“Maybe you should go in,” he said.
“Right,” Celia said. “I know the routine.”
When they came out, Esther stopped and looked at the road-rail.
“What is it?” she asked.
Celia pointed to the door. “It’s alright, Esther. It’s a railroad thing and more or less safe.”
Esther slid in and nodded at Hook. “I don’t have much time,” she said. “Someone is covering for me.”
“Thanks for coming,” Hook said. “Here’s the deal: we know that Bruce Mason was hanged off the wigwag signal in Carlsbad, New Mexico. What we don’t know is what happened to Lucy Barker.”
Esther’s face paled. “Bruce was hanged?”
“We’ve reason to suspect it might have been murder. That being the case, Lucy herself might be in danger.”
Esther wove her fingers together and looked out the window. “You think someone might try to kill her, too?”
“It’s possible,” Hook said. “I need to find Lucy, and I think you can help.”
“I don’t know where she is,” Esther said.
“The highway patrol picked Lucy up for hitchhiking. Are you aware of that?”
Esther glanced at Celia. “Yes,” she said.
“Where had she been?” Celia asked.
“Here,” she said. “Cherokee.”
“Was anyone else with her?” Hook asked.
“No. She came alone.”
“Do you know why she came here?” Celia asked.
Esther looked away. “I promised her I wouldn’t tell anyone. She made me swear.”
“This is more important, Esther. Lucy may be in danger,” Hook said.
“To see the doctor,” she said.
“The doctor?” Celia asked. “But the orphanage doctor is in Carmen.”
“She didn’t want to go to him,” Esther said.
“Do you know why?” Celia asked.
“She wouldn’t talk about it, and she made me swear that I wouldn’t tell anyone where she’d been.”
“Pregnant?” Celia asked.
Esther shrugged. “She didn’t want to talk about it, and I didn’t push her.”
“Do you know which doctor?” Hook asked.
“The one on Seventh, Dr. Betcher. I better get back now,” she said. “Don’t tell Lucy I told you. I gave her my word.”
“No,” Hook said. “We won’t. Thank you, Esther.”
* * *
After Esther had gone back in, Hook said, “We need to know for sure why she went to the doctor, Celia.”
“We could go talk to him,” she said.
Hook drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. “They won’t release her medical information.”
Celia took out her lipstick and drew it across her lips. Dropping it back into her purse, she said, “They would to me. The orphanage has legal guardianship of Lucy. As matron, I have access to her medical records.”
“You would ask then?”
“Crank this thing up,” she said. “And see if you can’t get me there alive.”
* * *
Hook waited in front while Celia went in. After some time, she came out and slid into the road-rail.
“Well?” he said.
“At first he didn’t want to release the information. When I explained that I had legal authority, he agreed to discuss the matter with me.”
“And?”
“A pregnancy test.” She studied her hands. “Positive.”
“That could explain why they ran away together,” he said.
“It could have.”
“But you don’t think so?” he said.
“I asked if the bill had been paid. It had, but not by Bruce or by Lucy.”
Hook processed what Celia had just said.
“Whoever paid that bill had to have known that she was pregnant.”
Celia dropped her hands in her lap. “Exactly.”
“But who?”
Celia looked over at him. “The Spirit of Agape Orphanage paid the bill.”
36
HOOK PULLED OVER at the orphanage cemetery and shut off the road-rail. He looked out over the row of stones.
“I can feel the sadness here,” he said.
“Death is sad,” she said. “But more so when it’s children.”
“Children without anyone,” he said. “Where’s the purpose in that?”
“I thought I knew the purpose of life at one time,” she said.
“But not now?”
“Anyone who hasn’t questioned the truth of their religion is either lying, or afraid, or both.”
He rolled down his window and smelled the freshly turned fields.
“If the orphanage paid that bill, it should have been in Lucy’s records. Why wasn’t it?”
Celia folded her arms over her chest. “Because they had something to hide?” she said. “Or maybe they were protecting someone else.”
“I can’t see Eagleman looking out for anyone other than himself,” he said. “This is the bastard who puts a little girl out here to walk by herself.”
“You’re thinking what I’m thinking, that maybe the baby was Eagleman’s?”
Hook hung his arm through the steering wheel. “Yes, that would explain it, but it wouldn’t explain why Bruce Mason died.”
“Maybe Eagleman killed him.”
“There’s no evidence to support any of this,” he said.
“Maybe Bruce Mason hung himself. Maybe he knew the baby wasn’t his, and he took his own life. Young boys can be impulsive that way.”
“There are too many possibilities here, and they all make sense. We have to rule some of them out.”
Celia fell silent for a moment. When she looked up, she said, “Like exactly where was Eagleman on the night of the hanging?”
Hook rolled up the window. “Yes.”
“Do we know what day Bruce Mason died?”
Hook thought for a moment. “The thirteenth. Friday the thirteenth. I remember the Artesia operator mentioning it.”
“Eagleman keeps a calendar on his desk, and he’s quite meticulous about entering everything that he does.”
“A stickler for appointments, too,” Hook said.
“I could take a look.”
“Thanks, but too risky. Anyway, I want to think about all this. When in doubt, sleep on it.”
“Okay,” she said. “You’ll let me know?”
“I’ll call,” Hook said, starting up the road-rail. “Thanks for coming with me today. I wish it could have been a more pleasant outing.”
“Next time,” she said. “I better get back now.”
* * *
Hook found Patch gluing up half soles on a pair of work boots.
“Well, you’re back in town,” he said. “How’d you find Cherokee?”
“I’d ask how you knew I went there, but what’s the point?”
“Exactly,” he said. “And you better be careful of that goddang digger. He’s worn the same pair of dress shoes for fifteen years. A man ain’t earning an honest living if he can’t wear out a pair of shoes more often than that.”
“I went there to deliver Samuel Ash to the funeral parlor,” Hook said. “But he turned out to be Bruce Mason instead.”
Patch stuck some tacks into the corner of his mouth. “That boy what held up the station in Cherokee?”
“The same. He came back a war hero but wound up on the hanging end of a rope.”
“Took that girl with him when he ran away, I hear,” he said.
“Guess you wouldn’t know where she is now?”
Patch hammered in a tack. “My tracking nose ends at the city limits.”
“Mind if I use your phone?” Hook asked.
Patch started another tack and looked at Hook over his glasses. “Don’t know why you should start asking permission now,” he said.
Hook pushed the door closed and dialed Popeye.
“Clovis,” Popeye said.
“Popeye, this is Hook. Has Junio
r Monroe checked in with you yet?”
“I’ve been thinking about taking over Eddie Preston’s job, given all the time I spend keeping track of Junior Monroe.”
“You’re too smart and pretty for that job, Popeye.”
“Blowing smoke up my skirt works about eighty percent of the time,” he said. “Junior Monroe called in this morning.”
“What did he find out about that Pampa business?”
“Damned if I know. He’s still in Avard.”
“What?”
“Said a ballast scorcher came through and when he caught hold the grab iron, it yanked him into the next county. Said he had to walk all the way back to Avard. Had to sleep in the grain elevator, and the Frisco dumped a load of wheat on him in the dark. Said he damn near suffocated, that he had wheat up his nose, and in other places he couldn’t mention.”
“Damn,” Hook said.
“Maybe he should take Eddie’s job,” Popeye said.
“He sure enough qualifies. Do you hear anything about that bridge in Pampa? I’ll have Eddie barking up my ass here in about two minutes.”
“Oh, it’s up and running now that Truman said he’d nationalize the railroad.”
“The hell?”
“Said he’d conscript every goddang last striker into the army. There are not many things worse than railroading, but the army’s one of them. Looks like the strike business is pretty much over.”
“Alright. Thanks, Popeye.”
“Listen, Hook, about that money?”
“Don’t worry about it, Popeye. It’s only a dollar you owe me, and I’m not worried about it.”
“I think you owe me the dollar, Hook. In fact, I’m pretty damn sure of it.”
“I’ll be getting it to you payday, then, Popeye. I don’t like owing a man money, even if it is just a dollar.”
* * *
Hook dialed Eddie.
“Security,” Eddie said.
“Eddie, Hook here.”
“Jesus, Runyon, is payday the only time you show up?”
“Looks like that Pampa thing is under control,” Hook said.
“Took the president to do it,” Eddie said.
“He has the atomic bomb, Eddie. I have Junior.”
“Where is that boy?”
“He’s checking wheat cars in Avard. I think those Frisco bastards are picking up Santa Fe hoppers and taking them into Carmen. I been working day and night on it, but I don’t figure to be asking overtime.”
“I don’t want anything happening to that boy,” he said.
“Is my caboose about ready? I’m paying rent out of my own paycheck.”
“That machinist said there wasn’t a damn thing wrong with those bushings, Runyon.”
“They wouldn’t know from bushings, Eddie. I caught those bastards eating lunch and taking naps on my caboose.”
“And another thing,” Eddie said. “I get this report about some kind of box being stored in the goddang ice plant in Waynoka. What the hell you up to now?”
“Produce, Eddie. One of the reefer cars crapped out, and the boes were helping themselves to breakfast. I rescued it single-handed, so to speak, and put it on ice to save the company money.”
“I hadn’t realized you were such a saint,” he said.
“No thanks necessary, Eddie. Just one of many sacrifices I’ve been prepared to make. Working for a boss like you makes a man think, you know.”
* * *
That night Hook walked to the package store and bought a half-pint of Beam. He missed having his caboose. Living in a shoe shop without his books forced him to pass the evening with a little more libation than he preferred. On top of that, without adequate water, he had to drink the damn stuff neat. He’d just chalk it up as one more good deed for the company.
He’d nearly gone to sleep when he heard the ring of the phone from Patch’s supply room. Mixer followed him through the darkness and lay down on Hook’s feet.
“Hello,” Hook said.
“Hook, this is Celia,” she said.
“Celia? Are you okay?”
“Yes. I know what you said about waiting, but I had a chance to get a look at Eagleman’s calendar when he went for his evening walk.”
“Oh?”
“On Friday the thirteenth, he conducted the Spirit of Agape’s regularly scheduled board meeting at two P.M. right here in his office.”
Hook listened to the silence on the other end. “Then he couldn’t have done it,” he said.
“It doesn’t look like it,” she said. “I better hang up now. I’ll talk to you soon.”
Hook sat in the darkness and thought about Bain Eagleman. The one guy he thought had both motive and opportunity had suddenly been ruled out.
That left Buck Steele. “One down. One to go,” he said to himself.
37
HOOK LEFT HIS room early and went out the back door to avoid Skink. He needed time to think, and he needed to be alone to do it. He took a long walk down the tracks as the morning sun broke. Mixer followed at his heels, departing now and again to sniff out the gopher holes that dotted the right-of-way.
Once back to town, he stopped in for breakfast at the café and ordered up a large helping of biscuits and gravy, sausage, hash browns, two eggs over easy, and, for his health, a large glass of orange juice. The morning waitress, a large woman who threw her legs out from the knees when she walked, carried the whole thing out stacked on her arm.
“Anything else, hon?” she asked, sitting the plates down.
“I might need resuscitation at some point,” he said.
“Mouth-to-mouth?” she asked, without cracking a smile.
“That ought bring me around,” he said.
“Uh huh,” she said. “With me sitting on your chest, you might wish you’d gone ahead and died.”
Hook finished his breakfast and checked his watch. The waitress took his money and dropped a handful of change into his hand.
“About that mouth-to-mouth thing,” he said.
“Oh, sure, hon,” she said, smiling. “But I’ve another six hours on shift. Think you could wait?”
“For you? However long it takes,” he said. “Listen, could you direct me to the pool hall?”
“Down about a block,” she said. “Across from the filling station. They don’t start that poker game until this evening, though.”
“Thanks,” Hook said.
He found the door open to the pool hall and went in. A man had just stepped in from the alley with a trash can in tow. He had dark black hair that he swept back on his head and a carefully groomed mustache.
“Be with you in a moment,” he said.
Hook pulled up a stool and waited for him to put the lid back on the can.
“No one here yet,” he said, coming forward. “Games usually don’t get rolling until later on.”
“Maybe some coffee?” Hook said.
“Longneck or Coke,” he said.
Hook slid up to the bar. “Coke.”
The man opened a bottle and set it on a napkin. “Pretzels, chips, pickled eggs?”
“I just had breakfast for five,” Hook said. “I may never have to eat again.”
“Until supper,” he said. “Know how that goes.”
Hook took a drink of his Coke. “My name’s Hook Runyon. I’m the Santa Fe bull and wondered if I could ask you some questions?”
The owner took a box from under the counter and counted out dollar bills for the register.
“My dad worked for the Santa Fe,” he said. “We’re Mexican, you know. He came from the old country to work rip track.”
“Takes a hell of a man to work rip track,” Hook said. “I’ve seen men beg to be shot rather than go out on another shift.”
He nodded. “He never went back to Mexico. Me, I wound up running this place, selling longnecks to rednecks and listening to bullshit until I’m ready to stick a gun in my mouth.”
“Thing is,” Hook said, “we had a boy from the orphanage killed o
n railroad property out in Carlsbad, New Mexico, and I’m trying to chase down leads.”
“Killed, you say?”
“That’s right. Bruce Mason. You may have heard of him.”
The owner took a Coke out for himself, wiped off the top with his shirtsleeve, and opened it.
“That boy who held up the station over in Cherokee?”
“That’s right.”
“Crazy kid,” he said. “Putting kids in an orphanage screws up their heads.”
“Buck Steele, the orphanage foreman, saw Mason and a girl by the name of Lucy Barker together just before they ran off. I thought you might know something about this Steele guy.”
He tipped up his Coke. “Buck Steele? Yeah,” he said, “I know him plenty, believe me. He comes in here every night for the poker game. They don’t play for real money, if anybody’s asking.
“He drinks three or four beers and goes home. Now and then he drinks more. When that happens, he turns mean, and you can just figure on a standoff, usually him against the smallest guy in the pool hall. Keeps him from getting his ass kicked more than three or four times a year that way.”
Hook lit a cigarette. “What kind of eyewitness do you think he makes? I mean, you think I can trust what he says?”
He leaned on the bar. “Buck Steele is a great witness, if you’re out to defraud the insurance company.”
Hook finished his Coke and stood. “Thanks,” he said. “I think I get the picture. You say he comes in every night?”
“That’s right, ’cept for his vacations. First thing he does is use my john. It’s like he don’t have one of his own.”
Hook said, “Vacations?”
“Yeah,” he said. “He takes about a week or so every year. Claims he goes out to one of those Nevada whorehouses and does the whole menu. Can’t say I miss the son of a bitch around here, though.”
“Did he take a vacation this year?”
“Oh, hell yes. First part of June, I think it was, but then I can’t remember my own telephone number half the time.”
* * *
Hook took a rare afternoon nap and awakened to find Mixer staring into his face.
“Dang it, Mixer,” he said, pushing him aside. “Don’t you have any manners?”
Mixer went to the door and begged to go out. “Alright,” Hook said. “But you stay home.”
The Hanging of Samuel Ash Page 25
