Joe Steele by Harry Turtledove Read Free Book Online Page B

think that was an accident?”
    â€œI was there, and I still can’t tell you one way or the other. Neither can the arson inspector, and he knows all kinds of things I don’t,” Mike answered. “As long as nobody can prove anything, I think we’ve got to give Joe Steele the benefit of the doubt. Herbert Hoover, too, as long as we’re talking about people who might want to see Roosevelt dead.”
    He looked across the table at his brother. Stella and Esther eyed Charlie, too. Charlie kept quiet. He looked down at the crumbs and little grease spots on the plate that had held the fried shrimp. Silence till it got uncomfortable. At last, Esther remarked, “You’re not saying anything, Charlie.”
    â€œI know,” Charlie said.
    â€œHow come?”
    He started not to say anything again—or some more, depending on how you looked at the language. Then he seemed to change his mind, and made a small production out of lighting a cigarette. After that, he did answer: “Because a bunch of people here may hear me. They’re people I don’t know, people I can’t trust. Maybe after dinner we can find a cozy place, a quiet place. Then . . .” His voice trailed off.
    â€œDo you really think it matters if someone you don’t know overhears you?” Stella asked.
    â€œYes.” Charlie bit off the single grudged word.
    There didn’t seem to be much to say to that. Mike didn’t try to say anything. He watched his brother shovel food into his chowlock . . . much the same way he had himself not long before. Esther ate more sedately. When they got done, Mike threw a dollar bill, a half, and a couple of dimes on the table. The two couples walked out of Hop Sing’s together.
    â€œWhere now?” Stella said.
    â€œBack to my place,” Mike replied in tones that brooked no argument. “It’s closest. And I don’t have any spies in there.”
    â€œYou hope you don’t,” Charlie said. Mike let that go. It was either let it go or get dragged into an argument that had nothing to do with what he really wanted to hear.
    The Village was . . . the Village. A Red stood on a soapbox and harangued a ten-at-night crowd that consisted of three drunks, a hooker, and a yawning cop who seemed much too lazy to oppress the proletariat. Posters touting Joe Steele and Norman Thomas sprouted like toadstools on walls and fences. Herbert Hoover’s backers had posted no bills in this part of town. They saved them for districts where somebody might look at them before he tore them down.
    Under a streetlamp, a sad-looking woman in frayed clothes hawked a crate of her worldly goods in lieu of selling herself. Mike thought that was a good idea. She’d get more for the novels and knickknacks and bits of cheap silver plate than she would for her tired, skinny body, and she wouldn’t want to slit her wrists come morning.
    Mike’s apartment was crowded for one. Four made it claustrophobic, especially when three of them started smoking. He didn’t care. He had a bottle of moonshine that claimed it was bourbon. It wasn’t, but it would light you up. He poured good shots into four glasses that didn’t match, added ice cubes, and handed them around.
    â€œGive,” he barked at Charlie.
    Give his brother did. “I can’t prove a damn thing,” Charlie finished. “I don’t know who Vince Scriabin was talking to, or where the guy was, or what Vince told him to do, or even if he did it. I don’t
know
a thing—but I sure do wonder.” He finished the rotgut at a gulp, then stared at the glass in astonishment. “Suffering Jesus! That’s awful! Gimme another one, will ya?”
    Mike handed him the second drink. His own head was whirling, too, more from what he’d heard than from the bad whiskey. “Let me get this straight,” he said. “Scriabin