Morphine Soda (Ch5)
Conlin and Andersen arrive at Fort Riley and a WANTED poster tells them that their arrival has been anticipated.
Patrick Conlin opened the glass door to the pharmacy in Army City, the hub of activity at Camp Funston, in Kansas. The bell over the door jingled, making him think of Christmas bells. The two soldiers already on line peered over their shoulders at him, but to his relief, left him alone. He needed a moment to himself to think.
He’s dying. Dr. Andersen was dying. He didn’t need to be a doctor himself see it. The last coughing fit, which Conlin thought might end him, had produced a bright crimson stain in his white handkerchief. That morning as the stars blinked out one by one, they crossed the boarder into Kansas. Conlin kept the pedal to the metal until they arrived at the enormous Camp Funston as the sun rose, greeted by bugles whose tunes cut through the mist while thousands of men left their barracks for morning exercises and mess hall. As each hour ticked by, Andersen’s strength visibly drained and Conlin was afraid that soon he wasn’t going to be able to even lift himself from the car.
“What do you need?”
Patrick Conlin bristled. The pharmacist’s question was in the clipped and abrupt tone he was all too familiar with. It was the voice black people were used to hearing from white store clerks. He was the third person in line behind two soldiers, and the pharmacist managed a polite, “May I help you?” for both of those boys. My own time ain’t so hot with this shit, but now? It’s like running the picture reel backwards where the story only gets worse.
He paused and mustered his most eloquent voice. “Yes, I’d like to know if you have morphine tablets?”
The pharmacist peered over his reading glasses, his nose long and bushy gray eyebrows the color of dirty snow. “What do you need them for?”
Selling them to the jazz bands! What do you think?
“My employer, who’s just out there,” he pointed a gloved finger at the window, “is very sick and asked me to get them for him.” The Wasp idled at the curb, a plume of exhaust evaporating, and Andersen’s blurry head nodding in the passenger side.
“What is he sick with?”
“TB,” he shook his head sadly. “Been getting to the ending stages, too.”
The man sighed, his shoulders dropping and that tense stance that Conlin was familiar with melted. “Yes siree, the end of that is no picnic. I’ll have them counted up in a few. Wait here, boy.” He disappeared behind a long green curtain and into the back room.
Boy. He let it wash away from him because frankly he didn’t have time for the anger. Now he had other problems.
Conlin walked around in a circle, glad that the two soldiers got what they wanted and left. This part of the base was called Army City, a newly constructed complex with shops and entertainment. He saw a group of black soldiers walk by, one glancing at him through the glass and waving a friendly hello. He waved back, wondering if that innocent gesture, a gesture in his normal life that he wouldn’t think twice about, was going to change anything. When he agreed to accompany Andersen on this journey, he had to swear again to the Rules, with a capital “R.” The most important Rule was not to meddle unnecessarily with anyone or anything. But he couldn’t help but to wave to that soldier. In the days before he, Conlin, had shipped out, any ounce of friendship and kindness was very much appreciated, knowing what was waiting for him overseas.
Had he not already been witness to the mobilization of soldiers on a massive scale, he would have been shocked at the sheer numbers at Camp Funston. He and Andersen drove past an enormous field of pitched white tents which Andersen said was where the plebes were sent to get medically checked out, uniformed, trained and then placed in regiments. Newly erected barracks housed thousands of men as they moved through the system on their way to Europe. Drill formations dotted the fields circled by men on horseback. Horns blared and drums beat time. It was the first day since they left Philadelphia that the sun was out, and in moments when the dread he couldn’t shake subsided, he began to again feel that sense of wonder of peeking into a time before he was born. A time only known through family stories and a dog-eared history book.
Conlin turned a slow circle. The store didn’t look much different from the pharmacies on the corners in his neighborhood in Harlem in 1946. The long, polished wood counter, shelves of brown and clear bottles in all sizes, men’s shaving items in large piles and the faint scent of herbs and alcohol. He picked up a bottle of soda water. They had finished their food and water that morning and although he had no appetite, he was thirsty.
He drifted to the far wall where a bunch of papers were tacked up, mostly offering services. Cheapest Prices at Joe’s! Get Your Sweetheart a Gift Before You Go! Best Lady Gifts in Army City! Conlin smiled and scanned the rest of the posters.
Then he went cold, and his breath caught in his chest.
WANTED FOR MURDER! $10,000 REWARD!
Wanted for the Murder, Conspiracy to Commit Murder, and Grand Theft
The drawing was of Dr. Michael Andersen. Except whoever described his face to a sketch artist had last seen him before his hair turned stark white. Under the drawing it said:
Any information leading to the capture of Andersen should be submitted to Fort Riley Military Police Commander MAJOR CHARLES WHITTAKER
“Holy Christ, he knows,” Conlin muttered, placing a hand over his mouth, wiping his dry and cracked lips. Thrax is here and he’s prepared. As always. Smart bastard. Jesus, so smart.
“What’s that, boy?” The clerk had come back with a small envelope.
“Nothing, sir. How much do I owe you?” Conlin snapped around in his best army about face. He placed the soda water on the counter and reached into his inner coat pocket.
“Four dollars.”
Conlin counted out the money and hoped that the clerk would just put it into the register without inspecting it. There was no time before they left to acquire money stamped with dates pre-1918 and had to make do with battered bills that were hard to read.
To his relief, the clerk dropped the money into the register drawer and slammed it shut. Conlin pushed the door open, triggering the bells. If the pharmacist noticed anything funny about the money, it was no longer his problem.
He dodged packs of soldiers walking the sidewalks of Army City, milling in front of the motion picture theater where a new poster was up for Theda Bara’s Cleopatra and weaving in and out of stores like an army of khaki-colored ants. He realized that he felt the safest inside the car. At least in the car he felt in control.
“Did you get them?” Andersen leaned against the glass, one hand propping up his head.
Conlin handed him the envelope and Andersen shook two tablets out, popping them into his mouth. Conlin began to question the wisdom of the dosage, but Andersen was the doctor. He started the car. “We have a big problem.” He waited until a group of army nurses, their white hats glowing in the sun, moved out of his way. He smoothly pulled the car away from the curb and headed away from the base.
“Oh?”
Conlin told him about the poster. “Well, that’s good news,” Andersen said, coughing, but this time not as terrible as earlier.
“How’s that good?”
“For one, it was just me on the poster. He knew there was a good chance I’d follow him. But you’re not on the poster. If we both were, then we’d be turning back right now. We aren’t an inconspicuous pair, are we?” He uttered a small laugh.
“No, we’re not.”
“No. A black man and a white man in this fancy car, driving around a military base. No, we stand out like a sore thumb as it is. If you were on that poster, we’d be finished right now. But you’re not, so that’s good. The other good thing is the black hair. Funny how my hair used to be so black, isn’t it?”
Conlin nodded although there was nothing funny about any of it. He wondered if Andersen was started to lose his mind. Or if it was just the morphine.
“The train is due. If the schedule is correct from the information we got in Philadelphia, then the train should arrive in about a half hour. Let’s wait there. We’ll follow her. She’ll lead us to where Evora is staying. Then we can go from there.”
“Which way do I go?”
Andersen leaned over and pulled a battered map from under the seat, opening it and finger tracing until he figured out their coordinates. Ten minutes later the Wasp backed into a parking space between two large army Packard trucks, facing the train platform. Conlin turned off the engine and listened. No train whistle. Andersen was snoring slightly, a sour odor emanating from his open mouth, like the sick odor in an old person’s home.
“You know what she looks like, right?” Andersen asked and Conlin jumped a little.
“Yeah. You told me a bunch of times. About the beautiful sister and mother, too.”
Andersen nodded.
An hour later, the train had arrived and left. There was no sign of Theda Evora or her family.
The last of the passengers had gone, but Andersen still stared hard at the train as if willing her to exit. Finally the engine chugged and groups of soldiers and nurses boarded before the final whistle announced its departure. There was no one left on the platform.
Conlin started the car and let it idle for a moment, feeling the welcomed return of the heat. “We need to go back,” he said. “Go back. This isn’t going to work.”
“No.”
“What do we do now, Doc? You tell me! If she didn’t get off that train, there where is she? Maybe they got off in Chicago, for a few days of fun! You tell me what we do now? How many days do we have?”
“Not enough,” Andersen said, closing his eyes and rubbing them with his thumb and pointer finger.
“We have to go back.”
“No. If we can’t get her, then fine. We’ll just have to find him. And kill him.”
Conlin slapped the steering wheel and sat back.
“You don’t know the half of it.” Andersen shifted uncomfortably.
“Then why don’t you tell me? Tell me because what if…”
“I don’t make it?” Andersen finished for him. “I won’t make it. Not even if we turned east now and drove straight to New York.”
Conlin closed his eyes, blinking back tears. He really liked his man, but he was also angry. And scared.
“Drive the car,” Andersen said quietly, and Conlin shifted gears and pulled away from the Packards.
“I’m going to tell you everything. Everything. Shameful and miraculous. I’ll die soon knowing I failed at the end. But not if you do exactly what I say. When I’m dead, you’ll have a chance to right this. Not for me, but for all who’ll suffer at his hand. The thousands who are waiting for death and don’t even know it.”
Conlin issued a frustrated grunt.
Andersen placed a weak hand on Conlin’s arm. “Patrick, you’ve trusted me thus far. Trust what I’m going to tell you now. And I’m sorry. For all of it.”
Conlin drove in silence. “I don’t want you to die.” He gripped the wheel, the leather gloves squeaking over his knuckles.
“I don’t, either. But I’m going to. Soon. Listen carefully, because I know this is the last time I’ll be able to talk about it, and I want to tell you some things that no one knows. Listen, and don’t ever forget what I’m about to tell you.”
READ CHAPTER 6 HERE:
Travel back to the beginning, chapter 1:
