“What I have considered could put me on death row, Eddie.”
“So, I get this call from Amarillo,” Eddie said. “This guy says a one-armed man pulled a gun on an old lady in the middle of a crowd at the depot. ‘What the hell kind of railroad you running?’ he says. So I asked myself, who would be crazy enough to draw down on an old lady and in a crowd? Guess who came to mind?”
“She wasn’t that old, Eddie. Anyway, it’s not always easy to tell who the criminal is.”
“You got that right. So what’s next, a pistol-whipping down at the old-age home?”
“Those pickpockets are probably working the competition by now, anyway, Eddie.”
“They have no reason to leave us, Runyon. It couldn’t be safer right where they are.”
“I’ve got their number. It’s just a matter of time.”
“Put that boy on it, Runyon. He’s college, you know.”
“He drinks tea.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“And cigarette smoke irritates his skin. Jesus, Eddie, why don’t you just pay your bills so I don’t have to babysit?”
“That coroner called from Carlsbad,” he said. “He has something he wants you to look at before he releases that wigwag body for burial.”
“Like what?”
“Check it out, Runyon, and there’s an old bus parked in the right-of-way west of Gallup. See it’s removed.”
“Right,” he said. “Listen, I thought you were going to send me a new badge.”
“What the hell you talking about? I sent it a week ago.”
“Well, it didn’t arrive.”
“What do you mean, it didn’t arrive?”
“You’d think the railroad could deliver the goddang mail without losing it.”
“This is coming out of your pay, Runyon. And if that other badge shows up, send it back. I don’t want them floating all over the country. Pretty soon the only one without a badge will be you.”
“Send it by stagecoach, Eddie. Maybe it will get here that way.”
“And there are wildcat strikes breaking out up and down the line. Remember it’s your job to protect company property.”
“Got it, Eddie.”
“Truman’s threatening to nationalize the railroad if these strikes don’t stop. How would you like working for Truman?”
“Maybe he could get my badge here without losing it, Eddie. And you might consider sending some decent transportation out here. That road-rail is like sitting a camel.
“I got to go, Eddie. The operator’s making ugly noises about his phone.”
* * *
Hook waited for Popeye to come back from the john. “I’ve got to make a run to Carlsbad,” he said. “I’d like to put that road-rail on the line. You got a slot open?”
“Why don’t you just road it, Hook? That way I don’t have to do the board over.”
“My kidneys won’t take another road trip in that thing.”
Popeye looked at the schedule. “There’s a blacksnake with a load of coal coming through in about an hour. After that, the line’s open until three. You want an order?”
“Write it up, Popeye.”
* * *
Hook joined Junior on the bench. Mixer hopped up to greet him. Junior stood and brushed the hair off his lap. Hook lit a cigarette and looked downline.
“Eddie has an assignment for you,” he said. “There’s a bus on the right-of-way west of Gallup. He wants you to have it towed off company property.”
Junior fanned away the smoke that drifted over his head. “But how would I get there?”
“There’s a tanker train through here in an hour. Hop her and run on out there. The company will pick up the tow bill for the bus.”
“Hop a freighter? You mean jump on it without a ticket?”
“That’s right,” Hook said. “And don’t fall under the wheels. It makes a hell of a mess.”
“And where will you be, Hook?”
“First, I’m taking a nap, and then I’m herding the road-rail over to Carlsbad to see the coroner’s gold-teeth collection.
“Come on, Mixer,” Hook said, pausing. “And when you get back, find yourself a place to stay. I didn’t sign on to share my caboose with a prosecutor.”
* * *
Hook stretched out on his bunk and perused his copy of Hemingway’s For Whom the Bell Tolls. He’d owned a reading copy, too, but this one was in fine condition. Someday it would bring a nice return, and he never tired of Hemingway’s clean style. His dialogue shot from the page like a rifle bullet.
If things ever slowed down, he intended to find some of Hemingway’s other work. When a book, long after it had been set aside, still lingered in his head, he took it as a sure sign of collectability.
When he awoke, his copy had slid to the floor, and Mixer, with both paws up on the bunk, stared into his face. Hook pushed him away and sat up. He dug out his watch. The blacksnake should have come and gone by now, and, with it, Junior Monroe.
Hook himself had abandoned riding coal cars some years ago. Eating coal dust in a fifty-mile-an-hour gale had taken some of the fun out of it. Still, it would be a good learning experience for Junior.
After setting out some extra food for Mixer, who had apparently worn out his welcome at the Harvey House, Hook checked on the road-rail. One of the tires had lost air, and a bird had deposited a calling card on the windshield.
By the time he cleaned the window and pumped up the tire, the sun had lifted high in the east. He pulled onto the crossing, dropped the pilot wheels, and headed off for Carlsbad.
The countryside slid by like a silent film, and the blue sky, laced in white, swirled about in the exact pattern of an agate shooter marble he’d had as a kid. The smell of heat and thistle rode in on the wind.
Days like this brought back the freedom he’d experienced when he bummed the rails. Being a bo took little from a man’s spirit. Some of his happiest times had been tracking through the night atop a boxcar with no plans, no destination, and no expectations. But more often than not, fear and hunger trumped freedom, until at last the fare had become too high to pay.
At dusk he passed by the Clovis signal, and he slowed. He could smell smoke and figured it to be the strikers’ campfires somewhere beyond the hill. He brought the road-rail back up to speed. As long as they stayed off company property, he had no quarrel with them.
He hoped the strikers had taken his advice about dropping Moose Barrick as their leader. Moose had worked for the railroad for a long time. Hook never understood how a company would fire a man for sitting down on the job but keep a lowlife like Barrick on the payroll for years.
Night fell, and the stars popped into the sky. The zing of locusts rose up above the hum of the tires. And when the Artesia depot came into view, Hook thought to pull off for a break. But then he remembered the fiver he owed the operator and decided to press on to Carlsbad.
The moon had set, and the night had darkened to ink by the time he hit the crossing in Carlsbad. He found the operator paring his nails into the trash can.
When the operator looked up, he said, “Oh, it’s you.”
Hook squinted his eyes into slits. “You ask for my badge, Beauford, and it’ll take three surgeons to find where those clippers went.”
The operator shoved the trash can back and dropped his clippers into his pocket.
“What you want, Runyon?”
“You know where the coroner lives around here?”
“Broomfield? Sure. His office is just off Third downtown.”
“Where does he do his coroner work?” Hook asked.
The operator opened his mouth and showed Hook a missing tooth. “In his chair.”
Hook looked up at the clock. “There some place I could catch a nap?”
“I heard the jail’s right comfy,” he said, grinning.
“That’s real funny. You thought about applying for Eddie Preston’s job?” Hook said.
“There’s a spot behind
the water heater in the baggage room. You get caught, I don’t know you,” he said.
“Thanks,” Hook said. “I figured you might have located yourself a roost.”
* * *
When Hook awoke, a spider ran across his chest and disappeared under his arm.
“Damn it,” he said, sitting up.
Sunlight struck through the window and lit the wall. He could smell the diesel fumes from the freighter idling outside and hear the men as they went about their maintenance check.
When he came out of the baggage room, a different operator sat behind the desk. He looked like a kid taking up his first job.
The operator looked up at Hook. “Who are you?” he asked.
“I’m Hook Runyon, the bull out of Clovis,” he said. “Where’s John?”
“John who?”
“Beauford, the operator who was here.”
“Last shift,” he said. “They bumped him to Needles.”
“What’s your name?” Hook asked.
“Clyde.”
“Clyde who? Never mind,” he said. “You goddang operators aren’t around long enough for it to matter, anyway.”
“Say, what you doing in the baggage room?” he asked.
“Security,” Hook said. “Why the hell wasn’t the door locked?”
“I thought it was.”
“Well, it wasn’t. You might want to check on these things when your trick starts.”
“Yes, sir,” he said.
“I’ll let it go this time,” Hook said. “But don’t let it happen again. I’d hate to have to write you up.”
* * *
Hook’s road-rail took up two spaces in front of Dr. Broomfield’s dentist office. Hook waited in the waiting room for thirty minutes while Broomfield completed an extraction.
“Dr. Broomfield will see you now,” the receptionist said. “If you will follow me.”
Hook followed her into a small area off the waiting room. It smelled of burnt coffee. Boxes of dental supplies were stacked along one wall.
When he came in, Hook stood. “Dr. Broomfield?”
“Yes,” he said.
“I’m Hook Runyon, security agent for the Santa Fe.”
Dr. Broomfield looked at Hook’s prosthesis. “I’ve been expecting you, Mr. Runyon. Please, have a seat. I’ve no patients scheduled for a bit.”
Hook sat down and adjusted a droopy sock. Dr. Broomfield sat on the edge of the table, locked his knee in his hands, and bobbed his foot. He was tall, six two, maybe taller, and he had the hands of a woman. His hair, the color of straw, hung over an eye. He sported a blond mustache that curled into the corners of his mouth.
“You asked to see me,” Hook said. “What’s the deal?”
“Yes,” he said. “It’s about the body that the highway patrol brought in from the potash spur.”
“Right,” Hook said. “I found no identification on him. Have you found something?”
Dr. Broomfield’s pant leg pulled up, revealing the hair on his leg, which was the exact color of his mustache.
“I found no identification, if that’s what you mean. Perhaps it had been removed by someone else.”
“That’s how I figured it,” Hook said.
Dr. Broomfield reached for the cabinet drawer and opened it. “I did, however, find something of interest while preparing the body for examination.”
“Oh?”
“This,” he said, dropping a medal into Hook’s hand. “It was tied about his neck with a piece of string.”
“A star?” Hook said.
“Yes,” he said. “A Bronze Star for valor.”
8
“A WAR HERO?” Hook said, cradling the medal in the palm of his hand.
Dr. Broomfield rolled his shoulders. “Or a thief. Who knows? Look at the back.”
Hook turned the medal over. The name Samuel Ash had been engraved on it.
“His name?” he asked.
“Possible,” Broomfield said. “But folks steal the damndest things, given a chance.”
“Have you checked it out?”
“Mr. Runyon,” he said, running his long fingers through his hair. “How many Samuel Ashes do you figure occupy this country?”
Hook shrugged. “Thousands, I suppose.”
“Exactly. Look, I’m a county coroner appointed by the judge to determine if there’s been foul play in a person’s death. And the judge, being the frugal sort, is dead-set against me pissing away money on hopeless causes. On top of that, I have my practice.
“There are four possible causes for a person’s death as I see it: accidental, natural, suicide, and homicide. Now it’s clear this fellow didn’t die of natural causes, being young and healthy by all appearances, and I doubt he had an accident while climbing a wigwag signal with a rope around his neck.
“According to my calculations, that leaves suicide or homicide. My examination revealed no evidence of wounds, no signs of struggle, not a scratch or a bruise anywhere. No fingerprints were left behind, no footprints, no tire tracks, and no weapons. No hangman’s noose had been used, and his neck wasn’t broken.
“If I’m not mistaken that probably leaves suicide. In my judgment, he tied off that rope, climbed up that cantilever, and let himself over the side. Who knows why? Maybe he had a love affair gone wrong. Maybe he suffered a disappointment so devastating that he couldn’t pull out of a nosedive. Maybe he killed someone himself for all I know. I figure he set out to do what he had to do, and that’s where my responsibility as coroner ends. If the railroad wants more information than that, then I say, have at it.”
“The cantilever was an arm’s length above his head. How does a man strangling at the end of a rope not reach up and save himself?”
“A person’s will can be strong. I once investigated the death of a widow who shoved a pencil up her nose and into her brainpan.
“Look, Mr. Runyon, to investigate this further, I’d have to convene a coroner’s jury and pay them stipends. I’d have to transport the body to Albuquerque for an autopsy, and I’d have to bear the wrath of Judge Bellow for squandering funds.
“I’m not prepared to do that because, in the end, it’s unlikely that we’ll ever know exactly what happened anyway. Even if we did find out, it wouldn’t make a damn bit of difference to that fellow. He’s as dead as he’s ever going to be and knowing the reasons why won’t change a damn thing for him.”
The bell on the front door signaled, and Dr. Broomfield looked at his watch.
Hook rubbed at the back of his neck. Riding that road-rail had taken its toll on his spine.
“What happens to the body?” he asked.
“It’s been released to the funeral home. He’ll be given a Christian burial in the pauper’s cemetery at county expense.”
“Can I keep this star for the time being?”
“I don’t see why not. I’ll put it in the record.”
“You may be right about all this, Dr. Broomfield, but there is that name, Samuel Ash? I don’t see how it can be ignored. I’d like a chance to track it down before you put this man into a pauper’s grave. If he’s got family, they deserve to know.”
Dr. Broomfield rose and checked his hair in the mirror on the back of the door.
“As long as it doesn’t cost the county. I’ll ask the funeral home to delay internment.”
“I’d appreciate that,” Hook said. “And I’ll let you know what I find out one way or the other.”
Broomfield reached for the doorknob. “I’ve a patient waiting.” He paused. “You understand that there’s a limit as to how long this can be postponed? A matter of a few days at most.”
“I understand,” Hook said.
* * *
Hook herded the road-rail back to the depot. Unable to find a parking space large enough to accommodate it, he parked under a tree nearly a block away and walked in.
Clyde, the new operator, stood up. “I locked that door to baggage like you said.”
“That’s good,” Ho
ok said. “Passengers got a right to have their belongings secured. All and all it’s a deceitful world, Clyde; besides, some slacker might slip in on company time and take a nap behind the water heater.”
“Oh, no sir,” he said. “There’s none of that going on around here.”
“I figure you as a stickler for the rules,” Hook said.
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, that’s good. Now, I need to use your phone to call Division.”
“Right over there.”
Hook pulled up a chair. “In the meantime, maybe you could write up a clearance order for my road-rail to Clovis.”
“Well, I don’t know,” he said. “The company don’t like putting road-rails on the line unless it’s necessary. They don’t hold up so well against an oncoming.”
Hook took the receiver off the phone and hung it over his shoulder. “I understand that, Clyde, but this here is a security matter. I’m sure you wouldn’t want to stand in the way of the law.”
“No, sir. I’ll work it up right away.”
Hook dialed Eddie and waited.
“Security,” Eddie said.
“Eddie, this is Hook.”
“Where the hell are you now, Runyon?”
“Carlsbad, checking in with the coroner on that wigwag deal like you asked.”
“So, what did he say?”
“He said that fellow died by hanging. Course, I had an idea that might be the case when I cut him down from the wigwag.”
“Get it off the books, Runyon. I smell a lawsuit here, and you know how the railroad hates a lawsuit. On top of that, we got strike problems cropping up everywhere.”
“He had a Bronze Star around his neck, Eddie.”
“A Bronze Star?”
“You know, like for heroism in combat.”
“I know what it’s for, Runyon.”
“There was a name on the back of it.”
“On the back of what?”
“The Bronze Star. Jesus, Eddie, am I going too fast?”
“What name?”
“Samuel Ash.”
“Who’s Samuel Ash?”
“I don’t know, Eddie. That’s the point.”
“Everyone has a name. I have a name.”
The Hanging of Samuel Ash Page 5
