Seth shoved his hands into his pockets. “With the truck,” he said.
“It wouldn’t start?” Hook asked. “Damn thing hasn’t been tuned up since it came off the factory line.”
“Not that,” Seth said. “It’s in the river.”
Hook rubbed at his face and looked down the line of track.
“Say again.”
“It’s in the river, Hook.”
“What the hell you talking about?”
“Hell, Hook, I had time to kill, so I decided to go fishing up river by the stockyards. Food’s a little hard to come by for poor vets like myself. So I backed the truck in, see, pulled the hand brake, and went on down to snag a catfish. First thing I know that truck came racing down the bank and right into the river.”
“Jesus Christ, Seth, the company truck went into the river?”
“Not the engine, Hook. The engine’s dry as dry.”
“Jesus,” Hook said. “Do you know what Division’s going to do to me? It’s just what that prick Eddie’s been waiting for.”
“I’m sorry, Hook. I didn’t know that hand brake didn’t work.”
“Why didn’t you get it out of the river?”
“They want ten bucks for a tow, Hook.”
“That would be your ten bucks, wouldn’t it, Seth?”
“Hell, Hook, I’m sleeping under a goddang bridge.”
“I ought to take it out of your hide.”
“I’m just a poor vet, Hook, waking up with night sweats from the war. It would be un-American.”
By the time Hook got back, the last of the sun had sunk below the horizon. He pulled in at the bridge to let Seth out, who hadn’t said a word all the way. The fire flickered from the jungle beneath the bridge.
“I’m real sorry, Hook,” Seth said. “Soon as I get ten bucks, I’ll pay you back.”
“I won’t be holding my breath on that one,” Hook said.
“Me and the boys been talking,” he said. “We got a proposition. You think you could come over tomorrow?”
“What you going to do, Seth, hit me over the head and throw me in the river along with my truck?”
“Naw,” he said. “Roy’s cooking his ham and beans. There’s no better this side of Mexico.”
“Well,” Hook said, “it’s against my better judgment, but I reckon I couldn’t be in more trouble than I am.”
Seth grinned. “Thanks, Hook. See you tomorrow, and I’m real sorry about the truck.”
Hook waited until the supply clerk went down to the loading dock before ducking in to leave the truck keys on his desk.
Back at the depot sleeping rooms, he took off his clothes, which smelled like river mud, and threw them onto the floor of the shower to soak. After showering, he shaved and splashed on a heavy dose of aftershave.
He went to bed but couldn’t sleep. After seeing the security ward, he was more convinced than ever that moving them as a group was a misguided strategy. Add in the missing links of a fatal fire, and it all came down to a dangerous assignment indeed.
10
Hook headed for the jungle under the bridge after deciding to leave the company truck at supply. It had been pretty much a mess when he left it, and he didn’t feel like explaining to the supply clerk.
The Mojave sun blazed low on the horizon, but the heat still lingered. He wiped the sweat from his eyes. He would have preferred a little book scouting, but there would be time enough for that tomorrow.
As he approached the bridge, he smelled the fatback and beans wafting up from the jungle, a smell he’d encountered often enough on the line.
He slid down the bank and ducked under the bridge. A pot of beans simmered over a small fire, and clothes dried over one of the bridge beams. Bedrolls lay about here and there, old blankets mostly, tied up with ropes and pieces of wire.
“Seth,” he said.
Seth rose from the patch of weeds just beyond, and then two or three others cropped up behind him.
“That you, Hook?” Seth asked.
“No, it’s the president come for dinner,” he said.
Seth clambered up the embankment. “Glad you could make it, Hook. Sorry about the greeting. The cops been keeping pretty close watch lately. I guess they figure we might be a threat to America.”
“Well, they’re probably right about that,” Hook said.
“Come on up, boys,” Seth said, waving the others in.
The men who climbed the bank looked more like bums than war vets. Their clothes were worn thin, and their eyes were dark and hollow.
“This is Hook Runyon, a friend of mine,” Seth said. “We met in the yards, you might say.
“This here is Santos,” Seth said, pointing to the Mexican fellow. “Santos is from El Paso or Juárez. We haven’t figured that out for sure. Either way, he’s a hell of a soldier. He wiped out a whole squad of Germans. Only problem was, one of them turned out to be his first lieutenant. They weren’t sure if they should give him a medal or kick him out. They kicked him out.”
Santos dropped his eyes, which were black as night. His hair was cropped military style. He stood as tall as Hook and was a fourth again as large, but he moved in a smooth catlike way.
“Santos,” Hook said, shaking his hand.
Seth nodded toward the skinny one standing off from the others.
“That’s Roy,” he said. “Out of Kentucky, though he won’t say exactly where. He cooked for the army, good, too, which requires some doing in the army. The Krauts shot one of his nuts off when he was dumping garbage one day. He says he was tired of the damn thing banging against his knees anyway.”
“You make Kentucky shine, Roy?” Hook asked.
“It ain’t lawful,” Roy said.
“And that’s Ethan over there,” Seth said. “He’s from New York City, but his people died off while he was away to war. We’re about as close to relatives as he’s got. He was gut shot making a hill. He made the hill alright but with half his intestine strung out behind. He’s been a bit on the frail side ever since. He can’t do much about that, I guess, or his looks either one. Ethan says living under a bridge is just like living in the Bronx, except quieter. He don’t look like much wet, but there’s a half-dozen dead enemy wished they hadn’t met up with him.”
Roy moved in closer. “Where’d you lose your arm, Hook?” he asked. “Land mine?”
Hook shook his head. “Car wreck. It wasn’t much count but for sticking in my pocket, anyway.”
Seth said, “Sit down, Hook. Roy’s got the beans on and cornbread cooking in the iron skillet there. Santos came up with an onion from the grocery, and Ethan pulled greens in the backwash.”
“Thanks,” Hook said. “Smells right at home.”
Ethan folded his legs under him. “You get a medical out of the army, Hook?”
Hook held up his prosthesis. “Lost it before the war. Never got in.”
“Army prefers limbs intact when you enlist,” Ethan said. “They’re less particular about how you muster out.”
“I hear you been working yard dog?” Roy said.
Hook glanced up at Seth. “I’m not here in an official capacity today.”
“Bulls can be a dangerous lot,” Roy said.
“I’m not on duty. Anyway, you boys would never hop my trains, would you?”
“Oh, hell no,” Roy said. “But once I rode the Chief from Tucumcari. Drank martinis with Clark Gable the whole way. Beat him in three games of no-limit hold ’em poker. Poor ole Santos drank tea with Katy Hepburn the entire run.”
“That a fact?” Hook said.
Santos grinned and added wood to the fire.
Pretty soon Roy gave the beans a stir and then poked a grass stem into the cornbread, which had turned golden brown. He served up the beans in tins that had been stored on top of the bridge beam. He cut the cornbread into pie-shaped slices and handed them around.
“I didn’t get the flowers picked for the table,” Roy said.
“Here I had my heart set on a
nice bouquet,” Hook said, digging in.
Afterward, they all sat back and had cigars that Santos had bought when the grocery clerk wasn’t looking.
“I believe those are the best beans I ever ate,” Hook said, “except maybe those I had at Bogie’s house one time.”
Roy shrugged. “Seems to me Bogie always shorted the fatback.”
Hook dusted the ash off his cigar and gave it some thought.
“Your point’s well-taken, Roy. I believe your beans are the best ever.”
“Sure would like a taste of shine, if it wasn’t against the law, I mean,” Roy said.
Hook studied the end of his cigar. “Being somewhat of an expert on legal matters, it’s my understanding that shine can be cooked up so long as it’s in small batches and so long as the taxes are paid up.”
“That a fact?” Roy said.
“So I’ve been advised,” Hook said.
“Just happens I got a mighty small batch, and it’s my intention to be paying taxes up before year’s end. Would you care for a taste?”
“Long as it’s a small batch,” Hook said. “And long as the taxes are scheduled, I don’t see what it could hurt.”
Roy fetched a mason jar from behind the bridge pier, unscrewed the lid, and handed it to Hook. Hook took a sip and handed it back.
“That’s fine busthead, Roy,” he said. “You aren’t related to a fellow by the name of Runt Wallace, are you?”
“Not so’s I remember,” he said.
“He’s a man talented such as yourself,” Hook said, “though his bean-cooking skills are somewhat lacking.”
Seth took a swig of shine and handed it to Ethan. “It’s a rare man can cook beans and shine with equal skill,” he said.
Ethan took a long drink and shuddered. “Better hope the Waldorf doesn’t get this recipe, Roy. We’ll be paying forty dollars a quart.”
Roy grinned. “You bastards know how to butter a man up, don’t you?”
Hook took another drink and held the quart up to the firelight.
“What proof is that, Roy? I think my life’s slipping away.”
“Can’t say,” he said. “But you might not want to hold it too close to the fire.”
Hook took another sip and passed it over to Seth.
“So,” Hook said, “what is it you boys wanted to talk to me about?”
Seth picked up a stick and poked at the fire, which sent a spray of embers into the air.
“Well,” he said, “you know how you’re looking to hire security to move those inmates out of the Baldwin Insane Asylum?”
Hook took the jar and tipped it up. “I recall that,” he said, wiping his mouth. “Too bad you boys don’t have another small batch stored away somewhere, isn’t it?”
Roy stood and dusted off his pants, reaching up under a bridge support.
“By golly,” he said, handing the jar to Hook. “I believe there’s one left.”
Hook unscrewed the lid and gave it the smell test. “And you’ll be paying up taxes on this one, too?”
“Oh, yes sir,” Roy said. “Right along with my church tithe.”
Hook took a long pull and passed it around. “Now,” he said, tugging at his nose, which had now disappeared altogether, “about this proposition. You’re telling me you want to hire on as security to help transport mental patients from California to Oklahoma?”
“It’s not exactly a matter of want to,” Seth said.
Hook looked at the men, the firelight flickering in their eyes.
“You boys don’t have much training in such matters, do you?”
“Hell, Hook,” Seth said, handing him the quart back. “We’ve been fighting Germans for years. We ought be able to move a few folks across country.”
Hook took another drink, and the bridge shifted a little to the left.
“Maybe we should have talked about this before Roy found that second small batch of shine,” he said.
“Every one of us been in combat, Hook. Dead center of it, too.”
“But you had weapons,” he said. “Besides, how would I tell security from the inmates?”
“Pick out the crazy ones,” Roy said. “They would be security.”
Hook started to take another drink, when Santos stood. “Listen,” he said.
All fell quiet, their ears trained into the darkness. When it came again, Ethan bolted to his feet. “Cops,” he said.
A flashlight beam shot from out of the darkness, and they all scrambled for the weed patch beyond the bridge. Hook jumped to his feet, only to discover that he had no feet, and he pitched headlong down the embankment. He struggled to get up, but by then a cop had his knee on his neck and was snapping on a handcuff.
“You’ll get thirty days for this you son of a bitch,” the cop said, cuffing Hook to a bridge support. The cop motioned for the others to follow. “The bastards are headed for the weeds, boys,” he said. “Circle round. I’ll be back for you,” he said to Hook.
Hook could hear the cops as they circled out through the weeds, their breathing labored. Eddie Preston prayed for just such a calamity. There’d be thirty days in the slammer with the disciplinary board just waiting in the wings.
Voices rose up, and flashlights shined this way and that as the cops searched out the area. Hook tugged at the cuff, at that moment realizing that it had not cut into his wrist. He pulled again.
“I’ll be damn,” he said.
Within moments he climbed his way up the embankment, his prosthesis swinging from the bridge support like some macabre lynching.
Hook ducked into the depot and headed down the hall just as the operator stepped out of the bathroom.
“Hello, Hook,” he said.
Hook lowered his head and grunted.
“Hey,” the operator said. “Where the hell is your arm?”
Hook stopped. “I don’t ask where your goddang arm is, do I?”
The operator wrinkled his brow. “But I ain’t never lost one, Hook.”
Hook turned for his room. “Just mind your own goddang business in the future,” he said, “or you might.”
Hook showered for the second time in one day and climbed into his bunk. If he ever found Seth again, he planned to kill him and place his body on the tracks. How had he managed to get mixed up with a bunch of castoffs in the first place?
Outside his window, a switch engine took the slack out of a line of cars and then growled off for the yards. Hook’s head thumped from Roy’s mighty small batch, and he had a patch of hide missing from his cheek.
At first he thought a thunderstorm had gathered up in the distance, but when the thump came again, he sat up on the edge of his bunk. He could see a silhouette against the yard lights outside his window. He reached for his sidearm and slid open the window.
“Hook?” Seth said. “It’s me.”
“I ain’t shot a burglar all week,” Hook said. “What the hell you want?”
“I got your arm,” he said.
“What?”
“We conked that son of a bitch on the head and took his cuff keys. For a minute me and the boys thought they’d hung you off the bridge.”
“Well, give it to me,” Hook said, “or had you figured on charging me for it?”
Seth handed the arm through the window. “Roy dropped it in the river, but it ain’t hurt.
“Listen, Hook, about that proposition?”
“You got about two seconds to get out of my window,” Hook said, “before I empty this gun.”
“Right,” Seth said. “Good night, Hook.”
11
When the telephone rang, Andrea rolled over and searched for the receiver.
“Hello,” she said, sleep in her voice.
“Andrea, this is Hook.”
“Who?”
“Hook Runyon, you know, with the railroad.”
“Oh, yes,” she said. “Is something wrong?”
“No, no, nothing wrong. I was just wondering about those bookstores you mentioned.”
“That would be alright, but then I was hoping to talk to you actually. I’ve some concerns about that fire and thought you might have some ideas.”
“Well,” she said.
“And I don’t have a ride, this being the weekend and all. I thought maybe we could sort of do it all at the same time.”
“I did have plans to get some things done here,” she said.
“Oh, sure. I understand. Another time.”
“Well,” she said, pausing, “I suppose I could show you where they are.”
“That would be great. I’ll be waiting out front of the depot. I’m the guy with one arm.”
Andrea sat on the edge of the bed. She had misgivings about meeting Hook, not that she disliked him, but he was a yard dog. With Barstow being a railroad town, she’d grown up aware of the transient nature of railroaders and of yard dogs in particular.
On top of that, her breakup had been a difficult one, and she wasn’t at all certain that she was emotionally prepared to deal with a man on any level. Still, he’d given her no reason to believe that he was interested in anything but getting his job done in the safest way possible. She guessed she owed her patients that much.
Hook finished his coffee and headed out of the depot. When he walked by the ticket office, the operator turned to his ledger without speaking.
The day shined bright and clear, and the pigeons gathered atop the depot, chortling and gurgling like teapots. Hook lit a cigarette and checked out the new scratches on his battered prosthesis.
When Andrea drove up, he doused his cigarette and slid in next to her. She wore a white ball cap that lit up her freckles and her slate-colored eyes.
“Morning,” he said. “Hope I haven’t ruined your weekend.”
“Glad to be of help,” she said. “What exactly are you looking for?”
“Books,” he said. “So any place I can find them cheap and plentiful.”
“There’s a thrift.”
“Works for me,” he said.
Andrea checked her mirror before pulling out. “What happened to the face?”
Hook touched his cheek. He’d forgotten that the cop had parked a knee on his head.
The Insane Train Page 7
