Dead Man's Tunnel

by Sheldon Russell

  He edged along the wall, keeping in close. When he reached the Dumpster, he squatted down in the shadows to wait. There were two ways out of the alley, through Harry’s kitchen or by him.

  Several minutes passed and then half an hour. Hook shifted his weight and double-checked the safety on his sidearm. Just as he had about given up, he heard movement.

  When the man stepped out, Hook snared his cuff with his prosthesis and dumped him facedown onto the ground. The man moaned, and his fedora flew off. Hook placed his knee on the back of his neck and jabbed his P.38 under his jaw.

  “I don’t know who you are or what you want,” he said. “But I don’t abide a tail. You got something to ask, you got about five seconds to do it.”

  The man struggled to turn over, but Hook leaned in with his knee and cocked the P.38.

  “Time’s expired,” he said.

  “Let me up,” the man said.

  The blow caught Hook across the back and shoulders, and he pitched forward into the alley. He struggled to fill his emptied lungs and to orient himself against his assailant. But his nose took the brunt of the next punch. Blood oozed into the corners of his mouth, and his eyes watered. He shook his head to clear it and could just make out Ben Hoffer standing over him. Hoffer hesitated for a moment to revel in his conquest.

  “Fancy meeting you here, Runyon,” he said.

  Hook had learned the hard way that a man interested in living should never squander an opportunity. He lunged forward, catching Hoffer’s ankle tendon with his prosthesis, snapping it like a rubber band. Hoffer howled and danced about on one leg. Hook jumped up and clipped him with an uppercut. His head popped back, and he slid to the concrete.

  Hook spun about, prepared to take on the tail next, but only his fedora remained behind.

  Hook bent down and lifted up Hoffer’s head. “This time you’re going to jail, Ben,” he said.

  Hoffer muttered something unintelligible.

  Hook leaned over. “Say what?”

  “Lousy yard dog,” he said.

  Hook dropped his head onto the concrete. “Thought that’s what you said.”

  32

  HOOK POURED A cup of Scrap’s coffee and dialed the operator.

  “Give me Value Survey Inc. in Kansas City, please.”

  He lit a cigarette as he waited for the connection.

  “Value Survey,” a woman said. “How may I help you?”

  “This is contracts, Santa Fe Railroad out of Topeka,” he said. “You have one of the survey agreements on our upgrade out of Ash Fork, Arizona. We have a mix-up somehow on your contract. What is the name of your foreman there, please?”

  “One moment,” she said.

  Hook stubbed out his cigarette and rubbed his shoulder. Hoffer had caught him with a solid blow. He was likely to sport a nice bruise by morning.

  “Sir,” she said, coming back on the line. “Our foreman out there is a Mr. Rudy Edgeworth.”

  “I see,” he said. “We’re having a little trouble bringing these forms up to date. Perhaps you could fill in some details for us?”

  “Normally that wouldn’t be a problem,” she said. “But Mr. Edgeworth is a new employee here at Value. We’re still waiting on his paperwork.”

  “You hired him without recommendations?”

  “Men with his skills are hard to find, what with the war,” she said.

  “Yes,” he said. “Of course. Do you not have any information, then?”

  “Well, we have a contact number from the interview if that would be of help?”

  “Yes,” he said. “They’re kicking about the records around here. It’s a real pain trying to please the brass, you know.”

  “Do I ever,” she said. “One moment. I’ll get it for you.”

  * * *

  After taking the number, Hook dialed and waited through four rings.

  “Hello,” a woman said.

  “Hello. This is the Kansas Highway Department. We were needing to hire some men for our new road project, and it’s my understanding that someone at this number might be interested in a surveying position.”

  “My ex-boyfriend is a survey engineer, but he’s gone.”

  “I see. We did have one application, but I don’t recall his name. Perhaps you could describe him.”

  “His name is Alex Gregor,” she said. “From Canada. Big, two forty, maybe bigger. Wears glasses and has hands like catchers’ mitts. Chews tobacco. Disgusting, actually.”

  “Nope. Different guy, but thanks.”

  “If you see the bastard, let me know, will you? The only thing he didn’t take with him were his bills.”

  Hook hung up the phone. Picked it up again and called Eddie Preston.

  “Security,” Eddie said.

  “I didn’t disturb you, did I, Eddie?” Hook asked.

  “A lawyer in Ash Fork took care of that.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He’s claiming the local yard dog beat up his client, a Ben Hoffer. Said he’s got a concussion, and he’s not walking so good.”

  “The son of a bitch jumped me, Eddie. What was I supposed to do?”

  “I see a lawsuit coming, Runyon, and it’s your baby.”

  “I was on duty. The railroad is going to pay for this one, Eddie.”

  “In an alley behind the pool hall? Christ, Runyon, you can’t go around beating up people and expect the railroad to pay for it.”

  “My expectations are pretty low.”

  “Well, expect a Brownie.”

  “Look, Eddie, I’ve got a tail. What the hell is going on?”

  “How should I know?”

  “I don’t like to be tailed.”

  “Have you been stealing books from the library again?”

  “That was a black lie, Eddie. I just forgot to take it back; besides, they don’t tail you for late books.”

  “They said it was a rare first edition.”

  “Coincidence, the bastards.”

  “Exactly why did you call, Runyon?”

  “We’ve got a contractor working under a dead man’s name.”

  “And how would you know that?”

  “It came in a vision, Eddie. How do you think? I’m pretty sure this guy’s name is Alex Gregor instead of Rudy Edgeworth.”

  Hook could see Scrap coming across the yard. He’d developed a slight limp over the years and swung his arm out from his body to balance himself. The limp worsened after Scrap had put in a day on the crane.

  Eddie said, “Check it out before you go stirring things up, Runyon. There are lots of guys out there beating the draft, and engineers are damn hard to come by, you know.”

  “Right,” Hook said. “Look, I need another popcar out here. I can’t check on things without reliable transportation.”

  “I just got you one.”

  “I need one that runs. That’s what reliable means.”

  “Another Brownie and you’re dead, Runyon. There won’t be a thing I can do.”

  “That’s just it, Eddie. I want to be dead.”

  “So long as it isn’t on railroad property,” he said, hanging up.

  * * *

  Hook watched from the window as the sun dropped. The crane, silent for the night, squatted like a giant bird against the sunset. He could wait until tomorrow to track down this Edgeworth thing. Riding that popcar into the desert at night didn’t rank high on his want-to list. But this didn’t smell right, and in this business, a few hours mattered. Unattended, things could fall apart in a hurry.

  He retrieved the jeep keys from his pocket and jangled them on his finger. Maybe he’d just take the jeep instead of the popcar, fill it up with gas; after all, nothing pleased Scrap more than getting something for nothing.

  He shut the office door behind him, climbed into the jeep, and turned on the lights. Nothing happened. He tried the lights again. Nothing. Only then did he notice the headlight beams had lit the top of the crane like a streetlight. He dropped his head against the steering wheel. />
  * * *

  After checking the board for clearance, Hook laid his coat across the seat and cranked up the popcar. She coughed and sputtered, and blue smoke boiled up around him. Mixer clambered aboard and dropped down in the seat. He looked up at Hook, his eyes sad and innocent.

  “No hunting,” Hook said, “or being put down’s going to take on a whole new meaning.”

  Hook checked his watch. He just might make the Kingman siding before the survey crew went to bed. This time, one way or another, he intended to get to the bottom of things.

  The popcar groaned and wheezed as Hook throttled up and onto the main line. The desert sky erupted with stars, and the temperature dropped in the arid night. He lit a cigarette and considered what lay ahead. No one took a dead man’s name unless he had something to hide. So what did Edgeworth or Gregor or whatever his name was have to hide?

  When they dropped into Johnson Canyon, the lantern in the guardhouse window winked like a yellow eye in the night. The popcar gathered up fumes as she coasted toward the trestle, backfired once, and choked down to a crawl. Mixer, seizing the moment, bailed off and within seconds had disappeared into the depths of the canyon.

  “Damn it, Mixer,” Hook said, goosing the engine back to life. The popcar clacked out onto the trestle, the sound of its wheels turning hollow and insubstantial beneath him. Cool air lifted up from the depths like an open grave. And as the popcar moved into the tunnel, Hook took a last look back for Mixer. He’d have to be left, picked up on the way home, and he swore never to bring him along again.

  The noise of the engine, magnified within the confines of boilerplate and solid rock, pierced his ears like shards of glass. The air stank of creosote and grease, and the night stars blinked away. As he hit the curve, he smelled blood and carnage, and Sergeant Erikson’s crumpled remains flashed before his eyes like a photograph. Hook’s skin tightened, and he wished for an end of the tunnel.

  When at last he rolled into the night, he pulled his collar up, lit a cigarette, and, with full throttle, headed on toward the Kingman siding.

  * * *

  Men hung around the bunker cars, smoking and talking. The cook, an older man with eyebrows like steel brushes, came out of the cook’s car and tossed his dishwater into the ditch. He looked up at Hook.

  “You want something to eat, go around back,” he said. “I got a few beans left; otherwise, move on down line.”

  “I’m the yard dog,” Hook said, pulling his badge.

  “Damn my eyes,” the cook said. “Who would’ve thought.”

  “I’m looking for the survey crew.”

  “Survey’s gone,” he said. “These men here are leveling track, when they ain’t lying or bragging, which don’t leave much time for leveling track.”

  Hook worked a sandbur out of the cuff of his pants. “Do you know where survey is?”

  “Don’t know where I am most of the time,” he said. “Best that way, I figure.”

  “Do you know who would know?”

  “Martinez, the foreman, might.”

  “Thanks,” Hook said.

  “I never met no one-armed yard dog before,” the cook said.

  Hook scratched his chin with his prosthesis. “Me neither. Maybe I’ll take you up on those beans before I leave.”

  * * *

  Hook knocked twice on the foreman’s car before it opened.

  Martinez buttoned his shirt over an ample belly. “Yeah,” he said, “I’m the foreman.”

  Hook flashed his badge. “Yard dog out of Ash Fork.”

  “I told these bastards no drinking in town. You get popped,” I said, “don’t come to me for bail.”

  “It’s not that,” Hook said. “I’m looking for the survey crew.”

  “They finished up. We’re wrapped, too. There ain’t a bump no bigger than a knat’s ass between here and Flagstaff.”

  “Survey go home?”

  “Don’t take but a day or two to piss away a paycheck,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck.

  “Give me a call if someone shows up, will you?”

  “We’re moving out,” he said. “Survey ain’t my problem.”

  “Right,” Hook said. “Thanks.”

  Hook stopped at the cook’s car and had a bowl of pinto beans with fatback, corn bread, a green jalapeño, and a glass of buttermilk.

  “Mighty fine eating. You ought to be a chef for the Super Chief, ” he said, pushing back.

  “I’m sticking here,” he said. “These bastards will eat the silverware and call it good.

  “You find out what you needed from Martinez?”

  “He wasn’t much forthcoming,” Hook said.

  “He’s a little sore’s all. The bull over in Tucumcari found a bottle of tequila in his truck. Cost him a Brownie.”

  “They say liquor can ruin a man,” Hook said. “Though it hasn’t been entirely proven.”

  “You might try Frick’s bar in Kingman,” the cook said. “Survey spent their weekends there.”

  “Thanks,” Hook said.

  The cook scrubbed out a pot and set it in the cupboard. “Those boys been stealing from Uncle John?”

  “Sure,” Hook said. “Who hasn’t? But I’m looking for their foreman, Edgeworth.”

  “Rudy Edgeworth?”

  “Yeah.”

  He dried his hands on a dish towel. “You won’t find him in Kingman.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Edgeworth disappeared. I figured his men cut his throat and dumped him in a coal hopper, but Gonzales spotted him walking down the tracks with his suitcase. They had to bring in a new foreman to finish the job.”

  * * *

  Hook cranked over the popcar and waited as she struggled to life. He checked his watch. With Edgeworth gone, he saw no point in going on to Kingman, and he had plenty of clearance time to make it back to Ash Fork if he left now.

  As he headed into the desert, the night turned crystal, and the moon eased above the horizon. Martinez had been right, he’d never known a track to be as straight and flawless as this one. The heat from the popcar engine drifted up, warming his feet, and he tucked his hands into his coat pockets.

  The drone of the engine had nearly lulled him to sleep when suddenly it bumped, caught, and then regained its speed. Hook’s pulse thumped.

  Suddenly, the engine rolled over, a dry and metallic thump, and died. The popcar coasted to a stop, and the night fell quiet as death. Hook tried cranking the engine, but it wouldn’t budge. He checked the fuel tank.

  “Damn it. Empty,” he said, looking down the track.

  He couldn’t be certain where he was, but he remembered passing the Yampai siding not far back. A short haul had been sided there. Maybe he could push the popcar back and get it off the main track.

  It took nearly an hour and all his strength to push the popcar to the siding. Once there, he dropped into the seat and wiped the sweat from his face. The moon rose high overhead, and his shadow stretched out into the right-of-way.

  The cars were old with sagging frames and weathered paint. He rolled a door back on one and found it loaded with sacks of sand. He shook his head. No figuring the railroad. He’d just have to walk, though he’d probably starve or freeze stiff as a drawbar before he got back.

  At that moment, he wished a slow and deliberate death for Eddie Preston. He wished him standing in the Johnson Canyon Tunnel when the Super Chief came through. He wished him handcuffed to Scrap West’s crane or, better yet, to Scrap West himself.

  After buttoning his coat, he headed down the track. He hadn’t gone far when he smelled camp smoke. He paused and searched the darkness. When he spotted the flicker of firelight down line, he crouched and pulled his sidearm. Coming upon a camp at night could be dangerous. But it was on railroad property and his job to check it out.

  33

  UNABLE TO SEE, he slipped in closer. A single man hunkered over the fire, his hat clamped down and his collar up. He might be no more than a runaway boy or a father
looking for work, but he might be a murderer with a straight razor in his sock. Given the unpredictability of the situation, Hook moved with caution.

  The man, large, with sloped shoulders, pulled his makin’s and sprinkled tobacco into a paper. He slid his tongue along the paper’s edge, rolled it over, twisted the ends, and hung it in the corner of his mouth. He lit the cigarette with a stick from the fire, and red embers raced up into the blackness. A bottle sat on a stump next to him.

  When Hook stepped into the light, the man stood.

  “Take it easy, mister,” Hook said. “Thought you might share your camp. I’m froze up.”

  The man drew on his cigarette, and its end glowed in the darkness.

  “You alone?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “Missed the eastbound. Can’t run like I used to.”

  “Redballers,” he said. “Sons of bitches don’t slow for nothing.”

  He walked around the fire, peering into the darkness behind Hook. He turned and sat down on the stump. His fingers, yellowed with nicotine, were as knurled and weathered as tree limbs.

  “You riding the rails?” Hook asked.

  “It’s against the law,” he said. “Where you headed?”

  “I’m traveling east,” Hook said.

  “The Salvation Army’s dried up in Flagstaff,” he said. “Takes an hour’s preaching for a hard bunk and chicken soup.”

  “I’ve logged enough preaching hours for a free pass to heaven,” Hook said. “Can’t say it took.”

  The man rose and tossed a stick onto the fire. His shadow danced in the firelight. He chewed at a nail as he looked Hook over.

  “Traveling men have to take what comes down the track,” he said.

  “Not many care about a man one way or the other,” Hook said, searching for his smokes.

  “Especially no law,” he said. “Saw a cop beat a man to death with a coupler hose back in Amarillo.

  “Have a drink,” he said.

  “I don’t want to be drinking up your whiskey.”

  “Wouldn’t ask otherwise,” he said, handing the bottle to Hook.

  Hook took a pull. “That’s top rung,” he said.

  “Cream of Kentucky,” he said. “Have another? A man what drinks alone is prone to tremors and black thoughts. You’d be doing me a favor.”