by K. M. Tolan
Timepiece patted the side of his coat above the pocket watch. “That’s an easy stop in central Ohio. Lima’s more in Hobohemia than out of it. Leastwise the Locomotive Works. So what about you, Brass? Do any railroad work?”
He couldn’t return much of a smile. “My father worked the yards. I only fix jukeboxes and run from cops.”
His reply merited a raised eyebrow. “Gandy dancer in your blood, eh? Sounds like you got more ’bo inside you than anything else. Well, let’s head up and see what the Local has done about fixing your duds. Be interesting to hear what Freedom thinks of our chances. We’ll probably run into her tomorrow after she gets over a good sulk. Riders don’t like all this fighting.”
“Great. Advice from someone already made of hot air.”
Timepiece shrugged off the snide remark. “Steam’s just the easiest way to see them. Most folks have to die in order to find the kind of freedom those girls have. Riders, well, you could say they found themselves a shortcut.”
The steam children were indeed out of sorts judging by the muted sounds coming from the calliope. The only music it produced came from the rhythmic chug of the wagon’s engine, accompanied by the rumble of wheels and belts powering the large white tent beside it. Battle’s aftermath lingered in the eyes of the many-bandaged hoboes they passed along the way, the lack of either police or reporters still boggling Vincent’s mind.
He ducked his head beneath a tent flap, following Timepiece into what struck him more as a machinists’ company picnic than a factory. Beneath late morning’s diffuse light sat tables crowded with everything from sewing machines to welders. Thick belts led to freestanding lathes and various cutters, the air alive with the buzz and whirr of industry.
A short, red-haired young man in a smeared work apron worked his way across the busy floor, a familiar brown leather coat folded over one arm and a blue plaid shirt draped over the other. His thick Irish brogue carried over the noise of machinery and workers crowded under the canvas. “You be Brass, right?”
Vincent raised a hand.
The fellow tossed him the shirt, which he was happy to pull on in trade for the scratchy blanket.
The worker refused to let him put the coat on himself, and instead made a flourish of throwing the duster over Vincent’s shoulders. “The lads came through for ya,” he explained while pointing out nearly hidden seams along the shoulders. “There ya are, boss. No charge. All courtesy of Local Seventy-Four.”
“Appreciated,” Vincent replied, uncertain what else to say lest there be strings attached. It still felt like Dad’s old duster, except a bit heavier and perhaps a little stiffer. He smoothed the leather, wondering if any of the material was original.
“The bastards won’t be ripping through this so easily,” his benefactor assured him, apparently catching his concern. The worker’s eyes creased in a critical squint. “You’re not carrying the card, now are ya, boyo? You ought to be after last night’s go.”
“Union card,” Timepiece broke in. “Not yet, but he’s learning fast.”
“He’ll see things right when he does,” the other replied, tipping an imaginary hat before leaving.
Timepiece’s graying eyebrows rose as he inspected the coat. “Fine piece of work. Usually only the Order of the Open Road gets this stuff. You made some friends, Brass.”
He ran his hand along a new sleeve. “Hell of a way to make them.”
“So what’s next, chief?”
Vincent transferred Freedom’s nickel from his pants back into the zippered pocket secreted inside the duster’s left breast. “You got a teapot handy?”
Timepiece shook his head. “Best leave her be for now. Nothing is worse than a moody rider, not that you’ll keep them on the same track at the best of times. She’ll come by when we need her to find your girlfriend.”
“That woman is not my girlfriend,” Vincent affirmed with a snort. “I doubt a baron’s daughter would be interested in the likes of me, other than a hammer needing a nail. I do owe her for saving my neck once. Hopefully, getting her away from her father will settle things between us, but I doubt it.”
It was the conductor’s turn to roll his eyes. “Love to see how you’ll pull that little rabbit out of your hat.”
“How about we start by leaving?”
Timepiece pulled out his watch; then consulted a worn brown book pulled from inside his coat. “We’ve time to get our bindles together. Nothing’s going out right now.”
“We can always walk. Let’s go before King Willy thinks up another favor.”
Five
Trampled earth and cold campfires cast a pall over the few hobos who braved a return to the edge of Blue Island’s yards the morning after battle. Vincent’s nose curled, remembering the charred stench even though the bodies had mercifully removed. He eyed the scattered fire pits with unease, relived not to see the blackened results of last night’s fight.
Timepiece walked up beside him, the bindle pole slung over his uniformed shoulder making for an incongruous mix between conductor and hobo. He nodded toward a knot of bandaged knights who glowered at the adjacent tracks with newfound distrust. “If I was Willy, I’d move this jungle. Erie’s Baron would like nothing better than to clean Blue Island out. ’Bo’s lose access to Big Town and every jungle east of here will be cut off.”
“Depends on who’s baron,” Vincent returned, beginning to appreciate the strategic part Chicago played, even out here in this crazy place called Hobohemia.
“Ah, so that’s King Willy’s game, is it?” Timepiece rubbed his chin. “If he laid out some plans for you on how he’s going to wangle that, best keep them to yourself. Remember whom you’re going out to fetch. The baron’s daughter might have her own ideas on the succession.”
Vincent blew out an exasperated breath, not having considered such an angle when it came to how Samantha intended for him to repay her. Jesus, did this have to get any more complicated?
Blue Island didn’t look any different than any train yard with switching engines busy organizing the next train out. Wisps of smoke rose in lazy blue swirls from maintenance shacks along the confluence of steel rails. A tall brick switch house rose amid the bustle of men and machines, its broad observation windows catching the sun’s glint. Steam engines huffed; cars rattled, and whistles tooted. One could mistake this place as being normal.
Vincent regarded his newfound traveling partner. “You said nothing’s headed to Lima right now. So what’s the chance we can jump a train heading in our general direction?”
Timepiece pulled out his schedule book and flipped through several dog-eared pages. Next came his pocket watch. “Might have a slow freight heading out of Gary, Indiana, which isn’t too far. Nothing’s leaving this yard unless you got a good pair of arms and a handcart handy. Not after last night. Most traffic is either inbound or non-stop expresses. Don’t even try to hop one of those high-ballers unless you want to end up greasing its wheels. They’re really moving when they hit the yard.”
He followed Timepiece’s gaze to where hulking shapes patrolled along lines of boxcars. “Yard police?”
“Figured the bulls would be out this morning. Funny being on the other side of things now. Used to appreciate those folks keeping ’bo’s from swarming over my cars. Now I ain’t no better.” Timepiece glanced at Vincent. “No offense.”
“Do I look like a bum?”
Timepiece laughed. “Best neither one of us stares too long in a mirror. Don’t fret none. Hobos are next up from riders when it comes to being free spirits.” He winked. “But they ain’t trainmen, either.”
He didn’t bother to inquire where unschooled gandy dancers stood in Timepiece’s list of respectful occupations. More to the point was how to get out of here short of walking. “You mentioned handcarts. Any chance we can find one around here and pump our way to Lima?”
“See that cluster of light poles over there on the other side? They got a sidetrack full of ’em.”
“Great. Just keep a
n eye out for those cops.”
Starting on their journey became a matter of timing since the rail yard hadn’t come to a complete standstill. Vincent made his first move after a small switcher chugged past with its string of boxcars. Timepiece kept pace despite his age, hopping rails and avoiding uneven ties in a quick dash toward the moving freight. Crouched, Vincent ran toward the back of the cars, his footsteps masked by the clatter and squeal of steel wheels. Another quick sprint and he made the yard’s maze of boxcars with the conductor darting up behind him. Sneaking among the canyons of waiting cars was easy.
At least it started that way.
Another squat engine huffed its way down the track he needed to cross next, steam billowing from the switcher’s cylinders. He motioned to Timepiece who bent low beside him at the end of a string of tanker cars smelling of creosote. The two men ran through the steamer’s hot breath as the machine rumbled past. Emerging from the fog, Vincent found himself face-to-face with the largest man he had ever seen in a cop’s uniform. The enforcer stood upon a flatbed car ahead of the remaining freight, his red eyes glaring out from beneath the bill of a squat black cap. A club far meaner than a baton slapped eagerly against a big paw, the cop’s wide nostrils flaring. He leapt off the moving car with a gruff snort, blocking Vincent’s path.
Someone whispered from behind. “Back. This way.”
No kidding, Vincent agreed, spinning around in the sooty ballast.
A bellowing roar hastened his retreat into the switcher’s covering steam. He couldn’t see Timepiece, which meant the conductor had already hightailed it. Trouble was, hightailed it where?
The voice, far too wispy and high-pitched to fit the conductor’s gruff tone, seemed to enjoy his panic. “Up and over the tracks. Don’t get yourself run over, silly.” The last caution delivered itself with a giggle, making light of his imminent thrashing.
Definitely not Timepiece, Vincent realized, running like a fool ahead of the switcher. Steam billowed around him like a misplaced cloud, helping to mask his leap across the rails ahead of the engine. So complete were the gray billows enveloping him, he nearly slammed into an adjacent track’s boxcar.
“Jump between the cars. Hurry.”
Swearing, Vincent did, knowing the danger should bad luck have another boxcar banging into the waiting line of freight. Crushed between couplers was an ugly way to meet one’s Maker. He nearly slipped on a black iron knuckle made slick from the persistent steam.
“Turn right. Then move left across two tracks when you see a concrete wall.”
“Freedom?” he guessed between breaths while scooting up a weed-choked gap between two lines of boxcars. He heard no answer, save for a half-imagined snicker. The mist dissipated, requiring a sharp eye for any more of Blue Island’s club-wielding denizens. He sought a safer path to the next track and hopefully the yard’s far edge. His pursuer had vanished, but where in hell had Timepiece gone?
He found the conductor hunkered against a crumbling chest-high concrete barrier guarding a series of light poles. Beyond the poles, a line of handcarts sat on a side rail adjacent to a rusting corrugated metal shed.
Timepiece glanced over the wall. “That’s a lot of hard pumping on the way to Lima.”
Vincent peered over his shoulder. “I’ll take anything getting us out of this yard. How do we get one of these carts headed in the right direction?”
“Looks like a frog on the east side of the tracks we can use.”
“Frog?”
“Switch,” Timepiece clarified, indicating a confluence of rails ahead of the handcarts. He rose, brushed dust from his pants, and trotted toward his goal.
Guess I get to be the thief. His eyes on the shed, Vincent pulled himself over the barrier and trotted toward the last cart in the row. There was room on the deck for a half-dozen workers, even with the seesaw handles used to provide locomotion. Getting the contraption moving proved easier once he discovered and spun the brake wheel open. Afterward, it took a few hard pumps on the handle to get the cart rolling. Metal wheels ringing, the handcart gathered speed as it rattled over the switch.
Timepiece hopped aboard, the two of them working the seesaw in a hasty departure. Clearing the yard proved a compromise between finding an open switch when they could or hefting the cart between tracks when circumstances dictated otherwise. Circumstances like an approaching locomotive.
“Damn sure want off this line before we get ourselves run over,” Vincent grated as a large steamer rumbled past with the force of a small earthquake.
Bright white vapors shot up from the engine’s stack, accompanied by a robust whistle. The clouds swirled with the grace of a ballroom dancer. A feminine shape emerged to point an arm.
“I think Freedom wants us back on the left track,” Vincent said, shaking his head. “Didn’t we just leave it?”
“It’s a maintenance track, not going to get us to the main line.” Shrugging, Timepiece stopped pumping and spun the brake to bleed off what precious little momentum they possessed. “She’d best not be playing games.”
Having no switch handy, they lifted the heavy cart and dragged it across the adjacent rails. Their job was made even more frustrating after they emerged from the yard’s network of tracks only to curve off into semi-obscurity behind brush and stunted poplars. Weeds laced half-hidden ties.
Timepiece spit to the side of the cart after they nudged up against a rusted A-frame buttress terminating the spur. Wiping his brow with a crinkled hanky from his blue jacket’s pocket, he pointed down the adjacent slope. Two brightly colored steam-powered wagons chugged and bounced along a gravel maintenance road. “Well, look at that. Brethren of Iron Workers come calling.”
Vincent jumped off the cart, trying not to skid on the worn ballast. “I bet Freedom brought them. Don’t exactly know what little Miss Steam Puff has in mind. Is she even human?”
“The day’s yet to come when anyone can figure out a rider,” Timepiece agreed, “but don’t be caught referring to them as anything other than people. That’s Taylorist talk, and the ladies’ll blister your nose to remind you.”
“I’ll try and remember that.” She’d saved his bacon back there in the yard, after all. It was damn hard trusting anyone these days, let alone some kind of childish genie straight out of a railroader’s bottle.
Vincent turned his attention to the approaching wagons, each featuring a small cab with red, green, and yellow tassels lining the windshield’s glass. The drivers waved up at him, the lead wagon coming to a halt adjacent to the roadbed’s rise.
Timepiece called out a greeting to the person behind the first transport’s wheel. The driver was a robust fellow with squinting brown eyes and an all-encompassing black beard hanging over a red-and-green crosshatch sweater. “That’s Boss Shannon. He runs Local Seventy-Four, and frequents less distinguished drinking establishments with King Willy. A good-natured fellow provided you agree with him.”
The union boss opened the cabin’s side door and leaned out. “Halooo! Hear you boys need some help.”
“Couple extra arms, maybe,” Timepiece returned under his breath, reflecting the same puzzlement Vincent felt about this sudden offer of aid. The conductor raised his voice. “Whatever generosity we can get, Boss. What you have in mind?”
“Getting you your own wee train, there, Skipper.”
~ * ~
Boss Shannon wiped at his eyes, nearly rocking himself out of the folding chair beneath the wagon’s rolled-out canopy. “So there was Brady, scuttered on a pint of Johnny-jump-up and play’n this bleed’n fiddle like he was Paddy Canny. I’ll tell ya, that’d be the last time King Willy wagered me or anyone else.”
Shannon nodded toward a wooden box propped against a nearby stump. “Been put’n that crate of Guinness to good use ever since. Couple of bottles bought you a pass through Lima’s yard, courtesy of the lads up at the switch house. I had ’em fix the schedules to give you a clear run into Ohio.” The burly Irishman gestured toward the tracks. “Crazy D
anny should be about finished rig’n up your cart by now.”
“We’re much obliged to you,” Vincent returned between mouthfuls of scrambled eggs and corn beef hash. He glanced toward Timepiece, who nodded in shared gratitude. Two days’ worth of unfettered hospitality and a warm fire—all without a hint of recompense. Yet. It was like waiting for the thunder after a big flash.
Boss Shannon’s lips, half-hidden among the black curls, crinkled upward. He rubbed his hands. “Ah, now we come to it, lads. In truth, you need to be thank’n your rider lass. Freed my precious little Glory from Erie’s slave boilers, she did. Glory’s been a darlin’ of the local for many a year and we missed her sorely. The lass is back up at Lima where she belongs, breath’n life into the new Berkshires. Production lines were brought to a halt while she was gone, not good for my boys.”
“Glory’s a steam child,” Vincent clarified.
“Aye and one of the liveliest. Not too many riders about these days, and I’d wager the Hamiltons were behind Glory’s snatch’n—those diesel-loving blaggards.”
“The Hamilton family used to run the Locomotive Works out at Lima,” Timepiece explained to Vincent’s questioning look. “They tried to switch the plant to diesel engines. That didn’t go well with either the steam children or the unions.”
“Taylorist, the lot,” Boss Shannon added with a snort. “Like the skipper here says, we ran that bunch out of town and backed the Baldwins when they took things over. Proper steam-lov’n folk, those Baldwins, and respectful of their workers. Word about says you’ll be look’n to fetch the Erie Railroad baron’s daughter from a non-union shop the Hamiltons are run’n. You lads would do me a service by let’n us know what rock this shop is hid’n under.”
The conversation jogged Vincent’s memory of Samantha’s quick words before she handed herself over. “The baron’s daughter told me something about them building hybrid diesels for the baron.”
