Стивен Хантер - G-Man

“Sounds like a fine opportunity, Frank,” said Charles.

“Maybe for a younger man. But, Charles, the six weeks after Bonnie and Clyde done flattened me out. I mean to sleep and drink and hibernate until the fall at least. At my age, a fellow can’t be running around and sleeping in cars no more.”

“I feel the stiffness myself.”

“You are ten years younger, Charles, and tough as a buzzard that feeds on coyote.”

“Well, sir,” said Charles, “I might have some tough left in me.”

“I gave him your name, Charles. Told him about the war, about 1923, about all the frays since then, told him special how it was for duty, not glory, you put your grit to the use of the law. He liked that. He liked that part a lot.”

“Thanks for the advertisement, Frank.”

“So any day now he may show up. He may invite you to join the federals and their hat dance. Be a fine move, Charles. More money, a dose of fame, freedom from that damned judge, better opportunities in Chicago for your sick boy.”

It had its appeal, no doubt about it. It’s what Charles was born to do. It would fill his mind too, keep it from going other places, places it shouldn’t want to go but, goddammit, did anyhow.

“I’m thanking you for the tip, Frank. I’ll give it hard thought, and if the inspector shows, I’ll be ready for him.”

Inspector Cowley showed up two days later. He was a well-dressed, handsome thirty-five-year-old, who seemed much older and graver than his years, more Grandpop type than Pop type, and seemed immediately to Charles somewhat soft for the job he had. To face men with guns with your own guns took a certain steel. Men could master it under severe military discipline for a year or so — Charles had seen it in the war — but to make it a career took a certain harshness of spirit, a lack of care for the pain dealt to other men, an obsessional quality, a certain gimlet-eyed view of reality, quick reflexes, the talent to shoot well and fast, to say nothing of first, and finally a grit that would drive you forward even with — especially with — the possibility of your own death. That’s what Frank Hamer had, which is why he became a legendary Texas Ranger, and Charles knew he himself had it, along with the cold heart, which was he had no trouble pulling the trigger on a fellow human being, making him go still forever. Some men deserved killing, you had to believe that.

But clearly such was not the case with Inspector Cowley, who admirably made no pretense that it was. He seemed instead like a sort of pastor. His was the kind of talent for quiet leadership and organization and inspiration, but he’d never be a barker, a shouter, a discipline monster, a man killer.

“Thank you for seeing me, Sheriff.”

“We are in the same business, sir. I owe you courtesy and attention, and that’s what you’ll get from me completely.”

“How wonderful. In some places, federals are not beloved at all, and on my trip I’ve run into a fair amount of acrimony.”

“Not in the judge’s Polk County, sir.”

“I’ll come to the point, Sheriff. You’re too busy and important to waste time. You have of course heard of our unfortunate arrest attempt in Wisconsin in April? Little Bohemia?”

“I believe I have, sir. Not a happy day for police officers countrywide.”

“No, a disgrace, to be sure. We lost a very fine young agent, we shot two innocent men, killing one, and our quarry, so neatly gathered in one spot as never before, scattered to the four winds.”

“I have seen all the bulletins. You were up against some very nasty folks. Shooters all, and I have learned that too many in our business get squeamish when it comes to the gun.”

“Our Director had a vision, Sheriff Swagger. He envisioned a scientific national police force, incorruptible, untainted by ego, vanity, and politics. Alas, as we have learned, that also meant untainted by experience, toughness, cunning, and marksmanship. Lawyers make poor gunfighters.”

“Fighting’s a technique, like anything. It’s a skill to be learned, that’s all.”

“So our Director, and I agree with him of course, now sees the need for your kind of law enforcement. That is, heroes. Men of the gun. Our criminal class is too violent and too skilled to be arrested by lawyers. We need the likes of you, of Frank Hamer, of D. A. Parker, of Bill Tilghman, of Jelly Bryce, of men who’ve been hardened by battle, in war or arrest situations. Do you see what I am driving at?”

“I believe I do, sir.”

But Charles saw something else. He saw his family up north, he saw his damaged boy in some sort of caring facility, where the other children wouldn’t tease him and throw rocks at him, where his wife wasn’t beaten to a frazzle by the ordeal of caring for such a boy, where he himself could look at the boy, whom he knew had been delivered to him by a stern God as punishment, and not feel a racing current of self-hatred.

And he saw one other thing. Certain developments were weakening Charles. Certain opportunities were available as never before. He felt the yearning, the needing, the hunger, but he could not give in. The punishment was eternity in hell. Thus, Chicago was escape. It solved an immediate problem. It saved Charles from his worst enemy, who was Charles. It was his getaway.

He knew in that second he would take the job.

“I was also impressed by your modesty. I have it on authority that you were part of the team that ended the careers of two famous bank robbers. Yet you chose to leave the scene early, you had no hunger for special attention, the adulation of the press, the advancement of your reputation. Most man killers are like baseball stars and they love to be at the center of things.”

“I am a private man,” said Charles.

“That is very impressive and entirely in accordance with the wishes of the Director, who believes it is the organization, not the man, who should get the credit. That ensures the survival of the organization, and believe me, Sheriff, as America fills and gets yet more and more sophisticated, so will its criminals, whether gangsters or Reds, and we will need the most sophisticated, most modern law enforcement organization in the world, if we are to keep up with them.”

“I can’t help you on modernization, sir. I can win fights for you and help your boys win fights, that’s the extent of my talent.”

“And that is what we need right now. Yes, I’m here to offer you a job. You would be appointed Special Agent, a rare privilege, as most men have to go through six months’ training. You will work under me out of Chicago, and the pay is about twice what you are now making, eight thousand dollars a year. Needless to say, it will be a much better life for your wife and boy.”

“I believe I would leave them here for now, sir. My wife has family here, my boy is set in school, and I don’t want her obsessing about the danger.”

“Certainly. You would know best. To continue, you would be in charge of firearms training, to try and get the fellows to shoot a little better and not lose their heads when they are being shot at. If we’re thin, you’d have stakeout duties, which nobody enjoys, but it’s part of the job. Even I do it. You might be asked to run security on crime scenes where our technicians have to work undisturbed. Interrogation is a special art, and possibly you have an old lawman’s gift for it, but, if not, no problem. Interrogators are easier to find than gunfighters. You’re familiar with the Thompson gun, the twelve-gauge riot gun, the Browning rifle, the Remington Model 8, and the Colt .45 automatic? It’s said you’re a superb shot.”

“I have fired them all courtesy of our State Police, some more than others. We could have used that Thompson in France, let me tell you.”