James Benn - Rag and Bone

“So you want to get into the black market and return any money you make to the army?”

“Since I’ll be stealing the army’s supplies, it’s only fair.”

“I think it’s worth a try. You won’t be surprised to hear that Big Mike has made friends with the cooks in the mess hall downstairs. That’s where he is now. You may need to spread some of that dough around, but try not to corrupt the entire kitchen staff.”

“Thank you, Colonel,” I said as I rose from my chair. “I assume I can refer to your verbal orders in case we run into trouble?”

“Hell no, Boyle. You get caught, you end up in the stockade. Who ever heard of a guy black marketeering who was following orders? Beat it.”

I did. I found Big Mike in the mess hall, spooning sugar into a mug of coffee with three doughnuts at hand. I grabbed a mug and joined him.

“How you doing, Billy?” Big Mike said, with his usual lack of military formality. Even though he wore khaki instead of blue, he was still a cop at heart. He carried his shield with him everywhere, badge number 473, Detroit Police Department. You never knew when a flash of tin to a brother officer in a foreign land would come in handy, and with what I had in mind, we might need it.

“OK,” I said. “I sort of have Harding’s permission to pull off a heist, as long as we don’t get caught. I need some army supplies to get in good with a local hood. Interested in a little petty larceny?”

“Could be, if you get Estelle back for me,” he said, as half a doughnut disappeared.

“Come on, Big Mike, I don’t have enough clout to make that happen.”

“That’s what Colonel Harding said, which is why I ain’t speaking to him, except what’s needed to conduct business. But you, you got an uncle in high places. You could make it happen.”

“Big Mike, listen-”

“No, Billy, you listen. You get Estelle back from North Africa. Get her assigned here, in London. Otherwise, I ain’t helping you, and I might even have to arrest you for whatever you’re cooking up.”

“You can’t arrest anybody, Big Mike. You’re not a cop or an MP.”

“No, but there’s MPs all around this joint. I want Estelle back.”

“You really fell for her, huh?”

“Billy, I ain’t never met a girl like her. Lookit me, I’m no Errol Flynn, I’m a big guy, kinda clumsy at times. Most girls make a joke, like I’m a sideshow strongman. But Estelle, she looked me in the eyes and that was that. We both knew, it’s that simple. I can’t bear to think of her alone in Tangier, wondering if I even cared enough to try and find her. You know what I mean?”

“Sure I do, Big Mike.”

“Oh, yeah. Sorry, Billy, I didn’t mean anything about Diana. That’s different, she wants to go. You ain’t leaving her all alone.”

“OK, Big Mike. I’m in. How about I get to work on it after we-”

“No. Now. Go see Beetle and get Estelle back here. I’ll wait.”

“Jesus, Big Mike! Beetle will keep me waiting for hours and then have my ass for asking! It’ll never work.”

“No, he won’t, and yes, it will.”

“How can you say that? Can you read his mind? If you claim to know Uncle Ike’s chief of staff so well that you can guarantee it, why don’t you ask him yourself?”

“I sort of did. I told him this morning that you would be stopping by to ask his assistance in getting a material witness brought back to London.”

“What the hell were you doing talking to Beetle? The king would need an appointment to see him.”

“I asked around and found out he used to hunt quail in Virginia. He has that cocker spaniel with him, you know, the one he got in North Africa. So I talked to a British captain who just came on board. He’s the earl of something or other, and has a country place over near Cheltenham. I suggested to him that Beetle wouldn’t mind an invite to kill birds with him. He liked the idea, so I went to see Beetle, and told him all about it. He said he felt like shooting something, and invited me to come along. Probably just to carry the shotguns, but still it was a nice gesture.”

“Where did Estelle come in?”

“He asked how the investigation was going. Ike will be here in a few days, and he wanted to know if we’d have anything to report. I told him about Estelle getting transferred, and how it would be helpful to get her back here.”

“I assume you didn’t tell him she was the love of your life?”

“Hell no, Billy. I didn’t make it out to be any big deal. Didn’t want to overplay my hand. Beetle just said if you was having any trouble to let him know. So go let him know while he’s in a good mood and thinking about blasting quail. Then we’ll steal whatever you want.”

I left Big Mike to wash down the third doughnut while I went upstairs. Luck was on my side; Mattie Pinette was the WAC on duty. She was a good friend from North Africa, and she’d heard about the quail hunt Big Mike had organized.

“We’re all grateful, Billy,” she said in a whisper. “Beetle needs a day off. Don’t you worry. Estelle Gordon will be back in London as soon as we can get her on an aircraft. Is she a suspect in something? Is she dangerous?”

“She’s a giant killer, Mattie.”

Ten minutes later Big Mike-wearing a grin that wouldn’t stop-and I were scouting out the back entrance to Norfolk House, along Charles Street, where the deliveries came in. It was a tight squeeze, and several vehicles were waiting in line, a plumber’s truck and a jeep filled with typewriters jockeying for position near the double-wide rear doors.

“We can’t touch the civilian stuff, and I doubt there’s a market for typewriters,” Big Mike said. “Want to stake the place out?”

“How about heading back to the kitchen, and we’ll ask the cooks what they’ve got. We can tell them Beetle was asking for something special.”

“Canned peaches,” Big Mike said. “They’re worth their weight in gold.”

“Perfect,” I said. We both went, and I played the snotty junior officer, ordering Big Mike around in front of the mess staff. We told the sergeant in charge that General Walter Bedell Smith was a sonuvabitch all day if he didn’t get his canned peaches and that if there weren’t any this afternoon he was going to get himself some new cooks.

These cooks and bakers worked hard, no doubt about it, but they also knew that duty at Norfolk House in London was preferable to cooking in some battalion kitchen out on maneuvers. They consulted clipboards, yelled into the telephone, searched shelves, and looked under counters, stirring up a cloud of flour in their haste and panic, until a kid wearing an apron bigger than he was triumphantly told us they’d be serving canned peaches in a couple of hours, and had enough coming in to keep Beetle in thick syrup for weeks. They were happy, I was happy, Big Mike was happy. But there would be no peaches tonight for the weary warriors of Norfolk House.

We waited on Charles Street, watching the traffic, wrapped in our trench coats and scarves, stomping our feet to keep warm. The weather was turning colder, the clouds still blanking out the sun, the pavement chill creeping up our boots. Finally, what we were waiting for showed up. One supply truck, driven by a corporal, with a PFC dead asleep in the passenger’s seat. I stepped out in front of them as they turned off the street.

“Show me your orders!” I barked, imitating a combination of Beetle, Harding, and a rabid dog as I peered inside the truck cab. “How dare you show up to headquarters like this? You’re both out of uniform. I ought to put you on report.”

“Gee, Lieutenant,” the PFC said, “we’ve been loading and unloading crates all day. We always wear our fatigues on work detail. These are uniforms, ain’t they?”