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Part IX: 1917- War on All Fronts
Bert cleared his throat, looking at the other, more intense man. He wasn't quite sure how to approach this, after all how does one even say what he was about to say.
"None of our words would mean very much without proof, even with it the Teagues hold quite a bit of sway here. There's only one way of getting justice here."
Bert clenched his fists, and looked around making sure no prying ears might hear them.
"We are not friends, however we could be conspirators."
Danilo considered Bert's proposition, sliding his hands into his pockets as he looked up and down the hospital greenway.
"Conspirators, eh?" he chuckled darkly, recalling his little jibe from last night, "Mexicans and Germans in bed after all. Jesús…" he scratched the back of his neck, "You pulled me out before Marco could get to that part of the charades, but the federales are in town. Government men, spooks, whatever you want to call them. They're the ones who searched the hostel, and their line is the plant was blown by foreign agents. There are men I know being held on suspicion. Good men, most of them, and even the pollas don't deserve to be sent up for whatever the hell you get for sabotage in this civilized country of yours. Whatever it takes to get them free and the little gringo bastardo who did the job behind bars, I'm up for it…"
He hesitated, "As long as you pull the same weight as me."
And then, almost as an afterthought…half because it seemed appropriate and half because he wanted to see the rise a display of good manners got from button-up Bertie, he held his hand out.
"You say 'shake on it', yes?"
-Danilo
Bert took the other's hand and shook firmly. Knowing that despite his dislike for Marco's company, that the man in front of him was the best chance any of them had of getting what was right done. Now the only question seemed to be where to start, they couldn't just simply threaten the Teagues. They had to be smart and play the long game.
"First and foremost, we clear your friends' names, let them know the culprit is still out there. We take the tools of sabotage and write up a note antagonizing the bureau."
He hoped he was making the right decision, he wanted justice for Helmut, and the others not as lucky, no matter the cost.
Danilo listened to Bert's plan, actively working to disguise any opinion from his face until he was sure Bert was finished, at which point he allowed himself to proceed in an orderly, methodical manner.
"And how the hot shit are we supposed to do any of that?" he asked, "My 'friends' cannot be cleared without proof, yes? Whatever it is..." he snapped his fingers, trying it out in Spanish, "Evidencia," before stumbling onto the English, "Evidence. The bag your friend found, if it can be found, if it wasn't burnt to cinders in the fire, if we can get in to begin with, and if we can prove the tools weren't any old tools."
Saying it aloud only made it sound more hopeless than he'd already thought it was. He cursed under his breath, "That other thing, though...bothering the federales. If their job is to investigate things, they'd have to hear anyone who comes to them, eh? If Helmet tells them what he saw, they'll have to do something. Write it down and file it somewhere? White people file everything."
He bit his lip, "Can you convince him? Your friend? I don't like my luck."
-Danilo
Bert knew it was a long shot, but he hadn't seen any other way of doing it, and now this fool wanted Helmut to go to the bureau, like it would truly help anything.
"And what if the Teagues find this out, hmm? They already tried to frame him; you may not care if my friend is killed, but I do."
He shook his head and crossed his arms; they would have to find another way.
"Absolutely not."
"¡Amor de Dios!" Danilo swore, "What, you think some letter is going to weigh more than a live person with a live story? These bureau people, they do not report to your Teagues, yes? It isn't like that eunoco sheriff who hangs off the big man's every word. Obviously, it isn't ideal, Bertie, but it's what we have!" he stepped back, "I don't want my friends to die either."
Seized by a perhaps uncharitable but ambitious notion, he nodded, "Why don't we see what he thinks, eh? Since it's his story and his life."
With that, he turned on his heel and threw the tent flaps aside, interrupting Marco, who was in the middle of a characteristically inane story.
"And then he tells the kid, 'You stole fizzy lifting drinks!' and he gets real loud and angry about it…"
"As he should," DIK Smith nodded sagely, "But, truly, his anger should have been reserved for the grandfather, who knew better…"
"Well, be that as it may, and then he goes 'You lose! Good day sir…' and…"
"Sorry to interrupt," Danilo moved between them, valiantly ignoring the warning look Alejandro was giving him, "Helmut, we need you to tell these bureau pinchazos what happened at the plant. If you don't, innocent men will suffer. They may even die. Who do you say, friend?"
-Danilo, Marco, DIK Smith, and Alejandro
"So these agents...they're coming after you?" Helmut furrowed his brow, puzzled. "But why? You don't even work at the plant. Why would you be suspects..." He quickly conceived the answer to his own question. "Mein Gott...this country...so willing to put immigrants to work and so quick to point the finger at them. I am sorry, my friends. Had I known they would come after you, I would not have held my tongue. I...I feel terrible..." His expression darkened, Helmut remained in pensive silence for some time, reflecting on the consequences of his silence.
"Hey, don't beat yourself up, man," said Marco quickly, "These guys only showed up this morning, and you've been laid up here the whole time. Everything's moving so fast…"
"The thing that matters is," said Danilo, "If you mean what you say…"
"Míralo," Alejandro warned, and was ignored.
"…and you want to help us, you will take your statement to these men so they know what you found."
"No pressure, though," said Marco, "Well, some pressure."
DIK Smith was quiet, contemplatively stroking his mustache, "It is a large request you ask," he looked from Danilo to Bert, as if privately sussing out the details of their conversation, "But a noble one. I expect, for these Bureau men, the business of last year, at Black Tom, is at the front of their minds."
"They did say something about that," said Marco, "I thought it was just another racist remark."
"Black Tom was a weapons' plant up north, that was blown by German saboteurs."
"Yeah, I since figured that."
"It is a lot to ask a young man of German blood to expose himself to such scrutiny," his eyes lingered on Bert before he turned back to Helmut, "But, Helmut, mein junge, it is also your responsibility, as an American, to tell the truth of what you saw and what was done, and the sooner the better. Especially if innocent men sit in cells."
-Marco, Danilo, Alejandro, and DIK Smith
"An American..." Helmut repeated forlornly, the word tasting queerly on his tongue. "An American...I understand what you mean, Herr Smith, and we will tell them what I know..." He looked to Bert to read his expression and discern if he thought the same. "...but I struggle to believe that those men from the bureau would think the same of any of us. In their eyes, we are more likely to be enemies of the state than Americans. Would they believe us or...would they sooner condemn us?" His faced darkened considerably, as he could not help, as always, but think of his family. "My mother already lost one child, meine schwester, to illness. Too young. I fear what it would do to her if she was left alone..." Helmut then turned to the pleading eyes of Danilo. "But I understand my concerns are not unique to me. There are a lot more families at stake than my own...sehr gut. We shall do it." His gaze returned to DIK Smith, smiling weakly, "Honesty is the American way, no?"
"Well, that's what it says on the advertising," muttered Marco, pointedly avoiding looking Bert's way.
"Es bueno," Danilo had that dodgy, husky sort of way a little kid might get to hide he was relieved, "Thank you," he cleared his throat, "I know it isn't…"
"Easy," Alejandro supplanted.
"I know the word!"
"But could not bring yourself to say it," Al almost smiled, "If it is any comfort, you must do yourself some credit by coming forward with your story."
"Al's right," said Marco, "A decent terrorist would avoid the cops no matter what…for what it's worth."
"And there is strength in numbers," DIK added, "A united front with all to lose cannot help but give these men reason to think. Gut," he nodded, "All that remains is the act of telling."
"And the sooner the better," said Danilo. At more looks from Marco and Al, he added, "The faster you come out with it, the less they can say you made it up to suit you."
"Any idea when you'll be discharged?" Marco asked Helmut, "Or maybe we can bring these guys to you?"
-Marco, Danilo, Alejandro, and DIK Smith
"No," Helmut dismissed the idea of waiting any further. "We shall go to them, discharge or not. There are dozens of men here waiting to be called home. It may be a few more days yet until they remember little Helmut and his deaf ear. We must hurry." Rising to his feet with some pain, he signaled the others to follow. He would set this right before more innocent men paid the price.
Bert had hoped his friend would know better but knew in his gut Helmut would want to do the 'right' thing. He shook his head silently as they all agreed coming forward was the best thing. He looked to his father,
"You mention Black Tom, and what's to keep them from thinking we're all in some conspiracy together? That The Germans and Mexicans have Allied to see America fall? Ignorant minds do not reach sensible conclusions."
Marco was admittedly surprised but heartened by Helmut's willingness to set off at once, "Well, alright, if that's what you want to do…you aren't hooked up to anything right, like an IV or…I'm not even sure if there are IVs actually…"
There weren't, in any event.
DIK turned to his son, "I am inclined to think, son, that we will do more for our own safety, in speaking up, than we would if we were silent. Ignorance, sorrowfully, is not a curable condition in my experience…"
"No, but it can be a hell of a drug," remarked Danilo with a sardonic smile.
"…but even an ignorant man will be hard pressed to wonder why some he may have suspected would make themselves so readily available."
Marco could think of some reasons, especially if they went with their built-in German/Mexican conspiracy line. Obviously, it would make sense to scapegoat a prominent American family.
But he wasn't about to say that. He felt a sinking in his gut, wondering if, after all, he was making things worse by trying to make them better.
"You got everything you need, Helm?" Marco asked, "Like, can you walk and stuff? I could go looking for a cane or a walker or…something, if you need."
-Marco, DIK Smith, and Danilo
"Always expecting the best of people.."
Bert shook his head at his father, unable to even look at him, instead he only looked at his feet.
"It's what makes you a fool."
He couldn't fathom how any of these would be do gooders thought this plan was viable, but he wouldn't be a part of it. Should he need, he would accomplish his mission on his own.
"I am fine," Helmut insisted, leading the group at a brisk pace. "Whatever soreness I feel now is unimportant compared to…"
He suddenly bumped shoulders with a burly figure. "Hey, watch it!"
Instinctively, Helmut apologized in German, though he might have had second thoughts when realized just who he had collided with. "Ah. Herr Teague. Guttentag." Indeed, it was the middle child of the Teague clan, just returning from where his brother was kept.
Nate bristled at the sound of German and rolled his eyes. "Keep it to yourself, Kraut." He glared at the rest of Helmut's party. "What are you looking at?" The Teague spat and kept on his way, muttering to himself in resentment of this minor inconvenience.
"Sometimes," Helmut commented to his friends, watching their adversary stride with arrogance of a prize cock. "I wonder if this town is too small for its own good."
-Helmut and Nate
"Suffocating," remarked Marco, "Air quality notwithstanding."
"Pendejo," Danilo snarled, pushing past Marco to get after Nathan. Marco had the presence of mind to step forward, moving with Alejandro to hold him back.
"¡Basta!" Al cautioned, "Do you want to get thrown into a cell after all?"
"Le audacia de ese," he spat in Nate's direction, "Showing his face after..."
"He's probably visiting his brother," Marco decided.
"I'll repeat it, in English if you like. Where does he get off..."
"Well..." Marco paused, "It is his brother. Anyway, probably he doesn't know anything, and we aren't helping our cases getting into a fight. Creates probable cause or...recourse?" he bit his lip, having by now exhausted all non-sexual buzzwords sleepless Law and Order: SVU binges had gifted him, "It'll put our statement in doubt. More than it already will be."
Danilo gritted his teeth, opening and closing his hand, "Do you think he even remembers the other night? With..." he bit his lip, "With Eva?"
Marco shrugged, "I dunno. I don't think he was paying much attention to us," which was, he thought, the most charitable way of saying neither he nor Danilo had done much to earn a spot in Nate's recall that night...despite all Danilo's efforts to the contrary.
"Olvídalo," Danilo spat on the pavement, just short of Mr. Smith's patent-leather boot, which he drew back with a harrumph.
"Means 'forget it'," Marco supplanted to the old man as they continued on their progress.
"Well...I can agree with the sentiment," Mr. Smith twitched his mustache, "If not the expression."
***
They found the police station abuzz with activity. The entire place was surrounded by cars which, because it was 1917, meant about six, but they took up enough space it may as well be a barricade. Men were positioned at the doors...deputies, Marco saw first off. Not the clean suits of the federal men he'd met this morning.
"They are on their guard," Mr. Smith observed curtly, "Steady on, boys," he looked over their little party, seeming to deflate, as if he was still hoping for his son to come running up the street after a change of heart.
Marco couldn't blame him for being disappointed, but he figured Bert was in his rights to stay away, and he couldn't twist his arm any. It was a shame, since Bert had been the one to see the de facto murder weapons in Freddy's locker and his word would likely have the most weight.
But it was a free country, and Marco couldn't blame him, short of coming off like a condescending hypocrite. He knew what it was to avoid that kind of scrutiny, and Bert hadn't even done anything to feel guilty about.
"Good morning!" Mr. Smith greeted, leading the way up the short flight of granite stairs, "Er, afternoon, mayhap."
The deputy's eyes narrowed skeptically, "No loitering."
"We are not here to loiter! We have business."
"Police business," Marco added, trying to be helpful, but clearly...
"Aren't you the Latino drifter we found with that dead priest?"
Marco blinked, "...yes."
"And subsequently found innocent!" DIK lifted his finger with a smile, "As we have found something else that may be of interest to your superiors."
The men looked at each other warily. Danilo heaved a sigh, "Would we have come here willingly for anything else?"
Another furtive look before one nodded, "Follow me."
***
They were subjected to a search upon entry. Marco wasn't sure if modern stop-and-frisk policies hadn't been instituted yet, or if these guys were just lazy. Danilo made a crass dialectic remark under his breath that, mercifully, the deputies didn't seem to notice, but nobody found anything. Marco figured the average 1917 firearm would prove quite difficult to hide on a summer garment.
"Aren't you the candy man?" one of the deputies asked Mr. Smith, furrowing his brow.
"I am at that," he accepted his bowler from the officer's slackened hand, making a big show of readjusting his waistcoat, which had been jostled out of its perfectly symmetrical position by the quick (but less thorough than the rest, either owing to his age, size, or the inherent complexity of his debonair-on-a-budget wardrobe), "Dieter Ivan Klaus Smith, of Smith's Sweeties, on Greenway Street. You are a customer, young man?" his eyes narrowed, twinkling merrily.
The deputy went a little pink about the ears, "Not since I was a boy, sir," suddenly uncomfortable, he nodded to his fellow, "You keep an eye on these. I'll fetch the sheriff over."
He hastened off like he couldn't go fast enough.
"Siehst du?" Mr. Smith prompted, "Everyone loves candy."
"As long as they don't know the man making it," said Danilo.
"Nein," he shook his head, "Even then. I must've had that young man in my shop when he was a child...he cannot be more than Bertie's age," his expression darkened briefly at the mention of his son, but he pressed on quick enough, "My shop has been in business as long as he has been alive, and I have waited on children and families that whole time. That isn't nothing, that. People may be shaken, riddled with their fears and anxieties...but if they remember we are all part of the same little pen..."
"Like pigs?"
"...they must surely second-guess those fears."
Marco smiled politely. The thing about Mr. Smith was he was so earnest...and he believed so strongly in peoples' goodness, or at least their capacity for it. It was weird that someone as old as him could think like that, but then of course, he'd gotten old in a very different time than the old people Marco was used to. He'd been able to leave his country with nothing and make a new home for himself, despite difficulties.
This war and all its connected problems must seem very different to someone who'd come up the way he had, overcoming what he did. But to younger people...the people who, 100 years from now, would be called "the lost generation"...people like Bert, Danilo, Helmut and Al...the war wasn't some dark cloud on the progress of history. It was a blackhole, obliterating the entire world order and leaving nothing but empty, yawning desolation in its wake.
He took a few steps away, looking up at the glass rotunda...the same one, (give or take some renovations) that overlooked this room in the 21st century, and found himself thinking of a night back in high school, when they...Queen Anne's Lace...had been picked up for playing without a permit. It could've been worse: he and Anne had still been 17 to Kade's 18, and the whole lot of them were pretty tanked. He wasn't sure how they'd gotten into that crummy little dive at all...Kade had a way of charming people, and Anne was pretty enough that guys would usually make allowances just to keep her around.
It was probably something nothing bad had ever happened to Anne in those reckless days. She cultivated a sharp tongue back then, and once or twice had told an older guy off for trying to make a pass. Mostly, though, Marco figured Kade...tall despite his age, and with this enviable male confidence...that created a buffer.
He could remember sitting in the dispatch while Kade was grilled by some deputy or other...probably Clark Hudson, who wouldn't become sheriff until after they graduated. Anne was so nervous...scared, even. She'd never been in trouble before, and she kept on about how upset her father would be, how he was probably storming over right now in a hot fury.
"He's got a police scanner in his car," she told him through tears, "They wouldn't even have had to call him. He's suspected something was up for weeks."
And Marco, who was worried about his own parents, didn't really know what to say, short of holding her hand. She accepted with a watery smile, and cried herself out. He's still not sure he was a very good friend, but he must've been something she needed back then.
"Hey," he turned from the rotunda to Helmut, taking a few steps closer, "Nervous? It's...okay if you are. It's probably, like...ideal, actually."
-Marco, Danilo, Alejandro, DIK Smith, and Deputy
"I shouldn't be since I know we are all innocent," Helmut replied to Marco, unable to hide the nervous twitch in his leg. "And yet..." He sighed with a shrug. "I trust there officers as much as they trust us. I am not sure if this will change anything or if it will even make matters worse...but as long as we tried, I feel I'll be at peace."
"You will," Marco answered before he could vet his answer more thoroughly, "I mean…probably. That's what they say is supposed to happen. Psychologists," he paused to wonder if psychologists existed yet, decided of course they were some pre-world war decadence, and continued, "There's an expression. Confession is good for the soul. Allegedly. And it's not like you'd even be confessing anything bad you did, it's just…good. Generally."
He shifted his feet, mind wandering invariably to his own hang-ups with truth and lies, and the weight of a dangerous confession. He figured he was being pretty hypocritical after all, playing counselor to Helmut and the others like this. Sure, confession was good for the soul, but it wasn't easy either.
Take Sandy. He knew what had happened to her...explicitly, in all its ugly details, but he'd been happy to let the rest of the world write the narrative, to decenter him just out of the locus of 'cause' and into the still sketchy, but overall more comfortable arena of 'effect'.
Not that it was at all feasible to assume this whole thing was some kind of morality play designed with the express purpose of teaching him a lesson, not least of which because Galdamez seemed pretty clueless about the cast of characters, act structure, and overall narrative.
Which, on the bright side, meant that anything Marco did learn about himself must be well-earned.
"Now, what is this, then?" squeaked a new voice, as the dimunitive Sheriff Halliwell emerged, rooster-wattle first, from his office, the young deputy very deliberately controlling his stride so as not to overtake and presumably emasculate him, "I am told you..." his big, perpetually surprised eyes roving over the lot of them and settling with particular intensity on Marco, "...have some, er, information, that is, for us. Aren't you..."
"Yes, I was just here a few days ago," Marco nodded, "I come in peace."
"This good citizen," Danilo moved forward in two wide strides, to put an aggressively chummy hand on Helmut's shoulder, "Has some information for you about the factory explosion."
"He's here to confess," Marco added, realized he got stuck on the wrong chain, and hastily course corrected, "I mean, what he knows, not to the crime. He didn't do the crime. He just knows...who did."
Sheriff Halliwell, bless him, was already glistening with sweat, "The devil you say! Oh me, oh my..." he wrung his hands, "Well, you understand, of course, this case, being such a matter of, er, grave and, that is, national security, has attracted...that is, brought in federal attention, so, by necessity, any information..."
But he looked around again, almost getting up on tip toes as he scoped out the dispatch, presumably looking for men in blue suits, "Er, but...that is to say," he drew himself up very importantly, "Nothing to say you can't, er, speak with the local police first, of course. I daresay. I, that is me, being in charge, after all."
His pencil-neck darted back toward his office, "With me, young man, and we shall hear your statement. Yes, yes, we certainly will. And expediently at that, most expediently," he nodded with such rapidity that his head seemed primed to detach from its post.
-Marco, Sheriff Halliwell, and Danilo
Helmut nodded solemnly, murmuring a nervous and subdued, "Yes, of course" before following the bumbling and stuttering sheriff, with one last uneasy glance to his comrades. He carried some of Bert's apprehension but that was ultimately overshadowed by Bert's father's virtuous insistence to tell the truth. The conflict between the two still battled within him and did little to bolster his confidence as he entered the interrogation room.
Halliwell nodded with still more rapidity, his head threatening to become dislodged from its sinewy perch as he turned on his heel and shuffled off, crying a slightly hysterical, "To your business!" to the deputies hanging around the dispatch. Marco thought he heard a few snickers, and wished he had the requisite confidence to think the sheriff was a useless boob. As it happened, that useless boob could still cause a lot of trouble for them.
Shoving his hands into his pockets and letting out a short sigh, he turned back to the others with a determinedly cheerful, "Everything's fine."
Mr. Smith smiled, nodding brightly, "That is the spirit!" he consulted his pocket watch, mustaches twitching, "It is strange, to be in working hours and yet not at work. I feel almost like a criminal!"
Danilo gave him a withering look and he smiled sheepishly, "To turn a phrase."
"Inside out," Danilo muttered, stalking toward the doors, stopping just short of the threshold, when the cop on watch gave him a look.
"¿Te vas?" asked evenly, folding his arms, but Danilo answered the question with a shake of his head.
"Not going anywhere," he answered Al, in English, presumably for the benefit of Mr. Smith, who was now studying his watch so intently there was no doubt he was eavesdropping, "I'm seeing this through."
Marco and Al exchanged a look as Marco moved closer to Danilo, beginning tentatively, "But..."
He cocked an eyebrow, scoffing mirthlessly, "But nothing," but he couldn't maintain the over-aloof air for long, relenting with a sigh, "Feels wrong. Like I'm some pantywaist cobarde."
"You?" Marco tilted his head in disbelief, "C'mon, you're not a coward. Why'd you think that anyway?" but he didn't have to interrogate the question for long, "I thought you wanted to go to the cops?"
"Yeah. To bully your friends into telling what they knew. Some brave bastard I am."
"Well...if it works..."
"Your Bertie doesn't think it will."
"Eh...he's not my Bertie."
"Better you than me," he cracked a sardonic smirk, looking out at the hazy street, where a bit of drywall, paper-thin, scudded through the ashen air...some cast-off bit of the factory, now listless as a bit of sidewalk litter, "He's got his own plan."
This didn't surprise Marco. Bert hadn't been subtle about his feelings on this whole plan, probably at least in part because his father was so gung ho for it. For the first time, though, he wondered if maybe he shouldn't have let him go off on his own...if he might be heading for trouble and need bailing out.
"What do you think he's up to?" he thought aloud. Danilo shrugged, "Well, he's a brash, hotheaded fanfarrón with a grudge. And, from one to another..." he trailed off deliberately, "I know where I'd visit."
Marco blinked, feeling cold certainty at Danilo's implication, "Or who."
They both turned back to Mr. Smith, eyes on his watch and primed ear trained right on them. Marco could see a muscle in his throat working.
"Don't you think maybe we should...do something?"
Danilo's teeth flashed in a mirthless laugh, "You ever met a miss you didn't run for head first?"
"Most of them, believe it or not."
"When I met you, I'd have believed it," he licked his lips, brow furrowed in thought, "I'm the one who dragged poor invalid Helmet out of bed. Wouldn't be sporting of me to leave him, would it?"
"Oh, well...if you'd rather stick around, then I guess I could..."
"Como diablos eres," he rolled up his sleeves, "More than one way to see this mess through. ¡Ey!" he indicated Al, who moved toward them.
"Leaving so soon?" he asked thinly.
"Just doing our due diligence," said Marco.
"On the offchance some helpless white boy fell down a well somewhere," said Danilo.
"Or worse."
"You never can tell."
Al cocked an eyebrow, "You sure that's the best idea? What if los policias..."
"They shouldn't need us for anything," said Marco, "We weren't there. At the crime scene, I mean. Well, I was but, like, after the fact..."
"And what am I to do? Babysit the old man?" he indicated Mr. Smith, whose pointed frown suggested his ears remained quite sharp.
"No trouble for you, compañero," Danilo clapped him on the arm, "It's half your job description."
"And DIK's much friendlier than a rowdy drunk."
Mr. Smith cleared his throat noisily. Marco turned his way and met his eyes briefly. He didn't say anything or make any move closer, but there was a sort of silent understanding passed between them...he wasn't going to stop him, not even to hear his explanation. Whether that indicated urgency or apathy Marco thought he knew the answer, but couldn't be sure.
Al heaved a sigh, "You don't really think he's..."
"Gone to make something worse for his ass and ours?" Danilo shrugged, "If Germans could leave well enough alone, we wouldn't be here."
Al rolled his eyes, "And if Mexicans knew how to sit on their culos..."
"Well, you sit on yours," said Marco daringly, walking backward toward the door, "Please. If anybody asks where we went..."
"Point them to the nearest taqueria!" Danilo suggested, turning on his heel, "It's a long way off."
The cop at the door gave a surprised start as they walked out past him, but didn't call any orders. Whether that was a good or bad sign for their standing in this whole investigation, Marco wished he could be more certain. As it was, he felt a prickling on the back of his neck, as if he were being watched the whole way down the street.
"It can't really be," he said eventually.
"Eh?" Danilo looked at him dubiously.
"The nearest taqueria. Like, it can't really be all the way in Mexico? There's got to be one closer."
"Maybe there is," he smiled darkly, "Not close enough."
***
"Alright, then, now you just have a seat...oh my..." Halliwell lifted a few stray papers from the spindle-legged chair in front of his desk, wiping some dust away with the tip of his necktie, not very vigorously for all that, "Um, yes, you just sit down right there, young man, young..." he moved around the desk, bumped into the corner, muffled a whimper, and settled his bug eyes onto Helmut.
"What did you say your name was, sir, and if you didn't, could...that is to say...must...that is, of course, I meant, you must..." this tapered off into an anemic, watery sigh.
"Name?"
-Halliwell, Marco, DIK Smith, Danilo, and Alejandro
"Helmut," he answered, his hands crossed on the table and his leg unable to hide the way it was nervously shaking. It felt odd being so uneasy in front of a stammering buffoon like Haliwell but something about the environment of a police station made him anxious. In the back of his mind, Helmut recalled his mother's frantic begging that he be a good boy and stay out of trouble, shortly after some other local German men his age got into a disagreement with the police, earning some bruises and jailtime for their efforts. And Helmut did try to keep his head down, more often than not playing the peacekeeper to prevent his comrades from succumbing to a similar fate, Bert most of all.
Now here he was, in the lion's den, preparing to testify against the town's golden child. The things his mother would say to him if she know...Helmut couldn't bear to think of it.
Realizing he hadn't given his full name, he completely introduced himself, "Helmut Fitzgerald."
Halliwell nodded with more fearsome rapidity, engaging in a complicated shell game routine with the heaps of papers, stationery, and stale sweet rolls on his desk before turning up a grimy legal pad and a nub of a pencil, on which he wrote a few scratches in shorthand.
"Fitz, ah, gerald, right, right, of course..." he looked up at Helmut, pupils contracting as they fixed themselves on his purported witness's timid visage. Whatever the lads around the station said, Halliwell prided himself on being a good judge of character. For one thing, he had a nose for fear, and this young Fitzgerald was like a cat on hot bricks.
But had he stoked his own kiln?
"Now, you, er, are employed by the Lakewood First Steel Co. That is, you were present at the scene of the, um, conflagration?" he looked him up and down, "And came out in one whole piece. Mostly so," he paused, leaning forward slightly, "How, er, fortuitous. For you."
-Halliwell
"Mostly, Herr Halliwell," Helmut gestured to his deaf ear. "I cannot hear so well out of this ear. I am fortunate, though, more so than...than some." He took a mournful pause, the grim reality of how many people had died that day still settling in and even more so that Freddy Teague of all people was responsible.
"H-H-H-H-H-Herrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr?" Halliwell choked the prefix out, spittle staining his legal pad.
Steady on, Fillmore, he told himself, He may merely be reverting to the mannerisms of his homeland, on account of his stressful ordeal.
Or, he told himself subsequently, He is bold and brazen, relishing in his audacity!
"More fortunate," he said at length, "Indeed. Very much more fortunate, yes, than most. Many, even. But..." he lowered his chin to his collar, to obscure his lips as he whispered, "you can hear me just as well, sir."
The game was afoot!
-Halliwell
Helmut leaned forward, confused as his damaged hearing was already beginning to fail him. "Entschuldigung, what was that?"
Halliwell indulged a secret grin of satisfaction. So the man truly was deaf...
Or he's putting on a ruse. Easiest handicap to fake!
Rats and weasels.
"I said nothing at all," Halliwell lifted his head, "You must be mistaken, very much mistaken, and no mistake about it."
Yes, yes, confuse him. If he's feigning deafness, he will show his irritation plain as the nose on his face!
But, to business. Halliwell picked his little pencil up anew and resumed a stance more suited to questioning, "What information is this now, that you have, for me, with such urgency?"
-Halliwell
"Well, Herr Halliwell," Helmut began to explain, accepting there was no turning back now. "I believe I know who was behind the explosion that day. I was by the boiler when it happened. I can confirm it was...sabotage." He took a deep breath, knowing the most difficult part had yet to pass.
Halliwell's palm was so sweaty it was only a matter of time before the pencil nub shot up from his fist like a cannon to ricochet wild about the office in search of a worthy target.
And may my judgments strike as true!
"Sabotage," Halliwell repeated, aware of the hoarseness of his voice, "Yes, yes, that is...that is the general determination, er, that is to say, the general agreement, pending evidence, which, of course, the Bureau of Investigation in its, thoroughness and precision, have endeavored to find, despite, of course, not having been longtime servants of this community with little...precious little, I may even say...knowledge of its people and the, shall we say, intricacies of its workings."
He chewed his lip, imagining for a moment that he was truly gnawing on the snap brim hat of Agent Demings, of the Bureau, that carpetbagger cad. Indeed, if he could get the one over on them in the case...prove that a local official had some juice in him in a crisis of this scale...
Well, what a feather in his own cap!
He was drooling on the legal pad.
"Well, then, sir," he continued quickly, collecting the spittle with his tie, "If you are so certain, yes, then of course it behooves you to confess..."
He stopped himself. Getting ahead of himself...but it was a theory. Yes, if the young German man had had a change of heart and was perhaps ready to confess his complicity in the crime, and perhaps name accomplices!
"Or, that is, of course, to explain..." he blinked, "You needn't fear at all, Mr. Fitz Gerald, not at all, at all...your information will be put to best use."
-Halliwell
"I, er..." Helmut cleared his throat, equal parts confused and unnerved from Halliwell's interrogation...technique. "I'm sure it will." He paused, thinking the best way to reveal this information. "I didn't know it was sabotage at the time but, when thinking back, it was pretty clear what was going on." He hesitated, knowing the truth of Bert witnessing the hard evidence of Freddy getting the tools but knowing Bert wanted no part in this plan.
His friend did not want a role in this confession; Helmut would do right by him. "...It was Frederick Teague, Herr Halliwell. He sabotaged the machinery. It was him."
Halliwell's pencil shot from his hand, less a bolt and more a skipped penny, skittering sadly off the opposite side of the desk to land at Fitzgerald's feet.
"F-F-Frederick," he stammered, "Teague."
Warden Teague's youngest. Halliwell had not formed much opinion of him, except that he was no forceful personality. Then again, the same might be said of him, but he didn't have a father who could whisper a word in an official's ear and install him in a place of glory. Warden Teague had spoken highly these past weeks of his son ending his schooling prematurely to help out the war effort, after Douglas enlisted. In truth, Halliwell heard these tales of the young men's achievements with a sort of hollow emptiness. Surely, he would tell himself, as the warden went on and on about Douglas's bravery, Nathan's high spirits, and Frederick's loyalty, it was not too late for him to sire children?
But alas! Though the body was willing, the soul was weak. Halliwell's fingers would be naked to his dying day, while Buford Teague's scions would go on to continue a grand dynasty and be a fixture of this community for many a generation.
But if young Frederick Teague was the saboteur...
Could it be?
"That is a grand accusation," he said at length, "And by 'grand', that is, 'extraordinary', and by 'extraordinary', that is dangerous, Mr. Fitz Gerald...and such a grand...and so on...accusation must needs be abetted by, er, facts, hard facts, and evidence. What proof have you of this claim?"
He'd be hanged if he leveled such a charge on the warden's son, absent evidence. He'd be childless forever in fact as well as theory!
-Halliwell