The Roosevelt Suite, the Green Davison Hotel, Kansas City. Charles Flanagan had always rather relished the sound of the word “suite”. It smacked of opulence, of heavy drapes and spongy carpets and the discreet chink of cut glass. He settled back in the soft green velvet cushions of the sofa, placed a thick wad of newspapers on the glass-topped table to his left and sipped his coffee.
He picked up the first newspaper, the Detroit Star. A full half-page was devoted to the Trans-America, much of it dedicated to the hopes of a local hero, a gnarled veteran called O’Brien, now labouring in eightieth position. Flanagan eagerly leafed through the other newspapers. Yes, the press boys had come round: even Carl Liebnitz was beginning to melt as Flanagan’s men slowly made their way across the nation.
And yet Kansas City might be the end, with bills piling up, his catering staff threatening to pull out and towns from Burlington to St Louis likely to withdraw their sponsorships. It didn’t make sense, now that things were beginning to go so well.
Flanagan leant forward, fingered his cup and grimaced. Hell, that’s how he was going to earn his keep, by holding it all together. He sat back and allowed his mind to drift back over the years . . .
His father had arrived bog poor in New York from Ireland in 1877, all the way from MacGillicuddy Reeks to 10 Baxter Street. Ten years later Flanagan had been born, and within five years the stones of the streets of the neighbourhood had become as familiar to his bare feet as the fields of MacGillicuddy Reeks had been to those of his father.
He was nine when he made his first business deal, selling newspapers. Dazzled by the stories of older boys who had given glowing accounts of the profits to be made, he pleaded with his parents non-stop for three days until they funded him. Daily he ran all the way to City Hall, two miles distant. There he battled with two hundred other tough, barefoot urchins, elbowing, pushing and struggling to get first to the tables at which the newspapers were handed out. He had kept his money in his mouth, under his tongue, and did not take it out until the precise moment of delivery.
His bundle secured, he had fought his way out of the crowd without losing a single paper and rushed back through the streets to secure his corner. Young Charles Flanagan became the Tarzan of the tenements, leaping up flights of stairs, sliding down balustrades or darting over roofs and serving customers on the way down.
But a day’s work was never complete without a fight for a corner with another boy; and there was never time to think about a bloody nose, a thick lip or a loose tooth. The evening crowd moved thick and fast, and if young Flanagan was not quick enough they would buy from another boy further on. In certain districts of the city, from five to six-thirty, the sidewalks seethed with people returning from work. From this mass young Flanagan received valuable training in concentration, the quick reading of faces, discrimination and judgment of human character. Bread and butter was at risk; decisions had to be made quickly.
Flanagan did well, for he had two advantages. First, when he was forced to fight, he fought with all he had, without reserve, and this total commitment caused fear – even in older, stronger boys. Second, he could think on his feet, juggling with mental arithmetic whilst planning his next move.
Flanagan’s territory was from City Hall to Grand Street and from Broadway to the Bowery. In his seven years on the street he sold to Chinese, Italians and Jews, to prostitutes, gamblers, crooks, drunkards and dope fiends, to priests, policemen, truck drivers and bankers. It was an education no college or university could ever have provided.
Yet even in those early days it had been sport first, always sport. He had first learnt to swim – in thirty-foot-deep murky water at the Fulton Street Fish Market wharves – simply by wallowing from one fish box to another. There was no room for error in such deep waters; one either sank or swam. A boy who went down was scarcely missed until the following day. There young Charles Flanagan soon learned to swim and dive, to plunge underwater for clam shells and coins.
High and fancy diving was also popular, and the boy who could dive from the greatest height was the King of the Wharf. The greatest challenge came from diving from the masts of visiting ships. Half the thrill lay in avoiding the rattan canes of the ship’s officers as one scrambled up the mizzen-mast before diving into the dark water to the cheers of one’s friends.
The wharf was the Olympic arena for the children of the area. Once Flanagan had even swum from the Battery to Bedloes Island, across strong tides and treacherous currents, to the newly-built Statue of Liberty.
Baseball in the streets, handstands against walls, somersaults into water – every day had presented some new form of physical challenge. And now Charles Flanagan of Baxter Street was directing the greatest long-distance race in the history of mankind. And still, thirty years later, thinking on his feet – or rather on their feet.
Flanagan’s mind travelled back to the present. He pulled back his shirt cuff and checked his watch. Just over an hour to go before he confronted Mike Poliakoff of De Luxe Catering. Surely it had to be some misunderstanding: he and Mike Poliakoff went too far back, to Baxter Street and the brown waters of Fulton Street Wharf. No, old Mike Poliakoff would not pull out on him now. An hour to go, so time for a little more shut-eye. Flanagan swivelled round, lifted both feet up on to the sofa, put his hands in his lap, and closed his eyes . . .
It was only a little over an hour later that he faced Mike Poliakoff, managing director of De Luxe Catering, in the speakeasy in the basement of the hotel. All around them he could hear the clink of glasses. And the quiet hum of talk in the small, dimly-lit room as the romances and business details of Kansas City were discussed and resolved in alcoves across glass-topped tables.
“Whiskey, Charles?” asked Poliakoff, smiling uneasily as he looked up at the waiter.
“Thanks,” said Flanagan, watching the brown liquid pour into his glass. He thought for a moment of his Trans-Americans, running across the plains of Colorado towards their camp at Agate.
“You’ve come a long way, Mike,” said Flanagan, thinking back to his musings in his room.
“Yeah,” said Poliakoff, smiling, “we’ve both come a long way, Charles.”
Michael Poliakoff was fat and Polish. As he sat in front of Flanagan, his massive stomach spilling out over the waist of his expensive slacks, it was inconceivable that he had once been the undisputed King of the Fulton Street Wharf.
“You were the first to swim it to Brooklyn, Mike,” said Flanagan.
“Yeah, and the cops wouldn’t let me land there and I had to swim a mile back till you came and picked me up in the rowboat.” He smiled. “Them was real good days.”
“They were, Mike,” said Flanagan. “They sure as hell were. But we both know that we’re not here just to jaw over old times.” He paused. “Mike, you’ve put me in a real fix.” The smile left Poliakoff’s round, indulgent face and his left eye started to twitch. “We have an agreement,” Flanagan continued. “Thirty grand when we reach Kansas City, the final payment in New York. Now I get a letter saying you want fifty grand now, or you pull out your catering staff as of this week. So how do we stand?”
Poliakoff fingered his glass uneasily, and avoided looking Flanagan directly in the eye. “We got nothing down on paper, Charles,” he said. “You know we got nothing down on paper. Nothing legal.”
“Jesus Christ, Mike,” exploded Flanagan. “Come on, you tell me, when did we ever have anything on paper?”
Poliakoff looked nervously around him. “Keep your voice down,” he whispered. “People know me around here.”
“Shit,” said Flanagan, settling back in his chair, visibly controlling his feelings. He dropped his voice. “Mike, I’ve got the biggest thing since the Charge of the Light Brigade back there in Colorado. When we get to New York I’m going to bust this whole amateur thing wide open. We’ll have a goddam Trans-Europe next year! And you’ll be right up there with me, Mike, De Luxe Catering, all the way from London to goddam Red Square Moscow.”
Poliakoff continued to peer down into his glass.
“Great, Charles,” he said. “So I’m happy for ya; but I got no way round it. I got to have my fifty grand right now.”
Flanagan shook his head. The Trans-America was money in the bank for De Luxe, so there was no rhyme or reason for Poliakoff’s attitude. Unless someone was pressuring him. His voice dropped.
“Level with me, Mike,” he said.
Poliakoff lifted his eyes from his glass.
“Has someone got to you?”
“What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean. Is someone leaning on you?” It was almost a shout.
“Keep your voice down,” said Poliakoff, his own voice quavering. “No one got to me. No one’s leaning on me.” He moved to the bottle of whiskey on the table in front of him and poured himself a large measure. He again turned to Flanagan, withdrew a white silk handkerchief from his top pocket and wiped his brow.
“You know the Los Angeles Olympics are next year,” he said. “Well, this time they got something new, called an Olympic village. Just for the guys – the gals are stashed safe in hotels in L.A. Well, the catering contract’s up for grabs, for the village, the Coliseum stadium and all the other arenas. Charles, this is going to beat all the other Olympics into a cocked hat. It’s got to be worth over a quarter of a million clear to the guy who gets it.”
“So what’s that got to do with the Trans-America?” asked Flanagan, gulping at his drink.
Poliakoff grimaced.
“That’s what I’m trying to tell ya. I got it on the grapevine that there’s no way they’ll even look at my tender if I stay with the Trans-America. Those Olympic guys have got me by the balls.”
“I see,” said Flanagan. “I see now what we’re talking about. Either you play ball with those Olympic assholes or you stay with me.” He took another swig from his glass before placing it on the table in front of him. “You know damn well I can’t raise fifty grand, Mike. Not just like that. How long can you give me?”
Poliakoff scowled and bared his teeth. “I can give ya two weeks more, then I pull my boys out. Try to see it my way, Charles. The Olympics is forever – but nobody knows if you can even get your guys to New York. Not even you. So if I stick with you I gamble. If I go with the Olympics then it’s hot coffee all the way for me from now on.”
Flanagan rose, shaking his head. “You know, Mike, back on Fulton Street Wharf we were rich. Those days, a guy gave his word to a buddy, he kept it. I didn’t know it then, but I do now. We were rich.”
Poliakoff bowed his head, looking down, and mopped his brow. He looked up and forced a thin smile, which froze as he caught Flanagan’s eyes.
“No hard feelings, Charles,” he mumbled, extending a moist hand.
Flanagan ignored the outstretched hand, gulped down what little remained of his drink and returned the glass to the table.
He leant forward till his face was close to that of Poliakoff.
“You asshole,” he hissed. “I shoulda let you drown back in Brooklyn.” He pushed on the table abruptly and got to his feet, scattering the glasses across the table-top. Without looking back he strode through the speakeasy and ascended the stairs, out into the afternoon sunlight. As he stumbled blindly out of the Green Davison Hotel there was a tap on his left shoulder. He had taken a couple of extra steps before he reacted, turning to see behind him a burly figure waiting patiently at the hotel door.
“Ernest Bullard,” said the man. “Just happened to be in Kansas City. You look a little down, Mr Flanagan. Perhaps I can be of some help. Let’s you and me have a drink.”
For a moment Flanagan had difficulty in gathering his wits. Then he pulled himself together.
“Yes, I remember,” he said. “Bullard. Can’t remember your paper, though. I’m afraid you may have wasted your time trailing me to Kansas City. All the news is back apiece in Colorado.”
Bullard smiled.
“I know that,” he said, gently guiding Flanagan along the crowded sunlit street. He pointed to a barber’s striped pole about a hundred yards ahead.
“Mulligan’s,” he said.
Ten minutes later Bullard and a sullen, depressed Charles C. Flanagan sat in an alcove in the bowels of Mulligan’s speakeasy. Mulligan’s was as unlike the Green Davison Hotel as it was possible to imagine. With its sawdust-covered floors and rough splintered wooden tables, it was a place for serious drinkers. Flanagan loosened his tie, soberly sipped a glass of iced water and looked across the table at Bullard. The plainly-dressed agent exuded an air of strength and confidence, and Flanagan, against his will, felt the better for his company.
“Scotch on the rocks for my guest, and orange juice for me,” said Bullard, taking off his hat and placing it on the seat beside him. “Better make it a double for Mr Flanagan,” he said, smiling.
The waiter returned a few minutes later with the drinks. Flanagan swallowed his in a single gulp and Bullard at once signalled for another.
“Shoot,” said Flanagan. “Surprise me.”
Bullard looked the Irishman in the eye and smiled.
“Let me hazard a guess what Mr Poliakoff said to you back there,” he said, sitting back.
“Who the hell are you, anyway? The Wizard of Oz?” asked Flanagan, making a weak attempt at a scowl.
Bullard smiled. “No. But it just happens to be my business to know such things. First let me level with you. My name is Bullard, but I’m no reporter. I work for the Federal Bureau of Investigation.”
“The FBI?” exploded Flanagan. “Who we got running in the race? Baby-face Nelson?”
Bullard grinned. “No. Though we do have information that a homicide suspect is in the Trans-America.” He paused to let the information sink in.
“The real reason for my presence is that someone up top thinks that the Trans-America may be a breeding ground for industrial unrest. You know what I mean – communists, anarchists.”
Flanagan shook his head. “You’re on the wrong track there,” he said. “If it’s anything at all the Trans-America’s one helluva piece of capitalist get up and go. It’s about as communist as Mom’s apple pie.”
Bullard nodded. “You don’t have to sell me a bill of goods,” he said. “But let’s get back to your meeting back there with Poliakoff. I suggest that he told you that he wanted his fifty grand now. He knows full well that you can’t pay. Even if you did cough up he’d soon find some other reason for pulling his staff out.”
“He said it was on account of the Los Angeles Olympic contract,” said Flanagan, gloomily.
Bullard sipped his fruit juice. “Yes,” he said: “That’s true. But it’s only part of the truth. You see, your Mr Poliakoff has political ambitions – wants to stand for mayor here. If he dumps you he’ll get the necessary political support. You can lay short odds on that.”
“But why?” asked Flanagan. “Who’s behind it all?”
Bullard’s lips puckered. “Perhaps it might help if I tell you a little fairy story,” he said.
“Jesus,” said Flanagan, scowling. “Now you’re Hans Christian Andersen.”
“The year is 1912,” said Bullard, disregarding his companion’s look. “I was running good at college – ran one fifty-nine indoors for half a mile. But my college had no interest in the AAU indoor championships in New York, and they wouldn’t grub-stake me. So I bummed and grafted my way to New York, got there a couple of days before the meet. I had lost about ten pounds in weight and was in pretty bad shape.
“I turned up at the Garden the night before and met up with one of the officials, a bright young guy from the YMCA who was helping the AAU run the meet. I told him where I’d come from, what I’d done. He took me out and gave me the biggest porterhouse steak I’d ever seen. Then he slipped me a five spot for a hotel.”
“And did you win?” asked Flanagan.
“No,” said Bullard. “I came third. But I ran one fifty-six point eight – best I ever ran, indoors or out.”
“Great,” said Flanagan. “But why are you telling me all this?”
“That guy who gave me the five spot was you,” said Bullard.
“Jesus, now I remember,” said Flanagan, shaking his head in disbelief. “You must have been twenty pounds lighter then.”
Bullard looked down at his stomach and grinned. “Don’t let’s get too personal,” he said. “Now let me tell you another fairy story,” he added. “A year later, in 1913, a college boy called Martin La Verne is making all the front pages in the East Coast papers. He’s running miles in four sixteen, four eighteen easy. He’s good-looking, rich, and he goes to Harvard. So one of the AAU bigwigs decides young La Verne should try to beat the world record for the mile. You know, they even started talking about a four-minute mile.”
“The four-minute mile,” said Flanagan derisively. “Might as well talk about the seven-foot high jump.”
“You know that, I know that,” said Bullard. “But you know how it goes; newspaper talk. It sells papers. So it’s all a fix. They decide to run it on a straight boardwalk track at Atlantic City.”
“I know that track,” said Flanagan. “The goddam wind blows in straight off the sea.”
“You got it,” said Bullard. “A straight, wind-assisted mile. Flanagan, those guys didn’t care how they got their record. So they set it all up. I have to take them poodling through the first quarter in around sixty-two seconds, then go through the half to around two minutes five, then peel off and leave the rest to La Verne.”
“Had you ever run a mile before?” asked Flanagan.
“Yes, in relays, around four twenty-four,” said Bullard, sipping his drink. “But I had never really hurt myself, never really found out how fast I could run.”
“So what happened?” said Flanagan.
“Well, there we all are in Atlantic City, and there’s something like a forty-mile-an-hour gale coming behind us right off the sea. We have half a dozen real milers and half a dozen hares like me. Bang goes the gun and I stroll off, feeling real good. The quarter is sixty-one point five seconds and I’m running sharp and tall. Jesus, the wind is just about carrying us along. At the half mile it’s two minutes three and I’m still hardly breathing.”
“So you peel off,” said Flanagan, downing his drink. “You’d done your piece.”
“No,” said Bullard. “I figure I’m feeling good, so I’ll pull La Verne through the three-quarter mark and then bug off. We get to the three-quarter and I hear them shout out three minutes seven seconds. Well, my legs are beginning to go and I’m tiring now, but I look around and there’s only La Verne a couple of yards behind me – all the other guys are twenty yards or more back. I wait for him to take the lead, but now he’s breathing real heavy too. So I keep chugging along and hit the mile tape in four fourteen – just outside the world record.”
“And where was our Mr La Verne?” asked Flanagan.
“A few yards back. He ran four minutes sixteen point five seconds,” said Bullard. “But wait, the story isn’t over yet, not by a long chalk. So we all get taken by limousine to the City Hall for the big prize ceremony. You know, the usual bit – the mayor, the congressman, the pink champagne. And they’ve got a silver cup you could live in. Next thing, one of the AAU officials takes me into a side room for expenses and slips me twenty bucks. When I get out they’ve given the cup to La Verne!”
“And what the hell did you get?” asked Flanagan.
“A dime store medal saying, ‘Atlantic City Boardwalk Pacemaker 1913’,” said Bullard, bitterly.
Flanagan whistled. “What sort of crook would do a thing like that?” he asked.
“Only a gentleman of the AAU by the name of Martin P. Toffler,” said Bullard.
There was a moment’s silence.
“Okay,” said Flanagan. “So we’ve had your two fairy stories, and I’m ready to be tucked in. Where does that take us?”
“To Poliakoff, to Kansas City,” continued Bullard. “Flanagan, you’ve lived out of the top of your head since way before I met you at the Garden, but as far as our records go you’ve never done anything crooked. All the same, it’s none of the FBI’s concern if the Trans-America stops in its tracks and everyone packs up his bags and goes home. So even if Toffler’s leaning on Poliakoff with an offer of an Olympic contract – well, that’s business. On the other hand, if I can find a direct link between Toffler and that Las Vegas assault that’s a horse of a very different colour. Incitement to assault.”
Flanagan held up his glass as the drinks arrived and shook his head. “You’d best let me get another one of these,” he said wearily. “I can’t take all this in. Why should a big shot like Toffler be trying to stop me?” He turned to signal to the barman.
“I don’t know, but I’ll try to make an intelligent guess,” said Bullard. “The last time the USA had the Olympics, in St Louis in 1904, it was a goddam farce. It lasted three months and hardly any of the athletes came from outside the USA. The whole meet was linked up with the St Louis World Fair and they even spiced things up with an Anthropological Games.”
“Yeah,” laughed Flanagan, “I remember. They brought a bunch of savages from all over the world, didn’t they?”
“Most of those ‘savages’ came from the World’s Fair,” corrected Bullard.
“Yeah, I knew a midget called Charlie Satz who blacked up and competed as a pygmy,” mused Flanagan. “Entered the shot-put. Only got it just beyond his left foot.”
His companion smiled. “They had mud-throwing competitions, pole climbing for speed; it was a crazy carnival,” said Bullard. “Well, this time they want to do it right, put the USA on the map as a sports nation. But one big cloud has just appeared on the horizon.”
“What?” asked Flanagan.
“You,” said Bullard. “If you hit pay-dirt with the Trans-America, Nurmi, Zabala and all the world’s top distance-runners will be falling over themselves to compete for you in 1932 – in Olympic year. And every American runner from five thousand metres up will be with you. Let’s face it, Flanagan, no athlete has any objection to earning an honest buck, certainly not Nurmi. The Trans-America can kick the Los Angeles Olympics straight in the teeth.”
“And that’s where Toffler comes in?” said Flanagan, leaning over the table towards Bullard.
“Exactly. He’s put his reputation right on the line on the Los Angeles Olympics. He wants to be the next International Olympic Committee chairman – sit at high table with all the Olympic top brass. If the Olympics goes down the Swannee, so does Toffler.”
“So what’s his programme?”
“I can only guess,” said Bullard. “This Poliakoff business, I would put that directly at his door. The towns that are pulling out, I reckon it’s maybe fifty-fifty. He’s leaning on a few people who owe him favours – he’s a big Republican – and for the rest it’s a sort of domino process.”
Flanagan bit his lip. “The trouble is, we’ve got to keep moving. You see, Bullard, it’s like an army, and it costs the same amount to keep them on their feet doing nothing as it does to keep them on the move. Second, some of these towns we’re scheduled to get to want us on certain days – the day before or the day after’s no damn good.”
“You got any political pull?” asked Bullard.
“Maybe,” said Flanagan thoughtfully.
“Well, use it – and quick. Buy yourself some time.”
“Two weeks I got, before the food runs out,” said Flanagan. “Even if I can rustle up food, in a week I hit the first town that’s giving me trouble. So I only got a week before I start to bleed. Hell, I’m in deep enough as it is. Tomorrow morning I’ve got to be back in Burlington trying to talk Mayor Tweed into staying with the race. If I don’t I’m another ten grand in the hole.”
“As I see it, you’ve only got one choice,” said Bullard. “Stop Toffler. I can’t say kill him, but stop him, somehow, or there’ll be no pay-day in New York.”
Flanagan rose slowly to his feet and reached down to shake Bullard’s hand. He forced a smile. “Thanks,” he said. “That steak I bought you back at Madison Square Garden has sure paid off.” He lightly knuckled Bullard on the shoulder before wearily making his way through the crowded bar.
Tomorrow morning he would travel back to Burlington to try to seal up another hole in the dam. He trudged slowly up the steps which took him from the depths of Mulligan’s speakeasy to the weak spring sunshine in the street above.
That night he was on the train speeding back west towards Burlington, Colorado.
Mayor Tweed, Mayor of Burlington, stretched a plump hand out across his desk as Flanagan approached him, and dropped back into his black leather chair.
“Sit you down, Mr Flanagan,” he said. He pressed a buzzer on the right of his desk and his secretary entered the room. “Coffee for two,” he said. “Cream and sugar?” he asked next, turning his head towards his visitor.
Flanagan nodded, letting his eyes wander round the sombre, oak-panelled room. He pulled the sleeve of his black pin-stripe suit over his white shirt cuff.
“How many miles are your runners from Burlington now, Mr Flanagan?”
“About two hundred. That’s four days’ running.”
Tweed stood up and placed both hands behind his back.
“Let me be frank with you, Mr Flanagan,” he said, repeating Flanagan’s surname as if to commit it to memory. “I have recently been in receipt of some disturbing reports about your Trans-America race. That nasty business in Las Vegas, for instance.”
Flanagan started to reply, but Tweed stilled him with a short movement of his hand. He took out of a drawer a sheaf of press cuttings and placed them on the desk in front of him.
“I have the reports here,” he said. “Some of the Vegas press seem to think your runners are Reds, some sort of Bolsheviks, Mr Flanagan. What’s your answer to that?”
“Can I be frank with you, Mayor Tweed?” asked Flanagan. Tweed nodded. “Someone set us up in Las Vegas. They got ahead of us and riled up the IWW boys. I got wind of it and had my men wear IWW vests. It saved the race. That was all there was to it.”
Tweed puckered his lips. “I’m inclined to believe you, Mr Flanagan. And let me tell you why. In the last month, considerable pressure – let me put it no higher than that – has been put upon me, and upon the mayors of other towns on your route, to renege on their commitments to your Trans-America race. All manner of reasons have been given, the main one being that the Trans-America would cause local labour troubles.”
Flanagan again started to interrupt.
“Please allow me to finish, Mr Flanagan. Two days ago I spoke to your assistant, Mr Willard Clay, telling him that it was unlikely that we would welcome the Trans-America in Burlington. Only a few hours later, I received a call from a Federal Bureau agent, a Mr Ernest Bullard. Agent Bullard was very enlightening. In any case, I owe Edgar Hoover a favour; his agents did a good job for me out here a year or so back.
“And let me tell you something else, Mr Flanagan. I believe that your Miss Sheridan and Mr Morgan visited a children’s home back in Las Vegas. It didn’t make the front pages, but the news got to me all the same. And one of my brother Elks tells me that your Doc Cole gave a most entertaining talk back in Denver at our Elks luncheon. As a result, the long and short of it is that Burlington stays with the Trans-America.”
Flanagan beamed and gulped down his coffee. The first breach in the dam had been sealed.
Four hours later Flanagan got out of his car and stood on the hot roadside outside Agate, Colorado. It was one o’clock in the afternoon and his road gang was setting up evening camp for the approaching Trans-Americans. All looked well, but only Flanagan knew the tight-rope upon which the Trans-America was now trembling. He pushed back a lock of hair and stood, hands on hips, surveying the bustle of the camp in the field below the road. Thank God, he thought, those poor devils sweating towards him on the rutted road were innocent of that knowledge.
“Am I glad to see you,” said Willard Clay, shaking his head as he walked towards his employer.
“What’s the problem now?” said Flanagan, contentedly looking around the busy camp-site.
Willard pointed back to the trucks. “We stopped the road crew at a diner ten miles back for a couple of hours this morning. When we got out half the tents had been slashed clean through. We’ve lost billeting for over two hundred guys.”
Flanagan threw his Panama hat to the ground. He looked up at the sky and raised both hands, palms up, imploringly.
“Why me? Why me, Lord? What have I done?” he groaned.
Willard waited for his employer to subside before he continued.
“Sure as hell wasn’t an inside job – every one of our crew was in the diner with me. But it could have been anybody who stopped outside – trucks were rolling in and out of the car park all the time. It could’ve been anybody,” Willard repeated disconsolately, placing his hands on his hips and looking round him. “Anyhow, where do we go from here, boss?”
Flanagan bared his teeth in a humourless, wolfish grin.
“Fill me in. Just how long have we got?”
“Five hours before the first runners get here,” replied Willard. “Two hours, maybe three on top of that, before they need to bed down for the night.”
“Could they sleep out?”
“Too cold,” said Willard, shaking his head.
The two men walked back slowly to the Trans-America caravan. Once inside Willard made immediately for the drinks cabinet.
“Whiskey, boss?”
Flanagan nodded, then flopped down on the couch. Willard turned on the radio, flicking through the stations through Rudy Vallee and Amos ’n Andy to the local station. “Gospel Hour,” intoned the announcer. “Today we have a song specially written for those doing God’s bidding as sportsmen or athletes. It is specially dedicated to the brave men of the Trans-America road-race, now just west of Agate, Colorado, and has been written by America’s leading evangelist, Alice Craig McAllister. It is called ‘The Song of the Road’, and is now sung by pastor Jeremiah Broome, accompanied by Miss Sarah Cotton.”
The strong Georgian voice of Pastor Broome filled the caravan.
Runner, why do you run,
Runner, why do you run,
Is it the pain, is it the gain,
Runner, why do you run?
Runner, why do you race,
Endlessly raising the pace,
Is it for wealth,
Or for yourself,
Runner, why do you race?
Flanagan leant back in his couch and shut his eyes.
Runner, why do you run,
Set on your way by the gun,
Is it for gold,
What can you hold,
Runner, why do you run?
Willard shook his head and moved to switch off the radio, but Flanagan checked him, and instead turned up the volume, smiling.
The singer’s voice rose and gained strength as he delivered the final verse.
Runner, what do you find,
There at the end of your mind,
Is it the prize,
Is it all lies,
Runner, what do you find?
“And now,” continued the announcer, “a few words from Miss Alice Craig McAllister herself.” There was the buzz and crackle of static, but Flanagan’s eyes were now open wide and he was listening intently.
Alice Craig McAllister’s voice came through strong and clear. “I don’t suppose you can hear me, you Trans-Americans out there on the road to Agate, but let me say this,” said the evangelist. “As far as we know our Lord Jesus Christ never competed in track and field athletics, but in my book He was the all-time world’s champion. So be certain that He would understand what you Trans-Americans are doing today out on that dry and dusty road. For do you know what each of you is doing? He is digging deep into his heart, deep into his soul, every foot of the way across our beloved United States of America. And don’t you know that Jesus Christ wants every man to realize his abilities, his potential? In doing that you glorify not only yourself, you also glorify Him and serve His Almighty will. So be sure, every one of you, Jesus loves you and the Lord Jesus is watching over you, every step of the way across our dear United States.
“You may recall that in my last broadcast I spoke to you about that old enemy, temptation, that same temptation that our dear Lord faced in forty days and nights in the desert without drink and without vittles. And that’s what each of you faces, every step of the way, that old man temptation, saying ‘Stop, it don’t matter whether you run or walk, nobody’s a-going to care.’ And every time a runner keeps right on a-going he does exactly what our dear Lord did, all those two thousand years ago back in the desert.
“Do you know what hell is, ladies and gentlemen? Well, I’ll tell you what hell is. Hell is life without dreams. And every Trans-American on the road to New York is living his dream every long and painful step of the way.
“Ladies and gentlemen, are we not all athletes, striding along the road of life? But can we look into our hearts and truly say, like these Trans-Americans, that we have given all we have in the daily race? Look into your hearts, look into your souls, and ask yourself that question. That is my message to you all today. God bless you all!”
Flanagan turned off the radio. “Alice,” he whispered. “Little ol’ Alice, right here in Colorado.”
“Wow,” said Willard. “That Miss McAllister sure can lay it out sweet and hot. Most Bible-thumpers give me haemorrhoids in the ears.”
Flanagan was suddenly alive again, pacing up and down the caravan.
“Forget about your piles, Willard,” he said. “Where did that broadcast come from?”
“No idea,” said Willard, bemused. “Somewhere hereabouts. Maybe Denver, maybe Burlington.”
“Find out, goddamit. And then get me Miss McAllister on the telephone. The Lord helps those who help themselves. And I plan to do just that.” Flanagan sat back as his assistant went to work. He shut his eyes, his lips moving soundlessly. The next few hours might provide the best possible evidence of the power of prayer.
Three hours later the first of the Colorado farmers arrived. They stood silently in front of the Trans-America caravan, their lean, stubbled faces lined with years of labour, their jeans dusty and thin. About twenty of them had assembled when a truck drew up behind them and a lanky, white-haired old man descended.
“You Mr Flanagan?” asked the newcomer, pushing his way through the crowd and walking to the door of the Trans-America.
Flanagan nodded, tilting his Tom Mix sombrero as he stood between Dixie and Willard.
“We got word you was in a peck of trouble,” said the old man, chewing on a straw, unblinking.
“Miss McAllister called you?” said Flanagan.
“She sure did. Miss McAllister called all of her people west of Burlington.” He turned to the farmers assembled behind him. “We got barns enough for nigh on five hundred men five miles east of here. We got vittles and we got clean running water. So you get your boys to these farms. Writ down here.” He took out a rumpled piece of paper and handed it to Flanagan. “Our people’ll have things fixed up clean and proper by six o’clock.”
“Je – ” Flanagan froze the word on his lips. “I don’t know what to say.”
“No need to say nothing,” said the man, taking the straw from his mouth and spitting on the ground in front of him. “We saw some moving pictures of your boys in Burlington a week back in the movie house. They was running through the Rockies, and they looked real tuckered out. I reckon if the Almighty got your men all the way through them Rockies, He sure as Juniper didn’t intend it that they stop out here on the Plains.”
The farmers walked back to their trucks, leaving Willard shaking his head. “Boss, I don’t know how you manage it. I really don’t.”
Flanagan grinned. “Willard,” he said, “God moves in mysterious ways.”