Ames made a show of snapping the strap securing his automatic to its holster. "He's in the office."
"I know the way. C'mon, David. Virgil, be a pal and water the horses, would you?"
Carlson and Valentine passed a dining room and crossed a high-ceilinged, sunken living room, stepping soundlessly on elaborate oriental rugs. Valentine hoped he could remember the details of the story Carlson had told his brother-in-law.
The major sat in his office, copying notes into a ledger from a sheet on a clipboard. The desk had an air of a tycoon about it; carved wooden lions held up the top and gazed serenely outward at the visitors. The dogs padded after the visitors and collapsed into a heap by the desk.
Mike Flanagan wore a black uniform decorated with silver buttons and buckles on the epaulets. He exhibited a taste for things western, like a string tie with a turquoise clasp and snakeskin cowboy boots. He looked up from his work at his guests, drawing a long cheroot from a silver case and pressing a polished metal cylinder set in a stand on his desk. An electric cord ran down the front of the desk and plugged into a wall socket, which also powered a mock-antique desk lamp. Bushy eyebrows formed a curved umbrella over freckled, bulldog features.
"Afternoon, Alan. You look well. How's Gwen?"
Carlson smiled. "Sends her best, along with a pair of blueberry pies. They're outside in the basket."
"Ahh, Gwen's pies. How I miss them. Siddown, Alan, you and your Indian friend."
The electric lighter on the desk popped up with an audible ping. Flanagan lit his cheroot and sent a smoke ring across his desk.
"How are things in Monroe, Mike?"
Flanagan waved at the neat little piles of paper on his desk. "The usual. Chicago's pissed because the Triumvirate is diverting so much food to that new fort up in the Blue Mounds. I'm trying to squeeze a little more out of everyone. I'm thinking about upping the reckoning on meat out of the farms. Think you can spare a few more head before winter, Alan?"
"Some of us can," Carlson asserted. "Some can't."
"Look at it this way: Your winter feed will go farther."
"Well, it's for you to say, Mike. But I don't know how it will go down. There's been some grumbling already."
"By whom?" Flanagan asked, piercing Carlson with his eyes.
"You know nobody tells me anything on account of us being close. Just rumor, Mike. But this visit isn't about the reckonings. I want you to meet a young friend of mine, David Saint Croix. I mentioned he'd be visiting and helping me with the harvest."
"Pleased to meet you, David." Flanagan did not look pleased. In fact, he looked perturbed. "Hell, Alan, first you take in Little Black Sambo, and now a mostways Indian?"
"He's a helluva hard worker, Mike. After I teach him a few things, he could run a fine farm."
"Let's see your work card, boy," Flanagan said.
Valentine's mind dropped out of gear for a second, but only a second. "Sorry, Major Flanagan. I traded it last winter. I was hungry, you know. It didn't have my real name on it anyway."
"Dumb thing to do, kid. You're lucky Alan here has connections," Flanagan said, putting down his thin cigar. He rummaged through his desk and came up with a simple form. "Fill this out for him, Alan. Just use your address. I'm giving him a temporary work card, six months. If he improves an old spread, I'll give him a permanent one."
"I need two, Mike. He brought a friend. There's a lot of guys in the north woods looking for something a little more permanent."
"Don't press me, Alan. Jeez, these guys are worse than Mexicans; another one is always popping up outta somewhere."
Carlson leaned forward, spreading his hands placatingly. "With two men helping me this fall, I can clear off an upper meadow I spotted. I was also thinking of building a pigpen across the road and raising some hogs, since meat is becoming such an issue. These men can help me, and I can be ready to go in the spring."
"Fine, Alan, two work permits. Your place is going to be a bit crowded."
"It's only temporary. Thanks a lot, Mike. Gwen and I really appreciate it. So does Molly, of course. Stop by anytime."
"Yeah," Flanagan mused, "you're a fortunate man, David. She's a real beauty. Some of my patrollers say she's kinda standoffish, so I wish you luck." The major pulled out a seal punch, filled out the expiration dates, signed both cards, and punched them with a resounding click. "You're lucky I take this with me. I don't trust my secretary with it; she'd probably sell documents. She can forge my signature pretty good."
"I'm in your debt, Michael," Carlson said, handing over the work cards.
"You've been in my debt since I let that little Fart or whatever his name is stay with you."
"Frat."