by Larry Flewin
She was starting to give me a headache, not that I needed another one, but she was changing her story faster than a roulette wheel. Each spin came up with a different angle on the same story, to the point where I was tempted just to take the money and run. She was gambling on me overlooking the flaws in her story by waving a whole lotta moolah around and demanding immediate results. She was at the table with the wrong guy. She obviously needed a heavy to do some legwork, and I was it. My back was feeling a whole lot more naked all of a sudden. That's what you get for owing money around town.
Now I hadn't said too much up to this point, partly because last night was still trying to dynamite its way through my brain, and partly because she was flapping her gums so much, I couldn't get a word in sideways. It was like she was getting paid by the minute and trying to beat the odds by not breathing. And since I was in no condition to return the favour, I decided to let her run with it.
I lit up another Strike and sat back while I thought it over. She still didn't like that. I've had my face slapped a lot of times for a lot of different reasons, but right after breakfast was a new one even for me.
“Must you be rude as well as arrogant?” she snarled. “I'm trying to give you some important information and all you can do is play the fool." There was that temper again, and the accent, Michael sure knew how to pick ‘em. I was hooked and I didn’t even know why.
Then she was on her feet and looking for the way out. “You have everything you need to know. Find him!” And with that she was gone, leaving me sitting pretty, and Stella glaring.
"Hey," I yelled. “How do I get in touch with you."
What she said in return I couldn't repeat in public, and that was that.
I did my best to try to join her, or at least to see which way she was going, but a 300-pound cloud decided to rain on my parade. She had another IOU of mine in one hand, the other hidden deep in her apron pocket. I couldn't tell if she was fingering some iron, or just itchy. I slipped her a pair of tens and didn't wait to count the change. Last I saw she was holding them up to the light.
Out on the street, my slap happy accent had flown the coop. No bullets, no iron lady, no nothing, just a street jammed full of people going about their business. I pushed my way up and down the street, but she had turned invisible. I gave it up after half a block and went back inside to examine the one clue I had.
The key that had so enriched my breakfast was heavy, about 3 inches long, with the words Pacific Northern Railways stamped on it. And a number, Twenty-two. Now even I recognised a locker key when I saw one, I’d jimmied enough of them open over the years. They were the perfect place to hide something on the fly. For only a quarter, and no questions asked, it was the favoured repository for those of us on the run. And wouldn’t you know it, this dusty little burg was blessed with no less than two railway stations, and the Pacific Northern was the closer of the two.
CHAPTER THREE
Seemed like with every piece of luck falling my way, there was a price to pay. Knowing which station to search was one thing but getting there turned out to be another. It was a blazing furnace of morning, hot and bright with steam rising in little wisps over the puddles. My bloodshot rims could barely see past my eyelids let alone down the length of a busy street.
The back of the cab was cool, quiet, and dark as tomb. There was even the scent of fine Havana’s wafting up out of the seat. Guess the last fare had good taste in cigars, and my guy had the good taste to let him smoke one. It only added to the luxury of the moment.
My destination, the Pacific Northern Railway Station was a gigantic stone monster squatting in the centre of town. It was bigger than most banks, owned and operated by a railway that had been around since the dawn of time. Their greatest claim to fame was that they were the seventh or eighth to march across country by rail.
Somehow this gave them a lock on a lot of things locally, especially jobs, the dirty kind where you sweated more than you drank and stole more than you made. Their engines blew more smoke across town than a politician with a good cigar and they were proud of it. I wasn’t a yes sir, no sir, three bags full, kind of guy, but if you wanted work in this town, real work, that’s what that’s what it took.
The front of the station boasted twin revolving brass doors. They spun with a gentle swish to open up onto a whole other world, one that was busy, brash, and full of people.
The station was more than just a jumping off point for passengers and freight. It was more of a home away from home for a lot of people. And lockers were at the centre of it all. People ate, slept, and changed in these lockers, as if turning the key in the lock could somehow change their lives.
Some I knew used the lockers as a business front, talking up a storm with the rubes out in the country, and then coming back into the city to the "office" to finalise the details. It was the sign of a real good con to have three or four deals on the go and only a locker for overhead.
Or, you could lock up your life in one, hop on a train, and just disappear. Accountants seemed to like doing that a lot. I chased one poor sap all the way to the West Coast by train. After he knocked up his secretary, he did the safe and made a run for it. His wife sicced me on to him, and it all came down to lockers. Found his old clothes in a locker, along with a cash receipt for his ticket, and his destination. Accountants, go figure. As if changing your clothes could really change your life.
I nabbed a porter with a face as black as midnight, gave him my best smile and a deuce, and sent him off to get me some smokes. His just reward was to share a couple with me while I gave the mob the once over.
“Lockers really only came in three sizes, suh,” he said, pointing towards the far wall. “They moved ‘em over yonder, next to the platform doors, so’s people can get in and out quick between trains, ‘specially if they’s doin’ some business or changin’ they clothes. Big ones is for suitcases, smaller ones for cases and stuff, and the rest of ‘em like a mailbox. And not thousands of them, suh, ony a coupla hundred or so.” And each of them with their number prominently displayed, so dummies like me could waste a lot of time pushing through the crowd the wrong way.
The back part of the station was a vast waiting area, filled with wooden benches, ashtrays, and dozens of mailboxes, like the inside a bank vault. I took a second to look mine over while I fingered the key in my pocket. Maybe touching it might bring me luck or maybe it was just nerves, but all the same I just couldn't shake that feeling.
Nothing seemed unusual, it looked like all the rest of them. The key fit easy enough, turned on a dime, and opened onto whatever mystery I was being dragged into. You always try to act as if you're expecting to find whatever it is you actually find. And that could be almost anything. A suitcase, socks, cash, books, anything, but they always have something to say, a story to tell.
How do you suppose I caught the accountant? He was careful enough to close out one life and open up another, but he left all his records behind. Once I found them, I found him, hauled his butt out of Oz and all the way back to Kansas, where Dorothy was waiting.
For a moment even I couldn't figure it. The locker was empty. Nothing but dust balls and the smell of something unpleasant. Except way in the back a piece of paper, just lying there, minding its own business. It took me a few moments to decide that this wasn't a practical joke. Couldn't be. Not for the kind of dough I was sitting on. And I'd already had my face slapped. If you know anything about dames like I do, that’s a sure sign you’re on the right track.
I couldn't decide if my breakfast partner was the brains or the messenger, that would come late I calmly reached into the locker, and gently two-fingered it out. It was a dog-eared, yellowed, piece of a newspaper. There was a head and shoulders shot of some flat faced guy with no chin, and thick glasses. Didn’t recognise the face.
The story below the picture described some big event in the old country but didn't say which country or event. Something about him being eminent in his field, an
d how he was facing a bright future and so on. Then it suddenly very got dark, for three reasons, one of which stuck the business end of a large barrelled something into the small of my back.
"We'll take that", said the shadow behind me. It was a deep, solid voice, meaning his jacket was a 46 extra bulky, with shoulders to match. The breath fogging up my right ear smelled like bacon. I could sense the other two shadows, one on each side of me. They had probably breakfasted here, meaning someone knew I was coming. Which meant that my mystery woman had set me up, and that this hunk of paper was worth its weight in gold. Suddenly I was a whole lot more interested in what was going on.
"Easy, boys," I purred”, don’t want to start a ruckus in front of the women and children, do you? Might be bad for your image."
"Might be bad for your health if you don't shut up," growled the size 46. "Mr. P. wants and Mr. P. gets is all I know. So be a good boy yourself and hand over the paper, nice and slow. Otherwise...” He made his point with a sharp jab to the kidneys.
I made with the slow motion, gently easing the paper up with my right, as if to hand it back over my right shoulder. The right hand shadow got it first. A quick elbow to the ribs and he was bent double, gasping for air. This was followed by a solid right to nose of the shadow on the left, a crack that dropped him like a stone. Bacon breath got a quick shove and he fell backwards on top of the fat lady on the bench behind us. She began to scream and then she began to beat him with her purse. I cursed silently. She was going to have every flatfoot in the city here, and I was not in a talking mood.
I stuffed the paper into my coat pocket and made a beeline for the stairs to my right. They led to the main boarding platform behind the station. I figured I could lose the three stooges up there and catch up on my reading. Plenty of people to get in their way, and plenty of places for me to hide.
It was an uphill chase, which literally took my breath away. I had to stop halfway up to get it back. That relief vanished in about a second when bacon breath stopped at the bottom of the stairs. He wasn't exactly built for speed either, but he sure as heck was faster on his feet. We made eye contact, and then I was chugging up the rest of the steps, dodging politely in between people like a good boy scout. The goons made up for lost time by taking the stairs two at a time, pointing the way with their guns. People and luggage flew in all directions.
By the time I reached the top of the stairs they were practically on top of me. I tore past an empty berth, turned right, and headed down the platform of the next one. The train in it was slowly backing out to get ready for its run to wherever. There was still a chance, so I raced after it as fast as shoe leather could move me. With the others hopefully too far behind to catch up, wherever sounded pretty good. Some place where I could read the thing before somebody fed it to me.
Even going backwards steam engines can move at a good clip. And if that wasn't enough, seems they like to let off a little steam every now and then. One minute I'm eyeing the distance to the first car and the next I'm in the middle of a hot, white, fog. Blew me right off my feet. I was up on my feet in a flash, the sound of fast approaching footsteps ringing in my ears. I yanked out my piece, waited until they could see me, and fired a shot into the air just over their heads. They dived for cover. I ran after mine.
There was no time left to stop and think, it was grab the nearest passing handrail, swing myself aboard and try to disappear in a very crowded car. I could deal with the conductor later, in cash. I gave my three companions a cheery little wave as they faded into the distance. They responded in kind, with fewer fingers. Michael would not be happy.
We finished doing whatever it is trains do to get ready and started to pick up speed. Instead of jerking and bumping around like a local hauler, we were roaring forward and gaining time with every puff of smoke. A long low whistle officially announced our departure, which suited me just fine. That was more exercise than I had had in the last couple of years, and I didn't want any more.
My ride to wherever started with me standing in the vestibule, watching the world whiz by. When I was sure I was in the clear, I dusted myself off and straightened my tie. Not that I cared much, but conductors could be real bastards if you gave them half a chance. The train and the people on it were their responsibility, and they took it seriously. Unless you paid them for a little extra service.
I was none the worse for wear, and my suit had survived, my good suit, the only one I had. A good one impressed the hell out of people and got you a good seat near the bar. Mine was payment for services rendered a short time ago. Some nobody tailor down the street had me tailing what he thought was an unfaithful little woman. Turns out he was right, but he couldn't pay me because she'd already blown most of his bankroll.
The suit was one of his best, and fit like a glove, including the extra deep left front. He complained loudly enough when I fingered it off his rack, but who was he to argue. I’d plugged a leak in his bank account so why not plug one in my clothing account.
I didn’t travel much by train, most of my cases were in town. Those few times when I did climb aboard I was hot on somebody’s trail. They were trying to blow town quickly and quietly, and I was being paid to change their minds. Tracking them as easier than it sounded. Conductors had memories like elephants. With the correct bank notes in hand, they could tell me what colour socks to look for, and what station he’d gotten off at.
A last quick look out the vestibule window confirmed we’d left civilisation behind, and that we were heading west. The next stop was a sleepy little backwater about an hour or so down the tracks. I figured I’d get off there, catch the next coal burner back, and pick up where I'd left off, minus the welcoming committee.
Going back meant getting off the train a little early, just in case there was somebody waiting around. There was this long grassy strip about a half mile out of town, the trains ran a little slow at that point. Rather than jump off and pray, I could step off in a fast run. It took careful timing, but if I did it right, and I’d done it before, I ‘d keep my feet and be home in an hour.
That left plenty of time to pay off the conductor, and find the lounge car, a fancy saloon on wheels. I anticipated spending several happy hours watching amber liquids drown in ice. Or so I thought. Seemed like the whole had decided to join me on my little jaunt into the country. The vestibule was at the back of an open car, rows of seats facing each other long a central corridor. There was not a seat to be had, and worse yet, no signs of any ice.
Car after car there was no room at the inn, and still no sign of the guy in charge. He was probably in first class, tipping his hat to the ladies, and checking his pocket watch every ten seconds to announce the time. The tips were fatter, and the clientele a little less inclined to bring their livestock with them.
The fourth car I canvassed was a compartment coach. Instead of rows of seats, there were individual compartments running along an outside corridor, with their own window seats and locks on the doors. With any luck, there would be an empty I could mooch, so I could schlep my way home in reasonable comfort. As I walked along a quick glance through the door windows told me that this inn was just as full as the others.
The first compartment was full of nuns, four black statues holding bibles in their laps, to keep them from running away. And all of them staring hard at whatever page happened to be open, nobody moving so much as an eyebrow. Not even with an ugly sinner like me staring at them.
The next was full of family. Some greaser heading west with his whole life piled up in boxes and bags, a not too pretty wife, and more kids than I cared to count. One is more than I cared to count. He shot a glance at me that was so full of sadness that I went for my wallet without even thinking about it. A couple of bills would go a long way to easing his misery. Then I thought about mine and moved on.
Following that, the earth-bound vision of an angel stopped me dead in my tracks. The shade was drawn on the left and centre windows, but the right was wide open to a gorg
eous set of gams in a tight black skirt and pencil heels. Their owner, stretched out lazily across my line of vision, was working a silver cigarette holder. Clouds of expensive cigarette smoke wafted across the compartment, drawing me like a moth to flame.
Everything about her said money, and lots of it. I stared like a kid outside a candy store, unable to tear my eyes away from the sugary treat inside. Something in the back of my mind began ringing a bell, and ringing it loudly, but I was too busy taking in the sights to answer it. This was the point in the movie when the hero finds out there’s a dame involved, and that she was gonna be trouble in the third reel.
She was trouble alright. Anything looking that good had to be. The few extra seconds I spent drinking in this vision almost got me killed, again. Legs turned her equally gorgeous face towards mine and stared right at me with a look of complete disinterest. She cocked her left eyebrow, shifted position slightly, and blew a cloud of smoke lovingly towards me. My eyes almost popped out of their sockets. It was my brown-haired banker.
How the hell she had managed to get here ahead of me. Not two hours ago she had been drowning her sorrows in a cup of coffee, wrapped in soaking wet casuals. In front of me now was an entirely different person, clothing, makeup and all. Mysteries were one thing, but she was bordering on the magical.
The rich had some pretty funny ideas about things, especially when they wanted unsavoury done. Money was no object so long as they got the results they were expecting. Theft, murder, and infidelity were as much part of their daily lives as a pet dog or a good butler. I was the guy they hired to clean up after them, eyes closed and hands dirty.
They had their usual jealousies and intrigues, but they seemed to be a lot more trigger-happy than most. Came with all that blue blood, I guess. People dropped around them like flies, it was all I could do just to keep up and keep them out of jail. I’d been offered a lot of different things to pretend I hadn't seen so-and-so with a hole the size of a manhole in their gut. Cash and jewellery topped the list but there had been the odd warm body tossed in.
