimes, he knew logically that he was in some way responsible. Harris had talked to some of Eddie's friends and co-workers, and the profile did not add up. There was no weapon found or motive established. He still needed to talk to a few people locally. At the bottom of the list, Harris wrote "fugitive." He stared at this for a moment and wondered if O'Connor had told him the truth.

Harris heard the door open and noticed Thomas coming into the deli. Thomas gave away nothing in his walk or manner, though the other patrons, by the way they looked up when he entered, seemed to know he was a cop. He took a seat across from Harris. "Heya," he said as he sat down.

"Any news?" Harris asked.

"Naw. We been checking sources around the city that might know where he went. All empty," Thomas said. "This could take a few weeks."

Harris did not have a few weeks. "Who's working this around the clock to find out?"

Thomas pursed his lips. "We're trying. We got so many of these crimes and a small staff. They keep us jumping and they know it."

"Keep working with the Feds," Harris said. By the raised eyebrow from Thomas, he knew what he said had sounded wrong. "I know your staff is good, but we might have to call in some more help."

"Ok. If we get stopped up, we can call them in. You know how they are. Once in, never out, and they take all the credit."

Harris knew they were stymied, and finding one man was hard to do. They needed to be looking into other corners for more answers. "Can we squeeze McBride?"

Thomas made a low whistle through his teeth. "That's a tough one. He's a boss that's hard to crack open."

"It's Eddie's word against his, right now."

"Right. Maybe we can rattle a few of McBride's men. We can call a few in. Don't expect much, though."

Harris was aware of this, but knew they had to pursue this avenue anyway. "It's what we got right now. See what you can do. There has to be one that hates him more than he hates us."

"That's a hell of a way to put it. What we got is they ain't Einsteins, the bunch of them." Thomas slapped his hand on the table and got up. Harris went back to his sandwich and the other files in his briefcase.

# 33

McBride read over the article in the paper that he had paid to have written. He knew a reporter who was always in gambling debt, because although he was a good writer, he knew next to nothing about odds and mathematics. With $50, McBride could get almost anything he wanted into the paper and add pressure to the person he was aiming at. In this case, Harris was that person, and the article went to skillful lengths citing sources that could not be traced. McBride had to admire the skill of the man; although the article had not come right out and said it, anyone who read this would conclude Harris was a bumbling idiot. An idiot the man was not; however, McBride knew Harris was in way over his head and did not know how to deal with organizations. He placed the paper on the dining room table and watched as Rita finished serving dinner for their children.

"Are you sure you won't be too late tonight?" she asked as she took her seat.

Their two children began to eat their soup with polite slurping sounds that made the two of them giggle. "Mind your manners," McBride said. The children did as they were told. Then, to Rita, he said, "I need to talk to a few people there. I should be back by ten, eleven at the latest."

"Are you sure you have to go? I made chops tonight. Gardner's had some of the best cuts I've seen in a long while," she said.

"It's an awards banquet. The mayor and other city officials will be there." He stood up and kissed her on the cheek, then patted his children on their heads.

***

The banquet was an annual affair that awarded local businesses for charitable work. This was usually a decent event that most of the community leaders attended, including Mayor Porter. McBride was sure the Mayor would be giving a speech and presiding over a table of men looking to hang on his coattails. If he was able to find the time, McBride planned to pull him aside and have a few words. With the Mayor, having a few words alone was often impossible in a crowd, but McBride suspected they had a common interest that would make Porter want to talk to him.

There were the usual speeches, which he and a few hundred other men sat through patiently. Dinner was served and they ate, listened, and ate some more. Everyone was really waiting for the presentations to end so the real business could take place. Many of the better deals took place at functions like this, where alcohol eventually was brought out, and there was a free flow of talk. He continued to listen as the presentations and awards began, when he felt a tap on his shoulder.

"Mr. McBride, may I have a word with you?" a young man standing beside him asked.

McBride looked him up and down, and decided this was not worth his time. "Maybe later. I'm really in the middle of this."

The young man did not leave. Instead, he leaned closer. "It's about O'Connor. I need to talk to you about him."

"Larry O'Connor?"

"Yes. He has a message he would like to relay."

McBride had not heard that name in quite some time. He got up from his seat and started towards the back of the assembly hall with the young man following him. At one time, O'Connor was the man who ran things. Times changed, and as far as McBride knew O'Connor had faded into the background—retired, if that was possible from that profession. He was a boss, but an old-time boss who was pushed aside when the climate changed.

McBride and the young man exited the hall and went down to a small alcove off the lobby. "What's the message? And you better not be wasting my time," McBride said.

The young man cleared his throat and said in a quiet voice, "Mr. O'Connor knows about the LaRue job and needs to pass along his view on the subject."

McBride could not believe what the young man had mentioned. "You be real careful what you say. What possible opinion could he have?"

The young man looked to the side a moment, and then cleared his voice again. "Be believes the job was handled poorly. And the consequences."

"Consequences? What consequences?"

"The, uh, matter with the person who saw the shooting."

McBride poked a finger into the young man's chest. "You give him a message. This is my job, and I'll handle it my way. I don't need O'Connor's punk messenger boy telling me what to do."

The young man set his feet. His eyes darted back and forth between McBride and the hallway behind them. "He told me to tell you he has Eddie and knows where he is. He can produce him whenever Harris needs him."

"Where is he?" McBride said.

"I don't know," the young man said.

"Tell me where he is, or I'll have you cut open like a dead pig," McBride said, getting worked up enough to have a small spray of spit land on the young man's jacket.

"I have no idea where he is. I wasn't told that."

"Listen," McBride said, grabbing the sleeve of the young man coat. "This ain't his stinkin' city. It's mine. O'Connor's gone, and he doesn't play this game anymore. Tell him to enjoy his retirement and stay away from me. He used to have the balls to do this job, now he sends a boy to do it for him."

"I'll relay that message."

McBride looked into the young man's eyes. "Do you know who I am? Do you know I can have you disappear so quick you'll barely be a memory?"

"Yes, I understand."

"Tell O'Connor to stay out of the business or he'll be answering to me." He eyed the young man again. "Get the hell out of here and tell him."

The young man slipped out of the alcove and left through a side entryway. McBride went to the restroom to compose himself, and then returned to the presentations. When he was sitting down, the last one was just finishing up.

After a few minutes, McBride went around to greet a few of the other men in the audience, then made his way over to the table where Mayor Porter was seated. As expected, there was a small crowd gathered around as the Mayor told stories and waved a large cigar around. There was a burst of laughter as he approached the table. The laughter was genuine, as the Mayor had a natural gift for charming and entertaining a small audience. This was one of the skills that McBride knew he did not have and would never be able to master. He could talk to people, persuade them, force them to do what he wanted, but he could not entertain them and make them enjoy his company. He had long since stopped trying to tell stories and jokes, as they always fell flat and made him look rather pathetic in the attempt. Porter was a master at it, and McBride would always wish he could do the same.

"Clarence, pull up a chair," Porter said when he turned to see McBride approach, sweeping the cigar across in a welcoming gesture. Porter continued with his story of a meeting he had with a group from the Women's Christian Temperance Union. McBride knew all about the group, and he found their efforts entirely futile, especially in Rhode Island. They were more of a source of entertainment than anything else. The state barely recognized the amendment, and it was well-known that rum came into the bay at a regular rate, as well as whiskey from Canada. McBride was not the only one capitalizing on the movement, but he was one of the most profitable. And with money came recognition and a chance to talk to the Mayor.

McBride waited for the right moment in the story, and then said, "What's this Harris going to do about it?"

A general round of laughter came from the others at the table, and then Porter gave him a sly glance. "Harris is so tied up with that guy running away, he doesn't have time for anything else. My city's falling apart and he let him get away."

There was some conversation about Harris, all negative and sarcastic. After a few minutes, the conversation died down. McBride leaned over and said to Porter, "Do you have a few minutes? We need to talk privately."

The two of them went off to a table in the corner of the room and sat down next to each other. "What's on your mind, Clarence?" Porter asked.

"I needed to talk to you about Harris. From the conversation there, it seems you have the same impression as everyone else," McBride said.

Porter smiled his politician smile and said, "The man has a difficult job to do, and he's having a few problems right now."

"True," McBride said. "But you have to admit, he's having problems that are extremely serious."

Porter waved to a man going by. "I know there's a score between the two of you, and I really need to stay neutral on the subject."

"You've heard what he's saying about me?"

"We've talked."

McBride knew that Porter was playing the role he was elected to, and would be reluctant to move away from that until he heard something that would work to his advantage. Porter would shuffle, diffuse, and bluster, but McBride knew there was a point at which he could be swayed. They had only met a few times before, but McBride knew him well enough to know Porter wanted to be on the correct side of the news. "He seems to be taking a position that could be troublesome and embarrassing."

"Such as?"

"This young man that skipped town could have been brought in easily a few weeks ago. I get the impression that Harris still does not think he had anything to do with the murders," McBride said.

"I understand. It sure looks like he has made a mess of this, but I'm not sure why you should be worried. After all, this Griffin is an ex-con. He did time in New York for armed robbery. Once he's back, he's as good as locked away forever."

"But he still thinks I was involved. The longer this drags out, the more problems this causes me, and the worse it looks for your administration." McBride did not know Eddie had a prior conviction. Now he knew Harris was in deep trouble and could not come after him. Inwardly he was delighted, and he thought for a brief second of the advice his cousin had given him. What a magnificent stroke of luck, and with enough persuasion, he could get Harris removed from office.

Porter pushed his big belly against the table and took the cigar out of his mouth. "The man's gotta go. There are people getting popped in the head and robbing fish markets and all he's thinking about is this one puke of a man. The only thing I don't know is how you're involved."

McBride said, "I wasn't, but we both know people make things up. I think this Griffin's a small timer, wanting to be big. He read my name in the paper and that's the first thing he came up with. Harris doesn't have a damn thing on me other than what Griffin said to him."

"Either way, he's in over his head. He's dragging my office down with him."

"When's the next election?" McBride asked.

"Next year. He needs to be gone long before then," Porter said.

McBride looked around the room and saw that there was an increase in the conversation level, and he thought the backslapping and schmoozing was getting into full gear. He had done what he had set out to do tonight. "I promised my wife I would be home early, so don't be offended if I leave."

"None taken," Porter said working his girth out of the chair and into a standing position. "My wife knows I'll be out all night. Good evening."

# 34

Nelson was not a man to have hobbies. They had a day to wait for the next shipment, leaving him with some free time. He had left the house that morning and driven around in the countryside until he came to a small town. He parked the car on the street downtown and first went into a general store, since he really had nothing else so do. Nelson wandered up and down the aisles looking at the various goods, and then picked up a newspaper to buy. His reading skills were minimal, but between the pictures, words, and advertisements, he was able to get the general idea of what they were trying to say. Of course, baseball scores were easy to read, though the stats made no sense. All he wanted to read about was who won. An old man was working at the counter, probably the owner.

Nelson put the paper on the counter. "Gimme a pack of smokes," he said.

"What brand you want? We got most of the popular ones. Got tobacco and papers, too," he said, pointing to a display behind the counter.

Nelson looked over the brands. He sometimes bought the loose leaf and rolled his own, but he did not feel that patient. "Pack of Chesterfields."

The man put the pack on the counter. "Get you anything else?"

"Naw. Go ahead, ring me up." Nelson opened the package and put one of the cigarettes in his mouth, then felt around in his pockets for matches or a lighter. He felt the gun, and for a moment when the clerk opened the cash register, a thought crossed his mind. Instead, he knew that was beneath him. "Hey pops, you got a light?"

The man produced a small box of matches from behind the counter. Nelson lit one on his thumbnail, fired up the cigarette and took a deep drag then diverted the exhale towards the ceiling. He had gotten used to the cheap brands and had forgotten how good a real cigarette tasted. For a minute he stood there enjoying the cigarette, as the clerk rang up his sale. "Say pops, there a good place to get a bite to eat in this little hick town?"

"Darla's got a place just across the street and down on the next block. Makes a good meat loaf," the man said, looking in that direction.

"Good meat loaf, eh?" Nelson said, watching the top of the man's head as he turned away. He turned back and started when he saw Nelson looking at him.

"Well, the best, except for mother's," he said, taking a small step back from the counter. With a quick movement, he adjusted his glasses and stared back at Nelson.

"Mother's is always the best." Nelson pocketed the cigarettes and tucked the paper under his arm. "I'll just have to try Darla's and see for myself," he said, smiling his big, brown, toothy grin.

Nelson left the general store and walked down the street in the direction the clerk had said. As he walked, he glanced in the windows of the other shops, seeing the things of a small town. There was a seamstress, a druggist, a barbershop, a hardware store, a bank, and a few other places that sold various items. Nelson puffed away on the Chesterfield, leaving a trail of blue smoke as he walked. Within a few minutes, he was stepping through the open door of Darla's Diner, where a few other patrons were enjoying a lunch of her home cooked food. Nelson sat down at a booth along the wall and tapped the ashes off the cigarette into a tray at the table. In a few moments, a cute blonde wearing a blue paper hat and white apron was standing next to him.

"Can I get you some coffee or soda while you decide?" she said.

Nelson smiled at her. "I heard Darla makes a good meat loaf, I didn't know she'd be so sweet looking, too," he said, laughing.

She giggled in response. "Darla's my mother. See, that's her right over there," she said, pointing over to the counter. Darla glanced over, but did not return the smile. "My name's Molly."

"Say, Darlin' Molly, you have a special going today?" Nelson said, stretching back, setting the cigarette in the tray.

"We got a thick slice of ham, green beans, and fried potatoes," Molly said.

"Ham," Nelson said rubbing his chin. "Don't know. Think your mommy's got a steak hidden back there she can fry up?"

"Sure thing. Still want the potatoes and beans?"

"You bet, honey. A man's gotta eat, right?" Nelson said, putting the cigarette back in his mouth. Molly made a notation, and then walked away. Nelson watched her behind all the way back to the counter, where he met up with the icy stare of Darla. He smiled and gave a two finger wave. Darla stepped over to Molly and said a few words, to which Molly seemed to reply there was no problem. Nelson grinned, took one last pull on the cigarette, and then stubbed it out in the ashtray. He blew out the last lung full, saying to himself, "Damn, that's a good smoke."

Nelson opened the paper and did his best to read some of the stories. Hoover, as far as he could tell, was President, but Nelson could not quite figure out either party or the difference between them. To him, they were all a bunch of talking fat-asses, and he really did not care much either way. He turned back to the comics, where he was able to have pictures to help explain the text and understand what they were saying. Even the political cartoons were better than reading the reports, leaving him to wonder why they just did not do that with all the news. By the time he was working his way through the baseball results, Molly came back with his meal.

"Here you are," she said, putting the plates in front of him and refilling his coffee.

The fried meat smelled great, and Nelson thought of that place between Molly's legs. "Well, thank you," he said. He could see mother Darla out of the corner of his eye.

"Need anything else, let me know," Molly said.

"I just might, just might," Nelson said. He watched her twitching round hips as she stepped away behind the counter. "Ha, ha," he said, before laying the paper aside.

At first, he began devouring the steak and vegetables. There were many days, especially growing up, when there was no food, and any meal was eaten as if it might be taken away. His parents, such as they were, occasionally fed him and his brother and sister. As far as he knew, they were all gone now. At least, he had no idea where they were. They might still be in Pittsburgh, or they might be lost at sea, as far as he knew. He could not remember leaving the slums and the group of people that were his family—just at some point he was no longer there. Strange, he thought, that he could not very well remember them or where they lived. He was there, then he lived in a few other places, then he kind of wandered off, going from city to city. Eventually he learned his one talent was twisting arms for money. Now he had a profession, and he was eating steak and watching a cute blonde with a nice butt. His chewing slowed, and he lit another Chesterfield. Damn, he said to himself, that really is a good smoke.

Nelson finished eating, and Molly brought the check over. He paid her on the spot. "Hey, honey, how's 'bout I stop by later and we could go to a show?" he asked.

Molly blushed slightly. "I'm afraid I'm seeing somebody."

"Well, I'm sure he won't mind if you see a show with me."

"I can't, really," she said, though her eyes showed she was at least interested.

"Maybe some other time, then," Nelson said, noticing the attention from Darla.

"Maybe," Molly said, before leaving the table.

Nelson grabbed the paper and pack of cigarettes and stood up from the table. He might come back. Maybe not. Maybe he would pay for a woman, since he had some money from the last job.

If Nelson had any kind of hobby, it was looking at what others in his "profession" were doing. He left the diner and walked through the small downtown to the post office next to the bank. In there, he walked over to the display along the wall with pictures of wanted posters. The pictures were all fairly legible, as were the descriptions and physical characteristics. Dutch Schultz, wanted for illegal substances, beer, and suspected murder. Dillinger had the same poster that was there a few months ago. Nelson snorted once. What did they have that he didn't? They had a plan, he told himself. They went out and did things. "Shit," Nelson said, just barely loud enough for the people standing in line to hear him.

He could do that, he thought. Go rob a bank, put a few bullets in people. That's all they did. Hell, he could go work for Capone if he wanted. Capone could use help like Nelson. Maybe he would do that—just go up to Chicago, say he could do whatever he wanted. Nelson had heard Capone was a decent man if you did what he said. O'Connor could go screw himself. Then he looked at the pictures again. They were on the wall because they all did it by themselves. Dillinger worked for himself. He had a gang, but they worked for him. To hell with working for O'Connor, or Capone, or the Purple Gang. He had to do this himself. Charles Floyd had a gang out of Kansas City. Nelson moved down the wall, knowing he could be there. All he had to do was go out on his own. He went back to the posters, and the last poster he saw made his jaw drop.

Nelson recognized Eddie as soon as he saw the picture. The crimes were listed, and Nelson was astounded that this man, half his size, could do those things. His mind whirled around the past few days spent with Eddie, and he wondered how Eddie, so out of place, could make it to the wall. And just below Mack "Light Foot" Smith. That was not right. Nelson had done twice as much. He looked at the reward and had half a mind to turn him in, just to collect and get his picture taken down. Nelson dropped the Chesterfield on the floor, stamped it out, and then left the post office.

He stood on the curb for a moment, wondering what he was going to do with this newfound information. There were a few cars driving by, and a smattering of people were going in and out of the shops. Nelson watched them and knew he was better. He knew he was supposed to be on that wall, but instead, Eddie was. Turning to walk down the sidewalk, he looked up to see the bank that was next to the post office. A thought occurred to him. Nelson had never been one to figure things out, but an idea came to him. The idea formed so suddenly, that he stopped in his tracks. He looked back at the bank and played the idea out in his head and knew it might work. Maybe. It would work. The only problem was he had to wait and get the details set, which always seemed to be a difficulty. This would require Nelson to do these hard things, to reason a solution and be patient. The payoff would be good though. It would be huge.

# 35

One of Mike's faults was that he liked nice things. The fact that he liked these things was not a difficulty. The real problem was that people noticed. They noticed the clothes he wore, the women he was seen with, and the apartment he kept. And as he sat in the interrogation room, it became clear that they noticed the car he drove. The Lincoln was sweet and fast, and there were not that many in the city. In fact, he was sure he had the only burgundy-colored one. This brought attention, both wanted and unwanted. Today, sitting in the interrogation room, he realized this was the attention he did not want.

Mike, well dressed, sitting at the table smoking a cigarette, knew he was being watched through a small opening in the door. He crossed his legs and reached over for the ashtray that was on the other side of the table. "Cops," he thought. "Can't find time to empty an ashtray." He flicked the ashes from the cigarette into the overflowing tray, not wanting to really touch it. The smears and collected grime meant he certainly did not want to set the cigarette on it then put it back in his mouth. So, he re-crossed his legs, put the cigarette back in his mouth, then placed his hand on his knee. And waited.

Half an hour passed before the cops came back into the room. Mike had barely moved in that time. With them was another man that he had not met but knew nonetheless. The prosecutor that everyone hated. No introductions were made.

"Fine," the prosecutor, Harris, said to the officer as they sat down. It had taken a few moments for Mike to remember his name. "Mike Hagan, correct?"

"Yes."

"Let's get to it. About a week ago, we saw your car at a park near the Federal Hill area," Harris said, referring to some hand written notes.

"Federal Hill? Sure, I know where that is," Mike said.

"Can you confirm you were there?"

Mike did not change expressions or move. This was not unusual territory for him, as he had been in interrogation rooms before. He had learned there was practically no evidence they could get out of him, and he was confident there was nothing now. These rooms only worked for bums. His last gun was at the bottom of the bay, so they could not trace that to him. "How do you know it was my car?"

"You have one of three Burgundy Lincoln Coupes in Providence," the cop, Thomas said.

Mike considered this for a second. Damn, there were two more? "What's a Lincoln being in Federal Hill have to do with anything?"

"We talked to the other people. One's a banker, and the other's a city councilman. You're the last one."

"I think you need to be asking these other two more questions."

Thomas tapped his pencil on the table a few times. "What do you do for a living, Mr. Hagan?"

Mike had set up a small business that actually had an office. Occasionally he went down there, to look around and make a few phone calls. "I sell paper goods." He took a card out of his pocket and set it on the table. It was an easy front, as he could just make a few phone calls, have a delivery set up, and collect a small fee. All legit.

"Must be a lucrative business. A Lincoln's a nice car," Harris said.

"I do well. I have some money set aside. A family trust, in a way."

"Mr. Hagan," Thomas said. "This is where I'm having a hard time figurin' this out. There are people that say you ain't no paper salesman."

Mike looked surprised. "People are saying that? Why would they do that?"

"They say you're somehow associated with McBride. We're trying to find Eddie Griffin, wanted for two murders. Got any idea where he is?" Thomas said.

"I don't work for McBride. Anyway, when did he disappear?" Mike asked.

"A couple days ago. Seems to have left his apartment without saying a word to anyone," Harris said.

Mike was well aware that there were people who knew the kinds of things he did, the problems he fixed or the people he took care of. He was called, he produced, and then was paid. That's what he did. However, the authorities had never produced any evidence that could be tied to him. The cops had taken enough of his day with this. "Officer, prosecutor," Mike said, addressing the two men. "I don't know what you're trying to do, but I wasn't involved, and I don't know anything about this. I was at a friend's that evening."

"Can this person corroborate this?"

"I was with a woman," Mike said. He had talked to Eva and told her the cops might be around. She liked the cops even less than he did, so he was not worried about what she might say.

"All evening?"

"Yes. Don't ask for details, please," Mike said.

"Give us her name and contact information," Thomas said. Mike did so.

"Look, I got a nice car and a reputation that's not true. What do you got on me?" Mike said.

"We know you work for McBride and drive a car much nicer than any paper goods salesman I know of. What would you say if we had a report of seeing your car in that neighborhood yesterday?" Thomas said.

Mike knew he was lying and had no intention of playing into this. "No, I wasn't there. Whatever happened had nothing to do with me. Why am I here?"

"We're asking the questions here," Thomas said, looking Mike in the eye.

Mike knew the rules of the interrogation room but really did not care. He knew there were times when the questioning took a turn and other forces were applied. Maybe not in this room, but he knew the rubber hoses and knuckles came out and confessions were made. That was usually for those dummies who talked, said the wrong things, or could not hire a lawyer. "Ask me a question that makes sense."

"Do you know Eddie Griffin?" Harris said

"I've seen his name in the papers. What of it? What's it got to do with me?" Mike asked.

"We think there's a connection between you, McBride, and Eddie Griffin," Thomas said.

"Hold on. First of all, my car wasn't there. If you are going to start talking like that, I'm calling a lawyer. I was at my girl's that evening. If you saw a Lincoln, it wasn't mine. I hear Lincolns drive themselves around sometimes." Mike said.

"Don't get cute," Thomas said.

"You at your lady friend's all evening?" Harris asked.

"Yes. I'm a grown man, not a choirboy. I do these things."

"We know who you are. I'm done asking nice questions. You're involved with this in some way."

"You got nothing, so what's this got to do with me?" Mike disliked these two, but he knew enough to respect their intelligence and the fact that they knew a bluff when they saw one.

"We got other information. We know you work for other people in town, and if we ask around, we'll find more," Thomas said.

"Can't stop you from doing your job," Mike said, sitting back, lighting another cigarette. He checked his pack. There were only two left, so he should be fine, but would need to buy more when he got out of there.

Thomas wrote a number of things down in his pad, and then looked at Harris. "I'm done with him."

"Me too," Harris said. "There's more here, and we're going to find it, and you'll be back."

Mike shrugged. "Anything else, if you don't mind me asking?"

"No, you can go."

Mike left the room and the building. He drove away in the Lincoln Coupe, burgundy exterior with cream-colored upholstery on the inside. The dashboard was immaculate, and he had just paid a garage to tune it up and polish the chrome. The powerful engine pulled with a quiet authority that cars like that had. It was a great ride and he hated to give it up. Maybe he did not have to, on second thought. He could buy an old Chevrolet for jobs and leave the Lincoln where people would remember it. Mike ran his hands around the steering wheel and thought that maybe the cops had done him a favor. If people noticed his car, let them notice. He would be out driving a different car, getting his work done.

# 36

Eddie was dreaming of being on a boat with O'Connor and Harris, trying to figure out how to get back to land. Then this knocking started and kept growing louder. They were close enough to see the shore, but this knocking somehow meant they were in trouble and would not make it back. Then he was being shaken awake, and Nelson's ugly face began to come into view.

"Hey, you son of a bitch, wake up," Nelson said, not much above a whisper.

"What? Why?" Eddie said, rubbing his left eye. He must have slept in a funny position, because his shoulder was sore.

"Get dressed and grab your shit. We have to get going." Nelson had a big smile on his face that was not meant to make people feel good.

Eddie sat up on the edge of the bed, dressed only in his underwear. "Where to?" A moment ago he was trying to get a boat back to shore, and now he could see why.

"We have to meet a truck, you and me. Carl will be along later. He's gotta take care of some business. Hurry up." Nelson began to pick up Eddie's clothes and toss them over to him. Eddie started to get dressed. He would have liked to change from what he had been wearing for the past few days, but he only had one pair of pants.

"Where we going again?" Eddie asked, not quite sure what Nelson had said. Nelson repeated almost exactly what he had mentioned before. For the past week, Eddie had almost gotten used to the routine of riding out with the crew to take a delivery, helping load and unload, and then going along for the deliveries. If it was not for the fact that he was being held captive, it was not too bad of a life. Nobody else in the house gave him any trouble, and Carl was exactly what he said he was. Nelson had not gotten out of hand since the first time, and in fact had not accompanied them on too many of the trips.

"Can't travel on an empty stomach, here." Nelson handed him three biscuits that he must have taken from Margie's icebox, and then stood in the door waiting for Eddie to leave the room. When Eddie stepped out, he noticed the large revolver stuck in Nelson's belt and again wondered. Nelson locked the door behind him.

"Where is this again?" Eddie asked. He was still groggy and had not fully comprehended what Nelson had said. He had been awake for about a minute and was now being told they needed to leave right away.

"Never mind," Nelson said. "I'll tell you in the car."

They opened the front door, and it was barely light out. Eddie stopped for a moment, knowing that this did not look right. Nelson was hustling him out in the early morning for a job that was not like the others. Carl would be the one awake and calling the shots, telling the men who was going where and when. He would have at least told them last night what was going to happen. That was what he did and the way he planned a job.

"It's not right," Eddie said, looking over at Nelson. Nelson did not hesitate to bring the gun out of his belt and hold it down at his side.

"What's right ain't for you to say," Nelson said, the silly grin now gone. "If you're with me, you're going to do what I say." He then produced a set of handcuffs, opened the car door, and locked Eddie's left wrist to the handle.

"Where's Carl?" Eddie asked, looking at his locked hand. He knew he would be pushing his luck. He also knew that Nelson was not going to take him for a ride in the country to see the sights. Eddie thought whether he lived or died in the next few minutes was not clear.

Nelson did not move the gun, but he did cock the hammer. "I'll drop you right here if you don't get in the car."

Eddie saw there was no option, so he got into the front seat. Nelson un-cocked the gun and climbed in behind the wheel. He started the car, and they drove off. After they were on the road and through town, Nelson said, "Do everything I say in the next few days, and you'll be fine." Eddie was not sure what that meant, but he realized he had no choice in the matter.

# 37

Mike bought a 4-year-old Chevrolet touring car the afternoon after the interrogation, and now he was on his first job with it. He hated the car and missed the handling of the Lincoln. Whereas the Lincoln was all power and smoothness, the Chevrolet was made for a family to bounce around in as they went to the store or to church, neither of which he did with any regularity. But Eva was driving the Lincoln around Providence while he made a short trip to find Eddie.

After he had been pulled into the interrogation, he had a short talk with McBride, and they both came to the quick conclusion that Eddie had to go. The cops were onto something, and if they were to gather enough information, Eddie would be their star witness and could sink the entire thing.

He had left Providence without knowing really how to find Eddie. McBride had promised to pay him one way or the other, more if he found Eddie and took him out. Mike agreed, thinking just driving in the country was not a bad way to spend a few days. Working for McBride was getting to be a problem, and jobs like this always caused him to question the association. It paid, but he worried about missing a true job that might come in while he was out seeing the rural areas.

# 38

The map Nelson handed him had a number of small towns circled, leading in a path towards rural New York and eventually into Pennsylvania. Eddie knew the path that the liquor came in on; this was going in the wrong direction, so Nelson must have had another idea he was working on. This left very few options, because Eddie guessed Nelson had very few ideas to begin with. Eddie ran through the various possibilities, and judging by the excitement on Nelson's face and in his actions, he surmised they were going on a spree of sorts. He took a guess. "Are we robbing banks?"

Nelson laughed. "Woo-ha!" he said, slapping Eddie on the shoulder hard enough to make him wince. "Ain't you the smart one this morning!"

Eddie looked back at the map and realized there was a plan of sorts. "You going to hit all these places?"

"Hit 'em? Hell, I'm going to clean 'em out! I'm going to keep going until I have money comin' out my ass! Woo-ha!" Nelson hung his head out the window and let out another yelp.

After he came back in and settled down, Eddie needed to ask what part he played in the plan. "Why do you need me?"

"This is how it'll work. We'll drive into town. What's the first one on the map?"

Eddie ran his finger down the highway they were on until he came to the first circle. "Millbrook."

"We're going to drive into Millbrook and wait for them to open at 9:00. We'll be the first ones in before any customers come in. You'll go in first and I'll walk in a few moments later. You're going to go up to the teller window and announce it's a hold up. If I need to, I'll fire a shot off to get them to hurry up. Get the money, and we're off to the next town. No more than five minutes. Woo-ha!" Nelson said, clearly having been thinking of this for quite some time.

"Then?"

"Then on to the next town. Three a day. Shit, Dillinger ain't even that good." Nelson stuck his head out the window again. "Fuck you, Dillinger!" he yelled. He brought his head back in.

Nelson continued to rattle on about all he was going to do, and all the money he was going to have in a few short days. He said time and again how he should have done this before, and working for someone else was never going to lead to having his name known or his picture in the post office. "The post office? Wanted posters?" Eddie said

"Sure, me and you in there. You got yours in there," Nelson said. "Is there a turn coming up?"

Eddie glanced at the map. "Couple miles. Wait. What did you mean I'm in there?"

Nelson looked over at Eddie and started driving over on the shoulder. He corrected and came back to the road. "You didn't know? You're famous, boy. Right there next to Dutch. Looks impressive, if I say so myself."

Eddie dropped the map on the floor and realized the total meaning of what Nelson had described. There was no need to look at the poster to know what it said, or what sort of action could happen if he were captured. He had to ask anyway. "What was it for?"

"Murder. Two people. Didn't say who. Said you run away from the law. That's one way to do it."

But that wasn't true, he thought. There was no way to convince Nelson of this and no way to explain it to a cop if they were caught. A reward was a reward, and whether he was alive or dead, there would be no difference. Whatever happened in the past few days between Harris and McBride must have gone terribly wrong. Eddie felt around on the floor for the map and placed it back in his lap. If, for some reason, he was not shot when he was apprehended, there was no possible way of being acquitted. His previous life as he knew it was over. Whether he was a fugitive or not, how long he could run and hide was going to be his constant consuming thought. Now, Nelson had cooked up some plan to get him into more trouble. He was purposely going to push Eddie front and center in the robberies for whatever reason—Nelson was not going to say. He looked back at the map and saw the turn was coming up. "Left. Up here," he said. Eddie sank back into the seat, along for another ride.

Nelson lapsed into a smiling calm as quick as he had been jumping around and yelling out the window. Eddie was glad to not have to listen to him any more than he had to. The thought of leaping out of the car was first on his mind, but he was tied down and knew Nelson was only a few seconds away from pulling out the big gun he always carried. He would need to bide his time until the moment was best. They drove through the country and onto a state highway following Eddie's directions. Occasionally Nelson would take the map out of his hands and look at it himself, as if to satisfy himself Eddie was not leading them elsewhere. Eddie thought through the scenario that Nelson had described and knew there would be a moment when Nelson would miscue and he would be able to slip away. Nelson just was not smart enough to carry this out for any length of time, and Eddie knew if he was patient, he could escape.

Millbrook turned out to be a typical small town with a few stores, banks, and a slight bustle of people around early in the morning. "There it is, right there," Nelson said, leaning over the steering wheel as they went down the main street.

Eddie saw the bank, one named Farmers State, and noticed it was still closed. The clock on the front said 8:45. As Nelson described, he drove through the town and parked out of sight on a side street. "Here's what it is," Nelson said, taking the revolver out from beside the seat. "There ain't no one waiting outside. I seen a car 'round the side. Probably one of the tellers."

"How can you be sure?" Eddie asked. He knew Nelson was making most of this up as he went along.

Nelson checked all the chambers on the gun, spun the cylinder around, and clicked it shut. He pointed it at the floor and made a pretend shooting sounding. "Don't make no difference, really, who's in there. You go in, say it's a hold up, and I'm right behind you. They see me, they know it's real."

"Any cops in town?" Eddie asked. The side street they were on was secluded enough so that a person would have to walk by to see them.

"That's the best part," Nelson said, the ugly smile spreading across his face. "This here bank's farthest from the station. I picked this one 'cuz of that."

Eddie shook his head and acted impressed. The downtown was only three blocks long, so the police station had to be close anyway. "Good thinking."

Nelson put his arm on the door window. "I'd say old Nelson's got this all figured out. I think this is what you might say is my, my—" Nelson searched for the word. "What do you say when you're real good at something?"

Eddie took a guess. "Your calling?"

"That's it. My calling."

Nelson began tapping his fingers on the steering wheel to some silent beat that must have been in his head. Eddie knew that Nelson was capable to going in any direction at once. The man sitting next to him had no thought other than what popped into his mind at that moment. Eddie had learned to survive when he was locked up by keeping the conversation going in an agreeable direction. Basically talk about nothing in particular. With a person like this, the mention of the wrong baseball team might set them off on a tear. This gave Eddie another problem, though. Nelson was dangerous and could pull off a few robberies, but he was too stupid to keep at this for any length of time. He had no idea how to control himself to do a job like this, and this meant that Eddie was going to be exposed as soon as they walked into the bank. The only way to survive this would be to keep Nelson out of trouble as much as he could. Nelson was liable to just walk in with guns firing. He would try to direct him as best as possible. There was already a camaraderie of sorts, since Nelson thought he had committed a couple of murders.

Eddie fingered the map for a few moments. "You know, I didn't mean to kill those two," he said.

"That's the way it always starts, ain't it? One second you're mindin' your own business, the next, bam, you shoot and run. So why'd you do it?" Nelson said, turning slightly in the seat.

"Same reason as always. Money. I knew the first man, Jackson, was worth a load, so one night I tried to get it from him. I didn't intend to shoot him, just scare the money out of him," Eddie said, warming to his lie some. "He was a sucker, anyway. Didn't deserve what he had."

"What about the second one?"

"She was his girl. Had no choice. She knew I did it, so I had to take her out."

Nelson smiled wide. "That's cold. Taking out a woman." He turned back around in his seat. "Happens, though."

Eddie looked around the street, and said, "Say, we have a few minutes, why not drive out of town so's we don't gain attention?"

Nelson started the car. "Not bad," he said, turning around in the street and driving out of the small town into the farm fields.

"You know," Eddie said, taking in the landscape and noticing the tree lines along the fields, "when we get out of the bank, we might want to take that road over there. Looks like it disappears quicker into those trees."

Nelson looked off in the direction Eddie was indicating and shook his head. "Here's what we do. What's the map say? Can you get us to the next town if we go that way?"

Eddie consulted the map again, "It's going to take us the wrong direction, but I think that's the best way out."

"I'll worry about that later. Get us out of here when we need to." Nelson stopped the car and then turned around. "It's time we started cracking this shit town open."

# 39

They drove back into town and parked the car in front of the bank. Nelson unlocked Eddie's hand. Eddie got out of the car and knew he had no choice but to go in and do what Nelson had planned. Nelson climbed out of the car and walked behind him. Eddie gave a quick wave before he pushed through the doors of the bank. The handle was heavy and felt cool to his hand as he leaned on the door and stepped into the marble-floored building. He looked around to see what or who else might be in there with him. No other customers, he was glad to see, and only a couple of tellers and a manager of some sort at a desk towards the back. The walk-in safe was open in the far corner. One of the female tellers working there smiled at him and went to the station to serve him. Eddie did his best to smile back, but his thoughts were too preoccupied with what was about to happen.

Nelson said he would wait three minutes before he did anything, but Eddie knew this would be much too long for him stand around. Eddie guessed about one minute was all Nelson would be able to stand as he fidgeted with the idea of taking the gun out. There were no other doors coming into the lobby, and if he were to jump over the counter and make a run for it, he was not sure what Nelson would do. More than likely, he would come after him, and Eddie was not sure he could get far enough away.

Eddie stepped up to the counter and realized he was not sure what to say. Was he to simply ask for all their money, tell the nice woman to get on the floor, that this was a hold up? Maybe tell them to put their hands in the air? He was about to tell her that he was there to rob the bank when Nelson moved forward with the gun drawn. Eddie guessed he had waited a total of maybe 10 seconds. He did not turn around as the horror on the woman's face told the entire story of what was happening behind him. "This here's a hold up," Nelson's voice boomed in the empty bank. "I want you to give all your money to that man, now."

None of the three employees moved as they continued to stare at Nelson standing behind Eddie. Eddie, for his part did not move as well, as he was not sure really what to do. One of the most essential parts of robbing a bank was to bring a bag or satchel to carry the money with. The woman stared back at him, and Eddie realized he was not even wearing a coat that he could wad up into a makeshift bag. "May we borrow a bag to put the money in?" he asked the woman. She still did not move.

It was then that a sound similar to a cannon going off shook the interior of the building. "I said now!" Nelson yelled, as the sound of him firing into the ceiling died away. A small chunk of the ceiling fell down and hit Nelson on the head.

The woman pulled a cloth bag from behind the counter and dumped her money drawer into it, as did the woman working in the window next to her. Nelson walked up behind Eddie and took the bag out of his hand. "I want what's in the safe," he said. Nelson gave Eddie a shove towards the counter opening that led him to the office area.

The manager had not moved since Nelson walked in and fired the shot. Eddie approached him, wondering if Nelson was setting him up. Nelson could easily shoot him from where he was or just turn around and run out the door. Either way, Eddie moved toward the man, who appeared to have a splintering grip on the desk he was sitting at.

"Come on," Nelson said. "Let's see what you got in the safe. Bring a bag." The man stood and led Eddie back to the safe.

"You're not going to hurt us, are you?" the manager asked as they walked towards the safe.

Once they were inside, Eddie knew that time was short, and they would need to get out of there as fast as they could. Nelson was going to want to stay until they had every last cent, but Eddie had a feeling that the shot he had fired probably garnered some attention. The manager pulled a drawer open, revealing multiple stacks of neatly lined-up cash. In about ten seconds, they had tossed all the stacks into the bag, and Eddie had sprinted out of the safe and back to the lobby, thinking Nelson would follow him.

"Hey," Nelson said as he ran past and out the door. A few seconds later, they were at the car. "What are you, some sort of rat-ass chickenshit?" Nelson sounded more confused than angry at their sudden exit.

"Go, I got one drawer empty, but he hit a button or something at his desk. Cops will be here any second," Eddie said, making up a lie.

"Wait," Nelson said, trying to put this together. "How much did you get?" he grabbed the bag out of his hand and opened the top. "What the hell is this? This all they had in there? You ran, damn it. You ran with the safe full of money."

Nelson's face began to twist up in anger, and Eddie thought this was the end of it when they both heard the sound of sirens in the distance. "Drive," Eddie said. The anger melted away and, in an odd transformation, turned back into the brown-toothed smile. Nelson started the car and took off as fast as he could. Eddie directed him out of town the way he had described, and they disappeared into the countryside, away from the sirens and frightened bank employees. After a few miles, Nelson slowed down some, and let out a yelp. "Whoa, yeah!" In his jubilation, he punch Eddie so hard on the shoulder, Eddie thought maybe it was dislocated. He rubbed his shoulder and dropped the bag he was holding. Nelson pulled over to the side of road.

"What'd we get?" Like an adolescent, he began pawing through the bag, his eyes glazing over as he pulled out the bound stacks of bills, mostly tens and twenties. Eddie had never seen a man drool when looking at money, but Nelson came about as close has he could imagine. "How much is this?"

It dawned on him, that Nelson could maybe read, certainly could not add, and had no clue how much money was in the bag he was holding. They might be stacks of twenties, but if he were to tell Nelson there were one hundred of them that would mean nothing. "I'll count, you drive."

Nelson put the car back into gear and started driving unsteadily down the road, as he was both trying to watch where he was going and looking at the bag, as Eddie pulled out a few of the stacks. He counted the number of stacks and what denominations they were, and came to about $2,000. "Looks like there's four or five thousand here," he said, wanting to keep Nelson happy and on his side.

Nelson reached out of the car window and started banging he hand on the roof, laughing and screaming at the top of his lungs. "I'm rich. We do this every day, I'll be a millionaire. Say listen, say we knock off a bank a week, how much would that be in a year?"

"Well," Eddie said, pretending to do the addition in his head. "Couple million, I'd say. Roughly."

"Really? That was so easy. So easy. Like paying a hooker to latch on your dick." He tapped his fist on the wheel a few times. "Two million. That's a hell of a thing. See 'em? Did you see 'em when I walked in? There weren't no way they's going to not give the money. That old man in the back 'bout shit his drawers when I fired off the gun."

Eddie thought about saying something, but he decided to keep quiet and not rain on Nelson's enjoyment of the moment. "Ever done anything like this before?"

"Hell no. Shoulda, though. Shoulda, instead of working for that O'Connor. This was so easy. I'll be a millionaire. I'm rich as hell," he yelled out the window. While doing so, Eddie neatly palmed a $50 bill and slid it up his sleeve. "Almost forgot, give me your hands." Nelson skidded the car to a stop and replaced the handcuffs onto Eddie, before continuing down the road.

# 40

Eddie was able to get them back on track towards the next town, but as they drove, the day began to warm up, and he started to become uncomfortable. They had not eaten much, and he was beginning to become lightheaded from the excitement. In addition, Nelson was swinging from high spirits, whooping and hollering, to cussing about everyone that had crossed him in his life. The best Eddie could do was to wipe the sweat out of his eyes and tell Nelson where to turn and to keep him going through his rants and raves. The plan was to hit Pleasant Valley and then drive across the river in Poughkeepsie. Nelson had a theory that the river would give a kind of protection, and even more so as he made his way into Pennsylvania. Throughout all the babbling, Eddie was never sure what his part in this was, since it seemed that all he was being asked to do was to walk in a few seconds before the actual robbery.

They drove into Pleasant Valley, and Eddie was immediately uneasy. As sleepy and quiet as Millbrook was, in the ensuing few hours, Pleasant Valley had woken up and was bustling. Nelson parked the car on a side street as they did earlier in Millbrook. Eddie wiped the sweat and road grit from his face, began to scope out the area, and was even more alarmed by what he saw. The bank they were going to go into was in the center of town and had a steady stream of customers going in and out. "How about if we figure out our route?"

"No, not this time, I want to get this going. Didn't you look around when we drove in?" Nelson said.

Eddie squinted through the dirty windshield and looked up the street leading out of town. He had noticed, but there was not much he could put together. Hilly, a lot of trees, and there would probably be good cover. "Nelson, this doesn't feel right."

Nelson was busy checking the chambers in his gun, reloading the one he shot. "What's not right?"

"I don't know. Too many people." He was also incredibly hungry and tired. Nelson must have been feeling the same, but maybe he was running on the excitement.

"Let's make sure of one thing. This is my decision to go in there, you ain't got no say." He clicked the chamber closed on the gun and stuck it into his belt. "Know what I mean? You try anything, you get a shot through the head."

Eddie ran his index finger across his face to take a drop of sweat off. He tossed the map onto the floor, knowing he really had no decision in this. At least not at the moment. Soon, he thought, Nelson was going to lose it, and he figured it would be best to make a break for it and take his chances. He looked around the small town and again wondered if this was going to be the last few moments of his life. There were too many people and too much going on right there for this to go well. This was the same feeling he had when he saw Mr. LaRue get shot. The panic, but this time he had a feeling that running was not going to be an option, at least not with Nelson sitting right next to him. Before, with McBride, there was a measure of control. McBride had a choice in what he was doing and the discipline to consider his options. Eddie reflected on everything to that point and wondered how it all led to him sitting in a car with a gun-carrying madman. Many twists and turns, and if he ever got away, he made a pact to run as far as he could and never look back. "Ready?" Nelson said, unlocking Eddie's hand and unlocking the flimsy car door.

Nelson smiled as if he had just been handed a good piece of pie. Eddie walked up to the front door with Nelson standing to the side. He went in to find about ten people standing in line and three tellers busy taking care of customers. Woodwork and iron made up the counter where people were going about their business with no idea what was about to transpire. This time he brought a bag, which was tightly balled up in his left hand. Nelson would announce his entrance in a few seconds, so Eddie knew he had nothing to say until he saw an older man approach from the side, a guard he had not seen when he walked in.

Eddie began to open his mouth as the man stepped from behind the counter towards him, but then Nelson came forward. "This here's a robbery," Nelson yelled as he held the gun above his head.

The guard began to reach for a gun he had at his side. "No!" Eddie said. There was not a chance of being quick enough, as Nelson's gun went off a few feet away from him. The guard crumpled down to the floor and the gun he failed to use slid out of his hand and on to the marble.

"Kick it over here," Nelson said. Eddie went over and realized Nelson was keeping his weapon trained on him.

Everyone in the bank had stopped what they were doing and were staring at the two of them. Nelson pointed the gun above his head and said, "Everyone listen. Give all your money to this guy and you won't end up dead like him." Then he pushed Eddie towards the tellers.

Eddie went to each teller, holding out the bag to have them dump in the belongings of their cash boxes. He made it to the third one when he heard the siren. Without thinking, he turned around and started running towards the door. Nelson stepped forward and tripped him. Eddie went sprawling out on the floor, dropping the bag of money. "What the fuck?" Nelson said. "We ain't done. We ain't got the safe yet."

Eddie heard the siren getting closer and then saw the realization on Nelson's face. Nelson picked up the bag and went running out the door, with Eddie close behind. They jumped into the car and took off around the corner, a few seconds before the police car screeched to a halt in front of the bank. They both heard the siren start again about fifteen seconds later. Nelson had the car going as fast as he could, barely staying out of ditches on either side of the road as they rounded corners. "Left," Eddie said as he saw a paved road coming up that led into the woods and went by the town instead of directly away. They drove about a half mile when they heard the siren get fainter as the police missed the road they were on. Nelson was still driving fast enough to be using all the road, and Eddie just prayed that another car or carriage was not coming the other direction. After a few more turns, they came to a straight stretch, and Nelson ran the old car up as fast as it would go. The tired engine screeched and howled as they went along. Nelson went on like this for at least ten minutes, slowing only for bends in the road, until he must have calmed down and thought they had gotten far enough away.

"Count it," Nelson said over the wind and road noise.

Eddie picked the bag up off the floor and began to rummage through what they had. He looked and counted the small quantity of bills a number of times, hoping there was more just to keep Nelson in good spirits. "Three hundred," he said, boosting the number as high as he dared. The number was nothing compared to what had happened, with a dozen or so people seeing them both and a dead grandfather on the floor.

"Three hundred," Nelson repeated, expressionless, staring out the front window. A few cars drove by coming the other direction, as they entered farmland where the trees subsided and open fields began to take over. That half-crazed smile came back across his face. "Put one over on them didn't I? Tried to pull out a gun, but I was too damn fast. See 'em? Did you see 'em?"

Eddie did not dare look at Nelson. He put his hand on the door handle and began to think of his odds of tossing the door open and tumbling out at speed. The man he was riding with was wound up all wrong and was not only interested in the money. Nelson wanted the recognition, the fame, of being a bank robber, and suddenly Eddie realized why he was riding along. Eddie was a wanted man, and would bring the attention Nelson craved. The handle would take a good tug to pull open. His hand tightened. The fall would be painful, and if he survived, Nelson would be spraying him with whatever bullets he had on him. "I saw 'em," Eddie finally said, knowing he would have to ride this out a while longer.

"Three hundred ain't good, but it ain't bad. Tore out of there. You got good ears, a few seconds longer, we'd a been fightin' for our lives. I could take 'em." Nelson laughed and yelled out a few more times. "Damn, forgot again." He stopped the car and refastened the handcuffs.

"What now?" Eddie asked.

"Get us to Poughkeepsie and cross the river."

# 41

News travels fast when it needs to. That evening, Harris was sitting in his office when the phone rang. The corned beef sandwich that had been delivered was forgotten as the description of the crimes was relayed to him. He asked a few questions to confirm if it was Eddie and to get a better idea of the location. After hanging up the phone, he pulled out an old map he had sitting in his desk, looked at the area in southern New York, and knew that the Feds would already be on their way. After locating the area, he slid the map back into the crammed lower drawer on his desk and began to wonder where his perception had gone wrong. For the first time, he actually believed that Eddie had told one big, convincing lie, and had almost gotten away with it. An amazing acting job that Harris was sure he would have been good enough to see. After all the years of training and how perceptive he had always been, this one got through. The news was sure to be in the papers within hours, and his job was even more in jeopardy as the media began to circle, waiting for a feeding frenzy. He took another bite of the sandwich and mindlessly chewed and swallowed, washing it down with root beer. There it was no sense in mulling over what could happen. The best he could do was take the shots and move on. Once they trapped Eddie, he was probably going to be taken out on sight. When this thought crossed his mind, Harris began to vacillate on his opinion. There was a part of him, maybe a flaw, that just felt this was not right. Eddie would not walk into a bank and start firing shots. And who was that he was with? That needed to be determined. There was this conflict between Harris's logical self and a gut reaction to thinking of Eddie being shot, but he could not straighten it out. He did the best he could with the sandwich, then tossed the last few bites into the trash, turning to the other cases to run through that day.

A thought crossed his mind as he started to look through a case of armed robbery that was going to trial in a few days. This one was so simple, and the suspect was so obviously guilty that Harris could only think that Eddie's problem was too complicated. There were too many circumstances that seemed to be almost set up for all this to happen, and much of it led back to McBride. His curiosity was not going to let this go, despite the fact that the case had been taken over by the Federal authorities. After a few minutes of searching, he found Herman Ward's name in a notebook of references he had been keeping. They had interviewed a former tenant house owner who had said Eddie and this Herman had been close friends. Herman worked at the Packard dealership a few blocks away, and Harris thought it would be best to talk to him personally.

It was only a few minutes later that Harris found himself in the polished showroom and was quickly attended to by a salesman. Harris asked for Herman. A few more moments passed before a young man with short blond hair, wearing greasy coveralls, came from around the side and walked up to him.

"Herman Ward?" Harris asked. "I'm Prosecutor Jerry Harris."

"I know who you are. What can I do for you?" Herman said. He had a rag in his hands and was wiping oil from between his fingers.

"I need to talk to you about Eddie. Let's step outside for a moment," Harris said. They went around to the side of the building away from curious eyes and ears. "Eddie and you were close friends. I'll just get to it. Do you believe the news about him?"

"Not a bit of it," Herman said. "That's not Eddie."

"What about his past problems with the law? He's got a record, and most people would take that into account," Harris asked. Harris suspected he might meet with resistance in getting Herman to help him.

"I know he was in the house, hell, and cops think orphans are a waste of time. I know about the car and all that in Buffalo, he was along for the ride and got caught up. Eddie got caught on a bad deal. Same here. He told me what happened that night at the factory," Herman said, stuffing the rag in his back pocket.

Harris eyed him for a moment. "Ever done time yourself?"

"Shit, no. Been hauled in 'cause the cops don't have nothing else to do," Herman said.

"I needed to ask. People form natural affinities," Harris said, wondering if Herman would know what that meant.

"I don't know. I left home at 17, but I got a good job now, if that means anything to you. Eddie was going to school nights, trying to better himself. Doesn't sound like a trigger man to me," Herman said.

"Look," Harris said, his voice getting quieter. "Eddie's in big trouble. I need to know if he contacts you. I don't know if he did the things that were written in the papers."

"Why would I want to help bring him back? He's on the run, and he knows how to hide. Seems to me that's his best chance," Herman said.

"A fair question. A good one. I'm going to tell you something you have to keep between us. I have an excellent chance of clearing Eddie and bringing McBride down too. Eddie's out on a wanted poster across five states. Any cop will take a shot at him and kill him without a second thought. His best chance is if I can bring him in," Harris said.

"You expect me to believe that? Besides, doesn't that put me in danger?" Herman asked.

"I can take care of McBride once and for all. Eddie's key to doing that," Harris said.

"McBride would be good to stop," Herman said, some of the resistance leaving his face.

"The bad news for you is that you're already involved. You're one of the few people he's told what happened that night LaRue was killed." Harris realized Herman probably already knew this, but had not considered the implications. "You might have to testify. If Eddie calls you and you don't tell the authorities, that's aiding and abetting. The Feds aren't lenient on that."

"Goddamn it," Herman said, wiping a line of sweat off his upper lip.

"Listen, it's not as bad as you think. Just contact me if he calls you. Be honest with him. That's all you have to do, and you're off the hook." Harris had not wanted to put the pressure on him, but he had to. "It's really Eddie's choice if he wants to come in."

"What do I say if he calls?" Herman asked, putting his hands on his hips and tilting his head down.

"Find out where he is, how he can be contacted. Then let me know, and I'll take it from there. Here," Harris said, taking a business card out of his pocket. "call me, though stopping by would be best. My office is only a few blocks down the street,"

"Okay," Herman said, looking at the card.

"I'll be stopping by regularly to check in," Harris said before leaving to go back to his office.

Harris returned to his office, wondering where this was all going to lead. He turned back to the case file open on his desk and did his best to put the incident behind him. However, the phone rang, only this time it was the mayor.

"Yes sir?" Harris said, knowing the subject of the call.

"You heard?" Mayor Porter asked. Harris could hear the man breathing into the phone receiver and could only imagine how red his face was.

"I did."

"You have a choice. Either resign with whatever dignity you have left, or I'll drive you out of office and probably out of town. I trust you want to remain in the legal business for some time, so make a wise decision."

Harris had been prepared for this and knew the mayor was capable of doing just what he said. The fight was over, for now, and he had not won. There really was no option. If he fought on, he would continue to lose. If he left the office now, he could move on, and take up the fight later, which he had all intention of doing. "Yes, sir."

***

McBride was sitting in his favorite chair in the living room of his home, reading the paper. In the next room, he could hear the radio playing a comedy, with the audience laughter coming through from time to time. He could hear the voices and guessed this was that new show, _Amos 'n' Andy_. McBride put the paper down, went into the other room, and found Rita face down on the couch with her face buried in a pillow.

"Rita?" he said, crossing the simply decorated room and sitting on the couch beside her. "Are you okay, dear?"

She lifted her head, and tears were running down her face. Her mouth worked, but no sound came out.

"Easy. What's wrong?" he said, smoothing her hair back and wiping a few of the tears away with a handkerchief.

Rita pointed at the radio console sitting in the corner of the room and struggled to catch her breath. "Andy was on a bus, and the Kingfish was driving up beside them, yelling out the window, and—and—" The rest was a mumbled blur as she fell into another fit of laughter.

McBride was relieved, having thought there was seriously something wrong with her when he came in. He went over to the other chair in the room to listen to the show and to watch Rita as she struggled for composure but failed numerous times. Her reactions were as amusing as the show itself, and he found himself smiling at her attempts. After a few minutes, the phone rang and he had to leave the room.

"Yes?" he said when he recognized the voice of one of his men. He described to McBride what had happened and went on to talk about the bank robberies. There had been an identification on Nelson, and Eddie was clearly seen. McBride listened but decided to not ask any questions. Though upset with Eddie getting away, he knew that he had a bigger problem on his hands with those two running around in the countryside. He wanted to get control of Eddie back, which meant killing him. McBride knew who Nelson was and had met him several times. The man was a lunatic who liked to wave a big gun around. Numerous times, Nelson had called his office to offer his services. Though McBride had not taken him up on the offers, he thought Nelson might come in handy some day and told him to call back occasionally. He thanked the caller and then dialed another number. Mike answered on the third ring.

McBride relayed what he had heard. "Mike, you have to take Nelson and Eddie. Take them out." Eddie had served his purpose by putting heat on Harris, and McBride knew that Harris was about out of office. He had talked to Mayor Porter enough times to know that this robbery would put him over the edge, and that Harris would either resign or be humiliated. However that played out, keeping Eddie around had worked, and now it was time to end this.

"I'm not sure where they are. We went over this," Mike said.

"You're smarter than that. Go out there and ask around. Nelson's an idiot and loudmouth. He won't be hidden for long."

"Clarence, I would just be driving around the countryside. If you hear where he is, let me know," Mike said.

McBride knew Mike was right. Eddie could stay alive and out of sight. The Feds might find him, and if they did not shoot him, they could make him talk and cause trouble for McBride's operation. Trouble McBride could fix, but he would rather not deal with it. "Nelson's regular price. Double for Eddie."

"That sounds good, but where are they?" Mike asked.

McBride thought that there had to be a way to track these two down. "They'll be moving quick. That'll make them hard to find."

"My point exactly," Mike said.

"Drive out to that area where they were seen. Call in three times a day. If I hear anything, I'll let you know," McBride said. He heard the groan on the other side of the phone. "I'll pay you half your fee just for driving out there and waiting. If we don't hear anything in a week, come home and you can keep the fee."

"Put the money in my account tomorrow, and you have a deal."

"It'll be there," McBride said. He hung up and started arranging for the payment.

***

That evening, Mike drove to Highland to spend the night. New Paltz was farther down the road, and Mike had to make a guess of which town he would go to first. Nelson was simple and could probably not think too far in advance. Mike needed to count on that, since otherwise he had nothing else to go on. Tracking was not his style, and he had called McBride when he arrived and restated that point. Mike's plan was to just stay there for a few days and see what happened.

Nelson would only be driven by a few things—booze, food and whores—and would not be able to keep his mouth shut and stay hidden. The brothels and clandestine drinking parlors would be easy enough to find, and he would plan to make a few discreet calls to see if Nelson had been spotted. Mike found a small hotel in the central part of the town, a place where traveling businessmen and visitors would stay as they moved through. The establishment was comfortable enough, and as he stretched out on the bed, he checked over his guns to be sure he had what he needed.

He always carried what he thought would be the bare minimum of ammunition, since if the first shot missed, the second one would do the work. The only time he'd had to use two shots was with a bar owner that had failed to pay his rent. The job had been a sloppy one, and he had to hurry the hit. The man saw him coming and moved at the last second. The first shot caught him in the ear but only slowed him. The second was squarely between the eyes from close range, his favorite place. Right at the top of the nose, and when the aim was perfect, he felt a sense of pride in the accuracy and neatness of the result. Small caliber, little blood and mess. A professional job. Men like Nelson gave the pros a bad name.

Mike picked up a magazine that was lying on the nightstand and started leafing through the pages, but his mind kept getting drawn back to his job. Nelson would be easy, but Eddie would run. Two at once, hopefully only two shots. Nelson would have to be first, since he would surely be carrying that big piece of iron he always had. Eddie...well, Mike had a notion he might have to let him slip away. There had been enough written about him that Mike knew his type. He was the kind of man who always found a way to sneak through and come out the other side, maybe bruised, but still standing. The time in prison would have only made him wiser and more aware of when to hide. Probably an interesting fellow, and when they met in the car a month or so before, Mike wanted to talk to him, warn him as he was supposed to, but also to see what he was about. Mike flipped through the magazine without really reading anything and then laid it aside. He was probably a good kid, but now Mike would have to kill him. He leaned over, turned out the light, and settled into the bed. Within a few minutes, he was fast asleep.

# 42

That night, Nelson had parked the car in the woods behind a cornfield. Nelson produced two sets of handcuffs and locked Eddie's wrist to the steering wheel, then cuffed his feet together. For once, as Nelson settled in the back seat to sleep, the man was quiet, and Eddie could rest as well. Being tied took away any chance of really making an escape. Between moments of napping, Eddie figured that at some point he would make a break for it. He thought he had made himself useful to Nelson, but there was no telling where his thoughts would wander to. Eddie fell into an uncomfortable sleep, slouched against the car door.

The next morning, Nelson bolted upright in the back seat. They drove into Poughkeepsie and across the river, then stopped at a gas station in the first small town they came to. Nelson pulled up to the pump and shut the engine off, much to the relief of Eddie. For the past hour, he had not said a word to Nelson; instead, he did the best he could to ignore the screaming engine that was a few feet in front his legs. Nelson was not nearly the driver he thought he was; he continually put the car in the wrong gear, alternately lugging then over-revving the motor, all the while lurching down the road.

In the sudden silence, Nelson turned to him and said, "Hell of a day's work, wasn't it?"

Eddie nodded his head in agreement as he watched the service station attendant approach the car on the driver's side. When he was closer, Eddie saw he was a red-haired teenager with freckles, wearing a mostly clean green uniform. "What'll it be, sir?" the young man said, standing at the driver's side window.

"Fill it. Ethyl. Check the oil and clean the crap off the windshield," Nelson said. The attendant went about his duties. "Look at him. That could me. Pumping gas for a few cents an hour. Probably come back in five years and see the same kid doing the same job. What we do—maybe three hours' work made about three thousand dollars. What is that per hour?"

"About a thousand," Eddie said. The stupidity of the man next to him was astounding. He had just robbed two banks and shot a man, and here he was in broad daylight without a thought other than being puzzled over a simple math problem. Eddie could have said ten or ten thousand, and Nelson would not have known the difference.

"A thousand an hour." The twisted grin stayed on Nelson's face as he looked out the front of the car while the young man looked around the engine.

"Need about half a quart," he said. He disappeared into the station and returned with an opened can. A few minutes later, everything was done. "You got some old looking belts there. Might want to have that changed first chance you get. $2.25 for the gas and oil."

"To hell with the belts. Here." Nelson paid him and started the engine, doing his best to tear out of the station.

A few miles down the road, they came to a truck stop. "Robbing banks makes me hungry," Nelson said, getting out of the car. "Remember what I said. Try anything, and I'll take you down. I gotta make a call before we eat." Nelson again locked Eddie to the steering wheel and then went inside to the phone. Eddie could see him through the window, watching to see if he made a move.

***

McBride had just sat down at his desk when the call came in. He knew Nelson's voice as soon as the first words came out. The previous evening, Mike had driven out and was staying in a motel, waiting for any form of communication.

"I got your boy," Nelson said. "I got him and I know you want him."

"What do you plan to do? I hear you're hitting a few banks," McBride said. "That's big."

"That's right. You heard of me back there already? That's good. Be ready to hear a whole lot more. I'm just getting started," Nelson said.

"So what is this with Eddie?" McBride said.

"It's what you call bargaining. You want him. The cops do. So does O'Connor. I'll sell to the highest bidder. Or I'll let 'im go, and the cops chase him instead of me. Pretty smart, huh?"

"Did you say O'Connor?" McBride asked. "What's he got to do with Eddie?"

"Shit in my ears if I know. He's the one that had him brung out here. They just said O'Connor wanted him out here for a few days. You don't like O'Connor, but O'Connor wants Eddie. Now, like I said, highest bidder. Everybody wants his scrawny little ass, and you're the first one I called. Offer me the money and you'll be the last."

"Sure, sure," McBride said. In those few seconds during the pause in the conversation, McBride was not able to entirely figure one what O'Connor was up to, but he knew enough about how the man operated to make some assumptions. Eddie was directly related to McBride, and O'Connor had a skill for quietly working behind the scenes to bring someone down. The only reason for taking control of Eddie's whereabouts was to put the pressure on McBride. "That's actually not a bad plan. I have to give you credit for that. I don't want to mess around with this thing. How much?"

"The Feds want $5,000. I'll take $8,000, and he's yours. Alive."

McBride pretended to give this some thought. "Tell me where you are."

"I'm at the, just a second." There was a pause, as McBride imagined Nelson was looking around for a name. "The Road-Way Restaurant. Outside Poughkeepsie."

McBride had guessed right in thinking they would work their way west from the robberies. Mike was only about thirty miles away. "I have a man in the area. He'll be there in about an hour. Just sit tight, and don't let the Feds or O'Connor know. If he doesn't show up, give me a call. Keep in mind, he's a wanted man, and if you get caught with him, you're going down too."

***

Eddie walked in ahead of him, and they were seated at a table by the window overlooking the highway. The time was getting towards mid-morning, and there were a fair number of people in the diner. The waitress came up to the booth. "We want a mess of scrambled eggs, two steaks, and a mess of fried potatoes. Coffee." She took the order and went away.

"So what now?" Eddie asked.

"Well, we'll just have to see," Nelson said. "I think this is a good life for me. Got some money. I'll be famous. Think I'll hide out for a few days and see what happens. Ain't that what bank robbers do? Hide out?" He stretched and put his arm over the back of the seat.

"How long do you think you can keep going like this? All I have to do is raise my voice. This is a public place. You got fifteen people here that can ID you."

Nelson brought his arm back down and slid his hand inside his dirty jacket, then leaned forward. With his other hand, he motioned Eddie to lean in as well, which he reluctantly did. "Whatchya think? Think I don't mind taking this iron out and shooting this place up? Think Johnny over there standing behind the counter with his fat ass can stop me?" Nelson leaned back and continued to look at Eddie for several long moments. "I love a good steak, and I ain't had enough of them in my life. From now on, that's what I eat. I spent too many nights with my fist rolled up on my belly, trying to sleep on an empty stomach. All them people that laughed at me, they'll open the paper tomorrow and see my name and picture. I'll be eating steak, and they'll be pissing in some tin can."

Eddie had no idea what all that meant, but maybe that was the point. Nelson was deranged and had only a slight grasp on reality. The man was seriously unpredictable, and he needed to soothe him. "You're right. You're a good robber, Nelson. A damn good one. I think you got this all worked out."

The big twisted grin came back, and he took his hand out of his jacket. "Know what, you're good with numbers. Shit, you saved my ass back there. I'll keep that in mind."

The waitress brought over a tray of food that was so loaded she could barely carry it. He was going to eat as much as he could, and when Nelson took a break, he would make a run for it. If he was caught, he was a dead man, but he might not have another opportunity to get away. Nelson ate fast, like a man who had gone hungry much of his life, as he had described a few minutes before. He snorted, slurped, and almost growled his way through the mountain of food, stopping only momentarily to catch a drink. Finally, after he had eaten everything and wiped his plate with a piece of bread, he stretched back again and belched, gaining the attention of half the people in the diner.

"Sure, I think you got a good life of crime in you," Nelson said. "We could work together, but the problem is, that means I have to give you some of the money, and I can't do that. You did save my life, though. Here's the deal. Here's why you're here. See, you're right. Nelson's smarter than people think. I figured this all out. All these people here, they done seen us, seen you. I saw your picture in the post office a few days ago and got to thinking if I could get you seen while robbing a bank with me, the Feds would come looking for you, and they'd think we was together and come looking."

"I don't get it. Why is that a good thing?" Eddie asked.

"See, that's where I figured it out. Who do you think they'll come looking for? Me or you? You got us out back there. I owe you that. But now, see, I'm going on from here by myself. They'll be looking for you not me, and when they catch you, I'll be a couple hundred miles away out on my own. Making a thousand an hour and eating steak."

"That's it?" Eddie was not sure if Nelson was going to take his gun out and shoot him or just walk out the door. There was a certain logic to what Nelson had said. Success was another matter, but by the way Nelson sat, blowing cigarette smoke up at the ceiling, Eddie guessed this may have been one of the few original ideas the man had.

"Or," Nelson said, looking out the window, "somebody else might want to talk to you."

At that moment, Mike walked up to the booth where they were sitting. "Nelson?" Mike said in that same calm voice Eddie had heard in the car a few weeks back.

"Right on time. Just like your boss said. He must want him bad to send you out, Mike," Nelson leaned back while Mike slid into the booth next to Eddie.

"We have a deal to make," Mike said. Mike appeared to relax and adjust his jacket around himself. "So, you're making a name for yourself. Banks are tough. I thought of trying that once or twice myself."

"I heard about you before. You'd be good at it. Me and Eddie here got it figured out. Almost a shame to let him go," Nelson said, "but there ain't room for three." Eddie shrank into the corner of the booth and noticed that Mike had not even looked at him. When they last met in Mike's car, Eddie had not learned anything about him but knew he was a dangerous, calculating man. Mike continued talking to Nelson, complimenting him on what he had done, saying he wished he had the guts to do that. Eddie guessed Mike had really come for Nelson. As the conversation continued, Mike turned it towards wanting to get in on the action, and Eddie saw his chance. Nelson's eyes lit up at the idea of working with Mike, and in one quick motion, Eddie leapt straight up and over the back of the booth, knocking the table into Nelson's lap. Eddie ran across the tops of the tables, stepping into people's food and knocking chairs and tables all over the place. A commotion broke out as he scrambled off, destroying most of the other patrons' meals. He did not look back as the sudden clatter drew attention away from him, dodging his way through the other chairs and people, keeping low and moving quickly. When he made it to the door, he saw Nelson standing up half way with his hand in his greasy jacket. Mike had his arm out, as if to settle him down.

# 43

"Hold on, don't," Mike said. The other patrons in the diner were standing as well at the sudden commotion, and Mike had a feeling that a form of authority would be called in soon. "We have to get outside, see if we can find him."

There was a chance this crazy man might go on a rampage if he did not get him out of there in a few seconds. Luckily, Nelson ran out, with Mike walking calmly behind. There were voices of protest on them leaving, but nobody came out to stop them. Most of the people were still standing or looking around in confusion. By the time he reached the car, Nelson had gotten it started and had run the engine up to an earsplitting scream. As soon as he stepped in, Nelson let out the clutch and the car lurched forward. After a few seconds, he regained control of the vehicle.

Nelson drove out onto the road without looking for oncoming traffic. He ground his way through the gears while weaving back and forth. Mike began to question his idea of riding with Nelson. He had expected this: Eddie seeing what was up, making a break for it, and leaving Nelson with him. If a choice had to be made, and he knew that would be the case; he would go for Nelson first and let Eddie go.

There was a line of trees behind the diner, then a field of scruffy tall weeds behind it before a steep tree covered hill. Eddie could disappear in a matter of minutes. "There's a road along the other side. Maybe we can catch him over there," Mike said.

"If I get my hands on that pissball, I'll rip him apart, and shove his arms up his asshole," Nelson yelled over the engine.

Mike had heard of men getting so worked up they foamed at the mouth. This was the first time he had actually seen this happen. Nelson skidded onto the dirt road and continued bouncing along, dropping a wheel off the surface every few seconds and jerking it back. Eddie would be lying low, waiting for them to move on. At least Mike hoped so. He had wanted to get Nelson alone in a car.

"Where the fuckin' shittin' hell is he?" Nelson yelled over the noise. They went up and down the road a few times, and then Mike began to direct him farther into the country.

After about half an hour, they were into the hilly, remote countryside, and Nelson had stopped yelling for a few minutes. Finally, he came to a stop at an intersection and took the car out of gear. "Don't need his ass anyhow. Time's better spent robbin'."

Mike watched for a moment to see where this was going. Whatever had happened in the past thirty minutes of careening around had vaporized and would appear to have been forgotten. "We need to pull over and figure out what bank to hit next. Got any ideas?" Mike said.

The big grin came back. "Pick up that map. I got a few places I want to try."

Mike did, looked over the map, and noticed a few circles on various small towns in the area. Nelson drove around until he found a path leading up the hillside. He pulled about fifty feet down the path, until they were out of sight from the main road.

"I found myself a damn good profession," Nelson said. "Got my name in the papers and the whole bit. You can, too. Should see what I made in two days. Close to $10,000. Can you imagine if I did this every day for a year? I'd be fuckin' John D. Rockefeller. You know, think what we could do. Me and you. You're good with guns, kinda smart. I know how to rob banks. Think how much we'd make."

Mike smiled at the thought. "It would be a real operation, wouldn't it?"

"Hell, Capone would have to mind his own business. You and me'd be legends," Nelson said.

Mike looked around the area and saw that there were no homes or anything in the vicinity. "I think we can do business."

"Damn fine. We'll be a team and make millions." Nelson shut the engine off. "We'll be rolling in it. We'll be famous. Steak and gravy all the time."

Mike needed Nelson to turn his head towards him, but he was looking out of the window instead. "That's exactly right," Mike said. A second later, Nelson turned and smiled, and Mike shot him in the forehead. Nelson blinked twice, and then slumped down in the seat. The entry was clean, small, slightly off-center, but good enough. A trickle of blood came out of the entry and ran down his face, but other than that, there was no splatter to clean up. He did not waste time thinking about this; he was out of the car, dragging Nelson's body over into the line of trees. Nelson was a menace, both to society as a whole, and to people like Mike who had a job to do and did it well. Mike backed the car out to the road and drove into town, back to the diner. The best thing for him to do was to get out of town and away from prying eyes as quickly as he could. The worst risk he could take would be to stay around and garner attention. A cop might find the abandoned car in a day or two and identify it as one seen in the previous robberies. Nelson's body would be discovered sooner or later, with only a bullet wound as evidence to what happened. Everyone would be glad he was dead. Mike considered what to do about Eddie but quickly concluded he was not worth his time, despite the large price McBride had put on his head. Eddie knew enough to hide or figure out a way to leave the area. He would call McBride, and if he could tell him where to find Eddie, he might reconsider, but other than that, Mike did not care what happened.

# 44

Harris had worked through the day and into the early evening, only leaving his office to go to the restroom and to have reports typed. He had made it a point to have all his calls screened and the messages written down and handed to him. There were only two calls that he returned, and both of these were short and terse. The stack of files on the corner of the desk did not seem to get smaller, despite the effort he had put in, and at times he wondered if everything he had done was in vain. He sat back in the creaky wooden chair, put his feet up on the desk, and tapped his toe on the stack of folders. There had been no decrease in crime since he had come into office, and all the attention on Eddie and McBride had only made things worse. He hated failure, and he had always believed that if he tried hard enough and worked long enough, he could overcome any obstacle. This had worked throughout school and on his first job, where he spent long hours, well past the time everyone else had left and gone home. He always stayed behind to tackle an enormous workload. Work more. Work longer. That was all it took.

He set his feet back on the floor, one at a time, and leaned forward, letting the weariness envelop his brain. There was more to this than exertion. Working to exhaustion with no results did not prove anything to anybody. Results mattered. That was all that really made a difference. Results. And he had been pitifully short on results since he came into the job. This was really the reason he was going to announce his resignation the following morning and let somebody else have all these problems. Harris was sure whoever came in would be one of Porter's confidants, one thing he had never had the personality to become. He had always been the classic outsider, and this had helped him win the election and what he had banked on when starting.

It was 8:30 and dark when he stepped out and locked his office door. Everyone else had long since left to be with their families or wherever. He stepped out into the hallway and closed the outer door, the sound echoing down the empty passage.

"Mr. Harris?" somebody said.

Harris was not sure where the person was, since the brick walled hall bounced the sound around so much. Then he saw a young man stand up from a bench a few doors down. "Do I know you?" he asked.

"No sir. I'm here to relay a request." Harris walked up to the young man, finding him to be about twenty years old with a few pockmarks around his slender face.

"A request? I've just worked a very long day. I need to go home. Besides, I don't like people waiting for me in an empty hallway. It's alarming, and I know there are guards here at this time of night." He was not really afraid of him, but his approach was very unusual and would have made anyone wary.

"I'm sure you've heard of Larry O'Connor? He sent me here to tell you he would like to meet with you tonight."

"Ha," Harris said, passing the young man. "I've heard of him, and I want no dealings with him."

The young man came up beside him and walked with him to the stairs. "He said to tell you he knows you're about to resign. He doesn't know what happened with Eddie, but he can help you get McBride."

Harris had gone down three steps before this sunk in. "How can he possibly help?"

The young man stepped closer. "Mr. O'Connor knows about most things that happen in this city. He knows what happened at the shirt place."

"Yes, I know," Harris said, glaring into the man's face. "What does he know that I don't?"

"One of the men there that night works for Mr. O'Connor. I can't tell you any more than that." The young man looked around and crossed, then uncrossed, his arms.

Harris considered this nervous young man and knew this visit was more than a coincidence. In fact, it was extremely well timed. Larry O'Connor was playing this closely and must have sensed when to approach Harris. There also seemed to be a discreetness that was interesting. He wanted to meet him, and considering all that had gone on, knew he had to talk to O'Connor in person at this point. "Where is he?"

"I'll drive you." The young man began to step down the stairway.

"No. You drive, I'll follow."

After going through the city and to the outskirts, they came to the driveway of a tastefully landscaped large home. Harris opened the door of his car and marveled at what a life of crime had brought for one man. Larry O'Connor was often mentioned with the general assumption being that he was no longer active. Apparently this was not exactly true. They went to the front door, where the young man knocked, and after a few moments, the door was opened from the inside.

Harris was not surprised to see the person opening the door was a large bodyguard type. "Patrick," he said to the young man.

"I have Mr. Harris to see my grandfather," Patrick said.

"Right. You know where he is," the bodyguard said, closing the door behind them.

Harris was impressed, but then again, he had never been to the home of a crime boss before and was not sure what to expect. Maybe crude and brash, but this was delicately lighted and warm, with rich wood tones. Quiet, very quiet. Patrick led him through a number of halls and rooms, all with the same detail. They came to a door, where Patrick knocked and stepped inside for a moment, then let Harris in to see a very large man standing next to an oak pool table. He was also old; Harris would guess in his mid to late seventies. Patrick left, leaving Harris alone.

"Mr. Harris, I'm Larry O'Connor. I know all about you; we talked earlier, so no introduction is really needed. I trust your ride over was uneventful?" O'Connor said in a subdued voice, full of Celtic color.

"I followed Patrick," Harris said. Strange, he thought, that he would be here and not feel in any danger.

"A drink, perhaps? Of course I have various whiskies, rums." O'Connor walked over to a cabinet and opened the door to reveal a large variety of alcohols, all of which were illegal. He moved with a definite limp. "You'll have to excuse me. My knee has been acting up. I'm an old man, and my parts don't always cooperate."

"You know I could have you hauled in just for showing me that cabinet," Harris said.

"Ah," O'Connor said, "but you won't. What would be the point? Please, let's set aside these differences. Anything you like, let me know."

"I haven't had dinner, so I better not, but thanks nonetheless," Harris said. He had been good since Prohibition, only drinking wine when he visited his family over the holidays.

"I can order a bite to eat, if you wish." Harris shook his head no. "Very well." O'Connor came over to where Harris was standing and leaned against the table, stretching out his legs. Harris recognized the large hands of a man who had once been physically strong but was now weakened and bent with age. "I would also guess you are not a man of games. Pool wouldn't interest you."

Harris had to laugh, knowing the old man was being the gracious host, a strange juxtaposition from his reputation of a mob boss. Then again, maybe that was simply how he was. "I'm a terrible pool player," he said, rolling a few of the balls around on the table, shooting one towards a corner pocket and missing. "Your, grandson, Patrick, found me coming out of my office and said you wanted to have a word with me."

"Well, I was hoping to spend more time getting to know you. However, I realize you're busy. You'll indulge an old man. I haven't many visitors any more." O'Connor ran his hand over his throat and adjusted his shirt collar. "As I said before, we have a similar problem with a former employee of mine. Clarence McBride."

"Our problems are similar?" Harris said. As far as he knew, they were in different businesses.

O'Connor walked over to the liquor cabinet, poured himself a small drink, and leaned against the bar along the wall. "I understand your reluctance to be here, but there are times when our goals converge. Let me put it this way: McBride is becoming a problem in this city and looks to be more so if he continues."

"But for you, I imagine he's taking business away. For me, it's a matter of scaring and intimidating law-abiding citizens," Harris said.

"No, I have to respectfully disagree. See, I'm upset about the way he behaves. There are ways to get results, and as you know, I work in a business that's on occasion rough," O'Connor said. "And it would not surprise you that I have worked in that manner. But McBride is different. He's a different generation that doesn't have the respect I have."

"Respect? In what manner? Much of what you do is what keeps people like me busy until all hours of the night," Harris said, not wanting to offend the man but needing to make the point that he was in the business of upholding the law.

"As I said, there are ways of doing business that don't require the ugliness that McBride uses. He is a man who turns to violence at the outset. That is his first course of action, and it is ruining this city. I love it here, and yes, I have done things of which I am not proud, but there are certain matters of behavior that even people like me should follow. McBride shoots people, instills fear. He's gaining power at others' expense."

"Yours," Harris said. He was not sure how much of this to believe, but he was right about the way that McBride behaved. He was a man of violent tendencies.

"Mine and others'. He's bringing in an element we don't want. People from New York, Philadelphia, even Chicago. These are people that will cause us even more problems." O'Connor came back to the pool table. He leaned on the corner and faced Harris directly. "This is where our purposes converge."

Harris had to agree, there was a common goal of removing McBride, and their purpose was initially the same. "Who would fill the void? Organized crime is becoming more violent, and I believe someone similar to McBride would step in."

O'Connor squeezed the table cushions slightly. "You may not be aware of the influence I have, especially if McBride were not around."

Harris knew enough. Anybody could use this in the most slanderous fashion, and he felt that he needed to wrap this up quickly and go back home. "What did you want to see me about? I really have had a long week and would like to go home."

"Fine, you're a man of action, and my manners are of a different generation. Here's my deal. One of the men with McBride the night the designer was killed actually works for me. He saw the entire thing and knows that McBride did it. He also knows that Eddie was framed." O'Connor pushed away from the table and went back to the bar. "That's not right. Framing a man for two murders and running him all over the place. An innocent young man with his life ahead of him. These are the kinds of things I can't stand. The utter disregard of McBride is unacceptable. I'm willing to make this man available to testify about the murder. He would be a key witness. He told me about the shooting, them seeing the other man running away and being fired at. They even threatened to cut his hand off in one of their machines."

Eddie had told Harris that, and he doubted if anyone else knew this fact. "You still want to bring McBride down legally?" Harris asked. O'Connor had the means to simply wipe him out, but having him tried and thrown in jail was a unique way of achieving this. Harris knew instinctively that he would owe O'Connor his career.

"Yes. That stops him. That turns him into what he is and makes this evident to the public. The press would eat it up, and his organization would be ruined. Granted, this would serve both of our purposes, but you may never get a better shot at stopping him. And saving your career."

Harris completely understood the good and bad of the deal, but he had one big problem that would prevent any of this from going forward if he decided to: how to find Eddie. Eddie would be the final block that would need to fall into place to make this work, to get a conviction on McBride. "I have to find Eddie, or else this doesn't go through. Without his testimony, McBride would walk, and we would be in even worse shape."

"Most likely. You find Eddie, and you'll have two eyewitnesses at the scene telling the same story. You find him, and I'll produce my man."

Eddie still had to be found, and if O'Connor was as good as his word, the other witness would be made available. "I can't say there is any kind of deal, but we're looking for Eddie now. Keep your man under wraps. I'll leave it up to you when he should be revealed. I could demand to talk to the man, but the less contact between us, the better. I hope you see why."

O'Connor drew himself to his full height. "We'll be ready when the time comes. You know LaRue worked for me. McBride had the woman killed. His own employee."

"What happens if I don't find Eddie? He and that other man robbed those banks."

"Nelson? He's a problem. I hired him to protect liquor shipments. I thought he might be trouble, but I didn't think he would try this," O'Connor said.

"I don't know if we can find Eddie quick enough. The price on his head is high. He'll be lucky to survive the week without getting shot," Harris said. "You should have left him here. We could've offered protection."

"I doubt it," O'Connor said. "McBride's outmaneuvered you every step so far."

At this last comment, Harris felt his fatigue. "Look, I think this is too late. I'll probably have to resign in a few days. If the Feds find him, you can work with them. I'll have to think about this information and what to do with it. I'm not into cutting deals."

"Well," O'Connor said. "If this doesn't work, I'll find a way to take care of McBride on my own."

Larry O'Connor had told him more than he should have known. Harris understood, however, that O'Connor was a calculating man, and there was reason behind what he had been allowed to know. He was shown back out to his car. He drove away knowing that if this went through and they were able to bring Eddie back and convict McBride, Larry O'Connor would consider Harris owing him a debt of gratitude. This made Harris uncomfortable, knowing that he could not live with that kind of arrangement. There was too much professionally and personally at risk, and he was not willing to go there, even if this did cost him his job. He was uneasy with this, and in a way hoped that Eddie was never caught.

# 45

Mike was in a payphone outside of Poughkeepsie, calling McBride as he had been asked to do. He was prepared for the wild burst of temper, and he was not disappointed.

"What do you mean you got Nelson only? Eddie was the one you had to get," McBride went on.

"I had to make a choice. We weren't in a place where I could take both of them," Mike tried to explain. He knew his reasons would fall on deaf ears. Men like McBride had no patience with their orders not being fulfilled, no matter what the reason. McBride went on for a few more minutes and started to calm some before Mike broke in. "You have to understand. We were in a crowded diner. Eddie jumped up and ran. Nelson was ready to pull out that big piece and start shooting up the place. If that would have happened, I would have been caught too."

"Shit," McBride yelled into the phone. "Let me think for a moment."

Mike was glad to let McBride stay on the line while he remained quiet. He was starting to sweat in the booth and had been keeping an eye out for anyone who might be suspicious of him. There was slim chance that Nelson had been found. Still, he knew he was a stranger, standing in a phone booth for a considerable period of time. People would remember that.

"Here's what we have. I got one, maybe two days to track him down before he's completely out of my reach. You need to keep driving west and calling in twice a day. I'll work over Eddie's contacts here to see if I can scare up some information," McBride said.

"Come on, I make money doing jobs, not wandering around the countryside," Mike said. To McBride's credit, he did not start screaming into the phone.

"Mike, you're the best out there. I need you for this. Keep driving, two days and that's it. Stay in touch," McBride said.

"Clarence, I'm done. I hit one out of two and Nelson was a clean hit. They won't find him for a week. I don't do bounty work. People tell me where I need to be, and then I do my job," Mike said. Drive and call? What kind of job was that? Mike had never worked that way and did not intend to start. Long ago he had decided he had to stay away from doing jobs that did not fit his general mode of operation and particular skills. This had led to missing out on high-paying calls, but this instinct had served him well. When he would receive a contract, it would be for a certain person at a certain place. From there he figured out how to do the job. Find a person in the wide-open countryside? That was for someone else.

"Drive west for today, then find a hotel, stay there, and call me. Drive west the next day and do the same. If I find where he is, I'll call you and you can do the rest. I'll pay you either way," McBride said.

Mike thought about this for a few moments. "If you find him, and I don't like the way it sounds, I'm out. I'll let you know where I'm staying when I find a decent place."

***

Of course Mike was right, McBride thought when he hung up the phone. McBride was angry, but he had to respect Mike for what he was. How Mike handled the two of them in the diner was exactly what he would have expected. Mike would never start a gun battle with people around once Eddie took off. Why else would Mike be hired for this kind of job? There were three or four other men in that area he needed to call to fan out and lookfor Eddie. McBride would have each call in every few hours, and none had any reason to know of the others. After a few days, they could keep searching on their own as if they wished. There was also law enforcement in the area to be called about a spotted fugitive. That alone could cause a stir.

McBride considered what needed to happen in the next day or two. Eddie would slip away from everyone very quickly if he was not found in that time. He sat down at his desk, knowing the next couple of days could be ugly with what had to be done, but this would be nothing new. Putting the pressure on a person was what he often had to do in his business. It was always his skin on the line, and he had to get the job done before someone else did. McBride picked up the phone without hesitation, knowing full well the people he would be hiring to help would be ruining, maybe ending, lives in looking for the answer. The aftermath would be hell, but he had been expecting this for some time.

# 46

Harris was outside Henry Silva's office the next morning before the man had arrived. He was sitting on a bench in the hallway, trying to decide how much of his conversation with O'Connor he should relay. O'Connor was certainly one being watched by the BOI, but Harris doubted if they had much against him or knew what to do about him. McBride was most likely in a similar position. Harris knew what his job was and was not going to start cutting deals with or for organized crime, so he stayed with his conclusion that he was going to need to tell Silva most, if not all, of what they talked about. The thoughts of resigning that day were of only passing interest, since he had learned there might be a way of taking McBride and getting him locked away. However, there was still anger from the fact that it had to be done with the help of a rival boss and not by good, solid investigative work. He would have to live with that fact and deal with it as best as he could.

"Just the person I wanted to see, first thing in the morning," Silva said when he stepped around the corner. There were no other people in at that hour of the morning. Silva walked over to where Harris was sitting on a bench and stood there. He was holding a broken leather satchel under his arm, overflowing with papers, while feeling around in his pocket for the office door key. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Let's step inside," Harris said, standing up.

Silva fumbled with a set of keys and opened the door into a rather large but cluttered office. Harris was used to this sight, seeing law enforcement officials having data and reports laying out and on every horizontal surface. Silva set the satchel onto a small open space on his desk and sat down. "What's so high dang important Harris?"

There were no reasons for niceties, so Harris went right in. "I think we have a way to peg the LaRue murder on McBride."

Silva laced his hands across his stomach. "That's good, but it better be damn good."

"I have access to one of the men who helped McBride that night. Says he saw McBride shoot LaRue."

Silva stared back at Harris for a moment and did not move. Harris was about to continue, but Silva said, "That has to be a solid source, or we'll look like fools."

"O'Connor told me," Harris said.

"O'Connor was there?" Silva said, shooting out of his seat. Harris was not sure if he had seen a man with a belly that large move so fast.

"No. Take it easy." Silva settled back and put his hand to his forehead for a second. "O'Connor has an insider that works for McBride. Said he was there that night and he told me a few things that few people know."

Silva let out a low whistle. "What's O'Connor want with this? Take McBride out so he can take over again?"

"Likely." Harris had wondered about this deal with the devil as well. "Fighting one organization is better than fighting two."

"This has something to do with your boy out robbing banks?" Silva said. Harris was impressed that Silva would get to that conclusion so quickly. He had always struck him as a man who often buried his nose in the reports and could not think off the line.

"O'Connor doesn't want to expose this man unless we bring Eddie back. Without Eddie, we don't have a case. With him, it'll be difficult at best." Harris was not sure if they would bring Eddie in alive, especially considering the last few days. "Anyone been able to ID the other robber yet?"

"No. That's a tough one. Looks like a loose wire, showed up with a gun. From the accounts, he seems to be a fella who shoots first and doesn't bother with questions. There are robbers out there for the thrill and the money is simply a bonus. This one, I don't know." Silva rocked a few times in his chair, looking at his desk. "Listen, you city boys might have all day to sit around and talk, but we got other things to do. What do you want?"

Harris ignored the jab, mostly because he had been expecting it and knew this was part of the job. Every agency was territorial; city, county, state, federal. Each had a piece and was not willing to share it. "We work together and we can bring McBride in. I can prosecute him and lock him up, but I need your help. We know LaRue worked for O'Connor. We traced his whereabouts and who he associated with. That part was easy. It went wrong, and McBride had him taken out. I don't know what happened, but it was a screw-up, and that's how McBride handles these problems. The girl was likely involved as well. Eddie has to be taken alive."

Silva set his hands on the table. The brushoff from before had been set aside for the moment. "If we bring him in alive, McBride goes to jail, or the boy does. If he's dead, case closed on Eddie Griffin. We ain't changing a thing."

"Come on. We can get McBride. Shut him down," Harris said, though he knew his evidence was slim.

"Forget it," Silva said. "You don't got enough to make me change a thing. Eddie's on the run, he's got a sheet on him, and he's been identified robbing two banks. That's it. Got anything else you want to talk about?"

Harris knew there was no reply to be made. Silva was shaking his head as Harris left the office, but there was nothing he could do about the opinion that had been discussed. His options were few, if any, and with as gun-happy as many of the cops were about gangsters, Eddie had a very narrow chance of getting away. It was still quiet when he returned to his office, though it felt like he had already worked a full day.

# 47

Eddie sat back against the boxcar wall, and felt the clacking of the wheels vibrate through the floor. Occasionally they would hit a change big enough to make his leg bounce, but he was moving away at a good rate of speed, and that was all he could ask for. After the last few days, he considered himself the luckiest man alive and could only imagine what would happen if he made a wrong move.

When he had escaped, Eddie wasted no time running deep into the woods and hills. He saw the car going up and down the road, but they did not look to be making a real organized effort to find him. Still, he wasted no time. He had no belongings, and other than the fifty-dollar bill he had stuffed into his pants, he had nothing to slow him down. There were really two things he needed to do, and they were, in a way, opposed to each other. He needed to disappear and get out of the area as quickly as he could. The fastest way to travel was by train, but he was not going to be able to simply buy a ticket and sit back comfortably in a sleeper car going to California. He would instead have to rely on what he and Sam had done those years ago, when they were skipping school: hop a train and ride it until it was time to get off. That was simple enough, but the real problem was finding a train going preferably west.

After wandering around for a few hours, he came to a road leading to a small town. The road was one of the few that were paved, and he saw a collection of small houses in the distance. Every instinct told him to hide, but he knew he had to get moving. If he was unable to do that, he would need to run back into the woods and lie low for as long as he could. The town turned out to be slightly bigger than he thought, and he found a well-used rail line that ran through the middle. Eddie began running west along the line, and he soon found a bridge that crossed a river. Down below was a collection of men sitting along the bank. By this time he was out of breath, and he estimated he had been running for about thirty minutes. He hopped off of the train tracks and slid down the stone-littered slope to the bank of the river. Once he was there, he paused for a moment and wondered if this was a wise move. These men were out of work, riding the rails. They might rob him, ignore him altogether, or maybe turn him in. One of the men stood up and stretched, but as far as Eddie could tell, there was no conversation going on between them.

"What's your business?" the standing man said in Eddie's direction.

He gave this some consideration and came to the realization that he looked the part of a hobo. He could blend in with them if he needed to. "Traveling. Going west."

"To hell you are," the man said. Eddie guessed his age to be about forty. There were about ten others, all sitting around, some tossing stones in the river, a few napping. Most just looked to be passing time.

"Ain't got nothing else to do." Eddie could see that many were about his age. Young men with no prospects, out of work and looking to see where the wind blew them. Hopping trains was dangerous, but if done right, it could take a man across the country in a week or two, picking up odd jobs along the way to keep food in his belly.

"Sure, well, welcome to the country club," the man said, walking away.

Eddie took a place among them and tried neither to let his excitement be apparent nor for anyone to look directly at his face. However, time was ticking away, and he needed to know where to run next. Since these men were seated here, he guessed there was a stop or a yard close by where they could sneak on. He needed to know where, and he was about to ask when he heard the unmistakable sound of an approaching engine. As if an awakening call had been made, about half of the men got up and began wading across the shallow river to the opposite bank. Eddie joined in and followed the small dirt-covered group as they crossed and scurried up the other side to a small stand of trees close to the track. The men all crouched in the woods, and Eddie immediately became aware of the reason why they had chosen this place. The tracks leading up to the bridge came around a sharp right-hand bend, while the tracks going away went around a sharp left bend. The train had to slow considerably here. Within a few minutes, he saw the smoke of the engine above the trees and began to hear the squeal of the brakes as the train slowed for the approaching curves. Everyone was down on their haunches, looking up the track. The rails began to give off a deafening ring as the wheels of the train struggled to get the loaded machine slowed and turned. The smokestack appeared a moment later as the engine approached the bridge at a crawl. The real trick to hopping a train was timing and patience. A boxcar was the best ride, while an open bed was a wild adventure out in the elements. From what Eddie could see as the train approached, there appeared to be a few open cars. The engine chugged by, and within moments, the men began to come out of their crouches and started running beside the first open boxcar. Eddie was quicker than the others, having nothing to carry. He grabbed a handle and let his momentum carry him up. He held out his hand and helped one of the slower runners up, while another hopped on in a similar fashion. The others fell behind to one of the following boxcars. Within a few seconds, one of the other two men pulled out a railroad spike and jammed the door open so they wouldn't get shut in, and then he settled back, away from the opening, to the center of the floor. The only thing that Eddie knew was that the train was going north, and if at all possible, he would make a few more changes to mix up his trail. He stood there for a few moments and imagined he heard sirens off in the distance, but he realized there was no such thing. Either way, they might be a sound he would hear for some time if this was to be his life from then on.

He rode for a few hours, not talking to anyone, until they came to a rail yard. The train slowed as they approached, and before they came into the yard, he hopped off and let the train continue on. This time, he was the only one to get off. Eddie was not sure where he was, only that he may have traveled about a hundred miles north of where he hopped on. The sun was beginning to get low enough on the horizon to give him some cover. Quickly he scoured the lines running in and out and took a guess at which one ran west. He followed this out a ways and hid in the bushes until, about ten minutes later, a train lumbered out of the yard, and he was able to swing on, finding himself alone in an empty car. Half an hour later, darkness had closed in, and he knew he was headed due west, out of New York, and hopefully away from all that had been following him to that point.

He moved away from the wall where he had been sitting and leaned across the floor on one elbow. He balled up his jacket to make a pillow and stretched. The car was noisy, but after the day he had, he actually fell asleep for a period of time. The swaying and bouncing of the car felt good and, for the first time in months, safe. Nobody knew where he was, and if he could work it, no one would find out. When he awoke, darkness was completely closed in, and he only caught glimpses of trees and poles outside the door as they flew by. He would need to get off in a while, but for the time being, he had nothing to do other than stay where he was and be alone with his thoughts.

Often he had gone over all the events that had led him to be a fugitive on a train, and each time he concluded that luck was not his companion. All the way back to being in the home and meeting Sam, each turn made his life situation worse. Each time. Meeting Sam; getting in that car that night; going to jail; trying to live the straight life in Providence and seeing LaRue get killed. All this was one unending line of bad turns. Then he thought of his night with Gloria and how this sped up everything that had happened since. He met her at the trolley stop and then took her to his apartment to make that phone call. It was the phone call that always made him uneasy. Why would she do that since he was really nothing to her? Whomever she intended to visit was never mentioned after that. At the time this did not seem right, but he chose to ignore it. However, now this seemed to be a glaring error. Then a sobering thought crept in that was so clear and precise that he felt his face turn red just thinking about it. He knew that was wrong, but he did it anyway. It was wrong and he knew it, but he went out with her, and then he was a wanted man. He got in that Stutz with Sam, though he knew it was stolen. He went out almost every day during school hours, stealing things he could never afford, but he knew it was wrong. Sister Broomstick hit him every time he came back or stepped out of line, but he kept going out and finding problems. Maybe what she was trying to do was right, a thought he never had even considered, even if the way she did it was wrong. She wanted to keep him in line and out of trouble, and he wished now he had found a way to listen to her at least once.

All the way back and forth, he began to think of similar instances. Eddie stood and paced the boxcar several times, expertly adjusting his stride to the rocking motion. He stopped at one corner and rested his head against the old-smelling wood. Sure, life dealt a person certain cards, good and bad, but there were too many times where he had made a decision that he had known what the outcome would be. It was hard to deal with the thought that all this was because of a consistent series of bad choices, but here he was. Gloria was not interested in a relationship, he could tell that as soon as he met her. She was close to people like LaRue, so why would she want to be seen with the boy hauling trash? McBride had set him up, and he had known it was happening, but he had gone ahead anyway.

Eddie went back to where his jacket was lying and sat down with a ball of guilt building up in his chest. Gloria had said something. There was a starkly honest moment on the couch. "I wish I was that normal," she had said. Then, later, she told him to run, or that he knew when to run. She was telling him he was set up and that she was in terrible trouble herself. Then she was dead. One of McBride's game pieces, it seemed. "Normal" depended on how a person looked at it. For her to think that meant she was well removed from day to day life. Eddie lay down again. All he could do now was rely on that intuition he had ignored for so long. However, he could only escape so many times before the odds caught up with him. Eddie sat on the floor, trying to now convince himself he was just a victim in all this, but this did not make sense. He stretched out and stared at the roof of the boxcar. There it was. His whole life in one ragged string.

# 48

Eddie had been on the train since the previous afternoon and was beginning to think about getting off. He was hungry and thirsty, having hopped the train without having a chance to think of what he needed to bring. All he had wanted to do was get as far away as quickly as possible. The train had been going mostly west, Eddie guessed, and with the various stops and slowdowns he had traveled two or three hundred miles from where he had gotten on. If he had a choice, he wished he could stay on this train all the way across the country, but he could only push back hunger and thirst so far. The ride had been bumpy but good enough that he had dozed through the night, and for a great deal of the morning he rode along, sitting in the open door watching the farmland roll by.

The train began to slow again, and Eddie started looking for a good spot to hop off. They had passed a small town not far back, and he would have a chance to get enough to eat and drink to go on. As he was getting ready to plan his jump, a young man swung up into the car, followed by another a second later. The two stood in the doorway, both looking at Eddie.

"Hey partner, got room for two more?" the first one said.

"Sure," Eddie said. "I was about to get off myself."

"May want to think about that," the other man said, leaning over the side. "Got a bridge." As he said this, the land fell away, and the train began going over a river, starting to pick up speed.

"Whew. Getting hot. I'm Chet," the first man said. "That's Buck."

Buck waved from the doorway. Both of them looked to be a few years younger than Eddie and wore similar dirty weathered clothes. Chet had a cloth cap on that he took off and used to wipe the sweat from his face. Both tossed their packs down in the middle of the floor and sat. "Got a name?" Buck asked.

"Sure, sorry. Charlie," Eddie said. In the night, he realized that he had to, at some point, start over. He had created a new name for himself, which he thought was rather clever. Charlie Neumann. He actually laughed when he came up with it. Neumann, new man. Get it? He was bored, and it was the best he could do.

"Traveling kind of light there, ain't ya?" Chet said.

"Lost it," he said. "Jumped on way back and caught on the door guide. It fell off and I stayed on." He had created a new life, but needed to account for his lack of belongings. Born outside of Syracuse. Traveling west, looking for work after having lost his job at a furniture factory and not being able to find anything where he'd been.

"Lose much?" Buck asked.

"Naw," Eddie said. He had hidden the fifty-dollar bill under the insole in his shoe, not knowing whom he was going to meet up with—a habit he had picked up long ago traveling with Sam to various back alleys and juke joints. Prison had given him instincts he hoped he would not have to put to use, but they had come back in the past few days. He felt these two would be fine, though there was no way to be sure or to know why he felt that way.

"Goes that way sometimes," Chet said. "We ain't got much, but if you need something, let us know."

"Well," Eddie said, feeling his dry tongue stick to the roof of his mouth. "I haven't had a drink in a day."

Buck looked at him, his face turning hard around his eyes. "You're not getting my rye. Paid a buck for it."

"No. Water. I'm parched." Chet and Buck both laughed, and they each pulled a metal canteen from their pack and handed it to Eddie. Chet's was full, and he guessed he drank half of it before he set it back down and put the cap on. The steak dinner with Nelson was long ago, leaving him dry.

"God," Eddie said, catching his breath. He handed the canteen back to Chet, never having believed water could taste like that. He felt his body relax; he had not realized how dehydrated he had become. "Thanks. Good."

"We're heading west," Buck said. "Seems there's some mining work out there. Maybe get a job, maybe not."

"Doesn't much matter, really," Chet said. "All kinds of people out riding the rails. Especially with what happened the past few days."

Eddie had been out of touch with any news ever since Charlie had picked him up. "What happened?"

"Didn't hear? Stock market went in the shitter. At least, that's what I heard. Some lost millions. Don't know how you can lose that much, but I guess that's why I'm here."

Buck laughed. "What's it matter? We ain't got no stocks. Wouldn't know one if I seen it."

Buck and Chet continued to joke about what had happened, but Eddie stared out through the open door and considered the implications. The classes he took and the professors who taught them had instilled enough knowledge for him to realize what had happened. Professor Grumwald had spent most of one class ranting about investors being overextended and banks loaning out too much money. The class listened and let him ramble on, mentioning indicators few had heard about. They knew the fundamentals, though, and as Eddie sat there, they did make sense. People out of work and carrying too much debt and speculation. Many, he knew, had been active in the futures market and playing options. Gambling, Eddie thought, though he never said it. At the time, he had to admit, some made it work. Eddie never had enough to really dig into these types of trading deals.

"What else did they say about the markets?" Eddie asked.

Chet and Buck stopped joking around. "Can't tell you much. Don't look good for all them bankers wearing fancy pants," Chet said. "Why you want to know?"

"Got some friends I know that work the stock market. This would be tough on them," Eddie said.

Chet and Buck looked him for a moment. "Ain't got a paper with us," Buck said. "Sure you can find one somewhere when you get off."

The two continued to joke around and relax on the floor of the boxcar. Eddie began to consider calling Herman to see what had happened. Over the past day, he had given this considerable thought, weighing the different reasons for contacting him. On the one hand, he wanted—needed—to disappear into the landscape and never come back. His attempt at creating a new persona had been that, and he was going to head as far west and north as he could from Providence. Calling Herman would not help this. There was nothing Herman could do for him, anyway. Then again, maybe there was. Eddie would not be able to know if anything had changed since he had left, and simply running might not be the answer. Harris might have turned up evidence in his favor in the last few days. Everything had been such a blur, Eddie was not always sure this was not some odd dream. Either way, he needed to get off the train soon, if for no other reason than to change his travel direction. About two hours later, the train slowed for another town. He bid farewell to his traveling companions and slipped out of the door, back to the ground.

# 49

Herman looked at the clock and saw it was almost 3:00 in the afternoon. The schedule board had him down to change out a transmission on a Packard sedan that had been in the service lot for a week waiting for a replacement to arrive. The owner, a local banker, had been by a few days before, though he was no longer demanding his car be repaired right away. Herman had to guess the recent market problems had him otherwise occupied. The mechanics themselves had been talking about this, though most of them, certainly not Herman, did not really understand what was going on. They knew they worked for a more upscale car dealer, and that could be a problem if people became nervous. The owner had reassured them, but that was not much comfort.

While he was gathering his tools to do the job, he guessed he could complete most of the work before he left, then finish in the morning. He had just begun pulling the driveshaft off when he heard his name being shouted across the garage.

"Herman Ward! Get over to the office! You got a call," the shop foreman yelled.

Herman wiped his hands off and set his tools back on the workbench before going over to the office. Personal calls were never welcome in the foreman's eyes, but emergencies were a problem as well. Walking across the garage, there were a few whistles and references to a girlfriend checking up on him, but he ignored these taunts. Most of the girls he went out with knew better then to call him at work. He stepped up into the office, where the secretary/parts woman handed him the phone.

"I got brakes to order, so don't tie up the phone, jackass." she said.

"Sure," he said. Eunice was the owner's aunt or grandmother or something. Herman could never remember.

"Herman? It's me, Eddie," Eddie said as soon as the phone was to Herman's ear.

"Shit fire, pal, where the hell have you been?" Herman said.

"Language, dirtball," Eunice said.

Herman had not realized she was leaning over her desk, listening to the conversation. He picked up the phone base and moved as far away as he could, about ten feet. "You're all over the papers. What's this all about?"

Eddie began going into the details, talking quickly and in the soft monotone of a person who did not want to be overheard. The facts that Eddie recited fit the write-ups in the various papers Herman had read, but the conclusion was different. Of course they were. Both of them had been around the police enough to know that the rules they played by and reported were seldom the actual truth. Initially there was some doubt as Herman read paper after paper about what had happened and was happening on the case, but hearing Eddie tell him pushed these doubts away for the moment. Eddie had paid his price, but that was a few years before, and in all their time together there had never been any indication that he could rob a bank and shoot a guard. They had drunk illegal beer together until the early morning hours, going to clubs and burlesque shows. Eddie was a funny little friend who told stories, but he always stayed out of trouble. Many times Eddie had told Herman he knew if he were ever caught at something again, they would throw him away and forget where he was. This was no killer or robber.

Eddie continued his story with his leaping over the tables at the diner. Herman had to smile at this thought, Eddie sitting with a hit man and a lunatic, going straight up and over the back of the booth, scattering plates and food as he went. Perfect, a getaway for the movies if he had ever heard one. "Do you have his number?" Eddie asked.

"What? Herman said. "Oh, uh, Harris, sure. No, I don't have it with me. The operator can probably put you through. He asked me to get ahold of him if I heard from you."

"I had to call you first when I got the chance. You're the only one I really trust. I needed to get the lay of the land, understand?" Eddie said.

"It doesn't look good here. Your name's on the front pages everyday. Sorry, pal, sorry, but you needed to know," Herman said, wondering if this was the right thing to say.

"Got it. That's what I guessed. How's Harris? Any idea?"

"He's washed up. I doubt if he'll be in office next week. The papers put all the blame on him," Herman said, looking at the foreman examining his work on the sedan, then coming back towards the office.

"McBride's probably controlling the newspapers, forcing Harris out," Eddie said.

"Hey, I don't have much time. Where are you, in case Harris drops by?" Herman asked.

"I can't say. You were a good friend, Herman. One of the best I had. I gotta keep moving, though," Eddie said, and then hung up.

The foreman stuck his head in the office and glared at Herman, pointing at the car he had been working on. The phone went silent. He handed it back to Eunice. Herman squeezed past the foreman. "I have to run downtown real quick. I'll be back in fifteen minutes."

***

Eddie wanted—needed—to trust Herman, but he felt an instinct to leave his present life without a trace. For a few seconds, he watched the people milling around in the drug store he was in, looking at sundries and sitting at the soda fountain. After getting off the train, he had walked around the small town for a few minutes and bought a paper. The news of the collapse was all over, with reports of businessmen in New York being wiped out, even a few suicides. A few of the people in the store were looking at him as he walked around deciding if he needed to buy anything. He needed to call Harris but wanted to think through what he was going to say. It all felt wrong, the conversation with Herman and the thought of calling Harris. Herman was going to tell Harris he had called, and Harris would start trying to figure out what to do next. Eddie left the pharmacy, thinking that his picture might be in the post office and that it was best if his face was not seen by a great many people.

After slipping out, he went to the grocery, where he bought a few things he could carry with him that would keep. Beans, crackers, a can of milk, some dried meat. Around the back, he found a canvas bag that may have been used to carry potatoes, and he put all his items in it and slung it over his shoulder. When he walked back onto the street, he shifted the bag to be under his arm. Hobos had a habit of getting picked up by the cops, and this was a problem he was not wanting to deal with. The motel was on the edge of town and was going to cost a dollar for a night's stay. He needed a hot shower and a place to sleep for a night before moving on. The fifty was not going to last long, and paying for a place to sleep was going to cost. But he needed to stop for a few hours, get some food in him and a good night's sleep. Eddie decided he needed to call O'Connor instead. O'Connor had given him his private number when he had Eddie sent away, and now Eddie knew this was probably his only chance.

Eddie dialed the number he had memorized since he had met with O'Connor on what seemed to be years ago rather than a week or so. For O'Connor to go to such trouble to get and protect Eddie meant he wanted McBride bad. Likewise, McBride would be thinking of a way to get Eddie as well. He was turning this possibility around in his mind when the phone was picked up on the other end. Eddie introduced himself and the phone was immediately handed to O'Connor.

"Where are you, boy?" O'Connor said in his elderly but authoritative voice.

"I'm not sure I want to say," Eddie began. There was doubt in his mind since talking to Herman about telling anyone where he was. "I don't want to be found."

"That's understandable," O'Connor said. "Your mug is all over the papers. Seems every edition features you and that lawyer Harris. I'm tired of hearing about it."

"Exactly. I can't walk down the street without worrying about somebody taking a shot at me." Eddie was aware of being a stranger in a small town.

"Let me ask you a question," O'Connor said. "Think about this for a moment. What would have happened if I hadn't pulled you in and hidden you away?"

"I wouldn't be wanted for robbing two banks, or been drug around by a madman with a gun. That Mike guy came after me," Eddie said. He realized what had happened the last couple of days was probably not known by O'Connor.

"Mike? What's he doing there?" O'Connor said, clearing his throat. To Eddie he sounded like he was talking through a gurgling tube.

"He must be working for McBride. Trying to get me. I got away but I think he got Nelson." Eddie was not sure of this, but he had seen them barreling down the roads looking for him.

"Mike works for himself, one job at a time," O'Connor said, as if stating a known fact. "Back to my question. We both know you would have been in jail by now. With your record, that would have been the end. I don't care how innocent you think you are."

O'Connor had a point, and Eddie had to admit to himself that he had considered this over the last few days. "What happened with Nelson?"

"Shit, I thought I had him under control," O'Connor said. "Men like him can get carried away." Eddie guessed that was as close to an apology as O'Connor could give.

"How bad does McBride want me?" Eddie asked.

"To send Mike all the way out there, he wants you real bad," O'Connor said. "I wish I would have hired him before McBride picked him up for this job."

That last statement made Eddie feel queasy. Law enforcement, local and national, and a hit man were all looking for him. Two gangsters wanted him. Eddie laughed for a reason he did not fully understand, even though he knew his chance for any kind of escape was low. Any tipoff would lead to forces coming in from all directions, and they would not be looking to take him back to stand trial. Whoever was leading the charge would decide the case himself, collect whatever reward was being offered, and go on.

O'Connor continued. "If McBride doesn't think he is in control, he gets mean and starts killing. He's a good thinker, but it's as plain as that. Stay out there and get shot at if you want, or you have a chance with me."

The straight hard logic of O'Connor had sense. "I'm in Brookville, Pennsylvania, Morton's Motel, Room 10," Eddie said.

"I'll have a man there tomorrow. Don't leave your room." O'Connor then added, "In case you wondered, Nelson got away and caused both of us too much trouble. But you know I don't make the same mistake twice. Call if you need to."

The line went dead and Eddie slipped out of the phone booth.

# 50

Patrick was not sure why he was not able to talk. He moved his tongue around in his mouth and felt the gap where teeth should have been. The taste of blood made him realize they had been forcibly removed. There was a question being asked, but the voice was all garbled, and besides, the ability to form words was not there. There was a sharp sting on the side of his face, and the voice came nearer.

"You idiot, you knocked him cold. He'll be here in a minute, better hope this puke doesn't die on you."

The last part of this sentence came through, and Patrick ran this through his mind several times and tried to see who said it. One eye opened, but the other complained by throbbing and staying shut. The sting to the side of his face came again and a hand grabbed his chin.

"Hey!" the disembodied voice yelled. "Hey, wake up, you fuck!" Patrick felt a spray of spit hit his face. The slap came again and this time Patrick's one eye fluttered open. The other was helplessly swollen shut. The man who was standing in front of him wiped his mouth off with the back of his hand. "There."

Patrick looked around the room he was in and did not recognize anything about it. And as he looked, what happened began to come back. His grandfather had received a phone call from Eddie and told Patrick to get Charlie and take a train to the location Eddie had told him. Patrick drove out of the gate, and when he stopped at the first street, one car blocked him at front and one at back. Three men bolted out of the front car and dragged him out into the street, and that was the last he remembered before opening his eye a few moments ago.

"Got a man who wants to talk to you real bad," another man behind him said. "You tell him what he wants to hear and this will be real easy. Otherwise...." He stepped around to where Patrick could see him. He was holding in one hand, loose at his side, a big kitchen knife. There was movement behind him as somebody else entered.

"Back off, Fingers. Let me talk to him." This person came around and despite Patrick's impaired vision, he recognized McBride right away. "He's right. You talk to us, and a loose tooth and black eye is all you'll get."

"What do you want to know?" Patrick asked, his question coming out slurred but clear enough.

"Don't be silly," McBride said. He then put one hand on Patrick's bruised eye and the other on the back of his head and squeezed. Patrick felt loose bones moving around as he let out a yell.

McBride let up and after a few moments, he caught his breath. "Understand? You lie to us, and that will be the least of what you'll get. Now, let me be clear. We don't have much time, and I'm not a patient man. Where's Eddie Griffin?"

"I don't know," Patrick said. The blow was so sudden that, again, Patrick had not known what had happened until he began to wake up. More blood was running down his face as the wound over his eye had been reopened. As he managed to open the one eye, everyone in the room was standing around him, not moving or making a sound. They were simply watching. There was the rough sound of a table being dragged across the room, and then his left hand was slammed down onto the surface. Whoever was holding him down was using all their weight to flatten the hand out.

"Let's try this again," McBride said. "We can only knock you out so many times before you're gone, so we have a different game."

Fingers stepped forward with the knife still in his hand, pulled Patrick's small finger out to the side at an impossible angle and set the blade onto the first knuckle.

"You have ten fingers and ten toes. We can work our way all the way through them and start on other body parts if you want, or you can tell us what we want to hear," McBride said.

Fingers pressed the blade tight enough to the skin to feel it start to cut through. "Ain't never seen anyone get past three, but I'm willing take as many as you want,"

"We are very short on time," McBride said. "Where's Eddie Griffin?"

"I don't know him," Patrick said.

McBride nodded to Fingers. He slowly leaned on the knife. This time Patrick screamed, as the blade severed the skin, was rocked back and forth on the bone, and broke through. The small digit popped off and rolled across the table as blood flooded out around it. The knife was moved to the next knuckle.

"Where's Eddie Griffin?"

All Patrick could think about was how he was going to disappoint his grandfather. The blade began to cut through the skin. "Brookville Pennsylvania, Morton's, Room 10." The blade stopped.

The hand was released, and Patrick immediately pulled his shirttail out and wrapped it up as best as he could. McBride bent down in front of him. "We're going to take you home now, young man. Be sure to tell your grandfather again to stay out of my business. He's too old, can't even leave his house. This is my town now, and he should retire to a nice comfortable slum down south. Can you tell him that?"

Patrick, stunned, pain running through all parts of his body, could only mumble his agreement to pass the warning along. A smelly cloth bag was put over his head and his body was hoisted out of the chair and dragged through the house to a car waiting outside. There was too much for him to figure out where he was. After what seemed to be about twenty minutes of driving, the car was stopped and the bag was removed. The door was opened and a foot literally shoved him out of the car and onto the side of the road. He instantly recognized his grandfather's house. The car sped away, and he struggled to his feet to go inside and relay the message.

# 51

Eddie walked back to the motel. As he did, other people in the town went by going about their business. He listened to people talk about their lives with the occasional burst of laughter added in. They had normal lives. Maybe that was what Gloria meant by normal, being able to sit in a diner with friends all around, laughing and talking about what they did that day.

He had already eaten, and he began to feel sleepy and comfortable. It occurred to him that what was Eddie Griffin was no more. His old life, or remnants of it, had to end, and he had to start from there. Maybe it was the odd conversations with Herman and O'Connor. Reaching back to Herman was probably one last try to stay Eddie Griffin, who had a life in Providence. Eddie concluded that calling Harris was only going to make it worse. After all, what proof did Harris have to believe him? By now, he probably had seen the news about him and Nelson robbing the banks. Run, was what Gloria had told him to do. He was going to go her one better: he was going to disappear.

The motel would subtract a precious amount of money he had, but he felt he needed a fresh start to what was going to be a difficult trip. He had eaten a good meal, taken a shower, and was about to enjoy a nights sleep in a clean bed. When his head hit the pillow, he was asleep in a matter of moments.

There was no clock in the room, but he guessed it was about 2:00am when he bolted straight up in bed and had a thought that he needed to get out. All he could think was that he had told O'Connor the room number he was in. He put his clothes on and picked up his sack, but before walking out of the door a plan came to mind. If he really was not being followed, he might never know and could be running for no reason. Using the pillows, he arranged the bed like he was still sleeping in it, then left and went into an alley across the road. There, he sat down in the dark behind a trash can and began to wait for whatever might happen. Again, though, he began falling asleep and was soon out, only to be awakened by a car pulling in and stopping a few doors down from where his room was.

***

Mike had been awakened by a desk clerk about an urgent call a few hours before. How McBride had gotten the information was not part of the conversation, but Mike knew it was done forcibly. With McBride throwing money at the problem, Mike drove directly into Brookville, about seventy miles from where he was staying, and readily found the motel and the room. The place was completely quiet, relatively dark and as far as he could tell, nearly deserted. He left his car and stepped up to the motel room door. It was easy enough for him to pick the lock. The rest of the motel complex was silent, as he pulled his small gun from the shoulder holster and stepped in.

***

As soon as Mike arrived, Eddie saw his entire life in Providence crumble. Whatever happened after he had called Herman and O'Connor he would likely never know, but either way, any contact with anything he had done or people he had known was severed. Like a fast-playing movie, the job at Aron's, his classes, other friends, all of it ran back through his mind and he felt that it was the life of another person. He would need to think that way if he were to survive. Running and disappearing were going to be difficult. He had started reworking the new persona in his mind: Charlie Neumann, born in Youngstown, Ohio, left school at 12 to work in various stores to support his family, now traveling around looking for employment. Parents both gone, no brothers or sisters.

Mike tried the door, then had it unlocked in a few seconds. Eddie was amazed at how quick, reserved, and effortless the man worked, giving him a chill to think that if he really were asleep in there, he would never have heard Mike step in. Nelson would have kicked the door in with guns blazing. Mike was good, and Eddie could not help but remember how he handled himself when they first met a few weeks before. Eddie ducked further. After a few seconds, Mike stepped back out, pulled the door closed, and drove off. No shot was fired, and barely a stone in the parking lot was disturbed.

***

When Mike stepped into the room, it did not feel right. He waited a moment to be sure there was no one hiding in a corner to attack him. The bed was against the opposite wall, and he could tell by the lumpy shape that it most likely was not a person under the covers. He listened for a moment for any breathing or movement, and then he left the room without hesitation. Maybe in the past he would have walked in and fired a shot into the figure on the bed, but in the years since he had started in this business, he had grown more cautious and knew that extra bullets and the sound of a gun were liabilities. Anger at being tricked did not enter his mind. He was simply relieved to get away without hurting himself or being seen. Anger, true anger, was never part of what he did. Instead, he knew he was done and would not stop driving until he returned to Providence. He would not speak to McBride unless there was another job, knowing that his payment would be on time and in the proper amount. Funny, Mike thought as he drove back onto the highway, he never had a problem with people paying him correctly.

# 52

For Harris, the information from Herman was of no use, as it did not give any kind of location, though he thanked Herman just the same. There was no way for him use what he heard to help the case, other than the fact that he knew Eddie was alive. The pressure was intense, and the result was swift. Harris was forced out of his job, with the Mayor threatening to use some form of recall that Harris was not sure even existed. No use fighting it at that point. The press stories were full of half-truths and whoever was feeding them information seemed to have no end to what they could make up. Earlier that evening, he had typed his own resignation and had it delivered to the Mayor's office, then immediately began packing his effects away in cardboard boxes. His phone rang.

"Thought you were going to clean up this town," O'Connor, said his voice quiet and raspy.

A comment like that could have been seen as sarcastic or even comical, since it had been repeated many times in the papers over the last few weeks. It did not sound that way from O'Connor. He was only stating a fact.

"Didn't turn out that way," Harris said, putting another folder in his box, holding the receiver against his ear. The box was nearly full, and the last file started sliding off the top. He caught it and started filling another box.

"No," O'Connor said. "Looks like you got played, outmaneuvered."

"I had every intention of making good on my promises," Harris said. He had repeated this so many times, his voice was starting to sound like a radio talking back to himself.

"Naw," O'Connor said. "I knew better than to trust cops. I gave it a try and they didn't get the damn job done. I did my part, and it looks like I'll have to do the rest."

"I don't control the press. I can't make things happen out of thin air," Harris said.

O'Connor laughed a muted short laugh. "How else you going to get anything done?"

"Honesty, hard work, using the legal system for what it was intended," Harris said.

"You don't get it," O'Connor said. "That's not how the system works. You have to pull the ropes behind the curtain. Cut deals, screw over the right people, pull in favors and give them out. That's the way cities run, hell this whole country. You don't think Hoover does that? Honesty and goodwill only get you so far. We both know what I do. I run liquor, make trouble for people, and have gambling houses. You know what? I got all these law-abiding chumps coming to my places every night, doing everything they say is wrong. I got 'em all. If I want to bring one of them down, all I got to do is let a story slip out, and it goes from there. That's how it works. I'm damn sure that's what McBride did with you, and then others just jumped on and rode it from there."

Harris had gone into his profession with the idea that this kind of approach to solving problems was not needed. He firmly believed that, with enough blunt truth, those kinds of manipulations were not needed. He still believed it, but he had begun to wonder where the line was drawn. This all seemed clear before, but now there was doubt as to what constituted what. "I can't, won't, ever believe that's how law enforcement operates. It can't. The people put their trust in me and I have to respect that trust."

O'Connor groaned. "No sign of the boy?"

Harris continued placing things in the box he had set out on his desk. Eddie Griffin had proven to be the end of his career, one that he would have to work long and hard to live down. He folded the lid over on the box after he put in the last folder, one with his college diploma and transcript. "As of a few days ago, I knew he was alive. Anyway, you have to talk to the Feds. I'm not on that one any more. It's their case now. He's a fugitive."

"Yes," O'Connor said. "They're every bit as corrupt as anyone. Fugitive. Your boy is as good as gone if some bounty hunter doesn't catch him. You and I both know he's innocent. McBride set him up. Shame, really. He's a decent young man."

Harris was not sure what to believe about Eddie anymore. On the one hand, he hoped Eddie was a law-abiding citizen, and he would escape to another life. On the other hand, the evidence was too strong against him. "Can't do anything about that. Either of us."

"Guess I'll take care of this my way."

"What do you mean by that?" Harris asked.

"McBride roughed up my grandson. Real bad. Boy might never be the same."

Harris could only imagine what that meant. Neither of these men, O'Connor nor McBride, had a reputation for being lenient, though McBride appeared to take violence to a higher level. The two men were at battle with each other over control of the city, and Harris had a notion that he and Eddie may have set it off.

"It's what I've been telling you," O'Connor said. "A job has to be done. Justice isn't always perfect, but as far as I'm concerned, it doesn't matter how it's taken care of, as long as it is. It's a tough way to live, but that's how we work. You have to be ready to either play this way or go find something else."

O'Connor hung up. The thought of what was probably going to happen between O'Connor and McBride was a problem he could not think about right then. He might warn the police chief, but he doubted if anything would happen or be stopped. "There it is," Harris said to the empty office, a place in which a few short months before he had planned to create an entirely new way of law and order. The two boxes were light. He picked them up and left, not bothering to close the door.

# 53

Eddie left the alley after Mike drove away and spent much of the day walking through farm fields. He eventually came to a road heading west and managed to hitch a ride on the back of a delivery truck. Over the next few days, he traveled in this manner, staying to smaller roads and only briefly visiting farm towns. Nothing other than instinct told him that traveling like this was safer. For some reason, he felt that fewer people would see him this way, though he still only passed through towns long enough to get food. Somewhere he managed to acquire a small blanket, and each night, he found a stand of woods to stretch out and sleep. He walked when he had to and rode when the opportunity presented itself.

Five days after leaving Brookville, he found himself in the middle of Iowa, along a dirt road surrounded by miles of open fields. Ahead a few hundred yards was a farm with a moderate sized house and a few out buildings. When he approached the end of the driveway, he heard a tractor start behind one of the buildings, and a few moments later, it lumbered out into the open. Moving only a few miles an hour, a large man behind the wheel drove the Fordson tractor to where Eddie was now standing. Standing on the back hitch was a black man wearing coveralls. The tractor stopped in front of Eddie.

"Hiya," the driver said, throttling the engine down, cutting the noise considerably. He had to keep tweaking the throttle to keep the engine from stalling. "You lost?"

"Not really," Eddie said. "Kind of passing through."

"Where you headed?" the black man said.

"West," Eddie replied. "Looking for work."

"Ain't we all," The driver said. "We can't complain, can we Willie?"

"Got that right," Willie answered back.

Eddie had wanted to stay some place safe for a period to let things settle down. "You hiring?"

The driver laughed. "Me? Hell no. I don't own nothin'. You need to talk to Mr. Marsh. He's in the shed. Might need people to help finish harvest. Pay's not much, but they feed you."

He brought the tractor up to speed and moved away. Eddie watched the tractor and the two men for a moment, then started walking up the driveway to the shed that had been pointed out. It was as he expected, with boxes, tools, and equipment scattered around on a dirt floor. In the back, he heard someone moving things around. "Mr. Marsh?" Eddie said, not entering the shed. He was aware he was a stranger and wanted to be sure not to enter uninvited. There was no reply. "Mr. Marsh?" he said louder this time. The movement in the back stopped, and several seconds later, the farmer came out.

"Who're you?" Mr. Marsh asked. He brushed his hands off, raising a small puff of dust. The hat he was wearing was an odd sort of small cowboy hat, covered with grime and sweat.

"I'm passing through, seeing if you might have some work. I talked to your men and they said you could use some help," Eddie said.

"Ever drive a tractor or do farming? You look kind of skinny, boy," Mr. Marsh said looking him over.

"Neither, but I can learn. I worked in a furniture factory in Youngstown, Ohio. My name's Charlie," Eddie said.

"Youngstown, eh? You talk like you're from the city. Nevertheless, I won't hold that against a man that wants to work. Put your pack down over there and grab that bag." Mr. Marsh pointed towards a corner of the shed. "We're meetin' Darrel and Willie. Field's 'bout half done and we need to get this finished before tonight."

With no further introduction, Eddie guessed he was hired. He did what he was told and helped load a number of bags into the back of a truck. While riding on top, they went out in the general direction the tractor had gone, and after about a half mile, they found Darrel and Willie waiting for them at the edge of the field. The other three seemed to know what to do without direction, so Eddie simply pitched in and helped collect the ears that missed the hopper as they pulled the two-row corn picker behind the tractor.

"We got a new planter coming in a couple days. Use it next spring," Mr. Marsh said with some pride on his wrinkled face. "This picker's an old horse drawn one I fixed up for the tractor. Did it myself."

Darrel drove the tractor with Willie sitting on the picker. The picker was supposed to collect all the ears, send them up a belt and into a small trailer, but it managed to drop about a quarter of them. Eddie's task was to walk behind and toss in ones he found. Once they were started, Mr. Marsh walked back to the farm, leaving the truck.

"Name's Charlie, huh?" Darrel started. "Where you from?"

"Youngstown, Ohio. I dropped out of school, worked in a factory for a few years before it closed. Here I am." Eddie had to speak up over the chugging of the tractor.

"You sound like a smart fella for not finishing school." Eddie was about to add a comment when Darrel starting talking about playing baseball in the minor leagues. He was a catcher, until his knees started to give him trouble and the teams would not hire him.

Darrel continued to talk over the drone of the tractor while Willie quietly made small adjustments to the picker. Eddie walked along behind. At one point, Willie leaned back and said, "He'll gab on all day like this, just ignore 'im." And they did, each absorbed in their own thoughts as Darrel drove, talked, and occasionally sang.

The day continued that way, with them working in the field and Mr. Marsh going back and forth to check on them as he worked in another part of the farm. That evening, he learned that he would be earning $10 a week, plus meals and a cot to sleep on in one of the sheds. He ate dinner that night with Darrel and Willie on a table out in the yard, while Mr. and Mrs. Marsh ate inside. As he settled down to go to sleep, he listened to the quiet noises of the farm. There were some livestock in a barn not far from where he was. The wind blew in through the open window and rustled the trees outside. That was it. No cars, busses, or trains could be heard. The subdued sounds and dark night sky made him feel secure for the first time since that evening when LaRue was killed. That seemed to be a world away now, and he realized on the train rides that he would likely spend the rest of his life moving around and trying to stay hidden. Eventually people like McBride, Mike, and Harris would fade into the past, and maybe he could stop running. For now, though, he would have to slip around through the back alleys and countrysides. In a way, even though he came to realize he was, in many ways, the cause for all this, Sam had taught him enough to survive and exist with this kind of life. Eddie fell into a relaxing sleep and awoke the next morning to a crow sitting on a branch outside the window.

A week later, Thursday morning, Mr. Marsh gave Darrel and Eddie ten dollars. To Willie, he handed seven. After Mr. Marsh left, Darrel and Eddie each handed Willie a dollar to balance it out. Nobody questioned what happened, and for all they knew, Mr. Marsh was aware of what they did for Willie. Later that day, Mr. Marsh came by while they were in the field.

"I need you boys to run into town. The new planter's coming in tonight or tomorrow. You might need to spend the night, so take what you need." They worked out that it was coming by train, and the three of them were needed to load and move the new corn planter. Mr. Marsh was going to stay there to continue with another hired hand.

"Really, I can stay," Eddie said. "You need help around here."

"Nonsense," Mr. Marsh said walking up to him so the others could not hear. "Them two can't read. You need to help 'em out."

# 54

The three of them climbed into the truck that afternoon and left for the small town. The ride was slow, and the twenty miles took over an hour. Once they arrived, Willie and Eddie stayed with the truck while Darrel went in. A few moments later, Darrel came back out. He quietly pulled Eddie aside, and handed him a piece of paper. "You know what this says?" he asked.

Eddie looked at the train schedule and the writing along the side. "The train's supposed to be here, but they got delayed. According to this, they'll be here tomorrow morning."

"That's what I thought," Darrel said. They walked back to the truck where Willie was sitting on the passenger side. "Give us a day to have some fun. All right, boys, let's see what's in this town."

Neither Eddie nor Willie responded right away. "You know I can't go into any of these here places," Willie said.

"Come on," Darrel said. "What's the problem?"

Willie shook his head. "They'll string me up," he said.

"Darrel," Eddie added. "I'd just a' soon stay here and get back to the farm when we're ready."

"Aw shit," Darrel said, slightly protesting with a downward pump of his arms. "I ain't lit one on for a month. There's girls here, and I know where to get some hooch."

Willie stretched out in the front seat and put his hands behind his head. "Ain't no black folks around here. Best thing I can do is stay here out of sight. I raise my head, I'm in trouble. Cops around here don't give a shit about me, whether I's right or wrong."

Eddie knew that having Willie there was going to gain attention one way or the other. However, running around with Darrel was likely to be worse. "I'm staying here with Willie," he said.

"Suit yourselves," Darrel said, turning around and waving to them.

After Darrel walked away, they pulled the truck into the shade under a tree. Willie stayed in the front, and Eddie took his blanket and stretched out in the bed of the truck. He slept the rest of that afternoon. When he awoke, Willie was standing next to the tracks, looking around at the empty station. It was just an elevated platform with a small building that most of the time stood empty. Eddie joined him over on the platform. They talked for a short while as the day gave way to dusk. Willie was from Missouri and had managed to find a job with Mr. Marsh, traveling through much as Eddie had. His family was still there, and he would be going back once the harvest was in and there was no more work. Eddie repeated his story about being from Youngstown.

The two of them passed the time napping until it started to get dark. Both were sitting on the train platform when a car came around the corner, slowly headed towards them, and stopped. The engine was shut off, and in a few seconds, two girls and Darrel climbed out. "Hey, boys, how ya been?" Darrel said. "Made a couple of friends today at the ball game. Betty and Marlene." The two girls waved and looked at Eddie and Willie sitting on the platform.

Marlene, the driver of the car, said, "I hear you're stuck in town for the night."

"We's just here to pick something up in the morning, then go back to the farm," Willie said.

Marlene leaned against the fender of the car, and stretched her arm out on the hood. Betty stayed beside her with her hands clasped together in front. Both looked similar, in cheap dresses and homemade hairstyles. Still, they were pleasant-looking girls in a rural way. Eddie had spent most of his life in cities and had always been able to tell where a person lived by their clothes and hair. Betty and Marlene chatted with Darrel for a few minutes, and then Darrel said, "Marlene, why don't you show me that abandoned mine you were talking about?"

Nobody was fooled by this remark, but it provided the signal for Marlene and Darrel to climb back into the car and drive off, leaving Betty with Eddie and Willie. She watched the taillights of the car for a moment, then turned back towards Eddie. "So, what did you say your name was?"

"Charlie," Eddie said.

Betty came over and sat next to him. She projected the mixed aromas of cheap perfume and cheap wine. "Where you from, Charlie?"

"Youngstown, Ohio," he said.

Her eyes got big. "Wow. And you're just here waiting for a train?"

"Well, we have to pick up a corn planter and go back to Mr. Marsh's farm." Eddie had a sudden thought back to the last time he spent a few moments with a young woman. Gloria. The difference between Gloria and Betty was day and night.

"Have you ever been to Des Moines?" she asked.

"No," Eddie said.

"Oh, well, let me tell you all about it," Betty said. Betty then launched into a detailed description of her trip to Des Moines a few months before. The description started with her packing a suitcase and continued on to her getting in a car and going to the train station. The detail was staggering, and Eddie guessed that she had written everything down in a diary someplace. At first, he tried to ask a few questions, but she went right on for about fifteen minutes, describing the entire experience. He was content to let her ramble on as long as she needed.

When she finally stopped, Eddie turned to Willie, who had moved to the end of the platform. The sun had set, and he could barely see him sitting, staring off into the distance. "Willie? Hey, Willie, you ever been to Des Moines?" he asked.

Willie cleared his throat. "Sure," he said, walking over and sitting next to Eddie. When he sat down, Betty pulled her hands to her lap and crossed her feet. She managed to scoot away a few inches.

"What were you doing there?" Eddie asked.

"Butchering cows," he said. "Best job I ever had. Paid real good, and I had a great place to live with my brother. Good for a few years then they closed the place down. We were down on Tenth Street. Know where it is?" He looked at Betty when he asked.

"No."

"There was a club there. Murphy's, I think. Sure spent some time in there. Some of the boys liked to listen to blues and drink 'til the sun came up," Willie said. He laughed a few times. "It still there?"

"I don't know."

"We used to go fishing at one of the parks on the north side there."

By now, Betty had managed to scoot another foot away from the two of them. "I probably better get on home," she said. With that, she hopped down from the platform and left.

They watched her walk away into the dusk and onto a sidewalk on the other side. "Sorry about that, Willie," Eddie said. This was nothing new, and Eddie would have been surprised if this had ended any differently.

"Aw, it's what it is. It ain't right, is it? Just talking. What's the harm in that?" He moved away to the other side of the platform.

***

They were there for another hour when a car came roaring around the corner. At first he thought it was Darrel and Marlene coming back, but they were driving much too fast. The car skidded to a stop at the platform, and two young men jumped out without bothering to shut off the engine.

"What do you two think you're doing here?" one of them asked.

Willie was standing next to Eddie on the platform. "Nothin'," he said.

"Waiting for a train in the morning," Eddie said. Eddie knew what this was about, and he was sure Willie had a good idea as well. "Listen, we're not here to do any harm. As soon as we pick up the planter, we're gone."

"It's bad enough you turd kickers come in here, then you bring your nigger," the man said.

"Hold on," Eddie said, getting off the platform. Willie stepped down as well.

"Listen," the man said stepping up to them, the second one right behind. "We don't like darkies around here, especially if they're putting their hands on our girls."

"What?" Willie exclaimed. "All we did was talk. Nobody was puttin' hands anywhere."

"Stop talkin'," the other man said. He pushed Willie in the chest. He was about to say something else when Willie erased the word with a fist to his jaw. In the space of what seemed a few seconds, a number of things happened. Eddie jumped in to help Willie, and then he had his hands full with the second man. He was outsized and managed to get a punch to his eye, which swelled up immediately. Another car pulled up and Darrel came running out to take on the two men. Darrel was much bigger, but he still had a problem. Eddie took in the situation and knew this was the kind of trouble he wanted to avoid. He started running off when a third car came up and a couple of local policemen came in to break up the melee. Eddie had not gotten very far and was caught in the headlights of the police car.

The police came in with sticks and jabbed at the men a few times to break up the fight. They settled down enough to be pushed apart, with one of the attackers falling down on the ground. "What is this? What's going on?" one of the policemen said.

"We can't be havin' blacks come in here and mess around with our girls," the man who had attacked Willie said.

"Wait, who's doing what to who?" the policeman asked, trying to make sense of the odd altercation.

"That darkie there was trying to get at Betty."

"Hell no," Willie said. "All we did was talk. Not even that much."

The policeman continued to ask questions, and the story became more muddled. Finally he came over to Willie and said, "Listen, if you know what's good for you, you'll stay out of town." He turned to the attackers. "Get the hell out of here. Go home."

They went back to their car and drove off. The policeman watched them drive away and then turned back to the three of them. Marlene had driven off at some point as well. "Just what are you three doing here?" Darrel explained they were there to pick up the planter at the train station and had to wait until the next morning. "Fine, get what you came for then get out. Any more trouble and I toss all you in for a night. Give me your names."

Each said their name, and the policeman wrote into a notebook he had. With each name, he took a close look at the face of the person.

Eddie said, "Charlie Neumann." The policeman doing the writing came over and looked into his face. He wrote down the name then came back to Eddie.

"Come here a second." Eddie was led over to the cars headlights for a moment, and both policemen had a good long look at him. For the first time in his life, he was glad to have a shiner. He could see fairly well out of it, but he felt the swollen eye throb with each heartbeat. "You look familiar. Where you from?"

"Youngstown, Ohio," Eddie said. The seconds passed as they studied his face in the glare of the headlights. At any moment, he expected them to grab his hands, slap on the handcuffs and haul him away, his eventful run from the law over.

"Don't know. Don't know about that. You look familiar, why's that?" the second policeman said.

"I couldn't say, exactly," Eddie said. They continued to study Eddie's face for a few more moments. Eddie looked from man to man and down at the ground, hoping the bruise and odd lights from the car would be enough to hide his identity.

They must have seen enough. The policemen went back to the car, and before leaving the driver said, "Go on, all three of you. One more problem and we're taking you in."

The two of them drove away. "Sure thing, fatso," Darrel said quietly as the taillights disappeared.

The three of them stood there for a few moments. They went back to the platform and sat. "You hurt at all?" Darrel asked.

"Naw," Willie said. "They couldn't throw a punch if they had to."

Eddie tried to stay by himself, but Darrel said, "What was that? You trying to run away? You run away from a fight like that?"

"Hell," Willie added. "I had my hands full. See if we help you out next time."

"Maybe you don't want us around. Think you're too good," Darrel said, standing up and walking a few steps away.

Eddie knew what he meant and knew all the unwritten rules about helping friends in a fight. You just don't run away like that. He had to explain, but too much information would get them all in trouble. They might even turn him in for the reward money. "I can't tell you."

"Bull," Darrel said.

"There are things I can't tell you. It's just better for all of us if I don't."

"What, are you wanted or something?" Willie said with a rude laugh.

Eddie simply stared from face to face in the darkness. They looked back at him, and despite the lack of light, he could see some kind of realization on their faces. He had not told them anything, but they knew they were close enough to the truth to understand. "Good God," Darrel said. "Did you do it?"

"No, I was framed. That's as much as I can say."

Neither of them had moved for several moments. Willie and Darrel exchanged a glance. Willie finally said, "Jesus, they find you with us and we're all going down. I believe you, Charlie, you's a good man. I think the best you can do is grab your bag and git right now. Those cops will be back, who knows."

Darrel came back to the platform and sat down. "He's right. You're traveling light. Find a field or something to hole up in tonight, and get out of here. You know how this works. We'll just say you ran away when you had to go take a whiz."

Eddie went to the truck and picked up his bag. He was not surprised it happened like this, and he had kept in mind the entire time since arriving on the farm that he might have to make a quick getaway. He thought back to a few minutes before, when the fight had started to open up. There was a moment of confusion as to whether to stay in and trade punches or flee. An instinct kicked in that he had not had before, a sudden knowledge of what was going to happen. In the past, he had ignored this. That moment of decision and then his attempting to flee was a reaction he would need to hone to a fine edge. When he saw Mike walk into his motel room a few days before, he came to the real conclusion that this was how it was going to be. Darrel and Willie were still at the platform when he returned. They both shook his hand and bid him the best of luck. Darrel slapped him on the shoulder and shoved five dollars of his pay into Eddie's hand. Eddie gave it back and then disappeared into the darkness.

***

The police did not return that night, and as far as they knew, Eddie was miles away. The train woke Darrel and Willie as it pulled into the station the next morning. Within an hour, they had the planter off the train and, with the help of one of the workers, had it hooked up to the truck. They settled the paperwork, and as they were getting into the truck, the train began to pull away. They drove off, and while waiting for the train to cross the road, they saw a man slip from behind a tree and neatly swing up into an open car. Eddie waved to them and he sat down in the shadows of the car. They each returned the wave. "Thought my life was hard," Willie said. "Where's that train going?"

"Anyplace," Darrel said. "It's the train to anywhere."

They drove back to the farm, where Mr. Marsh only briefly asked where Charlie was. Both Darrel and Willie described the fight and said he had run away while they were sleeping.

"Kind of small for a farm boy," Mr. Marsh said, and then he went back to work.

# 55

Eddie rode the rails from small town to small town, seeking work for a few days to earn enough for food. Most of the work was menial and involved cleaning, hauling trash, or any other chore that had been left undone. His habit was to come into town, look for a business needing short-time help, and he was set for a few days. The owners often asked him to stay on, but he made it a point to keep moving before they became familiar with him. His beard, such as it was, had grown out, and he hoped he did not look like any of the wanted the posters. At least he assumed the posters were still up. There was the temptation to go into the post office and look, but he stayed away.

At one point, he was hitchhiking in Nebraska between Atkinson and Stuart. From that point on, he became Stu Atkins. His travels took him to Hibbing, Minnesota, where he thought it might be time to stay for a period. The mines were in operation, though the Depression had slowed their livelihood. He was able to get work, and though it was dangerous, the thought of disappearing underground for the winter had an appeal. Using the new name, he took a chance and opened a bank account, and once again he was a citizen. A few weeks turned into a couple of months, and though he kept to himself, he again gained friendship among his fellow workers, many of whom were like him, wandering the countryside in search of work.

***

Mike had a unique way of being hired for most jobs. There were two people, only one he had actually met, who would send him a letter describing the contract. If the job looked promising, he would reply with a price, with the stipulation that half be paid up front. At some point, a deposit would be made into one of his accounts, indicating that he had been hired. His handlers, as he called them, probably took a cut of the payment, but he did not care as long as he got what he asked for. No negotiation was ever done. Aside from McBride, a continuing arrangement that did not work out, he always was hired in this manner.

Therefore, when the request came to take out McBride, he attached the exorbitant price of five thousand dollars. This had nothing to do with revenge—Mike never worked from any emotional angle—rather, it had everything to do with McBride's high profile. Although they had argued almost continually when he was working for him, Mike had no compunction to see him dead, other than to be paid for a job well done.

McBride lived in a quiet part of Providence, one where neighbors would whisper and uneasily joke about what the man who lived at number 714 actually did for a living. Over the course of three evenings, Mike waited and observed McBride's patterns of when he usually came home and what he did when he arrived. The job looked straightforward, as McBride always arrived alone, probably either thinking that nobody would touch him at his house or not wanting to bring the business home with him.

Mike waited until a cloudy night. Mike let himself into the garage from an alley-side door that was unlocked. The garage held two cars, one of which was there when he walked in. The garage had about ten feet of space on one side of the door, plenty of room for him to stand in the shadows when McBride came in, and to hide in case he would not be able to perform the hit. Mike paced back and forth for several hours, hiding from time to time when he heard a car approach. Waiting was not a problem. In fact, he had no objection to sitting and doing nothing for several hours if needed. The later this went, the better for him.

A car drove up, and Mike saw the lights through the small gaps around the garage door. He walked over to the side and behind a bench, where he would have the perfect angle to catch McBride when he stepped out of his car. The car stopped in front of the garage, and in a few seconds the door was pulled open. McBride went back to the car, and began to drive into the garage. The car rolled to a stop a few feet from where Mike was crouched behind the bench. McBride shut off the engine and, in the now-quiet garage, Mike heard a sigh. The sigh of a tired man with much on his mind. He sat in the car for a few moments, not moving, then made a kind of low humming sound and reached over in the passenger seat. At first, Mike thought he might have been spotted, and McBride was reaching for a gun. Instead, he had a small case of some sort, too large and square to be a weapon of any kind.

Timing is everything in any attack. The optimal point is when the other person is in a position of vulnerability where they would not be able to move with any quickness. Mike knew instinctively that this would be when McBride opened the door, put one foot out, and began to stand. He also knew that the instant McBride saw him, he would know what was up. Seeing a person like Mike in your garage meant only one thing. McBride set his foot on the floor and began to lean out of the car, stepping away and turning at the same time, one hand on the doorsill and the other holding the case. Mike stepped forward, the small gun ready.

McBride saw him, and in the darkened garage, there was an instant of recognition and a sudden breath. The shot was perfect, an inch above the brow, squarely spaced between the eyes. And he was dead. A good, clean job. Before the body had truly settled to the floor, Mike was out the alley door. He left, quietly closing the door behind him and staying in the shadows as he went towards his car parked on a side street.

About fifty feet away, he heard a woman's voice. "Clarence?" she asked. A screen door opened and closed and a few seconds later, he heard the same voice. "Clarence?" A momentary pause, and then she repeated herself, only this time screaming. She screamed a couple more times, and then he heard what could only be described as a restrained wailing. Mike did not change his speed or direction. Somewhere he had heard that McBride had a couple of children, children who would now grow up fatherless. Mike did not have a father after age ten, which left him to find a means and way through life. He occasionally wondered how he would have turned out if his father had been around, and if he had followed his father into the insurance business as expected. However, he only thought about this briefly, since that was not what had happened, and anything else was simply useless speculation. McBride's children would be fatherless, and in time his wife might get over the loss. If he remembered right, she was an attractive woman.

***

The death of McBride made front-page news, along with wild speculation of what had happened and who had done it. Harris knew, or had an idea, of the events that led up to it, and he had reacted with mixed feelings. This kind of gangland battle was exactly what he had been driven to end when he began his career. Now that he had resigned, that plan was on hold until he could find a way to get it back. He also could not deny that he felt a certain sense of relief, a very guilty and closely guarded reaction that he would never share. There was enough left of McBride's type for Harris to know that this was merely a shift in power, not a change for the better.

With this in mind, he drove over to Larry O'Connor's home to talk to the man who undoubtedly had arranged for this to happen. He was ushered in, just as before, and taken to the billiard room, where O'Connor was waiting for him. There were no pleasantries as O'Connor drew his old tired body to its full length and looked down at Harris.

"What did you do?" Harris asked. O'Connor was still a large and intimidating man, and Harris knew that in his prime, the other man had been entirely frightening.

"What do you mean?" O'Connor said before settling back against the pool table. He let his head down so Harris could not look into his eyes.

"You know exactly what I mean. You had McBride killed. You had someone hired to take him out," Harris said. Before coming into office, he thought that such a crime would be traceable with the right effort. Now he knew that was not entirely possible, though evidence was not needed for him to tell what had happened.

"Yes. Right. That," O'Connor said, still not raising his head. "Well." He looked up at Harris. "McBride was a cocksucker, who had no idea what running an organization was about."

"So you admit to doing this?" Harris stated.

"I took you as smarter than that. McBride was not just killed. He was eliminated by a chain of events nobody will ever be able to trace. There're lines of communication that run throughout this city, maybe across this country, that can be used."

"Sure, everyone knows that," Harris said. "But somebody has to make the call."

O'Connor stood up again and spread his hands. "Sure, fine, I ordered this. What of it? I wanted him stopped. I tried the legal route, and the cops and Feds were useless. I couldn't wait any longer, and I had an opportunity to get this done."

Harris turned away. Of course he was right. Larry O'Connor had given him an opportunity to get this done, and he had not been able to accomplish anything. "You were too late. I was good as gone when you contacted me. Maybe the new DA could have taken this on."

"Wendell McGuffy? Porter's lap-warmer? He's the best thing that ever happened to my business. He'll do whatever Porter tells him to do, which is basically nothing."

Harris had to smile for a moment. When he had heard who he was replaced by, he could not believe such an idiot had been asked to take that job. "I think you're going to have free reign with me gone."

"You think that's an accident? McBride wanted you gone. I wanted that as well. I just let him do it. A nice coincidence that was none of my doing," O'Connor said. He stood uneasily, wavering back and forth slightly.

"I'll be back," Harris said.

O'Connor's face lit up. "Oh, I'm sure you will be. I'll be gone by then, but rest assured another will take my place. At some point, you'll be gone and there'll be a replacement. People aren't neat and orderly."

"Why do you do this? What makes a person like you run a crime organization and cause so much trouble?"

"You know," O'Connor said, moving around to the other side of the pool table. "There are people out there who think I'm a hero. I create jobs, make their lives better. Sure, we run liquor, but what kind of law is that anyway? Prostitutes? Sure. Men have drunk, fought, and screwed for thousands of years, and nobody can stop it. Why stop it? It's far more powerful than either of us. I do what I do. The virtuous try to dictate people's behaviors. They always fail, and the crowds turn around and keep coming to me. Everybody comes to me. Politicians, priests, schoolteachers. It's what they want. I just supply it."

Basic impulses are extremely difficult to change; the wiring in a person's head usually does not allow it. This was a problem that Harris had known for many years, but he had never thought of his job and purpose in that manner. He had always approached this from the aspect of shutting down people like McBride and Larry O'Connor and bringing their type of behavior under control. The idea that they were suppliers of what people wanted—craved, in many cases—was a way of looking at the problem that he had resisted.

"Sweet Jesus," O'Connor said. "A lawyer who's speechless. The real truth, the honest truth, is always the most difficult. Makes your job a hell of a lot harder. Sure," he continued, waving a hand, "people like me or McBride can't be allowed to run around too much. I'll admit that."

"I hear everything you're saying, but how can you possibly live with the consequences of your actions?" Harris said.

"Despite what you are to me, I like you. You're smart enough without being too book smart. Your question is easy to answer. I just do. It's been a part of my life for as long as I can remember." O'Connor settled back against the table again. "Are the results of my actions any worse than sending an innocent kid to war? Those young men in the trenches didn't have much choice once the bullets started to fly. People come to me out of their own motivations. How do the politicians sleep at night, knowing those youngsters probably wouldn't make it back? These great minds in Washington or wherever, thinking, planning—am I worse than them?"

"It's totally different. One is for a good purpose, to stop an injustice. The other is just for control and influence," Harris said.

"But isn't that all a war is? A battle for control and influence, or an attempt to wrestle it back? Isn't that the same thing with McBride and me?" O'Connor said. "I'll tell you one difference: McBride deliberately ruined people, like your boy there. It was almost a sport. I would never do that. That's despicable. He had no respect. That's an injustice, and I stopped it."

"Yes, he had no respect for anybody," Harris said. "But, that's all we agree on."

"Then there will always be a fight between us," O'Connor said.

O'Connor, old and aching, still capable of violence, knew where he stood in the world. Harris was not sure about much right then, but was certain of the difference between right and wrong. O'Connor was wrong. There was no use arguing the point. O'Connor leaned against the pool table, taking some of the load off his body. Harris left him like that and showed himself to the door without saying another word. His job had changed, and he needed to get away and think about how he was going to approach what he long ago intended to do.

# 56

The mining job ended after about a year. The Depression was not getting any better, and the demand for metals was down, as production stopped and businesses went under. However, there were rumors of a large construction project in Arizona, a huge dam that needed people with mining skills. Eddie hopped a train and made his way to Boulder City, where he found thousands of men like himself looking for work. He stood in line for most of a day and was finally taken into a room full of tables and chairs, where a chaotic collection of job seekers were talking to people doing the interviewing. The noise was deafening in the hastily constructed room, as the only way to converse was to shout. When Eddie made his way to a table, the man started by having him fill out a short form which asked for any special skills. The interviewer took one look, saw he had explosives experience from when he was mining, and sent him to another room. This room was off to the side and much smaller. In here, about twenty men waited in chairs to meet with a man taking notes and a larger man who was doing all the talking. This room was strangely quiet compared to the other room, with the only sound being the large man asking questions and the job seeker answering.

There was no doubt who was in control as the man asking questions did so in a calm but direct manner. Tall (Eddie guessed he was over six feet), he wore a crisp white shirt and tie in the otherwise sweltering heat. A large Stetson hat was sitting on the table beside where he was writing down notes in response to his questions. When Eddie's turn came up, he sat down and looked up at him.

"I'm Frank Crowe, manager of the project. I like to be called Mr. Crowe, please. You are?" Mr. Crowe said.

"Stu Atkins," Eddie said.

"Tell me about your work background. It says you did some mining." Frank Crowe scanned down the form.

Eddie began to describe his working in the Hibbing mines, but then Mr. Crowe stopped him. "You have some education. I can hear it in your voice. Did you attend college?"

He had not anticipated that question. Eddie suddenly had a sense he was with a different sort of person in Frank Crowe. "I'm from Youngstown and worked in a furniture factory that went out of business. I have one year of college, but I had to leave."

Mr. Crowe studied his face for a moment, then asked, "We need men with explosives experience. If this checks out with Hibbing, we have a job for you. You're small and wiry. You afraid of heights?"

"No sir," Eddie said, though he was not sure.

"We need men to rappel, go down the canyon wall on ropes, set charges, and take the wall back to solid rock. Think you can do that?" Mr. Crowe asked.

"Yes, sir."

Frank Crowe set the form to the side. "Stop by tomorrow, and we'll have a list out front for those hired. Next!" Frank Crowe was already reading the next man's form and talking before Eddie was out of the chair.

In the morning, Eddie found his name on the list. That afternoon, they took him and a group to a small cliff and showed them the basics of rappelling. Eddie picked it up quickly and was soon going down the face of the cliff with ease. The next day, they had the group out on the canyon wall gliding down and working their way across. Soon they were given dynamite charges and sent to work. It took him about a week to get used to the routine and to become efficient in moving around. At first he was amazed when he watched the more experienced workers hop over the edge and crawl around like spiders on a wall, but before long, he was doing the same.

Again, like the mines, the work was dangerous, but it was better than what other workers had to do. After blasting the rock, workers below had to move it away into trucks. That work was back-breaking in 130-degree heat. In the four divergent tunnels being dug around the dam area, men were being hauled out with carbon monoxide poisoning. In town, after the workday, Eddie would hear of these things. The rappellers did what they did, knowing they were the lucky ones.

***

As the months passed, Eddie again began to relax into his new life. Every morning he would join the thousands of other men going out to the canyon, but he was also one of a few. His job allowed him to have some status, since what he did took a particular skill. This had the additional advantage that he was out of sight for most of the day. He was just one of many nameless forms crawling along the rock face.

It was with great surprise when, three months into the job, he came up for lunch and found Frank Crowe and Harris waiting for him. Mr. Crowe was often seen there and seemed to be in all places at once. Eddie was not aware of Harris coming to find him, and he began looking around for guards or police to haul him away.

Mr. Crowe said, "He says he's a friend of yours." Then he walked over to where Eddie was unhooking his harness. "I don't like workers taking social calls. Remember, you don't get paid when you're talking." He walked away to attend to some other matter.

"Eddie, let me first say I'm glad you're well, and no, I'm not here to arrest you," Harris said.

He was still unsure and kept looking around for someone to carry him off. Seeing that they were being left alone and everyone else was working, Eddie relaxed and set his harness on the ground. "I've got it good here and don't want to mess things up. Did you tell them my real name?" he asked.

"No," Harris said. "We need to talk privately." Harris led Eddie away from the other men milling around moving equipment and getting ready to descend. A blast went off, and Harris jumped at the sound. Eddie had been hearing this for so long now that he no longer noticed.

There were a number of questions Eddie wanted to ask, and he was sure Harris would get to them. First, though, he was disappointed that he had been found. For all he knew, Mike was still after him and he would need to keep moving. "How did you find me?" he asked.

"There were a few reports of people seeing you. The main one was something about a disturbance in Iowa. You were a few hours from being caught. Luckily, the cops there didn't put everything together in time. The Bureau of Reclamation here had you checked back to Hibbing, and the trail stopped."

"How are Darrel and Willie?" Eddie said, remembering that night.

"They're gone. The farm had to shut down, and they took off. Marsh went under with too much credit. Like half the country." Harris went on to explain how he had lost his position as district attorney. "But," he said, "I still have enough connections and could put out feelers. I knew you went north out of Iowa. It took some time and digging, but I searched around the Dakotas and Minnesota until I made the connection in Hibbing. From there, I found out you had a new name. People there knew you came down here. I made a call."

"I thought I did a better job than that," Eddie said, sincerely hoping he had disappeared into society. "But why did you want to find me if you're not here to lock me up?"

"Well," Harris said, looking off across the rocky landscape, "kind of an obsession, I imagine. I believed you were right, and it ruined my career. Well, ruined for the time being. I had to find you and let you know what happened. You were caught up in the middle of a crime war. I needed to let you know you can have your life back. How could I not find a man and let him know this?"

Eddie had never thought of it in those terms, but he had to agree, looking back, Harris had staked his standing on Eddie being innocent. Running for the past year, going through what he had, had made him realize just how serious this turned out to be. In a very direct way, he owed his life to Harris, since most law enforcement would have locked him away. "I remember when McBride came in that night. It took about five minutes. Everything changed from there. What happened that I'm no longer wanted?"

"O'Connor stepped in. McBride hurt O'Connor's grandson irreparably, and that was the beginning of the war. I'm not supposed to tell you this, but he had McBride killed. He also produced the man who killed Gloria. He was convicted last month. McBride's gone; his organization fell apart. Murders, bodies began showing up in broad daylight. Evidence for Gloria's and LaRue's killings fell onto the new D.A.'s doorstep. O'Connor made the D.A., Wendell McGuffy, a hero. O'Connor has his city back for now and most likely controls the government," Harris said, crossing his arms.

Eddie thought about what had happened in the past year or so. This complete story, with this new ending, made him realize that his small part had been the one thing that tipped off the conflicts that followed. "I did that, didn't I? O'Connor wouldn't have done anything if I hadn't seen McBride take out LaRue."

"Yes and no. It was going to happen sooner or later," Harris said in his straight, honest way.

Eddie would have to think about that, but two rival factions trying to get the same territory were bound to clash. "That's not easy for you, is it?" A year before, he would not have been bold enough to say this to Harris.

"No, it's not. It doesn't fix a thing. O'Connor may not be as brutal as McBride, but it's still the wrong side of the law running things," Harris said, taking a deep breath. "Either way, after all this happened, the charges against you were dropped. They found the bank robber, a man named Nelson Carlson, with bullet in his head."

"Did Mike kill McBride also?" Eddie asked. He had had a few dreams of Mike stalking him through the night.

"Mike? I remember him, but I don't know. It was a hit. One precise shot."

"Mike killed Nelson. He tried to kill me too," Eddie exclaimed.

"You're sure about that?" Harris said. "It's worth a look. Thanks for telling me."

"He's an extremely dangerous man." Eddie knew he had just given Harris an important piece of information, and that might have been his real reason for tracking Eddie down. Eddie felt the instinct creep in again, and he changed the subject. "What about those robberies? Am I really off the hook on those?"

"It all fell apart. You were taken by force and committed them under duress." Harris stepped closer.

Eddie had often wondered how different actions would have changed the outcome. "What would have happened if I had stayed and stood trial?"

"You wouldn't have had a chance. Too much against you. Running was the best thing you could've done." He laughed. This time, Eddie heard the strained, nasally sound, and he knew this was not humor.

"To be honest, I like it here. The works hard, and the pay isn't much, but I like being Stu Atkins."

"You can have your old life back," Harris said, "although your belongings are probably gone."

"No. No, thank you," Eddie said.

"Stay in contact with me," Harris said, taking a piece of paper out of his pocket and writing down a phone number.

Eddie tucked the note away, not sure if he would keep it. There was not even a temptation to return, but he never knew what could happen. For the first time since they had met, Harris shook Eddie's hand. He walked away and caught a ride on a truck going back to Boulder City, leaving Eddie to watch him disappear out of his life. Eddie put his harness back on and went over to the canyon wall, hooked onto the lines, and rappelled down to the area they were working. The rock face was a few feet before him, solid under his shoes. Other than that, it was hundreds of feet down and miles to either side. That was exactly where he wanted to be. He set his charges and went back up top. The explosion was set off. Eddie listened to the sound echo up and down the canyon until it faded away completely.

####

About the Author

David George Howard's writing background is a little unusual, but not unheard of. He graduated from the University of Michigan with a B.S. in Mechanical Engineering, after which his career path took him to the U.S. Navy and Raytheon, working on bomb racks and missile launchers for F-18s. From there, he went on to work for Rolls-Royce on the Osprey V-22 engine. After a couple of decades in the aerospace field, he finally acknowledged his love of stories and writing by returning to school to learn the craft. In 2010 he received an M.A. in English from Indiana University-Purdue University Indianapolis, writing his thesis on redemption and personal relationships in hard-boiled detective fiction.

February 10, 2014

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