Hook pulled Mixer into the shower and scrubbed him with a bar of soap someone had left in the tray. On the way back, Mixer rolled in the dirt and didn’t shake it off until they were back inside the caboose.
Hook threatened him with death and then fixed himself a shot of Beam and water. He tossed his prosthesis on the table and took his copy of Steinbeck to bed to read.
But what with the day’s events still pressing, he couldn’t concentrate. Shutting off the lantern, he lay in the darkness. He thought about Sergeant Erikson and his last moments in the tunnel. He thought about the lieutenant, all cocky and squared off for a fight, and he thought about the condom balloons floating about in an orphanage.
Rolling onto his back, he watched the moon slip over the cupola. Times like this he wondered why he had become a yard dog at all, but then, of course, he knew why. The line between lawmen and outlaws could be unclear. Only fate had landed him on the right side of the line.
* * *
When he awoke, the sun bore through the cupola. He checked his watch: nearly noon. He’d slept half the day away. Time was he’d have been up with the sunrise no matter how late the evening had been. He climbed out of bed and put on his prosthesis.
Mixer wagged his tail and begged to get out. Hook opened the door and watched as he bound off down the tracks.
By the time Hook headed for the office, the sun had heated the yards into a furnace. Sparrows, bent on out-chirping each other, lined up on the fence, and the smell of acetylene drifted in from the cutting torch out in the yard.
Hook opened the office door to find Scrap examining his face in a hand mirror. The remains of his lunch were still on his desk.
“Well?” Scrap said, looking at Hook through the mirror.
“Well what?” Hook said.
“Well, now what do you want?”
“I don’t want a goddang thing,” Hook said. “Except to be left alone.”
Scrap put on his hat and took another look in the mirror. “You walked all the way down to my office to tell me to leave you alone?”
“I just figured to get a head start on it,” Hook said.
Scrap stoked his pipe and snapped a match across his zipper.
“I took a look at my figures,” he said, puffing on his pipe. “I calculate they lifted a thousand pounds of copper this time. Looks to me like the railroad dick ought to be taking care of business around here instead of gallivanting up and down the track on a popcar.”
Hook pulled Scrap’s hand over with his prosthesis and lit his cigarette off his pipe.
“Consider the possibility that a man run over by a train just might be more important than your copper, Scrap.”
Scrap tamped his pipe and sucked it back to red. “I’ve considered it,” he said. “No one in the world’s got fewer problems to worry about than a man run over by a train.”
“You got the heart of a railroad official, Scrap. How about me using your phone?”
Scrap paused. “I put myself a plan together while the likes of you slept away the night. It’s going to make me rich. The thing is, I’ve got to have start-up capital, operating money, which I can’t gather up long as these bastards are stealing my profit.”
“Yeah, but will it make you happy?”
“You goddang right,” he said, walking to the door. “Just leave the money there on the table for the phone. And then you might give some thought about how to stop the thievery around here. This is a place of business, you know.”
* * *
Hook dialed Eddie Preston and watched through the window as Scrap headed for the crane. Eddie answered on the third ring.
“Eddie, this is Hook.”
A puff of black smoke shot out of the crane’s exhaust.
“Runyon,” Eddie said, “I got a call from the army complaining that you weren’t being cooperative with their investigator.”
“You didn’t tell me the military would be involved, Eddie.”
“I thought you might have figured that out by yourself, Runyon, given it was an army sergeant who was killed.”
“Some of us aren’t as quick as you, Eddie.”
“Pull your head out and look around once in a while,” he said. “That’s how a man gets to be supervisor.”
“That’s how I figure it, too,” Hook said.
“Anyway, it’s pretty obvious, isn’t it?”
“What is?”
“That it was an accident.”
“I haven’t even talked to the engineer yet,” Hook said.
“The engineer’s deadheading in day after tomorrow. I told him to stop by the salvage yard and give a report.”
“That’s a little late, isn’t it, Eddie?”
“There’s others involved, here,” he said.
“Exactly who’s in charge of this sideshow, Eddie?”
“Relax, Runyon, the sideshows are all yours, but things have to be coordinated with the military.”
Hook lit a cigarette and watched Scrap turn his hat around backward on his head. Scrap looked in the side mirror of the crane and adjusted it.
“Anyway, I’m not so sure,” Hook said.
“Sure about what?”
“That it was an accident.”
“I just told you it was, Runyon.”
“It doesn’t add up,” Hook said.
“Look, this guy was standing on the tracks in the tunnel, wasn’t he?”
“That’s right.”
“And a train hit him, didn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“And it killed him, didn’t it?”
“Hell, yes, Eddie. I had trouble finding the pieces. What the hell you think?”
“So, you have this guy in a tunnel standing on the tracks, and he’s run over by a hotshot. That’s pretty straightforward, isn’t it? For Christ’s sake, Runyon.”
“I’ve got this feeling, Eddie.”
“It’s your brain looking for a reason to live. The first thing a real detective learns at Baldwin Felts Detective School is that he’s got to rely on facts, not feelings.”
“He was standing in full view of the oncoming when it hit him. Another hundred yards, and he would have been out of there.”
“What does that mean?”
“He had time to get out. He would’ve seen the train and had time to beat it.”
“Look, Runyon, you got enough troubles with this orphanage fiasco.”
“What troubles?”
“The diocese is upset about them rubbers.”
“That wasn’t my fault!”
“Who in their right mind gives rubbers to an orphanage, Runyon? And I can tell you the disciplinary board is not happy about those supplies.
“Now, I want you to wrap up this tunnel deal.”
“Hello. Hello,” Hook said. “Can’t hear, Eddie. Will call back later.”
6
HOOK SPENT THE remainder of the afternoon finishing his book. He slipped it on top of the growing stack and checked his watch. It would be dark soon, and he figured to take a hard look for Scrap’s copper thieves.
If a thousand pounds had come up missing, and he figured it had since Scrap kept a tight rein on his copper, then it had to be a sizeable operation. A thousand pounds of copper would require considerable effort to steal and some form of transportation to haul off.
While it might be a bo, he doubted it. Most boes were on the move with little but drink and food on their minds. Hoboes had neither the means nor inclination to deal with a thousand pounds of copper.
Come dark, Hook planned to check out the yards yet again, even though to this point he’d found no breach of the security fence. One thing sure, Eddie Preston intended not to give him a new assignment until he’d taken care of Scrap West’s copper thieves.
Outside, a switch engine bumped and groaned as she made up yet another line of salvage cars. The sounds of the old engines filled the salvage yard as they pushed and hauled and sorted cars. Smoke hung over the compound like fog, and the stacks of wrecked cars bl
ocked away the horizon.
When dusk fell, Hook checked his sidearm and headed out the door. Mixer fell in behind him, his nose skimming the ground. Hook worked his way through the cars and to the fence. He paid special attention to ditches and low spots where someone might crawl under.
Even though Scrap West had cultivated a particular hatred for thieves, his need to save money often took precedence over good security procedure. Near the back of the yard, for instance, a drainage ditch had been cut. Instead of proper fencing, Scrap had used old tires strung over a cable to close in the gap, which made an attractive entry for aspiring thieves.
Hook crawled into the drainage ditch and shined his light around. Over the years, sand had gathered where the water slowed, and it was there that he spotted the footprints.
Someone had been in, but the footprints appeared to be old. The heel print had worn and indistinct edges, and water had seeped into the low parts of the impression.
He looked around for Mixer, who had tired of Hook’s meandering and taken off on his own. Hook moved along the fence until he could see Scrap’s chicken house, an old shack with a tin roof that had been set smack in the corner of the yard. A roll of chicken wire had been stretched from one corner to the other to imprison Scrap’s collection of nesting hens.
When a noise issued from the chicken coop, Hook cut his light. He crouched in the darkness, uncertain as to the sound. And when it came again, he knew that someone was into Scrap’s chickens. He pulled his P.38. Hoboes were survivors and as likely to kill a man over a chicken as over a thousand pounds of copper.
He worked his way forward, stopping now and again to listen. At the pen, he hoisted a leg over the fence and into the yard. It smelled of old straw and manure. Melon rinds crackled under his feet. Scrap had traded a set of tire rims for a truckload of overly ripe melons, which he in turn fed to his chickens, the problem being that the Arizona sun had instantly dried the rinds to the consistency of an Egyptian mummy. The chickens, uncertain as to their function, carried them about in their beaks.
Hook pushed himself against the chicken coop wall. Inside, the chickens clucked in alarm from their roost. Hook, P.38 at the ready, kicked open the door and squared off.
“Come out of there now,” he said.
Chickens, feathers, and dirt exploded out the door and over the top of him. Hook threw his arm up to ward off being pummeled to death by frantic chickens and, in so doing, tripped and fell backward into the yard. All about him chickens squawked and flew and darted about in terror. Some drove headlong into the fence as they tried to escape.
Hook sat up and brushed the feathers from his hair and front. Mixer stood in the doorway of the chicken coop looking at him, an eggshell stuck to his chin.
“That’s it,” Hook said. “I’m putting you in the next cattle car to the soap factory.”
By the time Hook cleaned up and got back to the caboose, the yard had settled in for the night. He poured himself a Beam and water and sat on the edge of his bunk. Maybe Scrap wouldn’t miss the eggs. What Mixer had failed to eat, he’d managed to break, making any estimate of loss impossible. Mixer, aware of the precariousness of his existence, watched on from under the table.
Hook picked up a book and started to read, but weariness soon overtook him. Boxcars bumped in the distance as a switch engine made up the smelter run.
Hook yawned and blew out the lamp. Tomorrow he’d borrow Scrap’s old truck and make a trip into town. There were loose ends that needed to be tied up, but for now sleep beckoned. He pulled up the covers and soon drifted off.
* * *
The jolt nearly knocked him out of his bunk. He sat up and struggled to remember where he was. Mixer yelped from under the table and leapt into the bed next to him.
“What the hell,” Hook said, shaking the fog from his head.
The second jolt sent all of his books sliding across the floor and his coffeepot crashing onto the table. Hook searched for his prosthesis and put it on. Stepping into one leg of his pants, he hopped across the floor to the window. Boxcars slid by. He rubbed his face and looked again, realizing that it wasn’t the boxcars that were moving but the caboose.
“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” he said.
Mixer tipped his head and thumped his tail, uncertain as to what kind of trouble had now befallen him.
Hook opened the door to see Scrap West’s crane moving away into the distance. He stepped out onto the platform just as the engine bore down, and the caboose gathered up speed.
“Holy hell,” he said. “We’re coupled into the smelter run.”
He went back in, grabbed the lantern, and searched his pocket for a match. In his rush, he broke the match in half and had to find another. The lantern flickered to life, and Hook ran back out onto the platform. Leaning over the railing, he swung a stop signal.
Finally, the engineer hit his whistle and brought her down. Steam shot into the night and drifted up into the yard lights. Hook slipped on his shoes and worked his way to the front.
The engineer leaned out of the cab. “Who the hell are you?” he asked. “Don’t you know it’s against the law to stop a train?”
“I’m the railroad bull,” Hook said.
“You don’t look like no bull,” he said.
“I live in that caboose you’re hauling off.”
“What kind of idiot lives in a caboose?”
“Climb down, and I’ll show you,” Hook said. “I never knew a big E what didn’t need an ass kicking anyhow.”
“Alright, alright, take it easy. We was just clearing the siding.”
“Well, take it back where you found it, and easy does it. Next time get clearance before you go messing with someone’s caboose.”
Once back, Hook spent an hour cleaning up the mess. He blew out the lamp and collapsed in the bunk. He listened to the smelter run pulling out onto the main line. Tunnel accidents and copper thieves be damned, one way or the other, he was going to find a way out of this madhouse.
* * *
The next morning, he found Scrap working on the crane. He had her shut down and the dipstick pulled.
“I need some transportation this morning, Scrap,” he said. “How about a loner?”
Scrap wiped the dipstick on his glove.
“That’s what a popcar’s for, Hook, so you can run up and down the track. That way you don’t have to worry about catching copper thieves.”
“I need to check on some things in town,” he said. “Maybe I could borrow your truck?”
Scrap slid the dipstick back in and turned to Hook. “Oh, sure, sure,” he said. “You can have just anything you want. Maybe you’d like to have my sister, too, or the shirt off my back.”
“Just your truck,” Hook said.
Scrap took his pipe from his pocket and blew on the stem.
“Well, I need my truck, but there’s that old army jeep I guess you could borrow, seeing as how the railroad can’t afford a vehicle of its own.”
“I thought you sold the transmission out of it.”
“Well, I put one back in. I ain’t entirely helpless, you know.”
“The jeep will do,” Hook said.
“And you can just fill it with gas while you’re at it, and you might check the goddang oil once in a while. And just ’cause I loaned her out, doesn’t mean you can go tearing all over the country. I ain’t the U.S. government, you know.
“Say,” he said, “did you hear anything last night?”
“I haven’t been able to hear anything but this crane since I came.”
“A ruckus down by the back fence,” he said.
“Didn’t hear a thing,” Hook said.
“So it must be my imagination, I suppose.” Scrap said, handing him the keys. “And what’s in town that’s so all-fired important, anyway?”
Hook dropped them into his pocket. “You ever known men not to talk about women, Scrap?”
“They’d be more likely not to eat,” he said.
“Yeah,” Hook
said. “That’s what I figure, too.”
7
BACK AT THE caboose, Hook located a can of pork and beans in the cardboard box he kept under his bunk. Having spent his funds on books, he’d come up a little short on chow money. But payday wasn’t that far away, and he’d gotten by on less in his time.
Mixer returned from somewhere with egg yolk on his mouth.
“I’m not asking,” Hook said, letting him in. “But if Scrap catches you down there, things could get out of hand.”
Mixer, not being overly sensitive, begged for the last of the beans. Hook scraped them into his dish.
Afterward, they walked down to the shop where Scrap kept the jeep. The top of the jeep, if it ever had one, had long since been lost or sold by Scrap.
The jeep fired off and sent a cloud of blue smoke lifting over the yard. Hook slipped the gearshift into reverse and eased out the clutch. The jeep didn’t move.
Scrap came around the corner with Pepe, his top hand in the yard.
Hook worked the shift and goosed the engine again. “Damn it, Scrap,” he said.
“What’s the matter?” Scrap asked. “Don’t yard dogs know how to drive either?”
“It won’t back up,” Hook said.
“Course it won’t,” Scrap said.
Hook drooped his arm over the steering wheel. “Why won’t it?”
“It don’t have a reverse,” he said.
“What?”
“Jesus, Hook, a reverse. It don’t have one.”
“Why the hell not?”
“This is a salvage yard, not a dealership. Sometimes salvage parts don’t work a hundred percent, you know.”
Hook shook his head and looked over at Mixer, who was engaged in washing his privates.
“You expect me to drive this thing without a reverse?” Hook asked.
Scrap retrieved his pipe and knocked it against the heel of his shoe.
“My expectations are not so high when it comes to yard dogs,” he said. “But even a yard dog might figure out that going forward is the only option when there ain’t no reverse.”
“My life isn’t always forward, Scrap. In fact, it’s mostly backward since I came to this place.”
“Well now, sometimes a man has to make do with what he’s got,” Scrap said. “And getting huffy don’t help.”
Dead Man's Tunnel Page 4
