Стивен Хантер - G-Man

“At least. I think my dad had one too.”

“—it would have had a government serial number and said ‘Property of U.S. Government’ on it, so it doesn’t sound like a Marine Corps pistol. You say there was something else that could have been stolen?”

“Yes.”

“I can’t wait.”

“A thousand dollars in cash.”

“A thousand!”

“A fair amount of money now, a lot more then.”

“Maybe my father confiscated it from some bust, maybe he— Well, he was no angel, hero or not, and that much money in 1955, unaccounted for, you know, maybe he just figured…” He let the words trail out.

“I don’t think so. First off, it’s only one bill. A thousand-dollar bill. On top of that, it appears new and uncirculated, which could mean many things. By serial number, it’s a 1934-A type bill. We’re consulting a numismatist to learn more, and possibly we’ll try to trace it through the Treasury Department, but that takes time. Maybe months.”

“So the 1934 serial number and the fact that it’s uncirculated shows it can’t have nothing to do with Earl Swagger. He was in the Marine Corps in China or Nicaragua then, didn’t get back for two more years, no way he could have laid a finger on it. That’s a relief. Anyhow, that money should be returned with the gun as soon as possible and this thing put right.”

“Then another gun exhibit. Or we think it’s related to a gun. It’s a kind of machined cylinder — very high-quality metalwork — but weirdly gigantic, too big for any rifle or shotgun of the time. Maybe it’s a machine-gun muzzle. Has slots milled into it. Heavy piece of work.”

“I don’t have no idea at all.”

“There’s a couple more oddities. The first is a map of some sort. Very crude, just the diagram of what I take to be an oddly laid-out wall with ten steps marked off to what could be a tree trunk, then another few steps to an X that marks the spot.”

“Hmm.”

“Bob, maybe that crisp bill was stolen from a bank or something. Maybe other money, more money, is under the X. But of course without knowing where or what the building was, the map is useless.”

“Yeah, I see,” he said, trying to mull it over in his mind.

“And there’s one other thing. Was any of your family ever an FBI agent? I mean other than Ray of course.”

“What?”

“Any FBI agents in the family tree? I think I would know, but I’m getting nothing.”

“Well, Ray’s the only one—” His son Ray was second in command at the FBI sniper school at Quantico.

“No, no, I don’t mean that. I mean in the thirties.”

Bob had nothing to say. But he realized his grandfather, Charles Fitzgerald Swagger, who had lately occupied his thoughts, the sheriff of Polk County and victor of the famous Blue Eye gunfight in 1923, war hero and mystery, would have been, what, forty-three in that year. Just the right age, and just the right profile, salty yet still spry, a gunfighter with much killing behind him and no fear in front of him.

“Because we found an FBI Special Agent’s badge in the box too.”

“You’re kidding,” said Bob.

“Not a bit. And there’s more. It actually was a badge for the Justice Department’s Division of Investigation, which they called the FBI for a single year.”

“Oh?”

“That year was 1934. The year of all the gunfights.”

BLUE EYE, ARKANSAS

1934

It was a typical day for the sheriff of Polk County.

He made sure his .45 Government was cocked and locked and slid it into the floral-engraved shoulder rig, made custom by a fellow in San Antonio, one of the few “nice” things he allowed himself, and the gun felt especially heavy. Then he pulled his fedora low over his sharp eyes and set out. He pulled out the long driveway, turned left, and headed into Blue Eye, the county seat, with its seven church spires, water tank, and two-funnel power company twelve miles to the west.

He had rounds: first to check with his one deputy in Niggertown, where he only wanted a general report, as it didn’t do to look too carefully at how Jackson Johnson, his Negro deputy, ran the law-and-order business down here. Jackson kept the crime down, and made sure no one ever acted disrespectfully toward a white person, and so was otherwise left alone.

Then Charles checked on his two snitches among the subversives. There were basically two subversive groups in Blue Eye — Communists and Republicans — and Charles confirmed quickly enough that neither group had any revolutions planned. Then he dropped in at Tom Bode’s to tell Tom that the bank was complaining to the judge about Tom’s delinquency on his mortgage and he didn’t want to have to do any foreclosing, as that was nasty business for everyone. Tom said he’d let a man go and they’d work triple overtime to get the okra in.

He rolled into the actual sheriff’s office about 11. He usually found his clerk, Millie, and one of the three deputies on the day shift, the other two being out on patrol, driving slow, careful patterns around the county, ready for anything and reachable instantly by a primitive radio. At the transmitter, he ran a check on both, and all seemed okay, quiet and pleasant, meaning no labor agitators and no one using too much sugar at the doughnut shop. He went to his desk in his office off the squad room and went through his in-box, which contained the night’s tickets and reports, expecting nothing, finding nothing. No real crime seemed to exist in Polk County, assuming you didn’t count when a Willie thumped a Willie or some trashy transient farmworker broke a bottle over another’s skull or the even rarer domestic disturbance among the town’s quality, usually involving liquor, untoward accusations, and a fist or slap in anger that announced itself by loud crying and a call to the sheriff. It happened. People were people and it happened, all of it of no real significance. It just rolled on, well-oiled, self-sustaining, unseen, but trusted by nearly all.

But this day there was something unexpected.

“Sheriff, a Captain Hamer from Texas called you. Wants you to call him back. Shall I call him?”

“Yes, can you, Millie?”

It took a few seconds for Millie to put the call through, operator by operator, so that finally Blue Eye and Dallas were connected, by which time Charles had gotten into his office and closed the door.

“Hamer. That you, Charles?”

“It is, Captain.” Frank Hamer was one of the few people in the world that Charles felt at home around.

“How’re you feeling? See all the ink we got for steppin’ on them two pip-squeaks?”

“Yes sir. You’re a hero, Frank, but you always were a hero.”

“You’re just pulling an old man’s leg, Charles. As I said, plenty of glory to go ’round. It ain’t too late. You can magically appear in the accounts just like you magically disappeared.”

“Not sure how the damned judge would take it, Frank. The job was its own reward. An out-of-season hunt, what could be better reward than that?”

“Well, I do agree. Clears the sinuses better than a shot of fine whiskey. Now, I have something for you, Charles, thought I’d best mention it.”

“I’m all ears,” said Charles.

“Seems the federals are recruiting gunfighters. That cucaracha dance in Little Bohemia, where all the gun boys just went through their ranks like shit through a goose? And the federals only bagged a few innocent townsmen? Mighty embarrassing. That’s because they got no old salts, just wet-eared college boys. Fools and poofs, nobody righteous who’d stand and shoot it out.”

“I see,” said Charles.

“So a fellow comes to me yesterday, an Inspector Cowley out of Chicago. My reputation being so sterling and all, would the captain be interested in going up north, appointed a Special Agent in what they call the Division of Investigation, to be part of a unit that’s going after all them famous bad boys — mainly, Mr. Johnny H. Dillinger — but the other big ones, the one they call Baby Face, the one they call Pretty Boy, then there’s a Wilber, a Harry, an Alvin, even a old lady called Ma. The Division needs shooters, Charles, men who can shoot and take fire without panic. And this inspector wanted me to head it all up.”