Dead Man's Tunnel

by Sheldon Russell

“Just checking to see if you boys need anything.”

  The corporal leaned his rifle on a rock. Lines pulled at the corners of his eyes, lines that can come from too much experience at too young an age.

  “We’re a little short of girls and hooch,” he said.

  “Yeah,” Hook said. “It can get dry out here. You living in the guardhouse, are you?”

  “Just duty hours,” he said. “Found a place in town. It isn’t much, but it beats staying in this canyon twenty-four hours a day.”

  “Guess there haven’t been any German invasions?” Hook said, smiling.

  “Yesterday I thought I spotted a patrol coming up the canyon. Turned out to be a herd of range cows.”

  “Cigarette?” Hook asked.

  “Thanks,” he said, slipping one out of the pack.

  “I hear you boys been careful about checking the board before going in.”

  Corporal Severe lit his cigarette. “After what happened to Sergeant Erikson? You bet your ass.”

  “The operator said he got two calls on the same run. Can’t say I blame you, though.”

  The corporal sat down on the rock and pulled his knee into his arms. “Wasn’t us,” he said. “Though I can’t say I haven’t wanted to call more than once just to make certain. The operator could make a mistake, you know, wrong time, wrong day, wrong train. Hell, could be anything, couldn’t it? Walking that tunnel can make a man jittery.”

  “You wouldn’t be headed for town soon, would you?” Hook asked.

  “I’m off duty now. You want a lift?”

  “I’d appreciate that,” Hook said. “I won’t have to wait on that pusher to get back. Anyway, I’ve had about all the engineers I can take for one day.”

  * * *

  Hook waited in the jeep for Corporal Severe to get his things out of the guardhouse, and as they drove off a cloud of dust boiled up behind them. The road had taken a beating from the increased construction traffic. When it leveled out, the corporal settled back against his seat.

  “Where you from, Corporal?” Hook asked.

  The corporal shifted gears and eased the jeep over a dry wash.

  “About everywhere, I guess,” he said. “My old man didn’t like to stay in one spot very long.”

  “You been stationed at Los Alamos for quite a while?”

  “About a year. Before that I saw a little action. Picked up shrapnel in my back, and they sent me stateside. They said if it moves, I could wind up in a wheelchair.”

  “What do you do at Los Alamos?” he asked.

  “Civil Engineers. You know, fixin’ shit, for the officers’ wives mostly.”

  “You and Sergeant Folsom both are assigned to Civil Engineers?”

  “Yeah, that’s right,” he said, pulling out onto the highway. “Where to?”

  “West’s Salvage Yard,” Hook said.

  By the time Corporal Severe pulled up at the gate, darkness had set in. Scrap’s floodlights lit up the yard.

  “You live here?” the corporal asked.

  “That’s right,” Hook said. “In a caboose.”

  The corporal looked at the mountains of salvage and then over at Hook.

  “I’d about as soon live out at the canyon,” he said.

  “Yeah, me too,” Hook said. “But then I’d miss all of Scrap West’s brilliant conversation. Thanks for the lift, Corporal.”

  * * *

  Hook could see the office light still on, and despite his better judgment, he stopped. Scrap, engaged in doing something at his desk, didn’t look up for several moments.

  “I’ll be a son of a bitch,” he said, dropping his pencil.

  “What now?” Hook said.

  “I’ve got three hundred and twenty-eight car generators in this yard.”

  Hook sat down and rubbed at his shoulder. Sometimes his prosthesis hung as heavy as a side of beef.

  “That’s great,” Hook said. “If you’ve got a call for car generators.”

  “If a man put all those generators to spinning, he could sell electricity. I figure there’s a fortune just waiting to be made.”

  Hook dropped his forehead into his hand. “And how you going to spin three hundred and twenty-eight car generators?”

  “Well, I hadn’t thought that out just yet,” he said.

  Hook stood. “I’m going to bed, Scrap. Between you and Frenchy, my head feels like it’s going to fall off.”

  “By the way,” Scrap said. “That Eddie Preston called again.”

  “Yeah? What did he want?”

  “He wants you to call.”

  “What for?”

  “Someone held up the Albuquerque operator or something.”

  “Jesus,” Hook said, looking at his watch. “Eddie hates to be called at home. I’ll do it first thing in the morning.”

  19

  HOOK WOKE UP to the thump of the pusher engine as she came up to steam outside his caboose. Climbing out of bed, he peeked out the window. In the distance, the whistle of a freighter sounded, her voice soft and throaty in the morning.

  The pusher engineer leaned out of the cab, his arm big as a tree stump, and checked on the train coming down line. The caboose trembled beneath Hook’s feet as the freighter rolled in.

  He made coffee, poured himself a cup, and checked his watch. Eddie should be at work by now. Eddie raised hell when Hook called him at home. In fact, Eddie didn’t like to be called anywhere by anyone for any reason. How someone so averse to being disturbed wound up as head of security was one of life’s mysteries. But then if the world made sense, he would have been Walter Runyon, bookstore owner or professor of literature, instead of Hook Runyon, yard dog.

  On his way to the office, he met Pepe, who had just clocked in for the day.

  “You seen Scrap?” Hook asked.

  “He’s greasing the crane.”

  “Thought that was your job, Pepe.”

  Pepe rolled his eyes. “I’m taking out generators.”

  “You don’t mean Scrap’s serious about that harebrain scheme?”

  Pepe nodded. “I made two hundred flower planters out of old tires one time. He didn’t sell a one.”

  “What did he do with them?”

  “Burned them for heat in the woodstove down at the shop. By the end of the winter, my hat stank so bad I had to throw it away.”

  “Keep smiling, Pepe.”

  He shrugged. “I get paid by the hour.”

  * * *

  Hook put his feet up on Scrap’s desk and called Eddie.

  “Security,” Eddie said.

  “This is Hook, Eddie.”

  “Why didn’t you call last night, Runyon?”

  “It was after working hours.”

  “Security is a twenty-four-hour-a-day commitment, Runyon. Some of us take our work seriously.”

  Hook rubbed at the pain that drilled into his forehead.

  “You’re an inspiration, Eddie. What’s going on?”

  “Someone robbed the Albuquerque operator on second shift last night.”

  “Who?”

  “You think he checked in with me first?”

  “Was anyone hurt?”

  “The operator’s got a fat lip, and his wallet’s missing. It could have been a hell of a lot worse if he’d missed a call and sent a couple of trains together. How would you explain that one, Runyon?”

  “I don’t have to, Eddie. I didn’t rob him.”

  “It’s high time Bonnie and Clyde were shut down before they destroy the entire line.”

  “Got it, Eddie,” he said, lighting a cigarette.

  “Get over to Albuquerque and see what you can come up with.”

  “There’s a highwheeler coming through about ten. I’ll catch it over.”

  “You got those copper thieves yet?”

  “Closing in, Eddie. I’ll check that Albuquerque thing and get back to you,” he said, hanging up.

  * * *

  At ten, Hook waited on the platform as the highwheeler came to a stop. He sho
wed his pass to the conductor and worked his way to the back of the car. The train wasn’t the Super Chief, the most glorious ride on the line, but it was good enough to get him there and provide him a nap along the way.

  He’d called the lieutenant’s number and left a message about the robbery. Whether she’d come or not he didn’t know. He had mixed emotions about it anyway. Working a case with someone else cramped his style. And he couldn’t shake the feeling that she knew more than she was sharing.

  Just then the kid across the aisle spotted Hook’s prosthesis. He stuck his finger into his nose and whispered something to his mother.

  “Hush,” she said, squaring him back into his seat.

  Hook rolled up his jacket and lay his head on it. The clack of the wheels soon lulled him to sleep. When he awakened, the woman and the little boy were gone. In their place an old man snored beneath his paper.

  * * *

  When the train slowed for Albuquerque, Hook checked his watch. The second trick would be on now. With luck, the same operator would be working the shift.

  When he stepped off the train, the lieutenant waved at him from across the platform.

  “Well,” she said, moving up beside him. “We meet again.”

  He took her by the arm and guided her through the crowd. She smelled of soap, and her heels clicked on the brick platform. They moved behind the baggage cart and out of the way of the crowd.

  “You think it’s them?” she asked.

  “Can’t be certain, but it sounded like it might be our corporal and his girlfriend.”

  “My commander’s anxious to get this guy rounded up,” she said. “The army isn’t happy about one of its soldiers looting his way across country.”

  “The operator will be busy until the train departs. Let’s grab a cup of coffee.”

  “Alright,” she said.

  They found a booth near the back of the café. The lieutenant ordered an RC Cola and settled her purse in next to her. Through the window, they could see the passengers boarding the highwheeler. The service crew milled around the engine with their oilcans. One of the crew set a blue flag and then crawled beneath the engine.

  “What’s the flag?” she asked.

  “The engine can’t budge as long as that flag is there, and no one is permitted to move it except the guy under the engine. Even at that, crawling under a live locomotive isn’t the most comfortable thing in the world.”

  “What’s he doing under there?” she asked.

  “Checking bushings for the most part,” he said. “These old steamers require a good deal of attention.”

  She folded a napkin and set her drink on it. “So how’s Mixer?”

  “Scrap says he’s sucking eggs,” he said.

  “Is he?”

  “The evidence is circumstantial, though Scrap makes little distinction between that and hard facts.”

  “And what do you think?”

  “Well, it’s true Mixer’s weight gain is unexplained. But I prefer to give him the benefit of the doubt until proven otherwise.”

  “He’s earned your loyalty?” she said.

  “Mixer? He’s earned nothing but my suspicion.”

  The man crawled from beneath the engine and removed the flag. By the time the highwheeler released her brakes, the platform had emptied of passengers. The conductor signaled a go, and air shot from the brakes. The engine chugged out of the station.

  “Well,” he said. “You ready?”

  She finished her drink and pushed it aside. “Let’s go.”

  * * *

  The operator touched his fat lip and rolled his chair back. He crossed his legs and bobbed his foot.

  “Yeah, I’m the guy,” he said with a lisp. “A man and a woman showed up here late in the night. The man had a rifle big as a cannon, and the woman kept blowing these boobles.”

  “Boobles?” the lieutenant asked.

  “You know, gum,” he said. “I hate that.”

  “Oh, bubbles,” she said.

  “Did anyone else see these two?” Hook asked.

  “They waited until the depot emptied,” he said. “I think they hid in the bathroom or something. First thing I know this bastard has a rifle pointed in my face. ‘Give me your cash,’ he says, ‘or I’ll blow your eyebrows off.’”

  “And you gave it to him?” she said. “Because they are the only eyebrows you have.”

  “No, I’ve another pair in my locker,” he said. “So, I gave him what cash I had in the box. But then he says, ‘Now your wallet.’ And I says, ‘That’s my paycheck you’re taking, mister.’ And he says, ‘You been sitting on your ass while the rest of us been fighting Germans, so divvy up.’ And the girl laughs, see, and blows a booble big as her goddang head.

  “So I says, ‘Hadn’t been for me, you’d been walking to the war,’ and that’s when he smacked me.”

  “Did they have a car?” the lieutenant asked.

  “He told me to keep my head down for five minutes, or he’d come back. I didn’t see nothing.”

  “You’ve reported this to the local police?” Hook asked.

  “They came by and took a statement, but they’re too busy giving out traffic tickets to worry about robberies on railroad property.”

  “Anything else you’d like to add?” Hook asked.

  The operator touched his lip. “Not in front of the lady.”

  “Thanks,” Hook said. “We’ll be in touch.”

  “Wait for me in the car,” she said, as they started to leave. “I’ll only be a second.”

  * * *

  Hook sat in the staff car waiting for her to come from the depot. June bugs circled the streetlight, and the day’s heat slipped away in the desert evening.

  He moved the lieutenant’s briefcase to the side and lit a cigarette. The case, made of heavy cowhide, had been riveted at the seams, and the handle reinforced with extra layers of leather.

  After checking the door of the depot again, he opened the briefcase and retrieved a file folder. In it he found a single sheet of paper with a notation that read, “Deliver J.B. as scheduled on the 7th. Departure, 0100 hours. Secure all points.”

  * * *

  “What do you think?” the lieutenant asked, sliding in.

  “That’s our couple, alright,” he said.

  “And we haven’t heard the last of them, have we?” she said.

  “They’re gutsy but green,” Hook said. “It’s a combination prime for mistakes. In the meantime, we can only hope no one gets hurt.

  “Are you going back tonight?” he asked.

  “In the morning,” she said.

  “I’m staying in the sleeping rooms. Thought I might do a little book scouting tomorrow. On the way over, I spotted an estate sale in the paper. It’s the early bibliophile who gets the book. You wouldn’t care to come along, would you?”

  “I think not,” she said. “I’ve some things that need attention.”

  “There’s this Mexican restaurant,” he said. “I try never to miss it. Would you like to eat?”

  “Thanks, anyway, but I’d be glad to drop you off.”

  “Okay,” he said. “I’d appreciate it.”

  Hook gave directions and watched the sun lower on the horizon.

  “By the way,” he said. “I hitched a ride into town with one of the new guards at the tunnel, Severe I think was his name. Nice kid but inexperienced. You did say both guards worked in the motor pool?”

  She turned into the parking lot and pulled up. “That’s right. They had men to spare, I guess.”

  Hook got out and leaned back in the window.

  “Thanks, Lieutenant.”

  “You will contact me if something comes up in the meantime?”

  “If I hear anything,” he said, “I’ll let you know.”

  * * *

  The adobe walls of the café extended into a courtyard at the rear. The waitress led him to a table shaded by an arbor. Sunlight darted through the vines and played on the table. The aromas fr
om the kitchen wafted in on the breeze.

  He would have preferred to not eat alone, but he never missed a chance for a good meal if he could help it. Living in a caboose and eating out of cans made one appreciate fine food. This restaurant provided exactly what he had in mind.

  He ordered Mexican beer, which arrived in a frozen mug rimmed with margarita salt and a slice of lime.

  When the food came, he sat back and took it in. There were beef enchiladas swimming in melted cheddar, refried beans and rice, all topped off with a nest of shredded lettuce and tomato. On the side were sliced jalapeño peppers, salsa, queso blanco, a basket of chips, and a warmer stacked full of corn tortillas. When finished, he topped the whole thing off with sopapillas and honey.

  Outside the restaurant, he lit a cigarette and watched the moon slide over the city, a perfect evening for a short walk back to the sleeping rooms. Tomorrow, he would get in a little book scouting. A railroad bull had few vacations, and detective work never ended at quitting time. He’d learned long ago that he had to take his enjoyment where and when he could, and the only thing he liked better than a great meal was a great book find.

  * * *

  The next morning, Hook dug the city map from his back pocket and checked the address. The house, a frame bungalow, sat in the middle of a modest neighborhood. A single outbuilding leaned to the left, and the yard had degraded into its natural state. Cars lined both sides of the street, and pickers made their way across the yard.

  Some of his best finds came from the most unlikely places. He figured this to be the home of a widow. She probably lived here alone for twenty years after her husband died and took the opportunity to do exactly what she’d always wanted to do. In that little house was everything she had owned, but also, more importantly, those things she’d always dreamed of having. Married people sometimes made sacrifices for each other, putting their own wants and needs last.

  He preferred estate sales to auctions, everything set out and priced by someone who most often didn’t have a clue about value. By the end of the day, there would be nothing left but the ironing board.

  The tiny house churned with people digging through the hundreds of boxes that were stacked about on tables. The prices had been marked in red crayon, and a lady in rimless glasses took money near the door.

  Hook worked his way through the crowd. Now and then he stopped and examined the contents of a box. The house smelled of burnt toast and old clothes, and the windows were gray with dust and grime. A few pictures were leaned against the wall, including one of Jesus ascending into heaven, another of the Last Supper, and yet another of Jesus breaking loaves.