Amerikan Eagle by Alan Glenn Page A

No, that wasn’t the right word. Donna was uncomplicated. That’s all. Just uncomplicated. Sarah … now, she was complicated.
    So why hadn’t he dated Donna back in school?
    Forget it
, he decided.
That was then, this is now
.
    He went downstairs to the dirt-floor cellar, past the coal furnace and outside bulkhead, where he grabbed a canvas bag of tools from his workbench. In one corner, near the coal furnace, hung an old sheet. He pulled the sheet back. A cot was pushed up against the stone foundation. There was a pillow at one end and a green wool blanket folded at the other. He looked at the cot and thought,
Well, that’s it for charity work
. That was their private joke about this Underground Railroad station. But it was one thing to do what you could, when trouble was down in D.C. or Baton Rouge. It was another thing when trouble was on your front doorstep, especially delivered by your boss. What did Sam know about the Underground Railroad here in Portsmouth?
    A hell of a lot
, he thought.
A hell of a lot
.
    Bag of tools in hand, he climbed upstairs, went through the living room and then outside. The rain had finally stopped. He went around the rear of the house, where an open stairway led up to the second floor. Up the creaking stairs he went, and at the top, he knocked on the door. He had to knock twice more before it opened.
    “Inspector Miller!” boomed the familiar voice. “So nice of you to make it here.” The door swung open.
    The apartment was even tinier than the rooms downstairs and really shouldn’t have been an apartment at all, but he and Sarah needed the extra income after promised pay raises for both of them fell through last year. Through a friend of Sarah’s at the school department—who was once a student of Walter’s—Walter Tucker had come into their lives. Blacklisted from a science-teaching position at Harvard University for refusing to sign a loyalty oath, Walter was in his late forties, heavyset, almost entirely bald. His fat fingers always clasped a stubby cigar. Tonight his eyes, behind horn-rimmed glasses, were filmy, and he was wearing worn slippers and a frayed red plaid bathrobe.
    The room had cracked yellow linoleum and had been turned into a kitchen of sorts, with a scarred wooden table and three unmatched chairs. There was a wooden icebox in the corner and a hot plate on a small counter. Off to the right was a bathroom with a toilet and the offending sink. Open doorways led to two other rooms: a bedroom with an unmade bed and an office that had a desk made of scrap lumber that bore a large typewriter. Everywhere in the apartment were books and pulp magazines and copies of
Scientific American
and
Collier’s
.
    A radio next to the hot plate was playing swing music, Benny Goodman, it sounded like. Sam went into the bathroom and sighed at the gray water in the sink. “What now, Walter? What did you do?”
    “Nothing, my dear boy. Just preparing my evening meal. Nothing out of the ordinary, but there you go. Thesink overflowed, and I wanted to make sure it was repaired before it started leaking on your head.”
    “Thanks,” Sam muttered. “Do you have a coffee cup or something I could borrow?”
    “Absolutely.” Walter waddled off. He came back with a thick white coffee mug with a broken handle, and Sam started bailing the water out of the clogged sink. As he worked, Walter leaned against the doorjamb and lit a cigar. “What news of the Portsmouth Police Department?”
    “Had a body out on the railroad tracks tonight. By Maplewood Avenue.”
    “A suicide?”
    “Don’t know right now.”
    “How fascinating. Maybe you’ve got a real murder on your hands, Sam.”
    Sam paused, the mug slimy in his hand. “What are you doing, Walter? Research for a detective story?”
    Walter studied his cigar. “No, son. Detective stories are a tad too realistic for me. You know what I write. Science fiction and fantasy. That’s where my degraded tastes have led me. Stories about