Anchor In The Storm Part 32

Palonsky led him to a table closer to the civilians-but not too close.

A bowl of sh.e.l.led peanuts sat on the table, and Arch selected a nice plump one.

Three raps of a pinky knuckle. Palonsky dug his hand into the bowl and shoveled in a bunch of peanuts, chewing messily.

Arch mimicked the seaman's actions. A peanut even fell out of his mouth. A nice touch, if he did say so himself.

"Source Two and Easy King," Palonsky said in a low voice. "Bearing zero-six-zero."

Source Two? And Earl Kramer? Arch aimed a glower through the smoky haze toward the coordinates, sweeping well past the target.

Three men sat at the table. Kramer had his back to Arch, thank goodness, but the other two men showed their profiles. A heavyset, meaty-faced man with a cap low over his forehead, and a small man with a dark look about him.

Arch pretended to sip his beer. "Big or little?"

"Little."

Another fake sip. He imprinted both men's features in his mind so he could describe them to Lillian.

The door opened. Arch cradled his gla.s.s, watching out of the corner of his eye.

Norman Hunter! "Nan How coming our way," he muttered.

Hunter pa.s.sed their table and joined Kramer and friends. "Hey, Hank," the smaller man said.

"Hey, fellas. Leave any beer for me?"

They all laughed. "Not a drop."

"Source One," Palonsky murmured into his beer.

Source One, and his name was Hank, not Norman Hunter. Arch studied the amber liquid in front of him, the same color as Lillian's hair, not that he'd tell her.

Hank. Hank. If only they'd used a last name too. If only Hank had greeted the others by name. Arch tuned his ear to the conversation, but he only heard snippets.

Before long, Kramer left the bar, and Palonsky turned his head away as the c.o.xswain pa.s.sed.

The door opened again. Hunkered over his beer, Arch stole a glance. A red-haired man approached the bar-that was Albert Myers, the delivery boy from Dixon's Drugs. He greeted the bartender and gave him a paper bag.

What timing! On the way home, he'd give Palonsky a hard time about that. The sailor wouldn't have recognized Albert. "Able Mike from Dog Dog."

Palonsky's eyebrows twisted in confusion.

He'd gloat later. "Delivery from my girl's employer."

Palonsky leaned back, rolled his shoulders, and surveyed the scene. "Bartender, huh?"

"We need his name."

"Leave it to me. Finish the peanuts."

Arch scooped in another sloppy mouthful.

Palonsky took the empty bowl to the bar. His mild limp and heavy gait aided his disguise as a wizened old sea salt. He greeted the bartender with a grin. "Say, can me and my pal here have more peanuts?" He sounded like a fisherman from Maine. What an actor.

"Sure." The bartender filled the bowl.

Average build and height. In his forties. Auburn hair thinning on top and graying around the temples. A name. Arch just needed a name.

Palonsky thrust out his hand. "Hal Miller. Folks call me Lob, for lobster."

"Folks call me Rusty." The bartender shook his hand.

Arch winced. He needed a last name too.

Palonsky chuckled and leaned his elbow on the bar. "Rusty, eh? That how the place got its name?"

"Sure is. Started as Rusty's Bar. Sailors started calling it the Rusty Barnacle. I liked it. Made a new sign."

"Your last name Barnacle too?"

Rusty laughed. "Nope. Carruthers."

Not just an actor, but a genius. The man deserved a promotion.

Rusty filled a gla.s.s with beer from the tap. "Ain't never seen you or your pal before. New in town?"

"Yep. We're boilermen on the SS-ah, no you don't, young man." Palonsky wagged his finger. "Loose lips sink ships, you know."

"Have another beer on me." Rusty slid him the gla.s.s. "You're wise to keep quiet. We get shady characters in here."

"Not this fellow." Palonsky clapped Albert on the back. "Clean-cut boy like this."

Rusty gave him a mock scowl. "It's the clean-cut ones you gotta watch out for."

The three of them burst out laughing.

Someone b.u.mped Arch's chair from behind, and beer sloshed over the table.

"Hey, watch what you're doing," someone barked.

The nerve. Who b.u.mped whom? Arch sat up straight and fixed a hard look on the man. "Pardon?"

Oh no. It was Hank, his eyes dark slits in his angular face.

The last thing they needed was an escalation into a brawl. Arch's heart hammered, but he hefted up his shoulders and grunted. "Did me a favor. Lousy beer anyway."

Hank laughed and gave him a friendly punch in the shoulder. "Ain't it? Hey, Rusty. Need a rag."

"Clumsy oaf." Rusty fired a rag across the room.

Arch s.n.a.t.c.hed it from the air, glad he'd excelled at baseball, and scrubbed the table in rough strokes, pleased to show off his grease manicure. He'd salvaged that situation.

But Palonsky rapped his knuckle against his thigh. What? What had he done wrong?

The seaman ambled back to the table. "Five minutes. Let me down this beer, then we'll scram. Not a word."

Arch popped peanuts into his mouth to justify the new bowlful, but salt and uneasiness dried out his tongue.

Finally Palonsky jerked his head to the door and led Arch outside, tossing a good-bye to Rusty.

"This way and fast." Palonsky darted up a narrow street. "Never again, Mr. Vandenberg. Never again."

"Nonsense. We have new information, names-"

"Pardon?" He pursed his mouth and looked down his nose like a caricature of an aristocrat. "I do believe you caused me to spill my libation."

Arch groaned. "It wasn't that bad."

"It was a test, sir. Don't you see? Hank b.u.mped you on purpose so you'd look straight at him-and to see how you'd react. Didn't you notice he went back to the table afterward?" Palonsky glanced behind him and steered Arch right on the next street.

The peanuts tumbled in his stomach. "I failed the test. Do you think he recognized me?"

"Don't know. But I guarantee they know you ain't a boilerman on the SS Sea Salt." A sharp left turn. "Take off that wig and cap, stuff them in your coat. We'll come to the girls' place from the opposite way."

"They're following us?"

"Not that I can tell, but they were having a heated talk. Couldn't hear, but it looked like Hank wanted to beat you up, big guy told him, 'not on your life,' little guy backed up big guy. Guess who's in charge?"

"Big guy." Arch sighed. "And we don't have his name or the little guy's, and we only have Hank's first name. Although now we know Hank was definitely following Lillian because of the drug ring and he's using an alias. And we know Rusty Carruthers is involved."

Palonsky headed left, up the hill toward Monument Square. "And we know Ensign Archer Vandenberg is no actor."

Maybe not, but he'd fulfilled a purpose. Only he could have matched Palonsky's source to Lillian's shadow. Only he could have recognized Albert and discovered Rusty's involvement. He grinned at Palonsky. "So, next week-"

"I'll throw myself overboard. I swear I will, sir."

Arch laughed. "From now on, I'll leave the spying to you."

32.

Boston

Thursday, May 21, 1942

Lillian studied the prescription Mrs. Harper gave her for elixir of aminophylline, and she addressed ten-year-old Denny Harper. "Could you swallow a pill?"

Denny raised anxious brown eyes to his mom. "I hate pills."

"I know." Lillian leaned over the counter. "I hated them at your age too."

"Miss Avery." Mrs. Harper shifted the weight of the little girl she carried on her hip. "I'd sure appreciate an elixir."

Lillian nodded, but she slid the prescription across the counter toward the boy. "Denny, you can read. There are a lot of strange symbols, but what's that word?"

"Sugar. That's too easy. And that one's alcohol and that's glycerin."

"Well, you know sugar's rationed. But did you know they need alcohol to make those big sh.e.l.ls the Navy uses on battleships? And glycerin is needed for explosives. The nation is running low on all of these."

"Oh." Denny bit his lower lip.

Lillian shrugged. "I could make this elixir and use up a little more sugar, a little more alcohol, a little more glycerin."

Something fierce flashed in his eyes. "Or I could swallow a pill like a man."

"Like a soldier serving his country."

Mrs. Harper chuckled. "How can I argue with patriotism?"

One quick phone call that even Mr. Dixon wouldn't mind, and the doctor changed the elixir to a tablet. Lillian filled the prescription and placed the bottle of manly tablets in a paper bag. Then she extended the jar of marbles to both brother and sister. Mr. Dixon offered them only to boys, but Lillian knew girls liked marbles too. She certainly did.

After they left, she glanced at the clock. Only eleven. Mr. Dixon wouldn't be in until one, and Reggie, the junior clerk, was stocking shelves. Now she could call Dr. Sharp. The past week she'd worked evenings, and Dr. Sharp's office closed promptly at five.

She grabbed the phone and the prescription she'd set aside, called the office, and waited for the nurse to fetch the physician. What did it matter if Mr. Dixon fired her for calling? He'd fire her in a few weeks anyway. She'd typed up a dozen copies of her resume, and tomorrow on her day off she'd start applying for a new job.

"Dr. Sharp here."

"This is Lillian Avery. I'm a pharmacist at Dixon's Drugs. Pardon me, but I'm new to town, and I wanted to verify a prescription that seems unusual to me."

"All right."

Deep breath. "It's for Harry Carruthers. One-half grain of phen.o.barbital, three hundred tablets. And the delivery address is a bar, the Rusty Barnacle."