Train to Anywhere

by David George Howard

  ***

  Eddie woke up the next morning feeling like he had not moved the entire time he was asleep. His neck and shoulder ached so bad, he winced when he tried to sit up on the couch. Standing up slowly seemed to help, and the pains began to recede as he moved around the apartment and got dressed for work. He changed his clothes and cleaned up as much as he could. There were some biscuits in the cabinet, and between this and an egg, he made a crude breakfast. As he sat down to eat, he knew he needed to talk to someone who might know how to handle this problem. If he was able to get there early enough, he could talk to his friend Herman at the dealership before work began. In a few quick mouthfuls, in finished his breakfast and left.

  The Packard dealership was a nice building, with gleaming cars arranged on the lot and inside the showroom. It was closed that early in the morning, but Eddie knew the mechanics arrived beforehand, and they sat around back to have a smoke and drink coffee before the day began. It was there, seated at a picnic table with a group of other mechanics, that he saw Herman.

  "Hey, Griffin," Herman called when he entered the area. When Eddie had moved to Providence, he had taken a room at a boarding house and first ran into Herman. They became fast friends. For most of that first year, they worked odd jobs—dishwasher, doorman—until Herman took some training in auto repair. This, in a way, was an inspiration for Eddie to start taking accounting classes, where he was able to apply his knack for numbers.

  "'Morning," he said when he approached. One of the mechanics, a man he had been introduced to, but had forgotten his name, handed Eddie a cigarette, and offered a light. Eddie thanked him and listened to the joking for a few moments, but he was not inclined to join in as he normally did.

  "So," Herman said, "some girl got your shorts in a bunch?"

  "I wish that's what it was," Eddie said. "I, ah, got a deal I want to pass by."

  Herman stood. "What's up?" he said.

  "If you got a few minutes, let me tell you." Eddie led him over to the back fence of the yard, where they were away from the other workers. Still he felt a need to turn away and keep his voice down. "Ever heard of a McBride? Clarence McBride?"

  "Sure, who hasn't?" Herman said. He had been drinking from a cup of coffee while holding the cigarette in the other hand.

  "I saw him kill a man last night," Eddie said. Herman dropped the cigarette and almost spilled the coffee. His eyes widened for a moment. "Almost killed me, too."

  Herman wrapped one of his big hands around Eddie's arm. "What the hell?" Herman managed to say. He spilled the coffee on the sleeve of his coveralls.

  "You can't tell nobody, for both our sakes."

  "Damn that," Herman said, his jaw still dropped open. He dumped the rest of the coffee on the ground next to the forgotten cigarette. "What happened?"

  "I was working late, and he came in with the designer at Aron's, Mr. LaRue. They went up to his office, smashed his face in, and shot him," Eddie said. The words came out in a quiet rush.

  "Goddamn," Herman uttered.

  "They saw me and took a few shots. McBride stopped them, and they threatened to chop my hand off in the cutter. McBride said if I told the cops, they'd find me and kill me." Eddie considered adding more, but Herman still had not looked away from him. He thought Herman had heard enough to get the idea.

  "Don't tell nobody," Herman said. Eddie remembered Herman had had his scrapes with the law, though not to the extent he had. They both came from the same background and had a similar idea of how law enforcement worked. "You know how they are. The cops aren't no good. McBride could find you in a heartbeat."

  "But, the cops'll want to talk to me," Eddie said. There was no disguising the fact he had been there that evening.

  "Then lie your ass off. Lie 'cause your life depends on it. I'm telling you, these jokers got long arms. You did time. They'll drag you in."

  "I gotta show up today," Eddie said. He was scheduled to start in about half an hour.

  "I'm telling you, act like you weren't there. Just say you finished up early or something. Make anything up. Tell them you took off early and went home. Got lost, what the hell, anything." Herman shook his head.

  Eddie wiped a knuckle across his forehead and tried to piece together a story that would add up. "I'll tell them, sure, it was late and I walked home. I was there alone so nobody saw me leave. Busses don't run that late."

  "Anything," Herman said. He reached into his pocket and took out another cigarette, and lit it. With the cigarette between his first two fingers, he pointed at Eddie. "These cops, they make shit up if they have to. You gotta do the same. They're stupid. They arrest people so it makes it look like they're doing their job."

  "I don't know," Eddie started. "It's just.... I was there. I saw it, I saw what they did."

  "Look," Herman said, using the cigarette for emphasis, "McBride's a big fish. Think the cops'll take him down? Might act like they are, but he runs so much liquor, pulls in so much dough, he can do whatever he wants. You can't fight that. Just dummy up."

  The shop boss stepped out of the door and called them all in. Herman had to leave, but before doing so, he said, "Don't say a damn thing."

  4

  Most mornings, Adrian Aron was the second person to show up. Usually, the man who turned on the machines and power to the building was there around the same time as him, except he normally was in the basement for part of the morning. Adrian walked into the main plant at about 6:45 and noticed that a few lights had been left on. The wrong lights. This was not an important detail, but he would make a point to mention it to Eddie when he came in later that morning. After walking through the main area, he went to the second floor offices and dropped his coat off in his chair. A few seconds later, he went by LaRue's office and saw him face down on the desk. The office was torn apart, with papers and equipment strewn everywhere.

  Adrian stood in the doorway a moment. He knew Jackson LaRue would occasionally display an artistic temperament, but he never knew him to destroy his belongings. "Jackson," he said. "What happened? Jackson?" It dawned on Adrian that LaRue was no longer alive. It was then he noticed the red stains on the papers covering the desk. Adrian went over and touched his neck. Cool. He had seen enough death in the trenches in France during the War to recognize what he was looking at. He went back to his office and called the police. In about thirty minutes, the first of the workers would start arriving. He went to the basement and told the maintenance man to wait at the door for the police, and to tell everyone else they would open later that morning. Then he locked the front doors.

  A few minutes later, the side entrance door opened and two cops strolled in. Adrian stepped over to the railing and motioned to them.

  "I hear you got a dead one up there," one of the cops said as they started up the stairs.

  "Seen enough of them in the past month," the other said.

  Adrian met them at the top of the landing. "I'm Adrian Aron, owner of the plant."

  "Yeah, we know who you are. I'm Officer Stewart, and this here's Evans," the taller of the two cops said. He looked to be maybe around mid-thirties. "Let's see who you got."

  The three of them walked to the office. Adrian stayed in the doorway while the policemen went in. "He was my designer, Jackson LaRue."

  "Any idea what happened?" Stewart asked as he stepped around behind the desk to take a better look. Evans went to the other side and gently pulled LaRue's head up and moved him to a sitting position.

  "None," Adrian said. "I came in here this morning and found him like that. He was a good man, who did a fine job at designing and marketing my shirts."

  "Looks like a hit of some sort," Evans said. "Seen a bunch of these in the past six months. How many have they solved?"

  "Aw, they're all the same," Stewart said. "You, uh, Mr. Aron. Last night, was he working late or anything?"

  "No. In fact, he would have been getting back fr
om New York yesterday afternoon. The only one here would have been a young man cleaning the offices."

  Stewart looked at Evans, then said, "Any way we can talk to him? Whoever worked here last night?"

  "He should be in this morning."

  "Tell you what: Why don't you go down and wait for him, and we'll take a look at things here?" Adrian hesitated, then did as Stewart suggested.

  "What do you think, Stew?" Evans asked once Adrian was out of earshot.

  "Looks like this, uh, LaRute fella, he was messing around with those boys that like to kick people around," Stewart replied as he began leafing through the papers scattered around the floor. He looked at the door for any signs of forced entry and tried to guess where the shooter had been standing. LaRue was sitting up in his chair, leaned over to the left, and except for the dried blood on his cheek and hole in his forehead, he looked to be taking a nap in a very uncomfortable position. Evans moved the chair back from the desk and looked underneath.

  "Suppose what's-his-name's going to show up?" Evans asked as he squatted down to look around on the floor and under the chair.

  "Shit," Stewart exclaimed. He readjusted his hat. "That fucker's going to be here and start yelling at us for something."

  "Mr. City Prosecutor, Jerome Harris." Evans stood up and looked at the blood on the desk. He picked up a few of the blood-smeared sketches. "Does he really think he can take them? Look at this. They shot this fella and just left him here to be found. They don't care. I bet they want this to be in the papers so's others will see what happened."

  "Mr. Jerome Harris better watch his scrawny lawyer ass, or he'll end up like LaRude, here. That happened in Wilmington a few weeks ago."

  Evans put the sketches back on the desk. "Better put this body back like we found him." Stewart pushed the chair back under the desk and pushed LaRue over onto the surface. His head and chest hit the surface with a loud thump.

  It was only a few minutes later when the door flew open, and in walked Jerome "Jerry" Harris. Trailing behind, trying to keep up, were an investigator, a police photographer, and a newspaperman. When Harris was elected a few months before, the local press quickly learned to camp out by his house or office. Whenever trouble jumped up in town, Harris always ran out to the scene. Harris, for his part, was open about having them along, thinking that the more the bosses knew he was running them down, the more nervous they would be. Crime had been running at a steady clip for a number of years, and he had been elected on a promise to clean it up. This was proving harder to do than he had originally thought. It seemed that the organization had woven its way into all forms of government and law enforcement, to the point of making any real impact nearly impossible. It was the same in cities all across the country. When Prohibition kicked in, this provided money for more criminal activity.

  Harris bounded up the stairs, with the clatter of photography equipment not far behind. The two policemen were still in LaRue's office when he came in. "What do we have here, gentlemen?"

  Stewart glanced at Evans. "Looks like some sort of hit. He's an employee here. Designer, from what Aron says."

  "Aron?" Harris asked.

  "Adrian Aron. Owns the place."

  "Fine. You two step away. Let's get some pictures." Stewart and Evans backed away to the corner of the office while the photographer moved in. The photographer was about to take a picture when he stopped. "What?" Harris asked walking over to him.

  "It doesn't look right."

  Harris went over to Stewart. “Who moved the body?"

  "We didn't touch nothing. All we did was look around," Stewart said.

  "Don't give me that. How many times do I have to tell you?" Harris said, nearly yelling. "Don't contaminate the scene."

  "That's exactly how we found him."

  "Impossible," Harris said, stepping back to the desk. "The blood stain on the desk is a foot away from his head."

  "Dead bodies move," Evans said. "I seen it. They kick and twitch."

  "Not for six hours," Harris countered. "This man's been dead for about six hours, and he has recently been moved."

  Stewart and Evans stared back at Harris. Very seldom had anyone ever questioned what the police did, especially in such an open fashion. "We looked around, but we didn't do nothing," Stewart said.

  "Damn it," Harris exclaimed. The photographer and reporter both jumped to attention. "How many times do I have to tell you not to contaminate the scene?"

  "All we did," Evans began.

  "No arguing with me. Understand? With a murder like this, you secure the area. Touch nothing, and wait for investigators." Harris was repeatedly exasperated by the actions of the cops at a murder scene. The majority of the time, the evidence they gathered was of dubious use, since the scenes had been tampered with. He was not sure if this was on purpose, planned incompetence, or complete stupidity. "I know this body has been moved. Tell me exactly what you did when you came in."

  Finally, the police investigator spoke up. "Ok, boys, let's calm down now. Harris is right. This body has been moved recently. Tell me everything you did since you arrived." As the two cops began to explain what they had done, the investigator took notes and the photographer began recording the scene.

  5

  Harris found Adrian downstairs and asked him if they could talk for a few minutes. They went up to Adrian's office and closed the door, while the investigation continued across the walkway. From where they were, Harris would be able to keep an eye on what the police were doing.

  "Have a seat, Mr. Aron," Harris said, pointing towards the chair behind the desk. Adrian went ahead and sat down while Harris remained standing by the window. He kept glancing out into LaRue's office. Thomas, one of the few policemen in the city that he trusted, stayed in the room with the other officers. "Do you have any idea what any of this was about?"

  "None whatsoever," Adrian said. "This is a complete shock. Jackson has worked for me for a couple of years."

  "You're not aware of any untoward activity he may have been involved in?"

  "Nothing apparent," Adrian replied.

  "Let's start with this. What did he do for you? Describe his duties and general work habits." At the start of any investigation, Harris always found there appeared to be no indications of what happened. He always saw it as a puzzle, and his job was to find the pieces and put them together, though the lack of cooperation from the law enforcement community often made this difficult. So far, few cases he had seen came to any concrete solutions. He knew whatever forces were behind this murder were also behind many of the others he had seen since he took office. These forces also had enough influence on the system to be able to run two or three steps ahead of him. It annoyed the police to no end when he appeared at the scene with Thomas in tow, but he had found no other way to be certain of the facts.

  "I hired Jackson a couple of years ago to design shirts for me and also help sell the designs."

  "Where was he before he worked here?"

  "He had worked for a film company in Los Angeles doing costumes, and he wanted to move closer to New York, since that's where most of the fashion business is based. He has no immediate family, not married, so he was able to travel freely."

  "Did he have any formal training?"

  "Not a lot. He went to an art school in California for a few years. He learned the craft well, working for films. His knowledge was more self taught, and I have to say he was very good at what he did."

  Harris looked around at the shirts hanging from the racks down below. He had no patience for shopping for clothes or using an iron. "Frumpy" was how people often described him. "Social life. Any idea who he associated with?"

  "We never knew each other on that level. There was a young lady he had been seeing for about a year. She often traveled with him on his trips, though they were not married. Very attractive. Always wore nice clothes, as you can imagine. Gloria was her name, I believe."


  "Know where we can find her?" Thomas asked.

  "Sorry, no, but I'm sure there would be information in his personal effects," Aron said.

  "You say he traveled often. Where did he usually go?"

  "He went to New York about once a month. He did sales visits and attended shows, keeping tabs on what the department stores needed, and fashions trends. About every two months, he traveled west to Chicago, and some of the smaller markets in that region. And about twice a year, he visited California. He still had enough contacts to make a few sales for us. As I said, he was very good and generated a large amount of business." Aron tapped a pen he had on the desk. "I'm sure you can track his travels. He kept a log book of his visits."

  "Can you show me where he kept that information?"

  "Yes, I can."

  "About last night. Any idea what he was doing here that late?"

  Adrian thought about this for a few seconds. "None. I know he was due back from a trip yesterday evening. It wasn’t his habit to come in here right after a trip. It's highly unusual."

  They were looking for something, and had not found it. "Was there anyone else in the building last night?"

  "There was a young man doing cleanup work, but I'm not sure when he left. I did notice he left the lights on, though," Adrian said.

  "Is that unusual?"

  "I don't remember him doing that before."

  Harris took a small notebook out of his coat pocket and began scribbling down the bits of information Adrian had been telling him. After about a minute, he asked, "Did he clock out last night before he left?"

  "I'm not sure. I usually don't check those things every morning."

  "Let's go take a look."

  Adrian led Harris down to where the time cards were kept, along the back entrance to the building. They were in a panel of metal slots attached to the wall. Adrian flipped through columns until he found Griffin's. He pulled it out.

  "Looks like he checked in yesterday morning but never checked out last night," Adrian said.

  "Show me how you know that," Harris replied. Adrian quickly ran through the markings on the card and how the punch clock worked. He pulled another card and showed the punch-in and punch-out marks. "I need to keep this for evidence." The two of them then went back upstairs and went by LaRue's office, where the investigation was winding up.

  "I don't really need to go in there, do I?" Adrian asked.

  "No. When is this fellow Eddie Griffin supposed to arrive for work?" Harris asked Adrian.

  "He's probably waiting outside now."

  "When he shows up, bring him up to your office. Evans," he said turning to the other men in the office, "go down with Mr. Aron and wait for this Griffin. Thomas, when you're done, check the rest of the building for anything else, and register this card. It shows he never clocked out last night."