Two Trains Running

by Andrew Vachss

  “So,” he said.

  “I want you to know I appreciate this,” Shalare said. “I feel we’ve a lot to discuss, you and me. And I’m thinking, Royal Beaumont is a man you want to talk with face to face, not over some phone, or through intermediaries.”

  “As I would have thought of you.”

  “You’ll forgive my bluntness, then,” Shalare said. “I wouldn’t have you think me impolite, or without proper respect. But I know your time is valuable. So, with your permission, I’ll lay out my cards, and let you tell me if you think I’ve got a hand worth playing.”

  * * *

  1959 October 06 Tuesday 16:33

  * * *

  “I’ll just wait here,” Dett said, tilting his head in the direction of the armchair in the living room. “Okay?”

  “Perfect,” Tussy said, and walked out of the room.

  Dett was halfway through a cigarette when Tussy came back, carrying a pink blanket. Without a word, she curled up on the couch, and pulled the blanket over herself.

  Fireball immediately launched himself onto the couch, nestling himself at her feet.

  “I think that’s why they call them ‘catnaps,’ ” Tussy said, closing her eyes.

  * * *

  1959 October 06 Tuesday 16:58

  * * *

  “There’s going to be an election next year . . .” Shalare said. Getting no response from Beaumont, he went on, “The biggest one in the history of this country, from where we sit.”

  Beaumont said nothing.

  Those eyes of his, they look like the sky just before it rains, Shalare thought. “We’ve all got a stake in this one,” he said. “Yes, sure, we all have a stake in every one, but this one, it’s going to change . . . business, for all of us. Forever.”

  Beaumont raised his thick eyebrows, but stayed quiet.

  “That is, of course, if the right man wins. It’s my job to see that he does.”

  “Your job?” Beaumont said.

  “Ah, you’re right to put me in my place,” Shalare said, with a self-deprecating smile. “It’s not my job to make such a grand thing happen, of course. It’s my job to do my part. To do what I can do. Whatever I can do. There’s people all over this country—all over the world, truth be told—that have the same job. The trick is to make sure all the horses are pulling in the same direction, so that none of us cancel out the others.”

  “That would be quite a trick,” Beaumont said.

  “Aye. But it’s one that can be done, provided each man sees what’s in it for himself. And for his people, of course.”

  “And that’s your job? To tell me what’s in it for me and my people?”

  “It is.”

  “What are you looking for, exactly?” Beaumont asked.

  “Well, the simple answer is . . . votes. Not local votes—we don’t care who’s the next mayor or city councilman or governor, even. The only thing we care about is the presidential race.”

  “What makes you think I could—?”

  “Because you do,” Shalare interrupted. “Your machine runs this town like the engine in my car. You built it, you maintain it, and you control it.”

  “Are we still taking about votes here?”

  “That’s my point, Mr. Beaumont—”

  “Roy.”

  “And I’m Mickey,” Shalare said, bowing his head slightly to show his appreciation of the gesture. “And it’s only votes we’re talking about. Not the casinos, not the clubs, not any of the . . . enterprises that your people control. Rightfully control, I might add. A man’s entitled to the fruits of his labor.”

  “There’s some around here who don’t agree with you.”

  “I’ll get to that, I promise. But let me just finish—about the votes, I mean. We need every single one, Roy. Come election day, we can’t allow anyone inclined to go our way to stay home. And we won’t be encouraging visits to the polls by any of those who might be opposed, either.”

  “It’s not going to be a landslide,” Beaumont said.

  “Right you are! And that’s why I’m here, hat in hand, to ask you for this special favor.”

  “Exactly . . . what?”

  “Exactly? I’ll tell you exactly, Roy. This is a Republican town, isn’t it? On paper, anyway.”

  “On paper?”

  “Well, if someone was to take a poll, right? The local Republican club is the power in Locke City. Everything gets run out of there. The mayor’s a Republican, the—”

  “And it would be better, for this one election, if they weren’t?” Beaumont cut in.

  “Much, much better,” Shalare said, not smiling. “And that’s where your organization comes into play. Sure, you’ve got the judges, the city council, the mayor. But they’re not what we’re after. To Mr. Royal Beaumont, those are just chess pieces. You’ve got the ward healers, the precinct captains, the ground-level troops. You’ve got them all. Not that tool Bobby Wyeth. You. On your payroll, in your debt, following your lead, because that’s the way it’s always been done, here. What we need is for this whole area to turn around.”

  “Vote Democratic?”

  “For this one election only,” Shalare said, leaning forward.

  “That’s a huge effort.”

  “Yes. Way beyond our reach. But not beyond yours, Roy. You could make it happen. Especially if you started laying in the foundation right now.”

  “Even so, it would cost a fortune, in time and money. Because, from what you’re saying, I don’t think you want to leave this up to speeches and posters.”

  “That’s right. We need the voting machines to work properly, too,” Shalare said, flatly. “But the more the final tally reflects how people in the area actually know they voted, the less . . . attention is drawn.”

  “So, all over America, there’s men like you meeting with men like me,” Beaumont said, nodding his head thoughtfully.

  “There are. There are areas of entrenchment we can rely on, we believe. The people in power there, they’re already committed to our side. Nothing but gold and gravy for them if things come out right. Each side can count heads. And each is going to try and poach off the other’s land.”

  “Politicians poach with promises.”

  “And they all make the same ones,” Shalare agreed. “That’s why our strategy is to go right into the heart of those places the opposition isn’t going to waste any time or money on. Places where they believe they already can count on the vote.”

  “Locke City.”

  “Not just Locke City, Roy. We know your reach goes out way past the city limits.”

  “You may be giving me too much credit.”

  “More likely, you’re giving us too little. No offense, but we’ve done our homework, too.”

  “It’s a massive move you’re proposing.”

  “We’ve no dispute about that, Roy. But this game is worth the candle, no matter if it’s all burnt by the end.”

  “More like a stick of dynamite than a candle, Mickey.”

  “I’ve had those in my hands, too. They work just fine, so long as you throw them quick enough.”

  “And accurately.”

  “Yes. That’s why we wouldn’t even try this area without going to the man who controls it.”

  “Like I said before, there’s those who seem to have a different idea. Or a different ambition, I should say.”

  “Dioguardi,” Shalare said.

  “I would have put you on that same list,” Beaumont retorted, calm-voiced. “You’ve been coming from different directions, is all.”

  “We’ve never interfered in any of your—”

  “No. No, you haven’t. And, now that you’ve laid out your cards, I can see why you’ve been buying up people in the statehouse.”

  “And I’ll not deny it,” the Irishman said. “But it was never the plan to try and move in on—never mind take over—your operations. Hell, man, when it comes to this part of the state, I’d rather have Royal Beaumont in my corner than the governor himself
.”

  “That’s what they told you, was it?”

  Shalare took a sip of his drink, then raised his eyes to Beaumont’s. “That is what they said, for a fact,” he said, frankly. “We thought there was a hierarchy of some kind. A pyramid, like. So, of course, you start at the top, if you can. But we found out, soon enough, that this state isn’t one pyramid, it’s a whole row of them. And when it comes to picking your pyramid, you don’t look for the tallest one, you look for the one with the broadest base, the one that’s been standing the longest. Because that’s the one that’ll weather any storm.”

  “That’s on the money,” Beaumont said. “No matter who wins, we’ll still be standing at the end. So what good would it do me and mine for your man to win the next election? It wouldn’t change anything around here.”

  “Ah, that’s exactly it! You don’t want things to change around here. And we’re in a position to help you see that through.”

  “That brings us back to Dioguardi, doesn’t it?”

  “I do mean Dioguardi. But I don’t mean it as you think I do. We both understand that Dioguardi doesn’t stand among his men as you do among yours. If he vanished like this,” Shalare said, making a hand-washing motion, then flinging his hands apart, “his people would just put another pawn on the table, and keep the game going. We can reach past him. In fact, we already have.”

  “The men he recently . . . lost. That was your work?” Beaumont said.

  Oh, this man is a master of his trade, Shalare thought to himself. “It was not,” he replied, sincerely. “We’ve no idea what that was about, but it has nothing to do with this conversation. When I say we reached past Dioguardi, I mean all the way to the people who sent him to Locke City in the first place.”

  “Reached past him for what?”

  “For a lesson in reality,” Shalare said. “As of the minute I walk out your door, Dioguardi’s intrusions into your affairs are going to stop. Not slack off, not change target—stop. As if they hit a brick wall.”

  “When I was a kid, there was a guy, for a dollar, he’d run right into a brick wall,” Beaumont said. “Butt it with his head like a ram.”

  “Probably ended up with mush for a brain,” Shalare said.

  “Yeah,” Beaumont said. “That’s exactly what happened to him. He started out stupid, and he got stupider. Only thing is, he kept right on doing it . . . butting that wall.”

  “I must be missing your meaning, Roy.”

  “This guy, the one who rammed the wall? He kept right on doing it, usually when he was drunk. Until, one day, he must have hit the wall wrong. Dropped dead, right there on the spot.”

  “Ah.”

  “See, before this guy got all mushy in the head, he thought he could keep hitting that wall forever, and nothing would happen to him,” Beaumont said, speaking slowly and deliberately. “Then, when his brain turned soft, he wasn’t smart enough to stop. Oh, you could get him to stop temporarily. But, soon as he got drunk, he’d go right back to it.”

  “Dioguardi’s bosses, they want this as bad as mine do,” Shalare said, underscoring his understanding.

  “So you came here to tell me Dioguardi’s going to back off until the election . . . ?”

  “He’s not going to be a problem for you, Roy,” Shalare said. “Not now, not ever. And we’ll give you any assurances you want on that score. Any at all.”

  * * *

  1959 October 06 Tuesday 17:29

  * * *

  Tussy awoke to find Dett still in the armchair, watching her. He looks like he hasn’t moved a muscle, she thought, finding the feeling oddly comforting. “That was just what I needed,” she said, throwing off the pink blanket, so that it landed across Fireball. The big cat struggled out from underneath, gave Dett an annoyed look, as if the entire episode had been his fault, and marched off.

  “You feel better?” Dett said.

  “I feel great,” Tussy said, stretching her arms over her head. “Sometimes, when I’m feeling just . . . beat, I take one of my little naps, and it always works.”

  “Your cat didn’t seem too thrilled.”

  “Oh, Fireball thinks this is his couch. But I never take naps in the bed. That’s too much like sleeping. When I use the couch, I never seem to sleep long, even without an alarm clock.”

  Dett got to his feet.

  “Are you sure you want to drive all the way back to the hotel just to change clothes?” Tussy asked. “It’s . . . why, it’s after five. I never realized. . . .”

  “I didn’t, either. The time, I mean. I wish I could stay here. . . .” Dett’s voice fell into a pit of such despair that Tussy felt the vibration as it landed.

  “Well, you certainly don’t have to get all dressed up just to go to a drive-in movie, Walker. I’m not going to change. I mean, I am going to take a shower, but I’m not going to get into a dress or anything.”

  “I want to do the same thing.”

  “The same . . . Oh, take a shower? Well, you could do that here, couldn’t you?”

  “I . . . I never thought of that. But I . . . I mean, I . . . I don’t have fresh clothes to change into, not with me.”

  “Well . . . all right, then,” Tussy said. She stood on her toes, kissed Dett lightly just to the side of his lips. “I’ll see you later, okay?”

  * * *

  1959 October 06 Tuesday 17:31

  * * *

  “I wonder,” Beaumont said. “You’re not just doing a job, are you, Mickey?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “When people spend money, it’s either a purchase or an investment.”

  “Aye. And, if you’re asking me, is Mickey Shalare some sort of mercenary, the answer is no. I’ve got—all my people have got—a huge stake in this.”

  “Yes?” Beaumont said, inviting an explanation.

  Shalare took a slow, deliberate sip of his drink. “Yes,” he said, evenly, rejecting the offer.

  “Have you ever been beat down?” Beaumont asked, suddenly. “Getting pounded on so bad, by so many people, that you can’t hope to win?”

  “Aye,” the Irishman said, gravely.

  “So, when I tell you that, sometimes, the best you can hope for is just to get one in, you know what I’m talking about, don’t you?”

  “I do.”

  “And it doesn’t matter if you walk away afterward,” Beaumont said. “Look at me, Mickey; how long do you think it’s been since I could walk at all? It doesn’t matter if you crawl, just so long as you survive. Stay alive, so, someday, you can return the favor.”

  “ ‘Getting your own back,’ we call it,” Shalare said, holding his glass in a silent toast to a shared value.

  “And we call it ‘payback,’ ” Beaumont said, raising his own glass. “But it doesn’t matter what something’s called, only what it is. Have you ever just . . . nourished yourself with that thought, with only that thought? ‘Getting your own back’?”

  “Sometimes,” Shalare said quietly, “it was more than food and drink to me. Without it, I would have starved.”

  “I must have some Irish blood in me, then,” Beaumont said, solemnly.

  * * *

  1959 October 06 Tuesday 18:12

  * * *

  Rufus didn’t change out of his bellhop’s uniform when his shift was over. Though acknowledging the truth of what Moses had told him—he had, in fact, never seen a white man in the basement of the hotel—he reasoned that even a chance encounter with any of the white staff would go unnoticed if he was in uniform. Makes us look even more alike to you, he thought, as he made his way down the back stairs.

  Walking past the kitchen, Rufus heard the the intimate caress of Charles Brown’s sultry voice drifting out of the radio, crooning his signature “Black Night.” “Oh, Charles!” a kitchen worker implored him, to the rich laughter of her girlfriends.

  Moses was in his chair, his pipe already working.

  “Leave it open,” he said, as Rufus entered. “People see a closed door, they got to
find out what’s on the other side of it. We keep our voices down, with these walls, might as well be in a different town, all anyone could hear. Besides, this way, we see them coming.”

  Nodding his head at the wisdom, Rufus glanced around the room, not saying a word.

  “Ain’t got no other chair,” Moses said. “But you could probably get something to sit on out of the—”

  “I can stand, say what I got to say.”

  “Go ahead, then.”

  “It’s about Rosa Mae.”

  “What about her?”

  “I got feelings for her. Not what you think,” Rufus said, holding up his hand as if to ward off those same thoughts. “I got . . . I’m deep in love with her, and I told her so.”

  “So what you need to talk to me about?” Moses said, puffing slowly on his pipe.

  “Rosa Mae’s got no father. Not even one of those Christmas daddies, come around once a year, bring some presents, get a fuss made over them, and then go back to their trifling little hustles. So, when I told her if she had a real father I would go and talk to him first, she said I should talk to you.”

  Moses drew on his pipe again, his body language that of a man waiting for something. A patient man.

  “I know she wasn’t just . . . messing me around,” Rufus said. “Everybody here knows you just like her father. Look out for her and all, I mean. And she listens to you like a father. Respects you like one, too. So . . .”

  “So I’m like a roadblock you need to run, that about right?”

  “No, sir. Not something to get around, that isn’t what I was saying. I mean, I got to show you something, same way any man would have to show a girl’s father something.”

  “Not many young men think like that, not today.”

  “Not many young black men think at all. All they want to do is get themselves some fine vines, a sweet ride, and tear it up on Saturday night.”