Down on Main Street

It took Martin a moment to regain his senses.

“I reckon that table over there would work for us,” Tessa said to the bartender, pointing past the pool tables and haze of tobacco smoke.

The squat man with shoulder-length black hair shrugged. “Back of the room, facing the door.” He nodded without even having looked up, as if that was the only table that was ever requested. “Nice choice.”

“Best seat in the house, I figure,” Tessa, his decidedly British companion, replied in a decidedly un-British accent. “How’s about a couple of beers to keep our throats wet?”

“Scot—” Martin started to interject before catching Tessa’s raised eyebrow.

The bartender didn’t even pause as he poured the second glass of pisswater the Americans called Budweiser, as if he already knew this exchange would take place. Instead, he waited until Tessa had started walking toward the table in the back corner and slid a glass across the counter.

Martin glanced down. Neat. Two fingers. How did he know?

“Laphroaig?” Martin whispered, hoping against hope.

“Johnnie Walker Black,” the bartender replied. “Sorry, pal. Harder to get the real stuff here than it is when they’re making it a stone’s throw down the street.” Looking up from wiping the counter for the first time, he winked.

There’s the answer of how believable my American accent is, Martin thought with a grimace.

In contrast, he watched as Tessa sauntered between the pool tables, swinging her hips in the exaggerated manner so natural to these Americans’ overinflated egos. She exchanged a joke and boisterous smile with one man as he lined up his shot, accepting a cigarette and a light from his opponent.

Bloody hell, Martin thought with a surprising amount of warmth. They’d never know she was a part of the British Royal Family in a million years. If I’m not careful, she might walk out of here with one of these blokes.

He felt a prickle of discomfort at that last image and paused to wonder why.

It’s the job. It would derail the job.

Then another voice entered his head.

Sure, son. That’s the reason. Now why don’t you keep admiring the sway of her hips.

He shook his head and turned back to the barkeep, laying a five-dollar bill on the counter. “Keep the change.”

The man’s face remained the exact same as he replied, “Sure you don’t want to check the exchange rate first, buddy?”

That Martin had already blown his cover within moments of walking through the door gave him a good sense of how the rest of the night would go. He could use the shadows and crowds as well as any of them, but he was a graduate of the “fire and flee” school, as he called it. This whole undercover business was equal parts tedious and risky.

Or perhaps it was the fact that, for this job, the tactic required him to masquerade as an American.

“Come on, then, partner,” Tessa called to him from across the bar. “We don’t got all night to dawdle about and shoot the breeze.”

Speaking of fake Americans. Martin recalled speaking to Tessa the moment before they left the car on the street outside.

“Leave the talking to me, yes?”

Instead, she had strode up to the bartender and laid the most American sentence on the man he’d ever heard.

“Hi, there, got room for two more?” when there were exactly three other people in the whole place. Who exactly is this woman that she can pull an act like that out of thin air?

The only thing greater than his begrudging respect as he pushed off the bar and followed was his uneasiness that she showed such an affinity for all things American, including an accent that had nearly taken him off his feet from shock.

As if we need any more of their influence in this world as they ride high and mighty for winning World War 2. Once they were finally forced to get off the sidelines, that is.

Martin set his drinks down and slid into the booth across from Tessa, leaning in to prevent anyone from overhearing them.

“Where in all the rings of Hell did you learn to do that?” he said, shedding his unconvincing accent.

Tessa smirked. “I spent a little time with this lot back in Pearl. You might’ve picked up a thing or two if you hadn’t run off back to England the second they dropped their espionage charges and released you from custody.”

“So, what, you spent the remainder of the war relaxing on the Hawaiian beaches?”

Her smile widened, and Martin found himself staring at her white teeth, suddenly feeling self-conscious about his own crooked and missing ones. Marks of the trade.

“If I had,” she replied, “who would have saved you in India?”

It was Martin’s turn to smile. That had been a plumb assignment, a place where he was just one more Englishman in a country that didn’t belong to them. No need for fake accents.

Even in 1944, he could sense the changing winds and had taken his time enjoying the sights and smells of the subcontinent before finally taking care of business with the corrupt local administrator who had decided to stop sharing his stolen wealth with Martin’s employers, the Firm.

It was the cleanest job Martin could recall. In his arrogance, the moron hadn’t even locked the front door to his villa. The cleanest job, that was, before the local tribesmen had arrived, intent on killing the same man and enraged that Martin had deprived them of their vengeance.

Martin had tried to reason with them, telling them that he had no more love for the English occupation than they did. But his accent had robbed him of any credibility. In their eyes, this was just one more thing the British had stolen from them. Thankfully, Martin’s handler had caught wind of the situation and dispatched a negotiator.

One day, Tessa came striding into camp, overcoming the tribal leaders’ suspicions with her charms and winning their respect with her marksmanship. They had handed Martin over for the price of three cases of gin and a promise that she would return to visit them again.

Other men might have been upset to fetch such a low price, but Martin was only upset they hadn’t shared any of that gin with him. Not even a taste.

Martin then reflected that if the men he came after had just been slightly less greedy, they would all still be alive today, happily ensconced in their positions of prestige and affluence with the full backing and protection of the Firm.

But if people were less greedy, wiser, or even a bit more cautious, he would be out of a job.

“Good point,” Martin said, leaning back.

“Come on, now, dear. Start on those drinks. Lord knows you’re all stuck up until you’ve had a few,” Tessa spoke loud enough to elicit chuckles and knowing smiles from the pair at the pool table. Even the immovable bartender nodded.

Martin responded by throwing back half the Scotch and hiding most of the grimace as the coarse flavor hit the back of his throat. I would take the Americans’ bourbon over Johnnie Walker.

Just as he started to reconsider if he was serious in this sentiment, three men in police blues shouldered open the doors to the bar. After a brief conversation with the bartender, he pointed to Martin and Tessa’s table.

Neither of them stirred an inch. In another scenario, Martin would have been cursing inwardly.

But this time, the police were who they were here to meet.

“Mr. Cooper?” the nearest of the three asked.

“And Mrs. Cooper,” Tessa replied, wrapping both arms around Martin’s.

Martin fought to keep the slight warmth out of his face as he gestured to the seats facing them. “Won’t you sit down? Drinks are on me.”

“Afraid we don’t have much time for drinks,” the left one intoned. “We’re on the clock and all.”

“Ah, of course.” Martin said, clasping his hands together. “Where’s your boss? I thought—”

“Chief Marshall is a very busy man, Mr. Cooper,” the right one growled. Martin thought he detected a slight mocking tone on “Mr. Cooper.” His suspicions rose further as the middle policeman gave his companion a sharp look. “Share your request with us, and we’ll get back to you with his decision.”

Martin nodded, showing a thin smile. “Fine, then. We’re interested in joining this enterprise of yours.”

“We?” The middle one looked between Martin and Tessa. “If you wish to join the force, you can fill out an application like everyone else.” He smirked. “And we don’t tend to take broads. Much less married ones.”

Charming.

“No, no.” Martin shook his head. “Not the force. The other business of yours.”

All three sets of eyebrows rose. Middle One spoke first, “You can imagine I meet that statement with a bit of skepticism.”

Tessa jumped in. “Oh, I know it seems unlikely, but Roy and me are entrepreneurs. That’s the word, isn’t it, hon?”

Martin nodded, watching as she stood up and started circling to the other side of the table. “You see, we came into a whole warehouse of war surplus. Rifles, grenades, even a few machine guns. Now, Roy and me aren’t much of the gun types ourselves, but we figure someone’s got a use for these. We heard your outfit might be such a place that could use or sell all these wares.”

She gripped Middle One’s shoulders and shook them vigorously. “Plus, we’re just pickled to work with you boys. You carry quite a reputation in some circles.”

She let go when Middle One held his hand up. “That’s not where my skepticism comes from. Instead, I find it a bit difficult to conceive how two yokels like yourselves,” he nodded to Martin and Tessa, who had retaken her seat, “even heard of what we do.”

Martin started to interject, but Middle One continued. “I’m forced to conclude that you’re not who you say you are. My policeman’s intuition is further reinforced when I asked the bartender if anyone had come in recently and he pointed this way saying, ‘Oh, those two British folks.’”

Martin made eye contact with the bartender, who shrugged and then went back to wiping the counter.

“How odd that two strangers show up in town asking to meet with our boss when our boss has warned us that old connections of his from across the sea might come looking for trouble.” Middle One started to rise from his seat. “Since there never was any deal to discuss, I must now conclude this business the way we conclude all business in this town. Our town.”

He went for his revolver, only to find the holster empty. Gripping the empty air with his fist, he looked up in time to stare down the barrel of his own gun before Tessa pulled the trigger.

Martin saw the wide eyes of men who had not expected to have to think on their feet that night on Right One and Left One’s faces and kicked hard, sending the table flying toward them and soaking one in his full glass of Budweiser.

What a way to die, Martin thought as he drew his Browning Automatic from his jacket, covered in piss.

His pistol coughed twice, and Right One crumpled.

He turned to find Left One with his hands raised as Tessa pointed the gun at his face.

“Wait, wait, wait,” he said. “We can work something out.”

“Tell us where your boss is,” Martin demanded, raising his own gun.

Left One surprised them by laughing. “He’ll be setting up a whole dragnet to catch your asses. You have no idea who you just crossed, you dumb—”

His voice was drowned out by an explosion. Both Martin and Tessa flinched. The cop staggered, reaching his hand over his shoulder as if to grab something, and then collapsed. Martin and Tessa looked up to find a smoking shotgun in the bartender’s hands.

“Those guys are assholes. Take too much money from every business in this town,” he said, his voice the same exact pitch as when he had first poured Martin’s drinks.

“Thanks,” Martin said. Then he scowled. “But why did you sell us out, then?”

The man shrugged, his black hair shifting with the movement. “You seemed tired of the undercover act. Figured I’d speed things along.”

Martin had to ponder that one for a moment before nodding. “Fair enough.”

“Still, I’d get a move on,” the unflappable bartender said, wiping another spot on the counter. “Someone will have called that in, and the cops in this town tend to overreact.”

Martin nodded. “No bollocks there.” He looked back at Right, Left, and Middle bleeding on the floor. Incredibly, the two pool players hadn’t even paused their game despite the shotgun blast traveling between them. “Can we at least give you a few pence for the mess?”

The bartender shook his head. “You’re still covered from that fiver earlier.” For the first time since Martin and Tessa had walked through the door, his face changed as his lips curved up. “You really don’t know the exchange rate, do you?”

“Christ, no,” Martin said, returning the smile.

Tessa came bounding up. “I took them boys’ weapons.”

She showed the two revolvers tucked into her belt and handed the third to Martin, who held up his hand. “I already have the Browning.”

“Come now, partner,” she said, leering. “This is America. No such thing as too much firepower.”

The two men at the pool table gave her a thumbs up as the bartender nodded in unison. Suddenly feeling outnumbered, Martin took the revolver with a slight eyeroll. “You can drop the act now. They all know our secret.”

“Certainly,” Tessa said, slipping back into her Oxford accent with ease. “But it was a delight to meet these kindred spirits.”

“Come back and see us sometime,” the bartender said. “Though I will have to contradict that by insisting that you get a move on. Now.”

The growing noise of police sirens underscored his words.

Martin and Tessa burst through the door, handguns at the ready, but the street was still deserted for the moment. They dashed to the car at the end of the street, Martin pausing a moment to grimace at the Buick logo on the hood before his vision was obscured by Tessa shoving him out of the way.

“I’ll drive.”

“You’ll drive?”

“You can barely keep it straight which side of the road is correct, much less outrun some vengeful policemen. Now the get the bloody hell in the car,” she replied before slamming the door in his face.

If it had been anyone else, Martin would have replied: “We’ve already killed three lawmen, what does it matter if I drive on the right or left side of the street?”

Instead, he found himself getting in the passenger seat. He watched as Tessa slammed the Buick Super into gear, the tires squealing beneath them. She showed no hesitation as the spinning red lights of the law appeared on their tail and pushed the Super into third gear, pressing Martin’s spine into the seatback.

Martin looked over, finding no trace of fear or worry on Tessa’s face. Only clear, focused eyes as she drifted the Buick sedan onto a side street. One of the three sets of headlights didn’t make the turn in time.

Everything’s in threes tonight.

Martin found himself thinking back to those December days in ’41. Specifically, when he and Tessa had been approaching Hawaii after escaping the Japanese invasion of the tiny atoll whose name Martin could never recall.

He had casually noticed the gray profile of a destroyer plying the waters offshore below their seaplane.

“Hopefully those gunners aren’t too jumpy,” he had remarked to Tessa the moment before flak bursts began rocking the cabin and tracer rounds streaked through the air in front of them.

Even as the U.S. Navy did its best to blow them out of the sky, she hadn’t panicked, ever the calm and collected pilot. She had immediately changed course and gained altitude while ordering Martin to get on the radio and hail the warship.

He had negotiated a ceasefire if they landed and surrendered themselves. The bosun’s mate who had taken them into custody had smiled at Martin as he stood on the seaplane pontoon with his hands raised over his head.

“Boy,” he had said as his tiny launch bobbed on the waves, “did you two pick a bad time to visit.”

It almost sounded like an apology.

When they were brought ashore, Martin and Tessa had gaped at the devastation left behind by the Japanese at Pearl Harbor. Fortunately, the captain of the destroyer had ordered that the seaplane be towed behind them and even arranged for a few naval airwing mechanics to patch the spare bullet holes. Rumor had it he had been furious to see his sailors had scored so few hits.

The bullet traveling past Martin’s head and blowing out the windshield brought him back to the present.

Tessa shouted at him over the muggy Southern air now blasting their faces, “Are you blinking deaf, Martin? Shoot back at them!”

Martin shook his head and pulled the Browning from his jacket, rotating in his seat.

Then Tessa surprised him by laughing. “I’ve got something a bit better than that. Backseat.”

Martin looked down to see a blue blanket. Pulling it away, he found himself staring at thirty pounds of metal. A Browning M1919 machine gun, complete with ammunition belt already primed to fire.

She didn’t have to tell Martin twice. He lifted the weapon with some effort, taking a moment to steady the hefty piece of steel in his hands as Tessa swerved to avoid more shots from the police.

Then he squeezed the trigger, sending .30 caliber rounds out the back windshield at the rate of six to seven a second. The weapon, not intended to be hip fired, kicked and bucked. After putting several holes in the roof of their own car, Martin adapted to shooting in short bursts. Sparks of metal striking metal and a shattered headlight confirmed his new strategy was delivering results.

The cops, as cowed to be facing such massive firepower as Martin was surprised to be wielding it, fell back.

“Good thing I wasn’t fibbing about the war surplus,” Tessa said, grinning. “Wonder how many Krauts bought it at the end of that gun in its past life.”

Martin patted the receiver of the now-smoking M1919 before laying it in the backseat once more. “You’re just full of surprises tonight, eh?”

She looked over at him with a glint in her eye. “You think you’d be used to it by now.”

Instead of rising to the challenge, Martin responded by placing his hand on the dashboard and yelling, “Bloody hell, watch out for that idiot!”

Tessa whipped her head back to the road. A man had stepped out into the middle of the road, hand raised in a signal for them to stop. She appeared poised to jam her foot on the accelerator until she caught sight of the police roadblock spanning the road behind him.

By then, however, the momentary indecision had cost her. Or, more aptly, cost him as she slammed on the brakes with too little time to stop.

All might still have been well had the man made any move to evade the screeching vehicle.

Instead, he held his ground until the Buick’s front bumper caught his left side and sent him tumbling up and over the roof until he was deposited back on the road with a morbid thud.

The policemen manning the barricade stared without blinking, their pistols slightly lowered in shock. Then a voice on the end of the line of vehicles, “Get your guns up, you jackoffs!”

Then the voice turned its attention to Martin and Tessa. “Out of the vehicle with your hands raised. I won’t tell you again.”

Without a glance at Tessa, Martin opened his door and stood, taking care to make no sudden moves. He heard the driver’s side door slide open and showed no reaction. With any luck, the full attention would remain on him as he took a slow, deliberate step away from the car.

“Evening, officers,” he called out.

“Shut the fuck up,” the voice responded. “Give us one reason we shouldn’t gun you down for killing our chief.”

You don’t say?

Martin had to fight very hard not to smile at that. Somehow, his jobs always seemed to have a way of working out even when the plan was shot full of holes like tonight.

“Well, for one thing, we don’t know he’s actually dead.” He gestured behind him. “I could go check if you’d like—”

“Move, and we shoot.”

“For another thing, it was an accident?” Martin shrugged his shoulders, no longer able to help the grin.

“And finally,” Tessa’s voice came from the other side of the car, “we’ve got enough firepower to take half your force with us.”

Martin didn’t need to look to know she had retrieved her new favorite toy from the backseat. He imagined she was making a big show of swiveling it from one end of the roadblock to the other. The flinches, wide eyes, and gasps of “oh shit” from the officers reinforced his assumption.

It was a bluff, albeit a convincing one. Tessa would cause a great deal of damage to their vehicles, maybe even claim a few of the corrupt cops. On the other hand, Martin would almost certainly die in the crossfire, and Tessa would eventually be flanked or run out of bullets.

But, like any good bluff, it was not immediately obvious to the opposing side. Both parties faced each other, attempting to figure out their next move.

In this vacuum, Martin played his final hand. “Am I addressing Lieutenant Rivers?”

It took a moment for the voice to answer. “Who the fuck wants to know?”

“That’s not important at the moment.” Martin started to reach into his jacket, watching more than one of the jumpy cops tense. But none pulled the trigger as he gingerly retrieved a piece of paper, holding it up for all to see. “I have a note here for you. A note from my employers.”

After another moment, the voice responded. “Wilson, go grab it.”

The young cop stepped out from behind the hood of his car, lowering his gun but keeping it in both hands as he approached. Wilson got to within three feet, enough for Martin to see the sweat beading on his forehead, then snatched the paper as if Martin were a snake that would bite if he left his hand in range for a second longer.

He jogged back to the police line. Thirty seconds passed without anyone speaking or moving, and Martin started to wonder if the lieutenant would have his men blow them away after all.

Then Rivers barked, “Lower your weapons, boys.”

A few hesitated, looking over at him. “You heard me, goddamn it,” Rivers growled.

Martin finally looked back at Tessa to see she had also lowered the machine gun.

Rivers emerged from the roadblock and walked to Martin, holding the unfolded message in front of him. “You read this already?”

Martin nodded. “I’m a professional, lieutenant.”

“Sure,” the officer replied, nonplussed. “This all true, then?”

Martin felt a knowing grin sliding up the left side of his face. He remembered the contents clearly:

Lieutenant Mason Rivers:

If you are reading this, Police Chief Carter Marshall is now dead. Marshall was a valuable member of our latest American enterprise, but sadly he has shown the same foolishness of so many others under our employ: believing he can start a competing firm under his own direction. His proclivity for harassing and arresting minorities was also less than desirable. You can now see he left us no choice in this matter.

However, we do not wish to see the entire operation we established dismantled for the idiocy of one man. There is great value in a town where representatives of the Firm can rest, recuperate, and plan operations enjoying the full protection of local law enforcement. We are happy to continue funding your enterprise with a verbal confirmation that you will not attempt such a move as your late boss.

We understand that our representative in this matter may have caused some damage to your property and personnel in the performance of his work. Though these are occupational hazards of our industry, we understand these losses may cause undue hardship for you in your new role. Therefore, we are willing to offer compensation in the form of 5,000 U.S. dollars for each man killed and 2,500 for each man otherwise injured.

We hope you find these terms amenable.

“Down to the last cent,” Martin responded.

Rivers opened his mouth to speak, then stopped as a moan came from beside the vehicle. Martin and Rivers both turned to stare as the prostrate body on the pavement started to move a shaking arm.

Then the arm dropped as a bullet struck the man in the back. Martin turned to find Rivers had drawn his revolver. He walked up to the body and fired twice more.

“Another five grand in the bank,” he said without an ounce of emotion as he returned to Martin and holstered his weapon. “I told Carter he was being stupid for biting the hand that feeds. Turns out I was right, though I guess I should be thanking him.”

Martin smiled. “I’m not sure the late chief there counts towards your total considering my job was to ensure he died, but I’ll let the Firm accountants work that one out.” He stretched his hand out. “I can already tell that things will be smoother under your leadership, Chief Rivers.”

Rivers took his hand. “Here’s to never seeing your face again.”

“Indeed.”

Martin left the rest of the sentence unsaid: Not much chance of that happening now that you would recognize me. They’d send another one to deal with you.

Somehow, though, Martin doubted it would come to that. Rivers had seen with his own eyes what became of the many people that had crossed or otherwise displeased the Firm. He seemed smart enough not to upset an already beneficial arrangement.

Then Martin remembered something. “Oh, one more thing, chief.”

Rivers turned back to him with an eye raised.

“The bar on Main Street. They no longer pay for protection.”

Rivers appeared to mull it over for a moment, then nodded. “Fine by me. Lord knows Sam has enough stress in his life already.”

Could’ve fooled me.

Turning back to his men, Rivers made his exit. Martin turned, finding Tessa had laid the M1919 on the hood of the Buick and moved to his side.

“You’ve done quite well for yourself tonight,” Martin said, placing a hand on her shoulder. “Not sure I’d still be breathing at this point without you,” he nodded back to the hood, “and your friend Browning over there.”

She patted the roof of the Buick. “All in a day’s work.”

Martin paused. “Speaking of, I suppose I owe you a greater share considering that it was actually you that got Marshall. Then again, Rivers is the one who finished the job, so maybe—”

“I’ll take this as payment.”

She pulled him down to her and placed her lips on his.

Leaning back a heartbeat later, Martin could only think to say, “Bloody hell.”

Tessa cocked her head, ready to needle into him for his oafish remark. Instead, Martin drew her to him, and she placed her arms around his neck as they kissed again.

Rivers’ voice cut in. “I hate to break this up.”

They both stepped back a pace. Martin knew he should feel embarrassed, but he didn’t. He just felt, well...

Happy.

“We rustled up a car for you.” Rivers pointed to the Chrysler as it drove up. A moment later, a policeman stepped out, leaving the driver’s side door open. “Now, get in, and, no offense, drive far away from my town.”

Rivers turned and then paused, offering the slightest of grins. “Then get a motel or something.”

Tessa gestured to the driver’s side door, and Martin held his hand out in a sweeping gesture. “By all means.”

Settling into the passenger’s seat, Martin noted more than a few stares from the policemen as they backed their cars up to let them through the roadblock. Stares at Tessa behind the driver’s seat.

Not that long ago, he would have felt the same way about a woman driving.

Before he had met Tessa, the only person he knew who could shoot better than him, man or woman. A skilled pilot, consummate professional under fire, and the best partner he could ever have. And that was all before they had kissed.

Let them stare. The idiots don’t know what they’re missing.

As she put the car in gear and started the drive out of town, he found his eyes only stayed on her. She felt his gaze, smiled at him, and turned her attention back to the road. For once, he didn’t feel the need to watch the road as well. Didn’t feel the need to worry at all. My Tessa’s got everything under control.

The words had a nice ring to them: My Tessa.

~~~

Follow Martin on another adventure finds himself aboard a plane under cover of false diplomatic papers as the C-47 ferries supplies to West Berlin during the Soviet blockade. However, the crates aboard are not full of food, medicine, and other essentials: they are full of stolen Nazi gold destined for a Russian spy ring. All crates save one with three marks, which contains Martin's trump card. As the pilots reveal that they are not who they appear to be either, Martin must hope that he's left enough air holes in the marked box—or he'll find himself on a one-way flight in...

The Complete* Martin Williams Collection

1. Sinking Prospects (1912)
2. For King and Country (1916) — print exclusive
3. Black Thursday (1929)
4. The Lindbergh Job (1932)
5. A View to Die For (1936)
6. The Rising Sun (1941)
7. Run for the Border (1943)
8. Down on Main Street (1946) — you are here
9. The Airlift (1948)
10. Into the Valley of Death (1951) — print exclusive
11. Epilogue: Retirement — print exclusive

*When paired with A Bloody Business, the official Martin Williams novel: