“Why, no. The cook came on just before me. It’s my understanding that Mr. Eagleman and Buck have been here for many years.”
“Skink tells me the turnover in children is considerable.”
“Yes, you could say that. It is an orphanage.”
“It’s possible they may have forgotten this Samuel Ash, then?”
“Possible, I suppose, but it hardly seems likely.”
“Perhaps there are records we could check?”
She placed her chin in her hand and dropped a finger across her lips.
“There are records, of course, but confidential. Mr. Eagleman secures the files in his office. The records are private, as you must appreciate. Like I said, this is an orphanage, Mr. Runyon, and these children have been placed here for many reasons, some of which are quite sensitive. While under our care, their privacy has to be protected. Even my access is limited to certain background information.”
She looked at her watch. “I’m sorry we were unable to help. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have an appointment in Avard and need to get there before dark.”
“Avard?”
“That’s right. Do you know it?”
Hook stood. “I’m living there, temporarily, I mean. In fact, I’m hopping a short haul back today, providing there’s one headed out.”
“Short haul?”
“An engine with a few cars in tow going a short distance.”
“You jump on them?”
“Something like that.”
“But isn’t it dangerous?”
“Only if you fall off,” he said. “Thank you for your time, Miss Feola.”
She came around the desk. “Celia, please. Mr. Runyon, Hook, I’m taking the orphanage car over now. Perhaps you’d like a lift? I’d hate being responsible for you falling off a short haul.”
“I’d hate that myself,” he said. “You mind telling me why you’re going there? There’s not much happening in Avard as I recall.”
“Well, I suppose I could say since you are with the law, aren’t you?”
“More or less,” he said.
“Welfare is meeting me there with a young girl who has been orphaned. She lived with her grandmother who died a few days ago from a stroke. She has no place to go. They’ve asked that we take her in until things can be sorted out. I’m picking her up and bringing her back here to the orphanage.”
Hook stood. “Do you know her name?”
“Why, yes,” she said. “It’s Bet, I believe. Bet Haimes.”
26
CELIA ADJUSTED THE car seat and stretched a trim leg for the gas pedal and sighed. “Why is it men think it’s their privilege to leave the toilet seat up and the car seat back?”
Hook rolled the window down. “It’s a problem I haven’t given much thought,” he said. “Consider the toilet seat. There’s two choices as I see it: it’s either left up or it’s left down. Leaving it up could result in a certain amount of distress and effort for those who follow, I suppose. However, knowing the poor aim of most men, leaving it down might well have a less desirable outcome than putting it up.”
She reached for the key and started up the car, looking over her shoulder as she backed out.
When they’d pulled out onto the main road, she said, “There’s a third solution here.”
Hook looked at her. “I can’t figure what?”
“Put the toilet seat up. When finished, put it back down.”
Hook pulled at his chin. “I concede to the logic but object to the unfairness of the proposition, given men would have to both put it up and then put it down, while women wouldn’t have to do either.”
Celia rolled her eyes. “You haven’t been married, have you?”
“No, I haven’t.”
“Well, now we know why.”
“I admit some compromise is called for, though the overall significance of the issue is in question. It boils down to no more than a point of view, as I see it.”
“That’s because it’s not happening to you.”
“Riding on top of a moving railcar behind a whizzer puts the whole situation into perspective, I can assure you,” he said.
Celia laughed and brought the car up to speed.
“I don’t mean to be nosey, Celia, not entirely anyway, but what makes a girl decide to hide away in a nunnery in the first place?”
Hanging her arm over the steering wheel, she said, “It’s hard to explain. I wanted to live purely, I suppose, with singular purpose. I wanted the path of my life to be straight and clear. I thought I could do that in the nunnery.”
“And that didn’t happen?”
She shook her head. “All of my confusion and doubts and weaknesses followed me right through the gates.”
“Life’s rarely clear or pure, no matter where you put it,” he said. “And the only straight line I know is that one that leads from birth to death.”
She pushed her hair from her face. “A philosophical yard dog? Really?”
“Don’t underestimate a yard dog’s sensitivity. I never busted a man in my life what it didn’t give me pause.”
“I see, and what exactly does a yard dog do?”
“Solves crimes on the go, catches boes and pickpockets and renegade strikers. It’s all fine blow at the pool hall, but, fact is, most hoboes are just looking for that purpose you talked about, knowing it’s not where they been, hoping it’s where they’re going. Yard dogs are more or less on the same hunt, difference being it comes with a salary.
“Course, there are a few here and there who are escaping what they couldn’t face and walking over what gets in their way in the process.”
“And they are the dangerous ones?” she asked.
Hook turned to the window to let the sun warm his face. “The danger is in not knowing which ones are which.”
They turned onto the dirt road leading to Avard. The white elevators towered on the horizon.
Celia grew quiet. “I’ve not picked up a child for the orphanage before,” she said. “I’m a bit nervous. She is all alone now and probably terrified.”
“I know Bet, some at least,” he said. “I’m thinking she’s a tough kid and in the end will do what has to be done.”
“You know her?”
“I owe her money. It’s a sure way to seal a friendship,” he said. “There, turn down the tracks to that caboose.”
“Excuse me?”
“The red caboose just down there. It’s where I live.”
“You live in a caboose?”
“If you call it living. Bet’s been taking care of my dog, Mixer. I had no idea about her grandma being sick.”
Celia pulled into the shade of the elm that grew along the right-of-way.
“But this is railroad property.”
“And under my watch,” he said. “Your car will be just fine here.”
Hook got out and stuck his head back in the window. “Would you care to come in?”
She checked her watch. “I’ve an hour before she’s due to arrive. But…”
“You needn’t worry, Celia. When I lost this arm, I stopped taking anything or anybody for granted.”
“Well,” she said. “For a bit then. I admit to being curious.”
Mixer bound up the tracks as they approached the caboose. Hook gathered him up and pulled his ears.
“This is Mixer,” he said. “He’s a purebred son of a bitch.”
Celia stepped back. “Is he safe? I mean, he won’t bite?”
“I watched him whip a pack of mongrels to a standstill in Amarillo a while back. He’d rather fight than eat, and there’s nothing he likes better than eating. But he’s got a soft spot for pretty girls. You couldn’t be safer.”
She knelt and stroked his head. Mixer sidled in. “He’s a love,” she said.
“Bet’s been taking good care of him by the looks of it.”
Mixer circled Celia’s legs and then headed for the shade under the caboose.
Hook swung up on the steps and took
her hand to help her up.
“It’s a bit of a reach,” he said. “Frenchy doesn’t give a whole lot of thought to where he parks me, but the more I complain, the worse it gets.”
When she reached the top step, her hand dropped over her mouth. She looked at the casket and then at Hook.
“Oh my god,” she said. “That looks like a casket.”
“That’s ’cause it is. It belongs to one Samuel Ash.”
Her face paled. “I don’t understand. This is just too eerie.”
“I’ve been riding with Samuel Ash all the way from Carlsbad, and we’ve not had a cross word. If Bet isn’t afraid, you shouldn’t be either. Come on in, and I’ll explain.”
* * *
Celia looked around the caboose before taking up a seat at the table.
“It feels like a home,” she said. “And all these books.”
“I’m a collector,” he said.
“But books?”
“I’d explain it if I could, but it’s like Beam and water. There’s no explaining why a man drinks what shortens his life and increases his enemies. He just does, that’s all.
“Speaking of which, I’m all out of tea. Would you care for a drink?”
“Well,” she said, “I don’t normally drink.”
“I’m not much of a normal drinker myself,” he said.
“No, thanks, a water.”
Hook fixed her a water, and handed it to her. He poured himself a Beam.
“You may think this is all a bit strange,” he said.
“You mean having a casket with a body in it strapped on the porch of the caboose that you live in? Why would I think that?”
“I found Samuel Ash hanging from the potash wigwag signal outside of Carlsbad.”
She shuddered. “Oh, dear.”
“Things like that can happen on this job,” he said. “Over the years, I’ve gathered up more bodies than I care to remember. But this one’s different.”
She sipped at her water. “How, different?”
He reached into his pocket and laid the Bronze Star on the table. “For one thing, he had this around his neck.” He turned it over. “The name Samuel Ash has been inscribed on the back.”
“A war hero?”
“He’d been scabbing on the railroad, probably broke and needing money to get back home. Strikers don’t favor scabs, hero or no hero. I thought I’d nailed who might have done it, more than once in fact, but too many unexplained things have happened since.”
“What do you mean?”
“Someone took a shot at me, for one thing. I don’t know who, and I don’t know why. It could have been random, but I’m not much on coincidences, not when my life’s at stake. I’ve pretty much ruled out every other possibility.”
“And do you always bring these bodies home with you?”
“On rare occasion, I admit, but they were going to bury this boy in a pauper’s grave back in Carlsbad, a war hero. I just couldn’t let that happen. I need to find his people.”
She locked her fingers, long and white as chalk, in front of her. “But why Carmen?”
“When Samuel Ash enlisted, he named Carmen as his hometown.”
“And you think he may have come from the orphanage?”
“Thought it possible since on that same form he indicated that his parents were deceased.”
Hook finished off his drink and slid the glass aside. “No one in the entire town has heard of him. Either everyone is lying, or I’ve been wrong about the whole thing.”
Mixer scratched on the door, and Hook got up to let him in. He jumped up on the seat next to Celia and lay down.
“Get,” Hook said.
“No, it’s alright,” she said. “What are you going to do now?”
“The mortuary in Carmen is expecting a body to be delivered to them from Carlsbad. If I don’t find his people soon, I’ll have no choice but to turn him over. He’ll be buried without friends or family in a strange town. And the worst of it, his killer might still be on the loose.”
“His killer?”
“It’s a possibility,” he said.
“Oh, it’s time. I must go. I’m sorry about Samuel Ash. I wish I could have helped.”
“Wait,” he said, reaching for his billfold. “I owe Bet a dollar.”
“I’ll see she gets it.”
As she left, she paused at the casket and made the sign of the cross. She turned to Hook, who watched from the door.
“You’re right about that straight line,” she said. “Good-bye, Hook, and good luck.”
* * *
After she’d gone, Hook shaved and put on a clean shirt. He lined his books across the table and pulled out his newly acquired American first edition of The Hound of the Baskervilles. She had perfect boards, not a smudge or dent, and the “Published 1902” appeared on the reverse of the title page, indicating a first state. Had it not been for the library marking, it would have been a mint copy indeed, yet one more reason for him to rescue it from an indifferent public.
The sun struck through the cupola, warming his head and shoulders. Weariness rose up in him as if it had waited for this exact moment for him to get home. He lay down on the bunk and soon fell asleep.
He dreamed of blue flags and disembodied parts, and when a rap came at the door, he sat straight up, his heart pounding. Mixer crawled from under the bunk and commenced barking. Again, the knock came, louder this time.
“Alright, alright,” he said. “I’m coming.”
When he opened it, Celia and Bet stood side by side in the moonlight.
“What is it?” he asked, rubbing the sleep from his face.
“May we come in?” Celia asked.
“Oh, sure. Hi, Bet,” he said.
Bet’s lip quivered, and Mixer moved in next to her. Hook glanced at Celia.
“I’ll fix something to eat,” he said.
“No, thanks anyway,” Celia said.
“What’s the problem?” Hook asked.
“I don’t want to go to an orphanage,” Bet said.
“I see,” Hook said. “I’m sorry about your grandma, Bet.”
“They burned her up,” she said. “’Cause we didn’t have any money.”
“Bet says she’ll go if Mixer can go with her,” Celia said. “You know, until she gets adjusted.”
Hook took out his handkerchief and wiped the tears from Bet’s cheeks.
“Well,” he said, “how would the orphanage feel about that, I wonder?”
Celia pursed her lips. “The orphanage has a farm, so I don’t see what a dog would hurt. Anyway, it wouldn’t be permanent.”
“I’ll give your dollar back,” Bet said.
“No, you earned that for taking such great care of Mixer, and I’m sure he’d like to take care of you for a while.”
“Will you go, too?” she asked.
“Me? Well, I don’t know.”
“It would make things easier,” Celia said.
“I do have some time left on my rent with Patch, and Frenchy hasn’t called in yet. Sure, I’ll go back, and Mixer can stay with you. How would that be?”
Bet nodded and looked at Celia. “Can Mixer sleep with me?”
“Of course,” she said.
Hook turned out the lamp and secured the door, while Celia and Bet waited in the car with Mixer. He climbed down the steps and looked up at the casket, which reflected the moonlight back like giant cat eyes. He slid in next to Bet.
“Aren’t you going to take Samuel Ash home now?” she asked.
“Not yet. I haven’t found his people.”
Celia pulled away, and Bet leaned against Hook. “I don’t have people either,” she said.
“You have Mixer and Miss Feola,” he said. “They are your people now.”
“And you,” she said.
Hook glanced at Celia, who looked at him through the darkness.
“Yes,” he said. “And me.”
27
HOOK THOUGHT THE tapping noise must
be Celia Feola knocking at his caboose door again. He opened it to find her standing there, smiling and stark-naked, except for the bouquet of roses she held in front of her. When the noise came again, he sat up, remembering that he had returned to the shoe shop and that the noise had to be Patch or Skink instead.
Slipping on his prosthesis and clothes, he opened the door to find Patch busy nailing new heels onto a pair of engineer boots.
Patch looked up from his work. “Benny Hoffsteader bought these engineer boots in the city. Now he thinks he’s a goddang motorcycle rider. Truth is he ain’t nothing but the garbage man and a damn sorry one at that.”
“We all have our illusions,” Hook said, searching out the coffeepot.
“How’d that talk go with the sheriff?” Patch asked.
“You mean you don’t know?”
“Well I know the sheriff,” he said. “I’d as soon call out the quilting club if serious trouble set in.”
Hook pulled up to the workbench and sipped his coffee. “You got a newspaper around here, Patch?”
“Over there,” he said. “No charge.”
Hook opened the paper and searched for sales. “Looks like the Methodists are having a rummage sale today,” he said.
“Guess you didn’t notice that pothole in the sheriff’s head, seeing as how you didn’t bring it up?”
“The sheriff and I have an agreement,” Hook said. “Wonder if there’d be books?”
“I don’t think the sheriff’s given to reading, ’less you want to count comic books and the Sears catalog.”
“I mean the rummage sale, Patch.”
“Never know what you’ll find in a rummage sale around here,” he said. “But finding books ain’t as likely as finding almost anything else.”
“The sheriff said he’d never heard of Samuel Ash,” Hook said.
“I could have told you that,” Patch said, setting the boots aside. “Samuel Ash never lived here. If he did, I damn sure would know it, ’cause I lived here my whole life.”
Hook scanned the rest of the paper and folded it up. “So, are you going to tell me how the sheriff got that dent in his bumper?”
“You’ll have to ask him, though there’s been plenty of rumors.”
“Come on, Patch. I know you’re going to tell me.”
The Hanging of Samuel Ash Page 19
