the self–assured cop at all any more, “Mr. Hemlow, the specialist is here.”
“Tell him to sit down. There.”
The voice sounded as though it were coming from a bicycle tire with a slow leak, and at first Dortmunder thought Mr. Hemlow had pointed at the sofa to his left with a chicken foot, but no, that was his hand.
Speaking of hands, Eppick finally released Dortmunder’s and gestured for him to get to that sofa by walking around behind Mr. Hemlow in his wheelchair, which Dortmunder did, while Eppick went away to take up a lot of the other sofa, crossing one leg over the other as though he wanted to show how relaxed he was, but not succeeding.
Dortmunder sat to Mr. Hemlow’s left, leaned forward, rested his forearms on his thighs, looked eye–to–eye with Mr. Hemlow, and said, “Harya doin’?”
“I’ve been better,” grated the bicycle tire.
Dortmunder was sure of that. Seen up close, Mr. Hemlow was seven or eight different kinds of mess. He had a little clear plastic hose draped over his ears and inserted into his nostrils to give him oxygen. His face and neck and apparently everything but those chicken–foot hands were bloated and stuffed looking, as though he’d been filled up by a bicycle pump trying to solve the tire leak. His eyes were small and mean–looking, their pupils a very wet blue, so that, under the red beret, he looked like a more than usually homicidal hawk. What could be seen of his skin was a raw–looking red, as though he were originally a very pale person who’d been left out in the sun too long. His posture sucked; he sat on his shoulder blades with his wattles on his torso, which seemed to be shaped more or less like a medicine ball. His right knee twitched constantly, as though remembering an earlier life as a dance band drummer.
While Dortmunder sat absorbing these unlovely details, Mr. Hemlow’s watery eyes studied him in return; until all at once Mr. Hemlow said, “What do you know about the First World War?”
Dortmunder thought. “We won,” he guessed.
“Who lost?”
“The other people. I don’t know, I wasn’t there.”
“Nor was I,” Mr. Hemlow said, and gargled out something that was either a laugh or a death rattle, though probably a laugh, because he went on living, saying, “But my father was. He was there. He told me all about it.”
“That musta been nice.”
“Illuminating. My father was still fighting in that war two years after it was over, what do you think of that?”
“Well, I guess he must of been a real gung ho type.”
“No, he was under orders. And you know who he was fighting?”
“With the war over?” Dortmunder shook his head. “I don’t think you’re supposed to do that,” he said.
“In 1917,” Mr. Hemlow said, “the United States entered the war. It had been going on in Europe for three years already. That was the same year as the Russian Revolution. The czar was thrown out, the Communists came in.”
“Busy year,” Dortmunder suggested.
“The British,” Mr. Hemlow said, and apparently spat, though nothing seemed to come out. “The British,” he repeated, “kept a great pile of munitions at Murmansk, a deep–water port on the Russian coast of the Barents Sea, north of the Arctic Circle.”
“Cold up there,” Dortmunder suggested.
“Didn’t matter,” Mr. Hemlow told him. “All that mattered, after the Revolution, they had to keep those munitions away from the Red Army. So that’s why — there’s no war declared here, nothing legal about this at all — my father and several hundred other US Army and US Navy personnel went up there to fight alongside the British and keep the goddam Red Army from getting those arms. Stayed there for two years, after the war was supposed to be over. Lost three hundred men. Finally, late in 1920, the Americans came home. Only time American troops ever fought Russian troops on Russian soil.”
“I never even heard about it,” Dortmunder
“Tell him to sit down. There.”
The voice sounded as though it were coming from a bicycle tire with a slow leak, and at first Dortmunder thought Mr. Hemlow had pointed at the sofa to his left with a chicken foot, but no, that was his hand.
Speaking of hands, Eppick finally released Dortmunder’s and gestured for him to get to that sofa by walking around behind Mr. Hemlow in his wheelchair, which Dortmunder did, while Eppick went away to take up a lot of the other sofa, crossing one leg over the other as though he wanted to show how relaxed he was, but not succeeding.
Dortmunder sat to Mr. Hemlow’s left, leaned forward, rested his forearms on his thighs, looked eye–to–eye with Mr. Hemlow, and said, “Harya doin’?”
“I’ve been better,” grated the bicycle tire.
Dortmunder was sure of that. Seen up close, Mr. Hemlow was seven or eight different kinds of mess. He had a little clear plastic hose draped over his ears and inserted into his nostrils to give him oxygen. His face and neck and apparently everything but those chicken–foot hands were bloated and stuffed looking, as though he’d been filled up by a bicycle pump trying to solve the tire leak. His eyes were small and mean–looking, their pupils a very wet blue, so that, under the red beret, he looked like a more than usually homicidal hawk. What could be seen of his skin was a raw–looking red, as though he were originally a very pale person who’d been left out in the sun too long. His posture sucked; he sat on his shoulder blades with his wattles on his torso, which seemed to be shaped more or less like a medicine ball. His right knee twitched constantly, as though remembering an earlier life as a dance band drummer.
While Dortmunder sat absorbing these unlovely details, Mr. Hemlow’s watery eyes studied him in return; until all at once Mr. Hemlow said, “What do you know about the First World War?”
Dortmunder thought. “We won,” he guessed.
“Who lost?”
“The other people. I don’t know, I wasn’t there.”
“Nor was I,” Mr. Hemlow said, and gargled out something that was either a laugh or a death rattle, though probably a laugh, because he went on living, saying, “But my father was. He was there. He told me all about it.”
“That musta been nice.”
“Illuminating. My father was still fighting in that war two years after it was over, what do you think of that?”
“Well, I guess he must of been a real gung ho type.”
“No, he was under orders. And you know who he was fighting?”
“With the war over?” Dortmunder shook his head. “I don’t think you’re supposed to do that,” he said.
“In 1917,” Mr. Hemlow said, “the United States entered the war. It had been going on in Europe for three years already. That was the same year as the Russian Revolution. The czar was thrown out, the Communists came in.”
“Busy year,” Dortmunder suggested.
“The British,” Mr. Hemlow said, and apparently spat, though nothing seemed to come out. “The British,” he repeated, “kept a great pile of munitions at Murmansk, a deep–water port on the Russian coast of the Barents Sea, north of the Arctic Circle.”
“Cold up there,” Dortmunder suggested.
“Didn’t matter,” Mr. Hemlow told him. “All that mattered, after the Revolution, they had to keep those munitions away from the Red Army. So that’s why — there’s no war declared here, nothing legal about this at all — my father and several hundred other US Army and US Navy personnel went up there to fight alongside the British and keep the goddam Red Army from getting those arms. Stayed there for two years, after the war was supposed to be over. Lost three hundred men. Finally, late in 1920, the Americans came home. Only time American troops ever fought Russian troops on Russian soil.”
“I never even heard about it,” Dortmunder
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