Tracks

by K. M. Tolan

  “It’s okay,” Samantha assured him. “They’re some of the knights I mentioned.”

  And I’m the King of England. Wishing she’d kept her mouth shut about the knuckles should things go bad, he surrendered the sturdy brass rings.

  “King Willy knows a conductor who can get us to Red Socks,” Samantha informed him while being herded down the overgrown remnants of a service road. “Red will get you trained up in no time.”

  “I’m sure he will,” Vincent said with diluted conviction.

  Her lips pulled back. “You think you’re so smart. I can’t wait to see the look on your face when we get to the jungle.”

  She didn’t have to wait long. The overgrown gravel road degraded into a well-trodden trail descending into a wooded vale. Calliope music? Sprinkled among the trees was a cross between country fair and refugee camp. A line of brightly colored vehicles drew his attention. The conveyances reminded him of gypsy wagons, but these were larger and sported puffing smoke stacks instead of chimneys.

  One cart stood apart from the rest. Parked near a large white tent, the wagon looked like a brass porcupine due to the number of pipes sprouting from it. This was the source of the lively toots. Vincent couldn’t take his eyes off what leapt from pipe to pipe in white bursts. Steam shaped into the lithe silhouettes of young girls, and the marvel didn’t end there. Each pixie twirled and dove with a will of her own, sometimes orbiting the calliope before vanishing down a brass tube.

  Samantha slid up beside him, her honey voice delivered with an abrasive glare. “Not so crazy now, am I?”

  “The calliope doing that?”

  “The calliope doing that?” she parroted, much to the amusement of their escort. “Remember what I said about steam children? You hold one of their coins in your pocket. It was given to your father as a token of trust by one of those girls.”

  Irish clapped Vincent on the shoulder. “Welcome to Blue Island, boyo. Looks like Local Seventy Four’s in town.” He gestured to the vaporous feminine puffs darting between the brass stacks. “Freedom’s with ’em, along with a couple more she pulled from Erie’s boilers. Been a spell since we’ve had so many riders in one place.”

  “Hobo name for steam children,” Samantha injected with another helping of syrupy venom. “He’s new here, Long Tommy. Really new.”

  Go ahead and enjoy yourselves. Glowering, he kept silent, recalibrating his assumptions for the umpteenth time since stepping on those tracks back home. He was used to people rubbing ignorance in his face. At least one aspect of human nature remained a constant. So did another. He was hungry as hell. Vincent turned off the path, negotiating his way down a weed-choked slope to a brief meadow where hobos lined up before a bubbling pot. He expected a restraining hand on his shoulder.

  Instead, Tommy swung his staff in a leisurely arc to block Samantha from following. “I’ll have the lads bring you something, darlin’. Best we mind our manners and stay comfy right here.”

  Vincent paused. “She’s not coming?”

  Long Tommy’s smile didn’t waver. “The lass and King Willy have an understanding. She’ll be fine, no need to worry. You and I’ll go down—grub’s on me, by the way.”

  “I’ll meet you later,” Samantha assured them, spearing the other hobos around her with scornful glances. “Don’t worry. I won’t hurt them.”

  “If you say so,” Vincent said, taking some comfort in her bravado. The “knights” seemed more concerned about her, making him wonder how liberal she’d been with that rifle of hers.

  His empty belly led him to a copper cauldron large enough for a whole cow. From the look of it, someone managed the feat along with a few bushels of vegetables for good measure. Vincent joined his escort at a line of eager diners, each hobo wearing a hilarious mix of mismatched fabrics. There was even a wide array of hats and feathered headpieces to complete their owners’ faux prosperity. These bums looked more like circus tramps rather than the derelicts shadowing Chicago’s mean streets. People passed each other with ingratiating nods and doffed hats, several greeting Tommy with a “yer lordship.” Apparently there was delusion enough here for everybody.

  The food was real and damn good. Vincent found room at one of many picnic tables interspersed among tents and shacks, each building remarkably well kept for a vagrant camp. He glanced up the rise. Good, they were taking Samantha a bowl of stew. Not only that, two of Long Tommy’s boys were setting up a small tent behind her.

  He looked over at Tommy who slurped up his cup of stew with gusto. “So, what’s she done?”

  The knight shrugged. “Let’s just say the girl brings trouble. His Honor told us to keep our traps shut ’bout her. Rumors, ya know.”

  “I’ll be sure and ask him.”

  “You’ll be sure and keep the smart stuff to yourself before His Honor or I’ll be ringing your noggin like a bell.”

  Vincent bit back a reply guaranteed to convert the calmly spoken threat into a painful reality. He ate his fill from the generous tin cup provided, wondering if he was the one running around in a world of his own. First the yegg, now steam children and knights. What next? A castle hidden behind old tarps? His father’s bedtime stories were taking on more substance by the moment.

  Instead of a palatial estate, he followed his minder to a ring of inverted trashcans beneath the spread of an old maple. Hobos of all sorts and sizes crowded the poor man’s court. Centered among them sat a tramp astride a red pillow. His purple satin vest and striped pants suggested a gambler tossed from one riverboat too many.

  King Willy smiled through gray stubble with the expansiveness of a janitorial Santa Claus. He beckoned with a ringed hand, his voice smoothing in the manner a well-seasoned politician. “Would the young gentleman in the fine brown coat grace us with his august presence?”

  Helped along by Long Tommy’s nudge, Vincent walked forward as the onlookers stepping back to afford him passage.

  King Willy folded his arms. “So, this is Cracker Jack’s boy, is it?”

  “My name is…”

  “Hold it right there, son.” Willy wagged a finger. “Names are a powerful thing. We’ll get around to your moniker in a moment.” He spread out his arms as if in benediction. “Brethren of the road, I’ve been informed of the passing of Cracker Jack, a gandy dancer laid low while trying to mend the error of his ways. Jack has balanced his ledger in the Big Book and earned himself a ticket up ol’ Rock Candy Mountain. Ladies and gentlemen, a moment’s respect, if you please.”

  Vincent endured the awkward silence, his mind still slipping off the rungs when it came to his father. He eyed the line of tattered men and women alongside this king. Pretentions of grandeur would be an understatement here. The only thing missing were gold fillings in Willy’s beneficent smile. Trouble was, these people appeared sincere, hushed with bowed heads. Fine. If King Willy’s blessing helped clear his father’s name, the grandstanding was worth it.

  King Willy sat back on his pillow, reached into a vest pocket, and brought out a familiar object—the brass knuckles apparently handed to him by Long Tommy. The hobo twirled the knuckles and nodded toward Vincent. “Took on two yegg with this, did you?” He exchanged grins with his court. “Folks, what we have here is a High-Priced Man.”

  The coarse laughter suggested other than accolades.

  “It’s a joke, son,” Willy assured in his cultured voice. “You don’t strike me as a Taylorist.”

  Vincent leapt at the chance to learn more than the meager scrapings Samantha offered. “What exactly are they?”

  Willy chuckled. “Another joke.” His whiskered face sobered. “One that’s not so funny, but you’ll figure this out for yourself.” He raised a hand to quash any response. “Let’s get down to business. First, the scepter of office, if you please.”

  A woman wearing a patchwork green dress handed Willy a long black walking cane with a bulbous gold handle. The hobo king rapped his scepter against the trashcan’s thin metal. “The Court of the Open Road is now in ses
sion. We have ourselves a new citizen. By the powers invested in me by the International Wonder Workers, I shall bestow a moniker upon this cat.”

  “I like my own name,” Vincent spoke up.

  King Willy leaned forward and gently shoved the tip of his cane against Vincent’s chest. “So do other people, son. People you don’t want tying strings on you. You want to dance to your own tune, you need a moniker to keep the real you away from such folks.”

  He stubbornly held his ground. “What folks?”

  A shadow passed over the man’s face. “Taylorists, among others. The ones who stole your sister from you.”

  So Samantha wasn’t kidding about that part, either. “Where is she?”

  Willy sat back on his cushion with a slow nod. “Now we have his attention, don’t we, boys?”

  A few half-hearted laughs answered his question.

  Willy flipped the brass knuckles in his free hand while giving Vincent a long speculative look. “It takes some big ones to face down yegg with little more than knucks. Shows some spirit, maybe enough to get your sister back. We’re talking a long track, son, and you’re not going to like what’s waiting on the far end. Evil that gets under your skin easier than a good cigar. Therefore, we’re going to call you as we see you. Your moniker is Brass.” He tossed Vincent the knuckles. “Welcome to Hobohemia, Brass.”

  “And where, exactly, are we?” Vincent pressed.

  His question elicited more than a few chuckles.

  “Hobohemia,” Willy repeated, taking care to enunciate each vowel. “Right next door to where those missing socks of yours end up. The last bastion of the human spirit.” He stood. “Gentlemen, ladies, this court is adjourned. Brass, you and I have some favors to ask of each other.”

  Waving off concerned looks from Tommy and other staff-carrying hobos, King Willy motioned Vincent to follow him around the big maple. The hobo king led him to a simple white tent overlooking a slow stream.

  Willy beckoned him inside with what sounded like a quote. “It does not do for most men to get rich too fast.”

  The canvas triangle was tall enough to allow Vincent to walk in without bowing his head. There was little in the way of imagined splendor waiting inside, just a simple bedroll stretched over a wooden cot. Stumps for chairs. Spartan by choice, he guessed, having seen old rockers and such outside other tents and shacks. He took a seat, noticing one thing definitely out of place here. One of the tent frame’s hewn branches also played host to a fancy hanger’s gold hook. He recognized an expensive suit when he saw one. This gray three-piece suggested money enough to set a banker’s jowls a quivering. A red silk tie shimmered over a neatly buttoned white shirt.

  “I keep those rags around for a laugh,” Willy commented, taking a stump across from Vincent. “Gives me a good chuckle every time I look at it. Belonged to a genuine High-Priced Man, it did. He was about as high-priced as they come, if you can set value to a man’s soul.”

  “Anybody I should know?” Vincent inquired, already seeing the answer.

  Willy grinned as if sharing a joke. “He was a first class executive named William Van Erie. Groomed to take over the Erie Railroad after his father’s passing. The fellow was even going to marry into the Fords, a prestigious Taylorist family from Detroit. This cat was going places. Man had a plan to institute assembly lines across Hobohemia in order to produce lowly products from lowly men. Throw out craftsmen and the pride of workmanship. All in the name of good business, mind you.”

  “Except for the workers,” Vincent added, having seen victims of such thinking strung out along Chicago’s gutters.

  “Funny how such wealth doesn’t seem to get down to those who could use it.” King Willy leaned forward, his deep-set eyes intent. “So, one day this executive looks in the mirror. Sees the faces of those he’d sold out staring back at him. Recognized one of them as his own. On that day, Mister Van Erie put on his patent leather shoes and started walking. He never looked back.”

  Willy stood, dug into the suit’s inner pocket, and pulled out a black leather-bound book embossed in gold trim. He handed over the tome. “Seen one of these before?”

  Vincent inspected what looked like the kind of bible carried around by dime store preachers and their ilk. “The Principles of Scientific Management,” he read aloud in puzzlement. Shaking his head, he handed it back.

  “We like to call it the Book of Possum for short, though not to any Taylorist’s face.” Willy’s voice took on a steadfast tone of righteousness. “Science, not rule of thumb. Harmony, not discord. Cooperation, not individualism. Maximum output, in place of restricted output. The development of each man to his greatest efficiency and prosperity.”

  Sighing, Willy stuffed the book back into the suit. “The Five Golden Tenets. The rules by which Taylorists live and the spigot they use to drain away the human spirit.” He grimaced and took his seat. “William believed these things, and believed in them hard. He kept himself deaf to the cries of the enslaved until the silence nearly drove him mad.”

  This was sounding dangerously like some religious pitch. “So what? You this big shot baron I heard about from Samantha?”

  “Almost was,” Willy quietly answered. “My late father was the man your father created the Detroit line for.”

  Vincent rose. “You? You’re the one who adopted my sister?”

  Willy waved a dismissing hand. “Settle down, son, we’re talking years ago. Your father hadn’t even met your mother back then. Things came to a head after my brother took the Barony’s reins in my absence. Your father fled to parts unknown after taking the blame for his part in introducing Taylorism to Hobohemia. He only returned after losing his daughter. He tried to take her back and kill the Detroit line for good measure, but didn’t have much luck doing either. My guess is he figured it best to warn you there’d be hunters coming for the both of ya.”

  “Why me? I’m nothing.”

  Willy met his reply with a wheezing laugh. “Nothing? You’re a gandy dancer’s son. There isn’t a lot of your kind out here. My brother was covering his bets. Making sure nobody returned who could pull up those precious tracks bringing him money and bad ideas.”

  “I don’t give a damn about those tracks. I came for my sister and the bastard who killed my father.”

  “That would be the same man behind both, but going out for blood only begets more blood. A man gets ugly inside. Loses his hope and self-respect until the blackness is all he’s got left.”

  Vincent returned to his stump. “Sounds like those yegg I met.”

  Willy nodded. “You’re smarter than you look, Brass. My brother, Baron Bram Van Erie, got it into his head those people are the kind of grease his brand of evangelism needs. He needs tough guys who can drive out the unions and organize his assembly lines. Men who will take orders and ask for little in return since they’ve no self-worth to start with. He’s bringing yegg from Detroit into Hobohemia. Once here, they show their true blood on the outside.”

  Vincent nodded. “So you want me to chop this line of yours. Why doesn’t someone go out there with a crowbar and start pulling ties?”

  “It’s living rail, son. Takes a gandy dancer to kill living rail.” The hobo king left his seat and pulled a black traveling case from under the cot. Out of the trunk came an amber bottle and two shot glasses, the latter’s crystalline glint as equally out of place as the suit. Willy poured two helpings and handed one to Vincent. “I’m more a bourbon man myself, but around here you get what you can. Not bad for a whiskey.”

  “To your health,” Willy saluted before downing his drink.

  Vincent followed, taking a quick breath to quench the fireball heading toward his stomach. “So what’s the deal?”

  “Favors,” Willy corrected with a raised finger. “I’m reclaiming my birthright and returning to the Erie Barony. This is the only way I can stop my brother. The problem is in getting back. The track to Erie’s yards is guarded. Anything not on the yardmaster’s manifest will find itself
sidelined into a dead end with yegg waiting for them. That’s where you come in. I want you to sneak into the barony and lay new track back to Lima, Ohio. Me and the boys will have a train waiting to take us in.”

  “How does this get my sister back?”

  “My first act upon becoming baron will be to release her to you. All that’s left is for you to cut the Detroit track and make your daddy proud. Everyone goes home happy.”

  Vincent frowned at the only sticking point. “Your brother has to answer for my father.”

  “He will, but not with blood. When you sever Hobohemia’s link to Detroit, Bram will be on the other end with his Taylorist friends. Exile, Brass, not murder. I’m not yegg, and neither are you.”

  “I’m also not a gandy dancer.”

  Willy’s brow furrowed. “Not yet, no. Your partner says she knows a retired gandy dancer who can train you. A fellow named Red Socks. I know a man who can get you to where this fellow lives.”

  “I wouldn’t exactly call Samantha my partner. She claims to have grown up with Katy. Any of it true?”

  “All of it. She was raised in Erie House. Not saying you have to trust her, Brass. Let’s just say she’ll stick with you as long as things keep going her way. You want more answers than that, you’ll have to get them from her.”

  Willy’s grin told him how slim his chances were. This ex-baron expected to let his brother walk away after siccing those thugs on Dad? “All in all, this is quite a favor you’re asking.”

  “You lost your sister. I walked away from my responsibilities. The road to redemption isn’t meant to be easy.”

  Vincent rose and put his glass on the cot beside Willy’s bed. “I need to think about this.”

  Willy rested a grizzled chin between his thumb and forefinger. “Well, you could always walk up to my brother and introduce yourself. Tell Bram you want both his daughter and his head. He’s been known to be reasonable. Might even hire you.”

  Vincent let out a slow exhale. “Just point me in the right direction.”

  Willy stood and stretched. “How about we expand your thinking a little more, Brass? Samantha told me you have a rather special nickel.”