Стивен Хантер - G-Man

“Gents,” he said, nodding as he eased through the crowd, and they parted easily to let him through.

Outside, the patrolman clerk told him the sarge would like to see him and gestured him toward a nubby little office off to one side.

“Pretty good shooting, I hear,” said O’Malley, whose face appeared evolved from a large shoulder of beef, and his body from other large aspects of the bovine species. His blue tunic was tight and all the brass gizmos well shined. Hair parted in the middle and well brilliantined, he was a dapper addition to the world, looking every square inch — and there were many of them — the proper Irish cop. “Word’s got around, we have a real serious marksman on the range. You’ll always be welcome here, federal man.” He gestured for Charles to sit.

“Thanks, Sergeant. I have fired a pistol a time or two in my time.”

“I hear some man killing was involved.”

“The war of course. Seemed such a waste of life, even German, but you have to hit them before they hit you. Then, on duty, had to face some armed boys, and my skill at marksmanship got me through the day. The truth is — and I’d only admit this to a man in blue — I sort of like it.”

“We all do, Sheriff. Though I’d admit that only to a man with a badge himself. Anyhow, I wanted to say hello, welcome to the gunman, and make it clear you’re always welcome here. Maybe my own fellas can pick something up from him?”

“I’d be happy if that happened,” said Charles. “But now that we’re here alone, Sergeant O’Malley, I’d like to be square with you on another issue. Do you mind?”

“Not at all,” said O’Malley.

“I’m hoping to bring my boys over in a nice orderly fashion,” said Charles, “and see if I can’t lick some sense into them so the kind of nonsense that took place at Little Bohemia won’t never happen again. I want the best gunfighters in the city.”

“Ah, now,” said O’Malley, “isn’t that commendable? Pass on the knowledge, get all those lawyers and accountants up to snuff on the shoot-to-kill issues their fine and proper educations may have not offered them.”

“That’s it,” said Charles.

“Oh. But, see, there’d be a problem. We don’t like to commit the range to no outsiders on a regular basis. If Commissioner Allman is showing his various official visitors the department, he likes to let me know in advance and I scare up some boys in blue so that when the commissioner comes down, all the lanes are full and everybody’s banging away. We even dig out some Tommies, so it looks like our own are always on it, the very model of modern police training. It makes the commissioner happy. And if the commissioner’s happy, I’m happy.”

“So I can’t get no two afternoons a week out of it? Only individuals can come over here and shoot?”

“The sheriff can shoot anytime he wants, as his reputation as righteous officer of the law is well known and to be respected. The others, I’m afraid it ain’t possible. They can come, and if we have the room, it’s onto the range they go. But that’s all. That’s just the way it is around here, Sheriff, sorry to say.”

“I suppose I could make a donation to some Hibernian Lodge of your specification and that might ease the crowding issue?”

“Why, ain’t that a nice thing to say! I do like a man with a charitable inclination. It certainly might help your cause. You do catch on fast.”

“Don’t let the drawl fool you. I might actually know a thing or two.”

“I like a man who understands without being told.”

“The problem is, we are low-budget and don’t have the petty cash to put into the party fund of St. Mary’s FOP District 1.”

“Well, Sheriff, see the thing is, much as I am liking and respecting you, I’d have to advise you that’s your problem, it ain’t mine.”

“Would you consider this one of your problems: a certain Italian gentleman named Lucente Barrio, also known as Lucky Bananas, was seen visiting the offices of FOP District 1 last Tuesday, where it’s rumored he makes a weekly contribution. However, since FOP District 1 is a public entity, under federal license as a charity, its financial records are on file. I done looked at ’em. Your outfit claims donations of under fifteen thousand dollars a year. Now, if Treasury were to pick up Lucky Bananas and he were offered ten years in prison against testifying how much he actually contributed, and if that money went unreported — not taxed, mind you, as a charity is not required to pay taxes on contributions, but it sure as hell has to report ’em — Treasury could close FOP District 1 down in a week. Under federal, not Illinois, statute. Treasury is hot these days because of putting Big Al away. That would be a problem for you, wouldn’t it, Sergeant O’Malley? And that house you’re building in Petoskey, where the fishing is fine and the water clear, maybe there wouldn’t be enough left in the kitty to pay off that mortgage.”

“You bastard,” said O’Malley.

“Ain’t no bastard at all,” said Charles. “Just introducing my friends in the Chicago PD to the Arkansas way.”

McLEAN, VIRGINIA

The present

“Ever hear of the memory hole?” Nick asked.

“Uh, from somewhere, yeah.”

“It’s from 1984 by George Orwell. The hero’s job is to rewrite the past. It’s a dictatorship, and the state motto is ‘Who controls the past controls the future; who controls the present controls the past.’ So this guy goes back into the London Times files and erases people who are now considered traitors. He rewrites the news articles without them, then drops the original in a ‘memory hole,’ where it’s incinerated. See, the memory hole is really the anti-memory hole.”

“Okay, I’m getting it.”

They were sitting in Nick’s den, near his glory wall displaying artifacts of what had been a stellar FBI career, his collection of John Wayne DVDs, his CDs of Shostakovich symphonies, and his library of American history books. The house was a big Colonial on a tree-shaded cul-de-sac in this D.C. bedroom community, his wife was off somewhere prosecuting someone, it was afternoon, and the two friends felt such comfort in each other’s presence, it was like old whiskey, which in fact Nick was drinking, if Bob was not.

“Look here,” said Nick, gesturing to his worktable.

Stacks and stacks of Xeroxes lay across it in piles, each with a yellow Post-it marking contents — John Dillinger, Baby Face Nelson, Homer Van Meter, and on and on.

“Now,” said Nick, “I have gone through them very carefully. No mention of your grandfather. No Charles Swagger. He didn’t exist. He’s the man who never was, officially.”

“I’m with you,” said Bob. “But still—”

“Yes, there is a ‘But still,’ a giant ‘But still.’”

Bob took a sip on his warm Diet Coke; the ice had melted, degrading the taste significantly. It was like caramel cut by deer urine.

“Boy, I wish I could join you,” Nick said, hoisting a glass of Buffalo Trace on the rocks. “But, you know, doctor’s orders. What can I do?” He took a sip, enjoyed the smoothness all the way down.

“Damn, that stuff smells good,” said Bob.

“Brother, you should see how it tastes! Anyhow, back to the memory hole concept. Your grandfather, certain evidence suggests, was dumped into the memory hole and disappeared.”

“You have my attention,” said Bob.

Nick picked up his first exhibit, a page out of the Dillinger file. Bob could see that a few words had been magic-markered in translucent yellow. He looked hard at one, seeing a common word.

“Most of the typing in the Chicago Field Office was done by a very capable woman named Elaine Donovan, Purvis’s secretary,” Nick said. “She was an excellent, strong typist, no doubt about it, and a very hard worker, absolutely first-class. You see her initials EPD all over the place, on the other side of slash marks identifying the author, MP or HC or SC —Purvis, Clegg, or Cowley — the three kings of Orient. But about every fourth page in several of the files was typed by someone else. Same typewriter, same office, different typist. If you look carefully, you see that Mrs. Donovan’s left hand was very strong, and she really hit the Q, W, E keys hard. But whoever typed the odd pages wasn’t a lefty, and his Q, W , and E strikes are much weaker. Don’t get me wrong, he’s good, he doesn’t make mistakes, he’s a virtuoso on the board, but he lacks a certain strength in one of the strands of muscle in his left hand.”