Part 19 (1/2)
”What I'm going to suggest might seem risky, David, but it'll make your stay here a lot safer if we can pull it off. It'll even get you papers to get out of here again. I mentioned to my brother-in-law that I might have some visitors in the near future, within the next week. I told him about a guy I met during summer labor camp up by Eau Claire. Summer labor is something we get to do now and then, keeping up the roads and clearing brush and such.
While I was there I met some Menominee, and as a matter of fact you look a bit like them.
Anyway, I told Mike that I met a hardworking, nice young man who was looking to move down here, marry, and get himself a spread. I hinted that I had in mind that this young guy would marry my Molly and told him that I invited him down to meet her. Of course, he's just made up to fit your description.”
Valentine's mind leaped ahead, making plans. ”And you think he'd get us some papers?
Something official? It would make getting out of here again a lot easier if we had some identification.”
”Well, it wouldn't cut no ice outside this end of Wisconsin. But it would get you to Illinois or Iowa at least. You'd have to lose the guns, or hide 'em well. You could keep to the roads until the hills begin; if questioned, you could say you're out scouting for a place with good water and lots of land, and that's only to be found around the borders. Also, I'd like to bring your horses down from the hill corral. I hate having them up there. Too much of a chance of their getting stolen. Or us getting the ax for withholding livestock from the Boss Man.”
”If you think you can pull it off, I'm for it,” Valentine decided.
”Give you a little chance for some light and air. Also you can get a taste of life here. Maybe someday a bunch of you Wolves will come up north and liberate us. Or just bring us the guns and bullets. We'll figure out how to use them.”
Two days later, Valentine found himself standing outside the sprawling home of Maj. Mike Flanagan, Monroe Patrol Commissioner of the Madison Triumvirate. Valentine wore some oversize overalls and was barefoot. Carlson had driven him the twenty-three miles starting at daybreak in the family buggy.
”I don't know about the rest, but the major part fits him,” Carlson explained at the sight of the little signboard on the driveway proclaiming the importance of the person residing within. ”Major a.s.shole, anyway.”
Valentine did not have to feign being impressed with the major's home. It was opulent. Half French villa, half cattle-baron's ranch, it stretched across a well-tended lawn from a turret on the far right to an overwide garage on the left. Its slate-roofed, brick-covered expanse breathed self-importance. A few other similar homes looked out over Monroe from the north, from what had once been a housing development. Now the mature oaks and poplars shaded only gra.s.s-covered foundations like a cemetery of dead dreams.
”Listen to this,” Carlson said, pressing a b.u.t.ton by the door. Valentine heard bells chime within, awaking a raucous canine chorus.
The door opened, revealing two bristling black-and-tan dogs. Wide-bodied and big- mouthed, they stared at the visitors, nervously opening and shutting their mouths as if preparing to remove rottweiler-size chunks of flesh. The door opened wider to expose a mustachioed, uniformed man with polished boots and mirrored sungla.s.ses. He wore a pistol in a low-slung, gunfighter-style holster tied to his leg with leather thongs displaying beadwork. Valentine wondered why the man needed sun protection in the interior of the house, as well as a gun.
”Hey, Virgil,” Carlson said, nodding to the neatly uniformed man. ”I've brought a friend to see the major.”
Something between a smile and a sneer formed under the handlebar mustache. ”I guess he's in for you, Carlson. Normally he doesn't do business on a Sat.u.r.day, you know.”
”Well, this is more of a social call. Just want to introduce him to someone who might be a nephew someday. David Saint Croix, meet Virgil Ames.”
Valentine shook hands, smiling and nodding.
Ames made a show of snapping the strap securing his automatic to its holster. ”He's in the office.”
”I know the way. C'mon, David. Virgil, be a pal and water the horses, would you?”
Carlson and Valentine pa.s.sed a dining room and crossed a high-ceilinged, sunken living room, stepping soundlessly on elaborate oriental rugs. Valentine hoped he could remember the details of the story Carlson had told his brother-in-law.
The major sat in his office, copying notes into a ledger from a sheet on a clipboard. The desk had an air of a tyc.o.o.n about it; carved wooden lions held up the top and gazed serenely outward at the visitors. The dogs padded after the visitors and collapsed into a heap by the desk.
Mike Flanagan wore a black uniform decorated with silver b.u.t.tons and buckles on the epaulets. He exhibited a taste for things western, like a string tie with a turquoise clasp and snakeskin cowboy boots. He looked up from his work at his guests, drawing a long cheroot from a silver case and pressing a polished metal cylinder set in a stand on his desk. An electric cord ran down the front of the desk and plugged into a wall socket, which also powered a mock-antique desk lamp. Bushy eyebrows formed a curved umbrella over freckled, bulldog features.”Afternoon, Alan. You look well. How's Gwen?”
Carlson smiled. ”Sends her best, along with a pair of blueberry pies. They're outside in the basket.”
”Ahh, Gwen's pies. How I miss them. Siddown, Alan, you and your Indian friend.”
The electric lighter on the desk popped up with an audible ping. Flanagan lit his cheroot and sent a smoke ring across his desk.
”How are things in Monroe, Mike?”
Flanagan waved at the neat little piles of paper on his desk. ”The usual. Chicago's p.i.s.sed because the Triumvirate is diverting so much food to that new fort up in the Blue Mounds.
I'm trying to squeeze a little more out of everyone. I'm thinking about upping the reckoning on meat out of the farms. Think you can spare a few more head before winter, Alan?”
”Some of us can,” Carlson a.s.serted. ”Some can't.”
”Look at it this way: Your winter feed will go farther.”
”Well, it's for you to say, Mike. But I don't know how it will go down. There's been some grumbling already.”
”By whom?” Flanagan asked, piercing Carlson with his eyes.
”You know n.o.body tells me anything on account of us being close. Just rumor, Mike. But this visit isn't about the reckonings. I want you to meet a young friend of mine, David Saint Croix. I mentioned he'd be visiting and helping me with the harvest.”
”Pleased to meet you, David.” Flanagan did not look pleased. In fact, he looked perturbed.
”h.e.l.l, Alan, first you take in Little Black Sambo, and now a mostways Indian?”
”He's a h.e.l.luva hard worker, Mike. After I teach him a few things, he could run a fine farm.”
”Let's see your work card, boy,” Flanagan said.
Valentine's mind dropped out of gear for a second, but only a second. ”Sorry, Major Flanagan. I traded it last winter. I was hungry, you know. It didn't have my real name on it anyway.”
”Dumb thing to do, kid. You're lucky Alan here has connections,” Flanagan said, putting down his thin cigar. He rummaged through his desk and came up with a simple form. ”Fill this out for him, Alan. Just use your address. I'm giving him a temporary work card, six months. If he improves an old spread, I'll give him a permanent one.”
”I need two, Mike. He brought a friend. There's a lot of guys in the north woods looking for something a little more permanent.”
”Don't press me, Alan. Jeez, these guys are worse than Mexicans; another one is always popping up outta somewhere.”
Carlson leaned forward, spreading his hands placatingly. ”With two men helping me this fall, I can clear off an upper meadow I spotted. I was also thinking of building a pigpen across the road and raising some hogs, since meat is becoming such an issue. These men can help me, and I can be ready to go in the spring.”
”Fine, Alan, two work permits. Your place is going to be a bit crowded.” ”It's only temporary. Thanks a lot, Mike. Gwen and I really appreciate it. So does Molly, of course. Stop by anytime.”
”Yeah,” Flanagan mused, ”you're a fortunate man, David. She's a real beauty. Some of my patrollers say she's kinda standoffish, so I wish you luck.” The major pulled out a seal punch, filled out the expiration dates, signed both cards, and punched them with a resounding click. ”You're lucky I take this with me. I don't trust my secretary with it; she'd probably sell doc.u.ments. She can forge my signature pretty good.”
”I'm in your debt, Michael,” Carlson said, handing over the work cards.
”You've been in my debt since I let that little Fart or whatever his name is stay with you.”
”Frat.”
”Whatever. That big place and nothing to work it but women; I pity you. I'd offer you lunch, but I'm too busy to make it, and Virgil's hopeless. My girl is out at her parents' place this weekend.”
”Thanks anyway, Michael, but it's going to be a long way back. The horses are tired, so they'll have to walk most of the way.”
”Thank you, Major Flanagan,” Valentine said, offering his hand. Flanagan ignored it.
”Thank my brother-in-law and his wife, not me. Guess they want a bunch of little half- breeds as grandchildren. Up to me, I'd take you to the Order building and let you wait for the next thirsty blacktooth, seeing as you don't have a work card and you're in Triumvirate lands.”