Jump City: Apprentice Page 33

  Alone again, I opened the paper with trembling hands and a kind of insatiable craving. It was the Fairhaven Times and the front page had a giant headline that grabbed my interest immediately:

  BONUS ARMY MARCHES ON WASHINGTON

  Veterans of all ages and from all walks of life have descended on the nation’s capitol, their ranks now swelling to half-a-million by some estimates. They are encamped in two distinct groups: the American Legionnaires and the Veterans of Foreign Wars (VFW). More men are streaming in along with their families, on foot, by train and by automobile.

  The angry throngs have taken up residence in a sprawling tent city which has risen in the outlying swamplands and along the banks of the Potomac, dubbed Cactus Town or Garnersville. A casual observer might be forgiven in thinking these are two opposing armies preparing for battle. The reality is far different. These two battalions are more like flanks in a grand battle, and their goal is the same: “Pay us now for our service then.” Other, simpler placards and signs abound with a similar message: “We Want Our New Deal…”

  The American Legion Troops are noticeably comprised of a younger generation of men, versus the VFW, who spend a good deal of time singing our new national anthem, ‘The Star Spangled Banner.’

  All eyes have turned to President John Garner and his faltering administration...

  * * *

  chapter twenty-three

  the chronicle

  I was officially discharged early Monday morning and it was not soon enough. The past two days were painful, not so much physically— I was nearly out of my mind with boredom. Reading the Fairhaven Times cover to cover at least twice was hardly a remedy. I had no bandage on my head anymore, just the stain of iodine. My arm was bandaged, my leg, and my ankle was still well-wrapped. I couldn’t put my full weight on it yet, but it was easy enough to get around thanks to the generosity of Mr Smith, who had given me his bear claw cane outright. I quietly entered the grand hallway, half hoping to sneak by the enormous Greta. I was almost to the door when she called out:

  “Sir, sir, and where do you think you’re going?”

  “I was discharged. Doctor Valenti said I could go.”

  “Did he now? Well, there’s still a matter of sixty-two dollars and twenty-three cents.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Your hospital bill. You’ll have to pay it and sign this release before you leave.”

  “How much?” I asked incredulously.

  Greta looked down at the invoice again. “Seems you saved a lot by not getting X-rays… Oh my, I do apologize…” She looked up at me. “This bill has already been paid.”

  “That’s a nice surprise. Who is my benefactor?”

  “There’s no way for me to know that.” She let off a sour expression.

  “Okay, well, I just wanted to thank them.”

  Sheriff Durbin had already pulled up to the hospital entrance in what could only be called a jalopy. It had no windows at all and what looked to be a canvas roof. The car idled restlessly, threatening to stall at any moment. It was also spewing noxious fumes, fouling the clean salt air.

  “Come on, I’ll give you a ride,” Durbin called to me.

  I opened the door with some trouble and climbed in next to him. “Where are you taking me?”

  “Into town.”

  “Sand City?”

  “Yeah, if you say so.” Durbin laughed and headed around the concrete driveway. Just after the main gate, the road turned to dirt and he made a right down the hill. A few minutes later we sputtered up to the Depot building. It was in fact a train station. I looked up to the high peaked ceiling. There was certainly no apartment there yet.

  “Here you go,” Durbin said and handed me a business card.

  “What’s this?”

  “My friend, the collector, the numismatist in Fairhaven. He likes your coin plenty— very interested he was— only, it took him a couple of days to raise the cash.” He glanced over at me. “Four hundred bucks… That should give you a nice little bankroll. How’s that sound?”

  “Wow, that’s great, thanks.”

  “The train leaves at eight-o-five. You got about twenty minutes,” Durbin said flatly.

  “Train? Train to where?”

  “Fairhaven.”

  “I don’t have a ticket.”

  “Now you do.” He handed me a small stub of thick paper.

  I stared hard at him, trying to gauge his resolve. “I’d like to stay, if it’s all the same to you.”

  “Stay?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Hmm. I think you should go. There’s nothing for you here, Mr Jardel.”

  “You might be right, but I like this place.”

  “You like it here?” He laughed. “I think you’re talking about that dizzy dame.”

  “What?”

  “Nurse Elsie,” Durbin said and looked me up and down. He seemed to sense something in my expression. “Oh… I get it. Don’t worry fella, I’m not sweet on her… it’s her sister I’ve got my eye on.”

  I laughed with some relief.

  “Elsie is as cute as a bug’s ear. And I’d say she certainly took a shine to you…”

  “Well, there is that.” I smiled despite myself. “But I have to stay. I’m still waiting for my friend.”

  “Oh yeah, your friend. When’s he supposed to show?”

  “Could be a couple of days or a couple of weeks. He’s traveling.” I changed the subject abruptly. “Isn’t there a hotel or something?”

  “There’s the Governor’s Inn— not your kind of place though.”

  “Why not?”

  “Costs ten dollars a day.”

  “Any vacancies?”

  “You’ve got to be joking. The whole damn place is vacant… unless Mears is in town.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, that’s where he lives.” Durbin paused to glance at me. “Besides, how are you going to pay for a room? Your bankroll is waiting in Fairhaven.”

  “I’ll find a job.”

  Durbin laughed. “A job— who are you kidding?”

  “Maybe at the quarry.”

  “Not with that leg. I doubt Mr Spotts would hire you anyhow.”

  “Who?”

  “Julian Spotts, the foreman.”

  “Okay then, maybe at the Chronicle.”

  “That’s right, you claimed to be a reporter. I don’t think Mr Woods needs help anymore.”

  “Why not?”

  “He only prints once a week.” Durbin paused to consider. “I hear they might need a juicer at the docks.”

  “A juicer?”

  “An electrician.”

  “Don’t know much about that. How about the hospital though? Doctor Valenti seems to like me.”

  “No, you stay away from the hospital.” A dark expression crossed his face. He squinted hard. “Don’t stick your neck out there.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s a bad place.”

  “You’re talking about the counterfeit money?”

  “No... something else.”

  “Like what?”

  “Something worse…” Durbin turned in his seat to face me. “Listen pal, I’m just a county sheriff, what I really need is a detective from Fairhaven.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Whole trainloads of people come here to the hospital and, well, I never seen them leave. Something bad is going on and I’d like to get the dope on that.”

  “Is it Valenti’s doing?”

  He laughed. “No. Listen, Doc Valenti is on the level. I like him…” Durbin hesitated. “It’s Professor Mallinger, if I had to guess. That guy is trouble.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Overseas, some foreign European country, Prague, maybe? He probably can’t get back in.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “They closed all the borders.” Durbin paused. “Thing is, that whole hospital gives me the heebie-jeebies.”

  “Maybe I could find out.”
<
br />   “What?”

  “If I got a job there, maybe I could find out the big bad secret… I could tell you all about it.”

  “No,” Durbin said emphatically, but there was something in his eyes, fear maybe.

  “Why not?”

  “It’s not a job for you…” Durbin flashed a quick grin. “Listen, Mr Jardel, I don’t know why exactly, but I like you. You shouldn’t get tangled up in all this— alright?”

  “Okay. But I still want to wait for my friend.”

  “Swell… and who is this friend? What’s he look like?” Durbin tipped his hat back and sighed. “Haven’t seen any strangers in town other than you.” He paused. “But I guess I can put my nose to the ground.”

  “He’s a policeman, I can say that much.”

  “You told me that already. Can’t tell me what he looks like?”

  “Well, sure I can... Sometimes though, he wears a disguise.”

  “Are you kidding me, Mr Jardel?”

  “No, really. He works undercover, special investigations. He’s a detective.”

  “Where’s he from again?”

  “Ottawa.”

  “Canada— right.” Durbin reached into his vest pocket and handed me some folded bills. “Here. Take these Lincolns and here’s a ten spot… You can pay me back. Should keep you going till your friend gets here, or till my friend pays me the four hundred bucks he now owes.” He nodded at the car door. “Try Mrs Moriches over on Fourth Street. She can rent you a room. Tell her I sent you.”

  “Thank you, Sheriff.”

  “Don’t mention it. Besides, I can’t really hold you for anything… except trespassing maybe.”

  “Trespassing?”

  “Yeah, at the quarry. You weren’t supposed to be there.”

  “That was an accident.”

  “Like I said, can’t really hold you. Just do me a favor, keep your nose clean, okay? And don’t go running off anyplace.”

  I held up the bear claw cane for Durbin to see and smiled. “I won’t get far like this.”

  He laughed and jammed his car into gear with a terrible grinding noise, then pulled onto Captain’s Way which was not much more than a rutted sandy track. I was left standing, and watched Durbin drive east, sputtering and clanking.

  ***

  It was a short walk, or hobble as the case may be, to the rooming house on Fourth Street. The roads could hardly be called that, just hard packed sand and pebbles. I happened across Partners along the way. A prestigious sign read: Baxter and Marchand, Maritime Insurance, but the windows were all boarded up, indeed, some of the glass panes were broken, their shards still scattered along the only sidewalk.

  There were two white houses on Fourth Street. Both had Rooms to Let signs and I wasn’t quite sure which to choose. They seemed identical, surrounded by the same picket fence and both with a decent view of Serenity Bay.

  In front of the first rooming house was a scruffy looking kid out in the dirt, wearing a strange little cap. He was with a group of friends playing what appeared to be jacks. As soon as I opened the gate, his friends scattered. He was left suddenly alone and looked up at me with a slightly hostile glance.

  “Hi there,” I called out. “What’cha playing, little guy?”

  “Knucklebones… till you showed up.”

  “Oh, sorry.”

  “Where’s your hat, mister?”

  “What?”

  “How come you’re not wearing a hat?”

  “Oh… I lost it. How about you give me yours?”

  “Mine?”

  I playfully tried to snatch it from his head, but he was too quick for me.

  “And don’t call me that.” He stood defiantly on the curb just out of reach.

  “What?”

  “Little.”

  At the front door I was greeted by Mrs Moriches. She seemed a pleasant enough woman, though I would say she was prone to chattering. “Any luggage, Mr…”

  “Jardel, Patrick Jardel. No luggage for now.”

  She eyed me dubiously as her gaze rested on the paper bag I was carrying.

  “Sheriff Durbin recommended your establishment to me.”

  “Did he now?” She smiled and all misgivings vanished. “A fine man, that deputy.”

  I quickly learned she had strict rules about visitors and curfews. That is to say, no visitors were allowed and the doors locked at nine o’clock. The room was two dollars a night, breakfast included, but other meals were an additional fifty cents a day. Access to the wireless was an extra ten cents a week, and while I wasn’t completely sure what Mrs Moriches meant, I paid this in advance as well. It turned out I had enough for six days and sincerely hoped Fynn would show up by then. I was left with four dollars and ninety cents.

  My room on the second floor was clean swept and rather cozy. The walls were papered in a pleasant floral pattern and the lamps had overly-ornate shades on them. The bed seemed comfortable when I sat down. All the windows were covered by thin lace.

  “Be sure to draw the curtains. Keeps the mosquitos out…” she advised. “And there’s a fan for you if the day gets too hot.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Oh, I see you’ve met my little Caesar outside. “Isn’t he a darling boy?”

  I agreed of course, though it wasn’t really up to me to know.

  “You can stay as long as you can pay first, and only because the Sheriff has put in a good word.”

  “Thank you, Mrs Moriches, really, thank you very much.”

  “It’s my pleasure, Mr Jardel.”

  I also asked about the house next door, but Mrs Moriches was decidedly evasive about the whole matter, saying only that it was owned by Mr Lovely.

  ***

  After I had settled into my room, I walked up Commercial Street, leaning heavily on my new cane, onto Captain’s Way and number forty-seven. There was no candle factory outlet or ice cream shop, but the Chronicle building looked pretty much the same as I recalled, at least on the outside, though desperately in need of a paint job. The was a sign on the door: Carter Woods, Editor-in-Chief. I pushed it open and a small bell jingled.

  “Not ready and they never will be,” a man called out from somewhere but I couldn’t see him. The inside of the Chronicle office was completely different than I remembered. It was one giant room with a counter just at the entrance. It was dark too. I could only make out walls lined with cubbyholes, all filled with scraps of paper. There was some awkward-looking equipment as well, maybe printing presses or something. A giant fan filled the place with noise and a bit of cool air. I finally spotted the source of the voice: a little man sat hunched over a table near a bright light. He looked to be very carefully carving a piece of wood under a huge magnifying glass. “Might as well just turn around and leave,” he continued with some measure of hostility.

  “Excuse me?”

  “I’m not going to print those handbills… I read it and I won’t do it. You’ll have to go someplace else, Fairhaven maybe… I don’t care how much I need the work…”

  “I’m sorry—”

  “You’re sorry?” The man finally looked up at me. He was wearing a white shirt, a vest, and an odd visor. “What, you thought I wouldn’t read this? I did— and before I started to set the type. I’m not going to waste my time with this garbage… I can’t believe it: Nazi’s, fascists, the National Eugenics Foundation, the KKK… You have to be kidding… The American Liberty League? Who the heck is that? And why do they think the constitution suddenly needs protecting? What is this crap?”

  “Um, I think you’re confusing me with somebody else… I really don’t know what you’re talking about. Besides, I’m a democrat.”

  “A democrat? How the hell can you call yourself a democrat?” The man was just about screaming now. He marched over to give me closer scrutiny or take a swing at me. I took a step back from the counter. He had a foul look on his face as he gave me the once over. A moment later his expression changed to surprise, maybe even embarrassment. “Say…
aren’t you the fella from yesterday?”

  I shook my head.

  “Oh… well, sorry then. I thought you were him.” He looked at me more carefully. “Wait a second here… You’re not from the hospital are you?”

  “No,” I said cautiously, not at all understanding his remark.

  “I guess you wouldn’t be, not dressed like that.”

  “Why would I be from the hospital?”

  “My wife is expecting any day now… thought she went into labor or something.”

  “Not that I know of…”

  He rushed over to an old fashioned telephone and tapped the cradle several times. “Daisy? Is that you? My line is still open here, right? Margo didn’t call, did she? Yeah… no, no thanks… You’ll be the first to know… Probably still at home, taking a nap.” Carter turned away from the phone with a sigh of relief. His expression turned sour again once he realized I had not left.

  “Sorry fella, we’re closed today…”

  “Closed? How can you be closed? You’re a newspaper.”

  “Funny, that’s exactly what I said to my wife yesterday.” The man came forward and gave me a look between annoyed and curious. “So you’re looking for the Chronicle. I really thought you were here for the fliers.”

  “What fliers?”

  He pointed to the sign on the front desk: Political Hand Bills, Propaganda, Printing… “Carter Woods is the name. What can I do you for?”

  “Um…” I couldn’t get a word in edgewise before he continued:

  “You don’t look much like a political flunky, I’d guess. And I’m not so sure we’d be on the same side of the fence anyhow.”

  “Actually, I’m looking for a job.”

  He laughed outright. “You’re kidding me, right?”

  “No.”

  “Know how to set type?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “What do I mean? If you knew, you wouldn’t be asking that question. Ever run a press?”

  “No.”

  “Well then, what the heck can you do?”

  “I’m a reporter. I thought you might need a stringer.”

  “A what?”

  “A freelance writer.”

  “A writer, eh? What kind of stuff do you do?”