The Black Train

by Edward Lee

  Poltrock looked at the next severed head. “In the fields?”

  “No, no. The white men got trials. They was hanged in the town square. Only the nigrahs are killed in the field. You’re probably smellin’ it right about now.”

  “Yes, I am. Hard to believe a couple of severed heads could smell that bad at this distance.”

  “Oh, it ain’t just the heads,” Cutton calmly went on. “Their whole bodies are threshed into the soil. Fertilizer. turnin’ somethin’ bad into somethin’ good. And they’ll just leave the heads there till they rot down to skulls, a reminder for the rest of the slaves not to act up.”

  Poltrock gazed back out when several intermittent shadows crossed his face. Jesus Lord, he thought grimly. They’d just passed two more severed heads mounted in the field. He forced himself to look forward.

  Down the line, he could now see the men working. White foremen measuring gauge and marking the next length of track bed to be dug and filled with ballast, then a hundred sweat-glazed slaves, either digging, hammering spikes, or dropping ties. Armed security men stood watch over the entire site, faces vigilant.

  “Here were are, Mr. Poltrock,” Cutton announced and slowed the wagon. “Everything you see, you’re now in charge of. It’s a pleasure to be workin’ for ya.”

  You work for me, but I work for Gast, Poltrock reminded himself. “Thank you.” Metal striking metal sang in his ears. “I must say, this appears to be a top-notch team.” And suddenly he felt enthused. Maybe the job wasn’t impossible after all. The operation was running like welloiled machinery.

  The wagon stopped. “Morris is the crew boss. I’ll have him call a break, and then he can introduce you to the men.”

  “That would be in order.”

  They both dismounted the wagon. No one even looked at him when they approached the line. Each man, black or white, worked with focus and determination.

  And the hammers hitting spikes rang on.

  When Poltrock crossed the line, he stopped cold. Suddenly he felt bile bubbling in his gut…

  The field seized his gaze, where he saw at least three dozen more severed heads on stakes.

  II

  “Quit actin’ like you ain’t never done this before,” the younger man said, straddling the fat man’s face. The fat man mewled.

  This guy is the hardest trick I ever turned, thought the younger man, frowning, and this younger man, of course, was Jiff. To maintain his arousal, he forced himself to think of Tom Cruise in Cocktail, because every time he looked down at his obese client, he winced. Nothing arousing about him. The fat man remained strained and trembling on his bed, his XXX-large Christian Dior shirt opened, and his Bermuda shorts pulled off.

  “Suck it right, fattie,” Jiff said, and grabbed a hank of white hair beside the fat man’s bald spot. “If’n you cain’t suck better than that, I just might have to slap your big fat face.”

  The overweight “client” struggled to do as complied.

  “Maybe if I kick your fat ass, you’ll get the message,” Jiff went on with his playact. He angled off the bed and—

  CRACK!

  —brought his open palm hard against the fat man’s face.

  The fat man was misty-eyed now. “I…I love you…”

  Jiff couldn’t have smirked more sharply.

  Afternoon sun lit up the fat man’s posh bedroom; Jiff found it amusing that a busy Number 1 Street bustled just outside that window, a story down. Tourists out for leisurely strolls and antique fanatics scouring the town’s quaint shops. And none of ’em would ever guess what’s going on up here. When the fat man brought his hands up to caress Jiff’s ass, Jiff jerked away the fat man’s cheeks with one hand, squeezing hard.

  “Did I give you permission to touch my ass, girlie? Hmm?” He squeezed harder, and the fat man shook his head.

  “I ought’a drag your fat girlie ass right out in the street with your little pants down like ya are, so’s every one out there can see your little pansy pecker! And then piss on ya to boot!” Now he squeezed so hard, tears formed in the fat man’s eyes, and—

  Jesus, what a sick pup, Jiff thought.

  Before the great mound of belly, the client’s genitals hardened and he moaned.

  How grim. It just reminded Jiff of the situation’s strange psychology. I tell the guy I’m gonna piss on him and he gets hard? Jiff had been a male prostitute for a long time but even he had never seen a client this bad off. It wasn’t the actual sex, nor even the pain and bondage—it was the sheer humiliation that the fat man was paying for. It didn’t matter that this was fast money—the gig was getting old.

  Get it over with, he thought, disgusted.

  He put the rubber ball in the fat man’s mouth and got to work.

  A few minutes later, Jiff was finally done, his client ravaged. He removed the rubber ball. Finally…

  “Help me! I love you so much!” came the desperate plea.

  By now Jiff felt sorry for him. Poor fat bastard’s up’n fell in love with me. “That’s a good girl,” he praised. “And now, for bein’ so good, you know what I’m gonna do?”

  Hopeful eyes glimmered up.

  Jiff lowered his face and bit one of the nipples.

  The fat man shrieked in glee.

  Jiff climbed off the bed, nude. He knew that the fat man’s eyes were on his body when he strode to the bathroom. Behind him, he pretended not to hear the forlorn whisper: “I love you so much…”

  Jiff washed up at the sink. He felt skewed. He’d originally viewed this gig as easy money—thirty bucks for ten minutes?—but now it was getting too kinky even for him. The debasement? At least his other tricks in town were simple action. It was his body that got him the business. He appraised himself in the mirror, flexed his abs, shot a few bicep poses. Some of the guys down at the Spike would lay twenty on him just to flex while they jerked off. Now I’ve got this tub’a lard with all his hangups. Oh, well, he supposed it beat cutting yards.

  He pumped his pecs once in the reflection. Yeah. I still got it.

  Behind him, his client’s voice drifted, “You’re beautiful…”

  Jiff frowned.

  When he came back out, the fat man was sitting up in bed, his shorts still at his ankles. “I’d be a mess without you.”

  You ARE a mess! Look at yourself! You look like 300 pounds of vanilla pudding folded over in bed! Jiff ignored the remark.

  He looked around the spacious room. A stone bust of some guy named Caesar stood on a pedestal by one wall, and another one of some guy named Alexander the Great stood next to the window. Jiff guessed these guys were relatives of Liberace, maybe helped get him started in Vegas. There was also a chess table made of checkerboarded marble and pieces that looked made of silver and gold. Lucky bastard…Jiff knew that his client’s money came from an inheritance—he was the last of the line. Ain’t no way that fat pansy’s ever gonna have a kid to inherit what’s left. Jiff knew he could steal a chess piece or two, but that wasn’t his style. He was just a hayseed male hooker, not a thief.

  An old, fancy armoire stood opened, revealing cans of nuts and boxes of chocolates. “Hey, can I have some’a this?”

  “All that I own…is yours.”

  I guess that means yes. Jiff knew he had to get the gears shifted fast now, otherwise the man’d just get all depressed and mushy. He opened a box of Trufflettes. “Wow, these are good.”

  “Take the whole box, I’ll get you more. I order them special from France.”

  Jiff shook his head. The antique cupboard was full of such stuff. The poor bastard. Aside from me comin’ over here and treatin’ him like dog shit, all he’s got to look forward to is food. “But, you know, you ought’a cut down on this stuff. It’s bad for your heart’n all.”

  A grateful sob. “You care about me!”

  Christ. Jiff knew that the sight of his naked body was just riling the old man up. He began to dress.

  “I’m nothing,” his client croaked. “I’ve got nothing.”

>   “Aw, don’t start talkin’ like that now. Shee-it, you got quite a bit from what I can see. Nice car, nice place, money.”

  “Don’t you understand? None of that means anything, not without love. I’ve got no true happiness at all…”

  “Stop feelin’ sorry for yourself!” Jiff snapped. I gotta get out’a here! “Come on, now, none of that. Look, I got work to do, so where’s my money?”

  A trembling hand pointed to an inlaid dresser. Jiff picked up the check and folded it in his pocket.

  “At least, tell me…Tell me you like me! Please!”

  “A’course I like ya—”

  “Then love me, too!”

  “We been over it’n over it. This ain’t like that, and never will be. This is just fun and games. We’re friends, that’s it. You help me out, I help you out. We play a game. What’s wrong with that? What’s wrong with bein’ friends?”

  Teary eyes looked up. “Do you ever…think about me? I mean…when we’re together?”

  Jiff was getting sick of this. Man, when I’m with you, all I think about is Christian Bale in his Batman suit, you pathetic fat slob…But Jiff just couldn’t be that much of a prick. The man was too harmless to be disgusted by. “A’course I think about you sometimes,” he lied.

  The client clasped his hands. “Thank you!”

  Jiff needed to split. He needed to be around some real men. “Now you give me a call next time you want me to come by.” And then he headed for the stairs.

  Halfway down, he heard the plea: “Marry me! It’ll be our secret! You can have as many lovers as you want! I’ll give you everything! Just…marry me!”

  Jiff hit the back door fast.

  III

  Collier woke at just past noon, a seam of sunlight from the curtains laying a bar across his eyes. What a slug, he thought. He felt sick from some inner confusion, then in bits and pieces everything resurfaced: the atrocious nightmare, Lottie, the hole in the wall…and the voices he thought he’d heard.

  He frowned it all away and quickly showered, only now noticing a numb erection. What a night. The stair hall bloomed in the sun, flagging a distant headache that was no doubt the by-product of drinking too much. Just as he began to take the stairs down, he heard children laughing, and an excited voice like a little girl’s exclaim: “Here, boy! Come get the ball! Here, boy!”

  Like a kid calling a dog, he thought. He walked back up and looked but no one was there.

  Mrs. Butler was dusting the banister down below. She looked up at him, as Collier was forced to look down, where his eyes targeted her cleavage. Today the stacked old woman wore a smart frilled blouse and blue skirt. Collier felt a covert thrill, now that he’d seen her naked in the peephole.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Butler—er, I should say good afternoon.”

  Her withered face beamed. “Ya missed breakfast but I’d be happy to fix ya up somethin’ for lunch.”

  “Oh, no thanks. I’m going to walk into town. I’ll pick something up there later.”

  “And again, Mr. Collier, I’m so sorry about my silly drunken daughter bein’ a thorn in your side last night—”

  “Don’t mention it. I was a little drunk myself, if you want to know the truth.”

  “So what’cha lookin’ for in town? Anything in particular?”

  She stepped aside as he descended; Collier’s eyes groaned against her plush body. “Actually, the bookstore. Is that on the main street?”

  “Yes, sir, right on the corner. Number One Street and Penelope. It’s a fine little shop.”

  Something nagged at him—besides her blaring curves. “Oh, and I wanted to ask you something. Do you allow guests to bring pets to the inn?”

  Her eyes seemed to dim. “Pets, well, no. But of course if you’re thinkin’ of bringing a pet on some future visit, I’m sure I could make—”

  “No, no, that’s not what I mean. It’s just that—” Suddenly he felt foolish bringing it up. “I thought I saw a dog last night.”

  “A dog? In the inn? There aren’t any here, I can assure you. And we don’t own any pets personally.”

  What a mistake. I was seeing things because I was drunk and stressed out from her psycho daughter. “I’m sorry, I guess my head wasn’t on straight last night. Let me just say that the beer at Cusher’s was so good, I drank a few too many.”

  She tried to laugh. “Well, we want ya to have a good time, Mr. Collier.” She paused and pinched her chin. “There is a stray dog ’cos these parts that some folks see. What kind’a dog was it you thought ya saw?”

  “I don’t even know. A mutt, I guess, about the size of a bulldog. Kind of a muddy brown.”

  Did she throw off a moment of fluster? “Well, if some stray got in here, we’ll have it out of here a mite fast. Lottie leaves the back door open sometimes. Honestly that silly girl runs me ragged, but you have a nice time in town, Mr. Collier.”

  “Thanks. See you later.”

  Collier went out the big front doors. Did her reaction strike him as odd, or was it just more overflow? There’s no dog. I’m the one who’s overreacting. He let the winding road out front take him down the hill, into warm sunlight.

  After a hundred yards, he felt better; something more positive began to supplant last night’s foolishness. He’d brought one of his boilerplate permission forms because he’d already decided that Cusher’s Civil War Lager would be the final entry in his book. He’d found what he’d been looking for, and the brightest sideline was the brewer herself. She’s so cool, he thought in a daze. “Dominique…” The name rolled off his tongue. He’d already assured himself that his professional motives were intact. I’d give the beer a five-star rating even if the brewer were ugly. Still, he couldn’t wait to see Dominique…

  Downtown, the lunch crowd was out, filling the picture-postcard streets with smiles and shining eyes. Money first, he reminded himself. He didn’t have much cash on him, and right there on the corner stood a bank. FECORY SAVINGS AND TRUST. Odd name, he thought, but who cared? There was an ATM.

  Several people stood in line before him. Collier waited idly, looking down the rest of Penelope Street. When he turned, he noticed a mounted bronze plaque bolted to the front of the building.

  THIS BUILDING WAS CONSTRUCTED ON THE ORIGINAL SITE OF THE FIRST BANK OF GAST, AND NAMED FOR THE TOWN’S PAYMASTER, WINDOM FECORY. IN 1865, UNION SOLDIERS CONFISCATED THE BANK OF MILLIONS IN GOLD THAT HAD BEEN HIDDEN BENEATH THE FLOOR, THEN BURNED THE BUILDING TO THE GROUND TO RETRIEVE ITS NAILS FROM THE ASHES.

  Interesting, Collier thought, but now the only thing on his mind was Dominique. I’ll have lunch there today, and give her the release form. “And I’d really like to talk to you some more, too, Mr. Collier,” he remembered her saying. Collier was so distracted by the thought of her, he didn’t even take note of the tube-topped/cutoff-jeaned Paris Hilton look-alike who was now bent over the ATM tapping in her PIN. Collier’s resurgent lust, in other words, was thwarted by thoughts of someone else.

  “Oh, hey there, Mr. Collier—”

  Collier looked up, surprised to see Jiff standing right before him in line. “Hi, Jiff. Didn’t even see you there. Guess I’m preoccupied or something.”

  “Hard not to be on a beautiful day like we got.” Jiff stood lackadaisically in his work boots, scuffed jeans, and clinging T-shirt. “Out for a stroll?”

  “Yeah, but I saw the bank here and thought I’d grab some cash first.”

  “I just stopped by to deposit a check real quick, and then it’s back to work.” He’d pronounced “deposit” as “deposert.” “And thanks again for last night. I had me a lot of fun.”

  “Me, too. We’ll do it again before I head back to L.A.”

  Jiff grinned ruefully, arms crossed. “Ma told me ’bout your little problem last night with Lottie. She can be a right pain in the ass, she can.”

  You’re telling me? “It was no big deal. She’s a good kid.”

  “Yeah, but it’s too bad she’s the way she is. Don’t fit in prop
er with everyone else, not bein’ able to talk and all, and a’course that goofy grin.”

  “Hopefully she’ll come out of her shell someday.”

  Jiff waved a hand. “Naw, that’d just get her into more trouble. She’s best just doin’ her work ’cos the house’n stayin’ put.”

  The poor girl’s doomed in that house of bumpkins…But by now, Collier noticed the lithe blonde at the ATM, and several other men in line were eyeballing her, too. But when Collier looked to Jiff…

  The man didn’t seem to be aware of her.

  Just like last night at the bar, Collier remembered. Then, very quickly, he noticed the top of the check in his hand.

  JOSEPHAWITZ-GEORGE SUTE, the name at the top read. The local author, he thought. Collier hoped to be running into him today. He noticed that the check was made out for thirty dollars. Side work, Collier recalled. Jiff had already mentioned that he was also a local handyman.

  The blonde left; then Jiff stepped up and deposited his check. “Guess you’ll be stoppin’ by Cusher’s for lunch, huh?”

  “As a matter of fact I am. I’m going to write up the lager in my book and I need Dominique to sign a release form.”

  Jiff grinned over his shoulder and winked. “It’s a mighty fine beer, but you know, Mr. Collier, my mom makes her own spiced ale on occasion. I’m sure she’s still got plenty in the fruit cellar, and I’m double-sure she’d love for you ta try some.”

  He’s trying to fix me up with his sixty-five-year-old mother again. Collier squirmed for a response. “Oh, really? That’s interesting. I enjoy homemade ales.” But, sixty-five years old or not, he still remembered that body of hers, in the peephole—Man…—then the odd notion that Mrs. Butler herself had drilled that hole…“You’re welcome to join me for lunch,” he added, if only to blot out the image of the plush, large-nippled breasts all glimmering in lather.

  “Aw, thanks much, Mr. Collier, but I still got some fix-it jobs around town ’fore I head back to the house.” He flashed a final grin. “But you have a fine day.”

  “You, too, Jiff.”

  Jiff strode off, whistling like a cliché. Collier took money out of the machine and continued into town.