Useful to Uncle Sam

A standalone spypunk story

☛ Leo Vaughn writes unusual fantasy for unusual people, rep’d by Lucienne Diver of the Knight Agency. His novels are coming soon to a bookstore near you.

Deadwater Inn is a series of standalone short stories—basically Casablanca meets the Cold War in the multiverse. You can jump in anywhere without prior reading.

Come on, don’t be shy. The water’s cold and moody.

—

Harlan shook his head as he dried another glass behind the bar. It wasn’t often that he booked an interdimensional musical group at the Deadwater Inn. He had his old standbys, the crooners and the geetar-pluckers and the lounge singers who went from gig to miserable gig in the city. This world, this town, even the Deadwater borough alone had plenty of musical talent—and its willing substitute.

But when Montpelier, the American spymaster, had asked about bringing in a group from his home country in his home dimension, Harlan had jumped at the opportunity.

Now Montpelier leaned over the bar, swirling a tumbler of whisky with no hurry at all. He nailed Harlan with glittering little rat-eyes. “The Chalcedon Sisters are nice girls, okay? I want them treated right.”

Harlan scowled. Why the insult? He always treated his guests—especially Montpelier’s people—with as much respect as possible. Only rarely did he have to shoot one, and when he did, it was usually at Montpelier’s orders.

“I’m not kidding.” Montpelier slowed his swirl even more and glared at Harlan. “They’re here on CIA business, you understand? They’re not taking on any side projects.”

“They’ll get room and board and all my courtesy.” Harlan rubbed a tumbler with his soggy towel, then replaced the glass on the shelf under the bar. Montpelier needn’t be so difficult.

“Let me be blunt.” Montpelier set his tumbler down with a quiet clack. “Even if the Sisters could help you, there’s no place for you in my dimension. You’ve been very useful to Uncle Sam. I run too many operations through here to lose you to some cockamamie dream.”

Harlan’s heart soured even more. “What business is it of yours?”

Montpelier’s eyes bored into him. “I’m warning you. Don’t ask her about passage.”

§

Betty Chalcedon sprawled in the back booth near the bar, coyly petting Gabby Jack. The brown tabby had curled up in the crook between her legs and her lower belly. Harlan hunched over the table across from Betty, watching her carefully. In the low light, a languid grace lay upon her limbs. The fall of her long, pleated skirt and blouse couldn’t hide how she hung together. Ultimately, though, she was pretty in a breakable way, her features too delicate for Harlan’s life.

Regardless, she wasn’t for him. Nora held his heart.

In a crushing fist…

Betty settled her blue eyes on Harlan and tossed back a stray lock of white-blonde hair. “It’s very difficult, to begin with. But you know that.”

Harlan nodded and leaned back in the booth. “I’m not concerned about the cost.”

“What about your wife? I thought you wanted to take her with you.”

Harlan nodded and looked down. If that wasn’t a gut punch, what was? Even Betty Chalcedon knew that his wife Nora had run off into the multiverse after their baby died. Now Nora was spying for Montpelier, working as a contract agent for that most despicable of boy’s clubs, the American CIA. Montpelier had said she’d been captured. He’d promised he was working on her release.

“I’ll handle my own affairs,” Harlan said at last. “I just need to know how to reach your dimension in the portal.”

Betty’s eyes grew sad, and she shook her head. “It’s not something I can describe to you—or even teach you. One can reach so many dimensions in the portal, one must walk in precisely the right direction. You would have to walk it with me.”

Still trapped. The lump rose in Harlan’s throat. Even if Nora came back, when would he ever have the opportunity to follow Betty through the portal to her home dimension? It was a fantastic dream, the kind that collapsed upon waking.

Harlan’s heart labored as if it drowned in quicksand. He stood, looking away from Betty so she wouldn’t see his tears, but she saw. Of course she did.

“Oh, Harlan.” She reached across the table and patted his arm. “Let me know when you’re ready. You can follow me back through the portal any time.”

Disturbed, Gabby Jack leapt out of her lap and sat in a sulking posture on the floor.

Harlan nodded and pulled away from Betty’s touch. She and her sister’s residency would last a month at the Inn. Nora wouldn’t come back before then. Montpelier might not even break her out of Soviet prison before the Chalcedon Sisters left this dimension. Of course, Harlan could go through the portal into that same dimension and hope to meet up with Nora when she got out. But how could he set up communication with her when Montpelier, his one link with her, refused to lose a great field agent and the innkeeper whom he trusted most in all the multiverse?

§

Harlan sat slumped in the creaky old chair in his office. His green lampshade glowed on the desk, but there was no other light. In the dimness, the framed picture of Nora took on deeper shadows and vaguer highlights. She was beautiful, with wide, high cheekbones, full lips, and sensitive eyes under hair as dark as midnight.

Where was she now?

He shook his head, chest tightening, and turned the picture on its face.

Lost in Montpelier’s spy games. That was where.

A footstep sounded in the hall, and he looked up. Montpelier’s shadow filled the doorway. The spymaster swept into the room, the desk lamp making crags and escarpments of his rumpled shirt and loosened collar and tie.

The man’s eyes blazed.

“How dare you.” Montpelier stood over Harlan’s desk, wagging a finger down at him. “I told you not to talk to her.”

Harlan shrugged. “I’m more than your tool.”

“I can’t lose the Deadwater Inn. I need you here. You know how important this portal is—and this dimension.”

The chair shrieked as Harlan leaned back. He spread his arms. “It’s not like I can actually go. Nora isn’t here.”

Montpelier’s face softened. He lowered himself into the seat on the other side of the desk. The green lampshade illumination turned his face older and sadder. “We’re very close to getting her released.”

Harlan’s chest melted. This couldn’t be. He sprawled onto his elbows on the desk.

“The deal is on the table. All that remains is for the KGB to agree to the terms.”

Harlan shuddered. So close, such good news, and yet—it still wasn’t finalized. He couldn’t take much more of this.

Montpelier reached across the desk and patted Harlan’s arm. “We’ll get her out, my friend. I guarantee it.”

§ § §

Text © 2026 by George Anderson. All rights reserved.

Banner artwork created by Bianca Yamakoshi. © 2026 by George Anderson.

No AI technology was used to write or edit this story. Likewise, no AI technology was used to generate or modify any visual content associated with this story. Read the No AI Statement for full details.