* * *
“Rosa Mae, what is wrong with you, girl? You look like you seen a ghost.”
“Not a ghost, Rufus. A mojo. A powerful one.”
“What you—?”
“In the gentleman’s room.”
“Eight oh nine?”
“Yes! I finished cleaning his room, just like I’m supposed to. And then, like the fool you made me be, I opened his big suitcase. It wasn’t locked or anything. And the second I opened it, I could see why. You know what a mojo is, Rufus?”
“Yeah. Hoodoo nonsense is what it is.”
“No, it’s not,” the young woman said, vehemently, almost hissing the words. “It’s like one of those conjure bags you wear around your neck, to keep evil spirits off you. Only this one, it was real powerful. I could tell.”
“I thought you was a Christian woman, Rosa Mae,” Rufus scoffed, trying to soften her fear.
“I am,” she said, staunchly. “I have been baptized, and I have been saved. But that doesn’t mean I don’t know things. Things my granny told me when I was just a little girl, before I ever come up here. I never saw one myself, not before. But I know about the barbed wire around the hands. That’s a protection mojo, Rufus.”
“So you saw this thing and—”
“And? And I slammed down the lid so quick I scared myself! I got my cleaning things and I got out of there.”
“You didn’t put it back where you—?”
“Rufus, are you crazy? I never touch it.”
“Probably just some souvenir the man picked up somewhere. He’s a traveling man, could have been anywhere.”
“I never heard of a white man having anything like that. You could only get them way down in the Delta, my granny said. Or over to Louisiana. Special places, where they know how to work roots. Places like that, they wouldn’t be selling no souvenirs, Rufus.”
“Maybe he stole it, then.”
“You can’t steal a mojo! You know what happens if you do that?”
“What?”
“I . . . I don’t know, exactly. But I know you can’t do it.”
“Rosa Mae, did you find out anything?”
“I done told you what I found,” Rosa Mae said. “And I promise you, Rufus Hightower, I’m never doing nothing like that again, not ever.”
* * *
1959 September 30 Wednesday 18:29
* * *
Dett circled the block three times, marking the pattern of the streets, weighing the odds. He was in his shirtsleeves, suit jacket next to him on the front seat; his heavily armed coat was locked in the trunk. Full darkness was a couple of hours off, and Beaumont had told him the man he wanted only showed up much later in the evenings, in the seam between the dinner crowd and the nighthawks.
Dett turned onto Fourteenth Street, a black asphalt four-lane, divided by a double white line. As he pulled up to a light, a candy-apple ’55 Chevy slid alongside. The driver revved his engine in neutral, a challenge. Dett nodded in satisfaction at the assumption that the Ford he was driving belonged to some kid. He pressed down the clutch, slipped the floor shift to the left and down, and accepted the offer.
The Chevy took off a split second before the light turned green, but Dett’s Ford caught up before the first-to-second shift . . . which Dett deliberately missed, his engine roaring impotently as the Chevy went through the next light on the green.
To avoid having the Chevy’s driver offer him a rematch, Dett quickly turned off the main drag and made his way back to the pawnshop.
Just like the man promised, Dett said to himself, absently patting the dashboard of the Ford.
* * *
1959 September 30 Wednesday 19:31
* * *
“Good evening, Mr. Dett,” Carl greeted him an hour later. “It’s been amazingly warm for this time of year, don’t you think?”
“Well, I couldn’t say,” Dett replied. “I’m not from around here. Were there any messages while I was out?”
“I’m not sure, sir,” Carl said, lying. “Let me check.” He retrieved the key to 809, said, “Were you expecting anything in particular, sir?”
Dett answered with a negative shake of his head.
“Well, if there’s anything you want me to keep an eye out for . . .”
“I don’t think so,” Dett said. “Thanks, anyway.”
“Is there anything I can tell you about our town, Mr. Dett? I’ve often said that an establishment like the Claremont should have a proper concierge, but our manager always says he could never find anyone who knows Locke City the way I do,” Carl said, permitting himself a self-deprecating little laugh. “Of course, we have a wonderful kitchen, quite first-class, but the menu isn’t as . . . varied as some more sophisticated travelers seem to prefer. Especially if you’re going to be with us for—”
“Do you have any Korean restaurants in town?”
“Korean? Well, I must say . . . that’s the first time I’ve ever been asked that one. I’m sorry to say no, Mr. Dett. We have a number of decent Chinese restaurants, and one Japanese place that just opened, if you are partial to Oriental cuisine, but . . .”
“How about French?”
“French?” said Carl, ever alert for double-entendre. But an instinct honed over a thousand encounters convinced him there hadn’t been a trace of it in Dett’s question. “I should say so. Chez Bertrand is a lovely place: four stars, without a doubt. Would you like me to make a reservation for—?”
“That doesn’t sound like the sort of place a man goes to alone,” Dett said.
“Well, one never knows,” Carl said, raising an eyebrow a millimeter.
“You’re right about that,” Dett said.
“Very good, sir. You just let me know.”
* * *
1959 September 30 Wednesday 19:41
* * *
Dett ordered dinner from room service. The steak came medium-rare, as he had requested. The green beans were firm, with a little snap to them as he bit down. The baked potato was in its skin, slit down the center, slathered with butter.
It took Dett more than an hour to finish his meal, washing down each fully masticated mouthful with a measured sip from one of the three Cokes he had ordered.
Dett got to his feet and stood by the window, watching the night. He smoked two cigarettes, spaced twelve minutes apart, cupping his hands each time he struck a match, shielding the red tip in his palm whenever he took a drag.
Glancing at his watch, he emptied what he estimated at about four more shots of the Four Roses into the sink, running hot water behind it. He opened his Pullman, carefully removed the mojo, and transferred it to his smaller suitcase.
Dett put his tray outside the door, hung the “Do Not Disturb” sign over the knob, and turned off all the lights in his room. In the darkness, he removed all the weapons from his overcoat and returned them to their custom housings. He slipped his derringer into the side pocket of a blue denim jacket, worn over a black-and-red lumberjack shirt and faded jeans. On his feet were heavy, rubber-soled electrician’s boots.
Turning the radio dial until he found a station with a mature-sounding DJ, Dett adjusted the volume down to bedside level. He cracked the door, then stepped out into the empty corridor and headed for the staircase.
Dett stepped out the side door on the first floor and into the night. He walked to the pawnshop in under thirty minutes; there he stood in line behind a tired-looking woman and a young man with pronounced hand tremors.
“How late are you open?” he asked the man behind the counter, after the place had cleared.
“Midnights, except for Fridays and Saturdays.”
“You close early then?”
“Don’t close at all then,” the man said, adjusting his eyeshade. “We do some of our best business in that slot. Always got at least one other man with me, sometimes two.”
“If you’re closed when I want to bring the car back . . .”
“Just park it right out front. Or as near as you can get to it. I live up
stairs. And I don’t sleep much.”
“I’m not worried about somebody stealing it, I just—”
“—don’t want it on the street,” the pawnbroker said. “I got it. I’ll take care of it.”
“I only have the one set of keys.”
“I can take care of that, too,” the pawnbroker said.
* * *
1959 September 30 Wednesday 22:07
* * *
The diner was a chrome-and-glass rectangle, standing in its own glow like a frontier outpost. The parking lot was almost empty, randomly sprinkled with a few cars and a single pickup. Dett backed the Ford into a remote corner, outside the spray of light from the windows.
“He always covers the same route,” Beaumont had told Dett. “But not always in the same order. Thursday nights, he’s going to hit Armand’s place; that’s one we know they’ve cut in on for sure. He’s also got—”
“When you say ‘cut in,’ you mean your people have been cut out?” Dett had interrupted.
“No,” the man in the wheelchair said. “Everyone has to get their jukeboxes from us. That’s the way it’s been ever since . . . for a long time. Dioguardi’s people, they’ve been collecting a ‘maintenance fee,’ or a ‘service charge,’ or whatever they think is cute. This particular punk, Nicky Perrini, he tells them it’s ‘rent.’ Don’t ask me why.”
The interior of the diner was a reflection of the parking lot—very few people, no two together. The long counter had only three stools occupied. In the booths strung along the windows, two men were working on solitary meals; one was reading a newspaper, the other staring into some private abyss.
No one looked up at Dett’s entrance. He quickly scanned the interior, noting a sign for the restrooms at the extreme left, and took a counter stool a little more than halfway down the right side. A hundred-record Wurlitzer jukebox sat by itself in the corner, a squat chunk of pulsating neon, waiting for an injection of coins to bring it to life.
Dett took a menu from between a pair of chrome napkin dispensers and laid it flat on the counter in front of him. He let his eyes go out of focus, tuning in to his surroundings.
“What’ll it be?”
Dett looked up, saw a short blond woman in a pink waitress’s uniform with a round white collar and matching white bands on the short sleeves. She had a pert face with plump cheeks, her jaw saved from squareness only by a little sheath of flesh. Her eyes were a startling ocean green; they seemed almost absurdly large on either side of her button nose. Below her right eye was a crescent-shaped scar, dull white against her creamy skin, trailing like a permanent tear. Her mouth was small and lightly lipsticked, her lower lip heavier than the upper.
I’ve got much better clothes than these, leaped unbidden into Dett’s mind. Before he could chase the thought, the counter girl said, “What you want is the lemon pie, I bet.” Her smile sunbursted over him. “It’s what everybody comes here for. At least that’s what I tell Booker—he’s the cook, but I’m the one who makes the pies.”
“The lemon pie sounds perfect,” he said, looking down.
“Money back if not satisfied,” the girl said, nodding her head for emphasis. Her tousled blond curls bounced. “A cup of coffee with that?”
“Yes, please.”
Dett watched her as she walked away. Her arms are so round, he thought, but not fat. They look strong. I’ll bet her legs are—
The sound of the door opening behind him broke his reverie. He shifted his position on the stool, covering the movement by reaching for his cigarettes. Dett immediately dismissed the new arrival—an elderly man in an engineer’s cap—and put the pack of cigarettes back into his jacket pocket.
“See if I’m lying,” the counter girl said, sliding a substantial wedge of pie on a heavy white china plate in front of him.
“I know you wouldn’t lie,” Dett said, before he could clamp his mouth down on the words.
“How could you know something like that?” the girl asked, cock-ing her head and putting one hand on her hip. “Are you one of those people who think they can look in your eyes and—?”
“No. I don’t have any . . . powers, or anything,” Dett said. “Not like that. I mean . . . I could just tell.”
“You don’t even know my name,” the girl said, smiling. “We used to have these nameplates,” she said, red-tipped fingers lightly fluttering over her left breast, “but the pins tore up the uniforms something terrible.”
“My name’s Walker,” Dett said, holding out his hand.
The girl hesitated a second, then reached over and shook his hand, formally. “You have nice manners, Mr. Walker,” she said.
“Way I was raised.”
“Then you weren’t raised around here,” she said, flashing her smile again.
“No . . .”
“What?”
“I was . . . stuck, I guess. I was going to say, ‘No, ma’am,’ but I couldn’t call . . . I mean, you’re way too young to be called ‘ma’am,’ but you’re too old . . . I mean too grown for me to be calling you ‘miss,’ so I was just . . .”
“My name’s Tussy,” she said, flashing her smile.
“Tussy?”
“Well, that’s not my real name, but people have been calling me that since I was a little girl.”
Dett stared at her until he realized his mouth was slightly open. He tightened his lips, said, “Where did you get a name like that?”
“When I was little, I was a tomboy. My mother didn’t know what to do with me. One day, she was telling my dad he’d have to spank me himself because hers weren’t doing any good. But he just said, ‘There’s nothing wrong with our Carol. She just likes a good tussle, that’s all.’ From then on, that was my name, Tussy. Even my teachers at school said it. Tussy Chambers, that’s me.”
“It’s a beautiful name.”
“Well, I like it. But I never heard anyone call it ‘beautiful’ before.”
They must have called you beautiful, Dett thought, then smothered his thoughts as firmly as he had tightened his lips. “It’s . . . unusual,” he finally said. “Different.”
“Pick up!” came a good-natured bellow from the kitchen.
“Milk or cream?” she said, ignoring the noise.
“Black’s fine.”
“Be right back,” the blonde said, over her shoulder.
* * *
1959 September 30 Wednesday 22:19
* * *
Dett stared at the slice of lemon pie, examining it minutely, as if it could explain what was disconcerting him.
The counter girl came into his field of vision and his thoughts at the same time. “You did say black, right?” she asked.
“Thank you, yes,” said Dett. He drank coffee only occasionally, preferring Coke with every meal except for juice at breakfast. When he did take coffee, he always laced it heavily with sugar. He was about to explain . . . something, when he felt the air behind him compress.
“You got the rent?” a voice said. A man’s voice, young and trying too hard.
“Just a minute,” Tussy said. “I’m serving a customer.”
“Yeah? I could use a cup of coffee myself.”
“Then have a seat. I’ll get to you.”
Out of the corner of his left eye, Dett saw a man in his mid-twenties take a stool near the register. He was wearing a one-button gray sharkskin suit, cut too tight to conceal a weapon. Dett’s eyes went to the man’s camel’s-hair overcoat, which he had carefully folded on the stool next to him. Right-handed, Dett thought.
“Here you go,” Tussy said, expertly sliding a cup of coffee onto the countertop in front of Dett.
“Thanks. I—”
She was already in motion, moving toward the man in the sharkskin suit. He said something to her Dett couldn’t make out. Whatever it was didn’t earn him a response, much less one of her smiles. She punched two keys on the register simultaneously, took out a couple of bills, and handed them over. The man in the sharkskin suit pocketed the cash.
“You’re not going to try my pie?” she said, as she walked back toward Dett.
“I was just . . . looking at it,” he told her.
“What good is looking at a piece of pie?” she said, smiling to show she wasn’t being critical.
“It’s part of . . . I don’t know, exactly. You’ve picked flowers, haven’t you?”
“Well, sure I have.”
“But first you looked them over, right?”
“That was to make up my mind,” she said. “There’s lots of flowers, but there’s only that one piece of pie.”
“I—”
“Oh!” she said, blushing. “I’m so dumb. You’re making up your mind, aren’t you? Deciding if it looks good enough to—”
“No!” Dett said, more sharply than he had intended. He mentally bit down on his tongue. “I’m not good at explaining things, sometimes. I was trying to say . . . I was trying to say that it looks so good, I wanted to have that, too. Not just the taste. The whole . . . thing.”
“I think I—”
“Hey!” the man in the sharkskin suit called. “What about that coffee, doll? I got other places I need to be tonight.”
Tussy turned and walked toward the man. But she strolled right past him and into the kitchen. As Dett saw the man’s face darken, he felt his heartbeat accelerate. It’s not supposed to do that, he thought. Not when I’m—
The waitress came back through the swinging doors hip-first. As she passed the man in the sharkskin suit, she quickly placed a cup and saucer on the counter and kept moving, until she was standing in front of Dett again.
“You’re never going to eat that,” she mock-pouted.
“I . . . can’t.”
“Well, why in the world not?”
“Because you can’t talk to a lady with your mouth full.”
The waitress stepped back, as if the changed perspective would give her greater insight into the man before her.
Two Trains Running Page 8
