The Railroad

by Neil Douglas Newton

  “Well, I like to think of it this way. You have a chance of sleeping with a man who’s at least a decent person as opposed to a pedophile. Which would you pick?”

  “You have a nasty mouth!”

  “That really hurts coming from a guy like you.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “Meaning that you’re going to have a hard time making me feel bad about myself considering what I know about you.”

  “You don’t know anything about me!”

  “I know what you did to your own daughter.”

  All I could hear was breathing on the other end. I wondered if he was getting himself drunk again as he spoke to me. “All you know is what my wife told you,” he said finally. “You don’t know what really happened.”

  “So what really happened? If you really did it, then I’d think you wouldn’t care what a pussy like me thinks. You can't really say what you did, because you’re ashamed.”

  I could hear the gears turning in his head. He was on the phone and that made him vulnerable. He wanted to be able to tell me that he did it, but that would just prove me right, and if he denied it, he’d be admitting that he was ashamed of it.

  “I have friends, you know.”

  “I guessed that. And you didn’t answer my question.”

  His breathing became a little raspy and I could tell that he was agitated and probably drunker than I’d thought. “It’s the law of the jungle. You build something out of nothing. You make some money, you buy a house, and you make a family. Then it all fucks up because you married a bitch and she tries to take it all from you. Your house, your kid, everything. So what do you do? You fight back. How can you lose it all when you’ve put so much into it?” It seemed like he was talking more to himself than to me.

  “I still haven’t heard an answer, Bob.”

  “I have friends,” he repeated. “They think the way I do. We all came from nothing. You know where I come from, Mike? I come from Hell’s Kitchen. Not the place you know now, but the real Hell’s Kitchen. Not Clinton.” He laughed. “Did you know that Hell’s Kitchen was full of French once? There’re still a few restaurants left there from those days. My dad worked as an assistant chef in Pigalle. That’s like the Village, but in Paris. He brought home shit each week for money. The head chef made the money. He worked there for years. He’d come home at night full of Merlot and sometimes he’d take a shot at my mother. That was the way things were in Hell’s Kitchen. At night I’d go out with my Irish friends and we’d steal hubcaps and drink wine. They called me the fucking frog, but I was there with them. And when I got a chance to get out of Hell’s Kitchen I got the fuck out of there. Now I own a chain of groceries. Maybe you’ve heard of them. They’re called FreshMart.”

  I had. They were all over Rockland and Westchester and Dutchess Counties. “Congratulations, Bob. Was it worth the next seventy or so years of Megan’s life? Or Eileen’s?”

  I heard a thunk in the background and, in an instant, I knew that Bob had a pair of nunchuks in his hand and he was flipping them, perfecting his technique. I’d been down that road myself a few years back. “My friends all came from places like me. Like Hell’s Kitchen. They built their lives from nothing. Just like me.”

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  “Because my friends and I aren’t interested in how pussies like you feel. Or how bitches like Eileen feel. She couldn’t come close to doing what I’ve done. She’s just been riding on my coattails like any other leech. I talked to my friends about her. We all get together once a month or so and talk about our lives and what’s been taken from us. We all decided we won’t take it.”

  “You’re going to have to live with what you’ve done, whether you have friends or not,” I told Bob. “You can’t get away from it just because you have some drinking buddies, and neither can they.”

  “You could get a visit from my friends you know,” he answered.

  My blood boiled. “And you could wake up and realize what you’ve done and slit your own throat,” I said quietly. I tested the waters for a moment and heard only Bob’s breathing. Then I hung up the phone.

  *

  “He made a threat,” I told Detective Wills the next day. “A clear one.”

  “When was that?”

  “Last night, about eleven.”

  “You’re driving me crazy, Dobbs,” he said. “I’ve already gotten my ass chewed out by my boss for the trouble you’ve caused.” His voice sounded rough and full of fatigue through the phone. I suppose I wasn’t his biggest problem at the moment.

  “Wait a fucking minute. I didn’t go to someone’s house drunk and attack someone. As much as you might want to kiss your boss's ass and kiss Bob Benoit’s ass, he’s the one who committed the crime.”

  He groaned in frustration. “I know that. But you have no recording of the phone call and it wouldn’t be admissible if you did. So you can make your statement and it’ll go on record.”

  “And what will happen then?”

  “If you don’t press charges, nothing. If you do, then he’ll get his lawyers and tie you in knots. He’s probably going to try to do that anyway, somehow.”

  “So if I get beat up again, you’ll come to visit me in the hospital, won’t you?”

  “You don’t need to be sarcastic. My hands are tied. If you want to press charges, do it, but there isn’t much I can do. All you have is an alleged threat on the phone. It won’t mean much.”

  “Thanks, Detective. I feel very protected. I’ll sleep better knowing that.” Then he hung up on me.

  *

  The directions were clear and it turned out that Moskowitz only lived twenty-five minutes away. Consequently, I missed the majority of the rush hour traffic and made it there just before 6:30.

  I had expected something just above a hovel, but his house surprised me. It wasn’t enormous, but it had a sun room and even a Spanish Mission roof. I commented on it as I walked in.

  “I like California,” Moskowitz told me as though that explained everything.

  Kate Moskowitz was also a surprise. I had expected a somewhat mousey flower-child, bowed by the task of taking care of a man who was always busy. What I found was a dark, big-eyed beauty, with hints of some exotic origin. “Katey’s mother is from Peru,” Moskowitz told me, clearly used to the curiosity.

  “He likes to tell everyone that. I think it makes him feel special somehow.”

  I didn’t want to pursue it so I made a remark about the parquet floors, something I’d learned to do in the yuppie circles of New York. That set Moskowitz off on a fifteen minute tirade about his house and his difficulties in buying it. I nodded and exclaimed appropriately as he pointed out the various highlights of the house, waiting for him to wind down. “Stevey has lots of energy,” Kate told me, smiling. “Now that he’s made you tired, why don’t you go into the dining room? I’m about to bring dinner out.”

  Steve came with me into the dining room and made me a Laphroaig neat, while I waited. “I was so thrilled to have this again when I came to your house that I went out and got some. It still tastes like peat moss.”

  “True,” I said, taking the drink and sipping. Almost as if on cue, Kate came in with a tureen. Moskowitz bounded up and took it from her just as a boy of about eight came running in. He looked at me and said, “Is this the Yuppie?”

  “Ex-Yuppie,” I told him, ignoring Kate’s wince.

  “Steve has trained him in radical politics. Say hello, Andrew.”

  “Hello,” Andrew said simply and sat down.

  The tureen turned out to contain Ratatouille which I hadn’t had in years. We made chit-chat over that and some hard bread. What followed was a Chicken Marsala that made my mouth water and then some Raspberry Sorbet for dessert. Andrew had been eyeing me for most of the meal. Finally he got up the courage to say what was on his mind.

  “When are you going to introduce him to Aunt Melinda?”

  “Oh god, Andrew!” Moskowitz moaned. “What is wrong wi
th you?”

  “I’m telling the truth, Dad. You always tell me to do that.”

  “That was a possibility, not a certainty. Mike’s been through a lot lately. You can’t just pull a relationship out of a hat.”

  “Sorry,” the boy said. Mother and father exchanged looks.

  After dinner Moskowitz suggested that we go to his office to talk. He took the Laphraoig and two fresh glasses with him. We settled in and I sipped at my drink, not staring at anything in particular. I expected some kind of sermon. I wasn’t disappointed.

  “I had wanted to discuss getting a gun with you. Then I thought about it and I realized it would take months of dedicated training before you knew how to use one. At least effectively. Not knowing guns can get you into trouble”

  “Like what.”

  “Like shooting yourself by accident. Like shooting someone else by accident. Like not using it when you should. Or displaying it as a threat when you shouldn’t.”

  “You clearly don’t think that much of me. I know how to shoot a gun. I had one for years.”

  “Oh,” he responded after a pause. He clearly wasn’t comfortable being blind-sided by facts.

  “And why would you think I’d be so stupid even if I didn’t know how to shoot.”

  “It’s not you. It’s the way things are. Since most of your time is spent being depressed and drinking, I doubt you’d have the focus to know how to use a gun.”

  I wanted to argue, but I knew he was right. “I’m not much on focus lately.”

  “For good reason, though I don’t think it has to stay that way. I noticed all the philosophy and religious texts you had in the house. I guess you tried the self-help thing and it didn’t work.”

  At that moment I hated Moskowitz. He must have realized it because he smiled. “I have a tendency to get under people’s skin. I try too hard sometimes, but let me get to my point. If you’re not going to become a Navy Seal in the next month you are in danger. I think you should go back to the City.”

  “Oh God. You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  “No. I know you left it for a reason but living a long life in Manhattan is better than living a short life in that Addams Family house you live in.”

  “You’re worried about Benoit?

  “I know a little more about him than you do, Mike. You’ve already seen what he can do when he gets in the mood.”

  He was making me uneasy, but I didn’t want to let it show. “Okay, tell me what you know.”

  “I saw the way he acted at the trial. He’s an animal. Once he got drunk and called me at two in the fucking morning and threatened me. That was after his lawyer told him it could jeopardize the case for him; he didn’t care. I think he’s been calling about ten times a week and saying nothing. That’s been driving me crazy to be honest. He’s been doing his best to unnerve me.”

  “So I guess you cleaned and loaded your guns.”

  “This isn’t a joke. You know what he did to Megan.”

  “Yes. And most abusers are cowards.”

  He paused and gave it some thought. “In a way that’s true. How else could it be? But Benoit comes from the streets."

  I thought about Benoit’s phone call; Moskowitz seemed to be repeating what I’d heard from Benoit.

  I didn’t let Moskowitz see my concern. “So what does that mean?”

  “It means he’s not going to be philosophical about losing something. Especially some guy out fucking him. I know it sounds immature and primitive, but that’s the way that people like him think. You are probably his biggest problem right now. Probably bigger than Eileen, at least in his mind. “

  “I think you’re exaggerating,” I said, hearing the lie in my voice.

  “You know I’m not. People like Benoit don’t feel safe unless they can control everything.”

  “Maybe you just want me to be like you. Maybe you’re like Benoit. You want control.”

  “You’re an idiot! All that has to happen is for Benoit to get drunk one night and decide to do something about his troubles and that’s that. How much do you think it would take for him to come take a swipe at you with his car? And if he’s drunk and not driving well, it’s not much of a stretch."

  “How can you be sure?”

  “I represent people like that. And I lived with people like that when I was a kid.”

  “So we get to the real point. You’ve been conditioned by what happened to you when you were a child and you can’t tell the difference between your paranoia and reality.”

  He shook his head. “I’m trying to help, but you won’t listen. People like this get into fights in bars and accidentally kill each other. Or they decide they want their props and they take a shot at someone and kill them. It might even be an accident, but it isn’t in them to weigh the odds before they do something. You’re an asshole if you think it’s any different.”

  I stared in my drink. “You give him too much credit. He does stupid things and gets himself in trouble. He’s more likely to do that than anything else.”

  “Are we talking about the fact that he came over to your house twice? That pretty much proves my point. You don’t know what was in his mind. He probably doesn’t know himself. It just proves he’s unpredictable.”

  I snorted and took another sip of my drink.

  “You got lucky both times. He was drunk and he was careless.”

  “Do I have to give you an answer now?”

  “You don’t ever have to give me one. Well, actually, knowing me, I’ll keep bothering you until you say yes or no.”

  “Are you proud of this trait in yourself?”

  “I’m sure I could do better in some situations. But all in all I think I do pretty well.”

  “Can I have another drink?”

  He shrugged. “Why not?”

  He got up and poured me another drink. I sipped at it and I had to admit that this sort of male bonding felt good after my months of solitude in chez Moosehead. We sat in a companionable silence and I felt the mellowness of a light buzz creep over me. I looked at the spines of his brown aging books, mostly law texts. An old fashioned globe stood to the side of his desk, representing the earth as it was seen in Victorian times. There was even a humidor on the desk.

  I chuckled. “I feel like we should have cigars and you should have hunting trophies on your wall and you should tell me stories of how you bagged the lion.”

  He smiled. “And one of us should have a gammy leg.”

  “Rule Britannia,” I sang.

  “I’m going to ask you that question again. About what book you’d be.”

  “Oh shit! You know how to ruin a mood.”

  “It’s important to me. Tell me.”

  “I’m not sure I have an answer.”

  “You do. I’m a good judge of people.”

  I said nothing for a moment. “It’s too large a question,” I said finally.

  His face fell. “I don’t like it, but I’m asking you to answer a tough question. I have to accept that it isn’t easy for you to find an answer. But I’ll ask you again sometime."

  We seemed to have strayed, suddenly, into some almost mystical ground. He turned again to the cabinet and handed something to me.

  I turned it over; it was a DVD copy of Fahrenheit 451 remastered and with extra footage. “I can’t take your only copy,” I told him.

  “I have a few. Take it. It will be something you can watch when things get bad for you.”

  I realized that this was more than just a casual gift for Moskowitz. “Thank you, Steve.” I paused. “And what about you? What book would you be?”

  He seemed pained by the idea of opening up to me. “Let’s leave that for later.”

  “Oh ho! So you won’t tell me? Are you getting me back for not telling you?”

  He smiled. “Consider it a challenge. Let’s see if you can figure it out.”

  “Okay. I’ll do my best.”

  He grunted. “Well, look. I have to read some briefs for court t
omorrow. If you change your mind about leaving, let me know, okay. I know some real estate agents in New York.”

  “Okay. Thanks for dinner. And the concern.”

  “Don’t think about it.”

  The next morning, late, I got up to make breakfast and automatically looked at the pile of mail on the floor. To my great joy, I saw a postcard near the top of the pile. And then I wondered why I was so happy. This could be someone’s idea of a joke. Or Benoit’s idea of a campaign of terror.

  I left the rest of the mail where it was and took my prize to the kitchen. Strangely, I wanted to be seated with a cup of coffee in my hand before I looked carefully at it. Stupid, considering it would just be an empty postcard.

  I made coffee, trying not to look at the card. I’d taken two sips before I got up the nerve to look at it. In most ways it was like the others; the name of some attraction in some small town, this time the Pesquot Glass Works in Maine and there was my address written in an unfamiliar hand.

  There was one major difference. In the message section where there was usually nothing, was something scrawled in what looked like a child’s handwriting. Three numbers separated by dashes: 4-5-1.

  Something moved in my gut. I stared at it and tried to find a decent explanation. But none came.

  And suddenly I was thinking of something I’d heard Benoit say. Because my friends and I aren’t interested in how pussies like you feel. Or how bitches like Eileen feel. She couldn’t come close to doing what I’ve done. She’s just been riding on my coattails like any other leech. I talked to my friends about her. We all get together once a month or so and talk about our lives and what’s been taken from us. We all decided we won’t take it.

  Was it possible? As bad as he was at being a thug, could Benoit be a serial killer? Part of me said no, but I wasn’t an expert on the subtleties of the hidden areas of a killer’s life. Most killers didn’t appear to be aberrational at all. And maybe it was one of Benoit’s friends who was insane and orchestrating the whole thing.

  I sat down and thought. The more I thought the more confused it got. Eventually I turned on the television. I hoped that sleeping on it would bring me some new revelations.