Two Trains Running

by Andrew Vachss

  “Right. And that’s why we did it that way, remember? If we left him in the street, like a message, there wouldn’t have been any doubt. Now they can never know the truth, just guess at it. But there was something else, too, Carmine. He wants to go partners.”

  “Let us in?”

  “Not that,” Dioguardi said. “He wants to keep everything here for himself. But he wants to go into the dope business. And he wants us to be the suppliers.”

  “But if we’re pulling out . . .”

  “He thinks we’re coming back. After the elections. He didn’t say it out loud, but that’s what he was thinking. So he figures, he makes a deal with us—for the dope, I mean—there’s no reason for us to come back here, see? Not when we’d be making more by staying away.”

  “Yeah. I guess. But . . . I don’t know, boss.”

  “I do,” Dioguardi said, confidently. “Beaumont’s a big fish in a little pond. And he knows, if we wanted to, we could put enough men together to pave him over like a fucking parking lot. He’s just trying to survive. He can’t blast us out, so he makes a deal for us to leave peaceful. And he can’t keep us out, so he makes another deal, so we stay away. You see what I’m saying?”

  “Yeah. I’m just not so—”

  “You’ll see, Carmine. A couple of years from now, we’ll be making more money out of this burg than we ever could’ve by taking it over.”

  * * *

  1959 October 09 Friday 17:40

  * * *

  The beige Plymouth pulled to the curb. The driver exited, and started walking. When he spotted the stolen Dodge, he changed course, so that he was approaching it from the front.

  “That’s Jody!” Harley said. He reached his hand out the side window and waved a signal.

  The driver climbed in behind Dett and Harley. He reached into his jacket, extracted an envelope, and handed it to Dett.

  “You remembered,” Harley said, approvingly, noting the driver’s gloved hand.

  “I remember everything,” the driver said. His voice was high and thin, but as steady as his hands. “When you get out, I’ll be right behind you. Whichever way you go, front or back, I’ll be there.”

  “We don’t need a getaway man,” Harley said. “This car we’re in, it can’t be traced.”

  “Then leave it where it is,” the driver said. “They won’t be able to trace the one I’ve got, either. And if something goes wrong, they’ll never catch it. I’ll get you to the switch car in the garage, and then I’ll take off. Let the cops chase me, they think they have a chance.”

  “We can handle it,” Harley said.

  “I’m in,” the driver said, gripping the back of the front seat with both hands. “If you don’t want me to drive you, I’ll be the crash car.”

  The men in the front seat were silent, staring out the windshield.

  “I’m bound to do it,” the driver said. “I got to be in on this.”

  “Why?” Dett asked, coldly.

  “He’s Jody Hacker,” Harley explained. “It was his brother Dioguardi’s men killed.”

  “My big brother,” the driver said. “I know some people say he just run off, with the money. They don’t say it to me, but I know they say it, some of them. Mr. Beaumont, he never thought that of my brother, never. He told me my time would come. And this here is it.”

  “You drive,” Dett said.

  * * *

  1959 October 09 Friday 17:53

  * * *

  The dark blue Cadillac sedan turned the corner, picked up by three pairs of eyes.

  “Going around back,” Harley said. “They’ll have to circle the block first.”

  The driver was already out the back door.

  “He’ll be there?” Dett asked.

  “Jody? Bet your life.”

  “Let’s go, then,” Dett said. “Drive over and park as close to the front of the joint as you can, and we’ll walk from there.”

  Harley started the car. “I can’t see any empty space,” he said, anxiously.

  “Double-park,” Dett told him.

  Harley pulled up so they were partially blocking two other cars at the curb. He looked over at Dett. “Okay?”

  “Yeah,” Dett said. He reached into the satchel on the floor between his legs and threw a switch. “We’ve got five minutes.”

  The two men got out of the stolen car and walked to the corner. Harley carried a gym bag. Dett’s gloved hands were empty. They turned the corner and started down the alley just as the Cadillac backed into the space always kept vacant for it. Dett’s left hand went into his outside coat pocket, his right reached under his arm. He stepped into his private tunnel, and the world shifted to slow-motion.

  The driver of the Cadillac got out, and reached for the handle to the back door. Dett drew his .45 with his left hand and shot him in the spine.

  Harley raced toward the rear door of the restaurant.

  Dett wrenched open the back door of the Cadillac and emptied both barrels of his sawed-off shotgun into the two men seated there. The explosion was deafening in the enclosed space.

  Harley threw the restaurant door open and tossed the gym bag inside.

  Dioguardi moaned. Dett shot him in the forehead with his .45. Harley was down on one knee, a pistol in his hand, covering the rear of the restaurant. Dett emptied his .45 into the two men in the back seat, shoved it back into his pocket, and holstered the shotgun, pulling his second pistol loose with his right hand.

  Harley held his position, down on one knee, scanning the area, pistol up and ready.

  Dett reached toward the blood-and-flesh omelet of what had been Dioguardi’s torso. Not the suit jacket—this was on him before he got hit. His left hand quickly probed the lining of the dead man’s cashmere overcoat. . . . Clean! Dett slipped the letter carefully into the inside pocket, then refolded the overcoat so it lay flat on the seat.

  The Plymouth roared up, skidding the last few feet on the brakes. Harley jumped to his feet and ran toward the open rear door. Dett fired three more times as he backed toward the Plymouth. The second he was inside, Jody Hacker stomped the throttle.

  As the Plymouth careened around the corner of the alley, the stolen car parked in front of the restaurant exploded.

  * * *

  1959 October 09 Friday 18:28

  * * *

  “Nobody saw a thing, right, Chet?”

  “It’s not what you’re thinking, Sherman,” the jowly cop said. “Nobody inside could have seen any of this,” gesturing at the fleshy carnage inside the Cadillac. “The kitchen’s a blast zone. Two dead, body parts all over the place. Looks like the place was bombed. Then you got that car that blew up right in front, too. Nobody was even thinking about back here in the alley.”

  “This one got to pull his piece,” Sherman Layne said, pointing to the body next to Dioguardi, “but he never got off a shot. And Sally D., he wasn’t even carrying.”

  “Had to be Beaumont,” the jowly cop said. “He’s the only one around here with this kind of muscle. I always thought he was going to get payback for Hacker. That’s how those hillbillies are.”

  “Uh-huh,” Sherman Layne grunted. He said nothing about the envelope he had taken from the inside pocket of Dioguardi’s cashmere coat.

  “It was a gang hit, all right,” the jowly cop said, in a voice of respect. “A real massacre. Like they used to have in the old days. You think we should go out and talk to Beaumont?”

  “Not just yet,” Sherman said. “He’ll have a cast-iron alibi, anyway. There’s something I want to check out first.”

  * * *

  1959 October 09 Friday 18:49

  * * *

  “Mr. Dett? He checked out this morning,” Carl told the big detective. “Earlier than we expected.”

  “Did he leave a forwarding address?”

  “Let me see. . . . Yes, it’s right here: Star Route 2, Rogersville, Oregon.”

  Same as his driver’s license, Sherman thought to himself. And probably just as rea
l. “Have you rented his room yet?”

  “Yes, sir. To a Mr.—”

  “Never mind,” the big detective said. “I’m sure you give the rooms a thorough cleaning every time a guest checks out. Before you rent them again, I mean?”

  “Well, certainly, Detective. This is the Claremont, after all.”

  As the two men spoke, another man entered the lobby. A drab, anonymous man, with a prominent harelip-repair scar. He took in the scene at a glance, turned on his heel, and went back out.

  * * *

  1959 October 09 Friday 19:11

  * * *

  “That Buick was returned a couple of days ago,” the car-rental clerk told Sherman Layne.

  “Mind if I take a look at it?”

  “Soon as it comes back, Detective.”

  “Somebody rented it?”

  “Half an hour after the guy who had it dropped it off. It was so early, we got two days on it for one. Pretty lucky, huh?”

  * * *

  1959 October 09 Friday 23:13

  * * *

  Why was Dioguardi writing to a man like Ernest Hoffman? Sherman held the envelope carefully, his hands encased in surgical gloves. And what’s with the cutout letters? Looks like a damn ransom note.

  Sherman Layne sat for several minutes, watching his options spin like a roulette wheel. Finally, he took a deep breath, reached into his pocket, took out his penknife, and carefully slit open the envelope.

  * * *

  1959 October 10 Saturday 10:10

  * * *

  “It had to be Beaumont, Sean,” Shalare said. “Nobody else had the cause. Or the balls.”

  “But why?”

  “That’s a puzzler. It could be that he wanted us to know that he’s not going to play.”

  “That makes no sense,” the bulky man said, shaking his head. “Beaumont’s not just a bad actor, he’s a slick article, too. If he’s dealing with the other side on the votes thing, he’d want to be saving that for a surprise, not putting up a bloody billboard, wouldn’t he?”

  “No. No, he wouldn’t. Any chance this was some of Dioguardi’s own people?”

  “A palace coup?”

  “No, not his local people. The Mafia boys.”

  “That’s not their style, either. Why slaughter so many when they could just ask Dioguardi to come in for a sit-down, and plant him where he landed? All this attention, it’s bad for business. Even those people are smart enough to know that dead meat brings flies.”

  “What do we do, then?”

  “Beaumont’s the shooter, Mickey. But that doesn’t mean he won’t still come along with us on the big thing. See what you can find out. In the meantime, I’m going to send a man to you, just in case.”

  * * *

  1959 October 10 Saturday 10:13

  * * *

  “Yes, I know, Mr. Hoffman isn’t going to come to the phone for some hick-town cop,” Sherman said, not a trace of sarcasm in his voice. “But you tell him it’s about his grandson, see if he’ll talk to me.”

  * * *

  1959 October 10 Saturday 10:19

  * * *

  “Do you think it will work? All that we did?”

  “It’s too late to worry about it, Cyn. It’s done now.”

  “And that man, he’s gone?”

  “Harley said he dropped him off, and he just walked away.”

  “But you know where to reach him. Like you did before.”

  “What does it matter, honey? Our dice are already tumbling. All we can do is wait to see what we rolled.”

  * * *

  1959 October 10 Saturday 11:26

  * * *

  “Could I come and see you? Tonight, when you get off work?”

  “I wish you would,” Tussy said. “I miss you.”

  * * *

  1959 October 10 Saturday 17:49

  * * *

  Sherman Layne drove for four and a half hours, arriving at

  the Hoffman mansion a few minutes before his six o’clock

  appointment.

  “This is Mr. Cross,” the old man said, nodding his head in the direction of a nondescript man who stood to Hoffman’s left. “He handles my personal security. I assume you don’t mind if he sits in on our meeting.”

  “It’s your meeting, sir,” Sherman said, politely.

  “May I see the letter?” Cross asked.

  “Yes. But please don’t touch it,” Sherman said, taking a slim cardboard box out of his briefcase. “You understand.”

  Cross took the box from Sherman without speaking. He opened it carefully, and read the contents without changing expression.

  “It’s a kidnap note,” he said to Hoffman. “Whoever wrote it wasn’t going to send it until they already had the baby.”

  “How much were they demanding?” Hoffman asked.

  “It says, ‘We just want a favor.’ ”

  “What kind of . . . ?” Hoffman turned his gaze to Sherman Layne. “You’re certain this is . . . was Dioguardi’s work?”

  “It was on his body, sir,” Sherman Layne said. “But I wasn’t relying on that alone. We’ve got Dioguardi’s prints on file. We didn’t find them on the envelope—it was absolutely clean—or on the cut-out letters themselves. But the paper it was written on—looks like it came from a butcher shop, so it could have been sitting around in his restaurant—it’s got three separate partials. Not enough to convict him in court, maybe. But good enough for me. Sal Dioguardi wrote that note. Or he handled it, anyway.”

  “The letter was addressed to me?” the old man said, his eyes laser-focused under heavy, untrimmed brows.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And the envelope, when you found it, it was sealed?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And you opened it . . . ?” the old man said, something undefinable in his voice.

  “I had to make a judgment call,” Sherman Layne said, calmly. “I wanted to make sure I was doing right by you, Mr. Hoffman. Which is why I called you privately. My chief doesn’t even know. But this is a murder investigation. I had to look before I acted. And now I’m glad I did.”

  “Do you have any suspects? In the Dioguardi homicide, I mean.”

  “Suspects, sure. I can almost guarantee you that the Dioguardi killing was the work of Royal Beaumont. They’ve been feuding for a long time. Over territory. Beaumont’s territory, Locke City. Dioguardi was trying to move in. A while back, one of Beaumont’s men disappeared. A man named Hacker. Vanished without a trace. Then one of Dioguardi’s collectors gets himself clubbed on the head and left for dead. After that, two more of his men are gunned down in the street.

  “Beaumont’s whole crew are mountain men, Mr. Hoffman. They take a feud to the grave. So, whether it was business or revenge, I couldn’t tell you. But it was Beaumont, you can take that one to the bank.”

  “What’s your rank in the department, Detective?” Hoffman asked.

  “You just said it, sir. Detective. Detective First Grade, actually. But that’s not a rank, all by itself. I draw a sergeant’s pay, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “And the chief . . . ?”

  “Jessup. George Jessup.”

  “Yes. Would I be wrong in surmising that he and Mr. Beaumont are good friends?”

  “No, sir.”

  “All right, Detective. You did me a real service this day. Mr. Cross will show you out.”

  * * *

  1959 October 10 Saturday 18:03

  * * *

  The man with the repaired harelip approached the front desk of the hotel.

  “May I help you, sir?” Carl asked.

  “No. I can help you. A good friend of yours wanted you to have this,” the man said, holding up an attaché case of black, hand-tooled leather. “A gift.”

  “It’s beautiful,” Carl said. “But I don’t know anyone who would want to give me such a—”

  “Look inside,” the man said. “When you’re alone. Don’t do it here.”

  * * *


  1959 October 11 Sunday 00:13

  * * *

  “Walker, you’re all dressed up. And I’m . . .” Tussy made a vague gesture toward her outfit, a lumberjack’s shirt over a pair of jeans. She was barefoot, face freshly scrubbed. “We’re not going out at this hour, are we?”

  “No. I’m going away.”

  “When will you be—?”

  “I won’t be back, Tussy. Not unless . . . Look, I have to tell you something.”

  “What?”

  “I have to tell you my story,” Dett said. “You’re the woman I’m supposed to tell it to.”

  “You’re scaring me, Walker.”

  “You don’t have to be scared of me, Tussy. You’re the only person on earth who never has to be.”

  “You’re really . . . going away?”

  “Yes.”

  “This story you want to tell me—is it that you’re married, Walker?”

  “I don’t have anyone,” he said, very softly. “And I never will. Could I tell you? Please?”

  * * *

  1959 October 11 Sunday 00:28

  * * *

  “I’m not a real-estate man,” Dett said. He was seated on the couch, Tussy a cautious distance from him on the chair. “I think you knew that.”

  “I didn’t at first,” Tussy said. “Now I know you must be some kind of a . . . criminal, Walker. But I don’t care. You can always—”

  “Let me just tell you, please,” Dett said. “I . . . I waited a long time for this, and I need to get it right. The truth. Truth as pure as you. Let me just . . . talk, all right? When I’m done, you’ll know everything. Please?”