by Dana Donovan
“Bug off, oinkers,” he growled, and he spat again. “Got no need for pigs here.”
I stepped closer, but still maintained a respectful distance. “Do we look like cops to you?”
“That one does.” He said, pointing his bottle at Spinelli.
I turned to Dominic and whacked him on the arm. “I thought I told you not to shave.”
“I didn’t,” he said, framing his naked chin between his thumb and index finger.
I pointed at Carlos. “What about him?”
The old man eyeballed Carlos up and down carefully. His level of scrutiny surprised me, as I got the feeling that he really wasn’t sure. He pointed the bottleneck at him reluctantly and said, “Is he a cop, too?”
“Yes.”
He shrugged. “Huh. I wouldn’t a figured.”
“See!” said Carlos. “I told you.”
“Yeah, I pegged him for a transvestite. Thought ya was haulin` him in for solicitation or sum`um.”
I held my tongue on that. Spinelli, I’m afraid, was unable to exercise as much restraint. When he quit laughing long enough to stop annoying the old man, I asked him about me.
“You,” he said, “I wasn’t so sure `bout. Ya don’t look like a cop, but ya sure ain’t no hobo neither.”
“What are we doing wrong?”
He coiled back and sneered as though our presence nauseated him. “I’ll tell ya whatcha doin` wrong. You’re wastin` my time. Now, why don’t ya git?”
“Wasting your time?” said Carlos, and just the tone of his voice caused the old man to shrink back against the wall. “I’ll show you whose time we’re wasting.” Carlos started toward him, but I grabbed his arm at the elbow and reeled him back in. He gave me a scornful eye, and under his breath said, “Tony, I wasn’t gonna hurt him. I’m doing the good cop bad cop thing.”
I nodded like I knew that. “Sure, next time, huh? For now let’s try another approach.” I reached into my pocket and pulled out a stack of bills. “How much is five minutes of your time worth,” I asked the old man.
He answered without hesitating. “A shiner.”
“A what?”
“A shiner, a double nickel.”
I looked to Spinelli. “That’s ten bucks,” he said.
“For five minutes!” I peeled five ones off the top of my stack. “Here. This is enough to set you up for tonight. Take it or leave it.”
The old man thought about it for all of two seconds. Then, like a cobra, he snatched it from my hand and tucked it inside his shoe.
“All right. We good?” I asked.
He dished up a near-toothless grin. “Weez good, Capt`n.”
“Okay, tell me. What are we doing wrong? What’s it take to look like a hobo?”
The old man pointed at my sweatshirt. “First off, lose that. A hobo always wears dark clothing. It helps him hide in the shadows so the bulls don’t git`em.”
“Bulls?”
“Railroad officers,” Spinelli said. I knew he’d know that.
“Secondly, if ya don’t want someone ta know ya from around here, don’t go advertising the home team.”
I looked down at my favorite sweatshirt again and ran my hand over the New England Patriots lettering.
“Another thing is ya got no layers. Ya dress like that and ya might do okay in the jungle, but if ya catch-out on a cold night, a good sixty mile-hour wind will tear ya a new butt hole.”
“Okay,” I said, pitching a, Why didn’t you know that, look at Spinelli. I had come to appreciate the depth of Spinelli’s research on an active case, and though he had worked out the lingo in this one fairly well, he all but missed the living mechanics of the hobo lifestyle. I turned again to the old man as he swept a crooked finger across the three of us.
“Also, ya got no bags.”
“Bags?” I pictured luggage in the full suitcase variety for some reason.
“Yeah, you know, totes, knapsacks, backpacks: good`o bedrolls and bindles. Good God, man, you wouldn’t travel empty handed, would ya?”
“No, I guess I wouldn’t,” I said.
“Course, ya don’t wanna carry anythin` too big or heavy, neither. Ya got to be able to run with it and hop trains with it, too.”
“Of course.”
“And ya always carry water. Wind and booze will dehydrate ya like a prune and ya never know where ya might find your next spigot.”
Everything he said made perfect sense. Until then, I never realized the stark difference between hobos and bums. Whereas, one demands no particular attire for life on the streets, save for maybe warm clothes and hard rubber shoes, the other requires a dress code uniquely suited for climatic changes, rapid deployment, stealth and evasion. And though the old man in the alley looked more like a bum than a hobo, he sure seemed to know a lot about both. I asked him about the rash of recent suicides and he shut down tight.
“What? You haven’t heard of them?” I asked.
He shook his head. “No, I heard `bout`em.”
“What can you tell me?”
He held out his hand. “What can you give me?”
“I just gave you five bucks.”
“Yeah, and ya got ya five minutes.”
“No,” said Carlos. “That wasn’t five minutes. It was barely two.”
The old man pointed at his wrist. “So I got no watch. Sue me.”
Again, Carlos started forward, and again I pulled him back. I peeled another five dollars off my dwindling roll and handed it to the old man. Then I pointed at my watch. “I’ll keep track this time,” I said. “I wouldn’t want you to feel gypped.”
He gummed another smile. “You were askin`?”
“About the recent suicides of some transients.”
“Don’t know `bout no suicides.”
“But you said you heard of them.”
“No. I heard about their deaths, not about no suicides.”
“You think they were accidents?”
He shook his head. “No. Weren’t even made to look like no accidents. It wouldn’t serve no purpose.”
“Whose purpose?” He hesitated. I pointed at my watch and tapped the face. “I still have four minutes.”
“Gitana,” he said.
“The freight company?”
“Ya know another?”
“You think they’re responsible for the deaths of those men?”
“That’s the word.”
“What are you basing that on?”
He told me how he recently shared a bottle with a wolf that had come down from the north on a boxcar to find a new lamb. “I don’t care much for them types,” he said of the wolf. “Bindlestiffs like that only want one thing from a young boy. It ain’t right. But I don’t see no sense on passing on a tin roof. Ain’t like they come around every night.”
I pulled Spinelli closer and made him stand next to me. “Translate,” I said.
“Tin roof?”
“Yeah.”
“Free drink.”
“Why?”
“It’s on the house.”
“Gotcha.”
The old man continued. “So, this wolf slips into town on a hot shot from Portland. We slug some white mule, burn a few snipes and then hit the roll. Next morn` we’re talking over mud and biscuits and he starts in about some rank cat that supposedly fell from a possum belly onto the skids.”
I held my hand up. “Wait. Dominic?”
Spinelli began counted off his fingers. “Fast train, corn whisky, cigarettes, coffee, trashcan grub, luggage compartment and—”
I stopped him. “Yeah, I know what skids are.” I pointed to the old man. “Sorry. Two minutes?”
He looked at me, a little annoyed. “Right, so, this mug tells me that a snake he knows told him it weren’t no PT the cat fell from. What happened was that some Gitana shack pitched his ass from a cow crate on the fly.”
I rolled my eyes and held up my hand again. “Dominic?”
“He says this switchman told his friend that a Gitana b
rakeman tossed the guy from a moving cattle car and that’s what killed him.”
“A Gitana Freight employee?”
“That’s what he says.”
I asked the old man, “By any chance, were all the other deaths this week involving Gitana company freight trains?”
“Maybe,” he said. “But your time’s up. It’ll cost ya another nickel.”
“No, I got a better idea,” I told him. “How `bout you tell us now or we haul you downtown for public intoxication?”
“I ain’t drunk.”
“Good, then that makes it easy. I’ll just write you a ten-dollar ticket for loitering and send you on your way. You do have ten dollars, don’t you?”
He spat on the ground by his previous mark. “You know, come to think of it,” he said, wiping his chin on his shirtsleeve. “I believe they were all company trains.”
I smiled graciously. “I thought so. Thanks for your time.”
On the ride back to the justice center, Carlos, Spinelli and I reviewed what we had learned from our interview with the old man. Things had begun to make sense at last. It would have been easy to believe that one or two homeless men had committed suicide in our town, especially with the influx of transients from all around the country. Destitute men make desperate decisions in the face of adversity. A few hundred or more roving vagabonds ascending on a small town like New Castle can really slim the pickings for anyone trying to scrounge out a living on the streets. If you take a local homeless man already on the edge of existence and you increased his competition, you just might learn what it takes to push him over that edge. But for eight young, healthy men in their prime to commit suicide in the same manner within the same week is just not believable.
Murder, on the other hand, is. It’s the obvious answer to a series of events that, until then, lacked a plausible explanation. Before that morning, we had a crime, but no motive; victims but no suspects. What remained missing was the part of the equation that every good prosecuting attorney needs to go to trial: evidence.
After careful consideration, we decided (I decided) that Carlos and I should rework our wardrobes and attempt to infiltrate the jungle later that night and see what we could learn. Spinelli, of course, protested, wanting to know why I wouldn’t consider him for the assignment.
“It’s your face,” I said. “You heard the old man. He pegged you for a cop right away.”
“So, he thought Carlos was a transvestite.”
“Sorry, Dominic.”
“I can be the lamb, you know, one of those road kids. Carlos can be my wolf.”
Carlos replied, “I don’t want to be your wolf. The guys will think I’m gay.”
“The guys?” I said.
Spinelli came back. “You’d rather they think you’re a transvestite?”
“Hey, not all transvestites are gay.”
“Not all wolves are gay.”
“No, but their gay lamb lovers are.”
“They are not!”
“Some are.”
“Carlos! Dominic! Please! No one has to be gay. We just don’t need the three of us working the assignment from the same angle. Dominic, you’re better with the computer. I’d rather you see what you can find out about Gitana Freight Lines. Carlos, forget Goodwill. Dig into your closet and pull out some dark clothing, and don’t forget the layers.”
“I’m with you, Tony. Anything else?”
“Got a backpack?”
He hesitated, probably knowing that he shouldn’t mention what he was thinking. “Well, I do have this book bag that my nephew left at my place.”
I gave it some thought and saw nothing wrong with that. But keeping in mind that his nephew was only seven, I said, “Okay, that’ll work, as long as it doesn’t have a picture of Spiderman on it or something like that.”
He choked back a small lump in his throat and swallowed. “Ooh, you know what? I just remembered.”
“Yes?”
“That book bag. It’s broken.”
I nodded, mostly to myself. “Yeah,” I said, “I figured that. Don’t worry. We’ll work around it.”
Seven
After Spinelli dropped Carlos and me off at the justice center, I decided to see if my father was up for a second visit. I wanted to see if I could get the story straight about what really happened to me during the first five years of my life. I mean, I know that he was a part of it. I remember doing things with him, like playing catch and fishing down by the stream using homemade fishing rods. I can even remember the time he took me to the train yard to watch the freights pull out. It was early in the morning, and not long before he left me at the orphanage.
That was also the first time I ever noticed the color of his eyes. It’s funny how kids sometimes miss small details like that. I had looked in my dad eyes a million times before, but not until then did I notice they were brown, like mine. The only difference then, and maybe the only reason I noticed them, was that they were wet with tears. He wasn’t crying though—not my dad. Only babies cry. That’s what he told me. I must have believed him, because after that day, I never cried in front of another soul again.
India came down and met me at the reception desk after Melissa paged her over the intercom. I hadn’t realized on my last visit how really pretty she was. I guess her conservative dress and straightforward attitude had preempted any prior assessments of her beauty. Either that or I was just too nervous about meeting my father for the first time that I didn’t notice. I reached out as she approached and offer my hand. She shook it firmly and with purpose, something few women do.
“Detective Spitelli,” she said. I had long given up on correcting her. Besides, it was not as though she were butchering my real name. “Welcome back. Are you here to see Mister Marcella?”
“Yes,” I said, though I have to admit that she caught me off guard by calling him that. All my life there had been only one Mister Marcella. Me.
She pointed down the hall. “Come, I’ll take you there.” We started toward the elevator when she asked, “Do you have more questions for him about your case?”
“No,” I said, “I’m just here for a social call.” She stopped in mid-stride to look at me, and at first I thought I had said something wrong. But to see her expression melt with sentiment told me I had struck a different cord.
“You came back just to visit?”
“I did.”
“That’s so sweet. I don’t know if you’re aware, but Mister Marcella has nobody else.”
“Yes. He told me yesterday.”
She smiled easy out the corner of her mouth. “You know, Mister Spitelli, I think I had you pegged all wrong. You’re really very nice, aren’t you?”
I shrugged. I mean, what do you say to something like that? “Sure. I like to think so.”
We started walking again. “I bet your own father must be proud of you, a handsome young police officer and all.”
“I guess.”
We stepped into the elevator and the door slid shut. As the car went up, I saw India sneak a peek at my hand. “You’re not married?”
I looked at my ring finger. Sure enough, she was right. “No, I’m not.” I laughed nervously.
“I bet you have a girlfriend, though.”
I thought about Lilith. She wasn’t my girlfriend, but she was what we call in the business, a person of special interest. I looked at India and confessed, “I am kind of living with someone.”
Her smile evaporated. “I see,” and I realized immediately what that must have sounded like. Her eyes came forward in anticipation of the elevator doors opening. “She’s a lucky girl.”
I replied to her reflection in the stainless steel doors. “Oh, but it’s not what you think.” The elevator opened. India stepped out and started off down the hall without waiting. “You see, she’s really just a roommate,” I said, but the back of her head wasn’t listening. I caught up with her just outside of room number nine.
“Here you are, Mister Spitelli. Now, I must w
arn you. Yesterday’s visit really tuckered Mister Marcella out. I don’t think you should stay longer than ten minutes.” She pointed into the room. “Hit the call button if you need anything.”
“Thank you, I will,” I said, but by then I was talking to the back of her head again.
When I walked into Pops’ room, the first thing I noticed was that his bed had been positioned closer to the window than before. I realized at once that it was so he could better see the trains rolling in and out of the yard at Minor’s Point. I came up alongside him and touched his hand. “Hello, Mister Marcella, how are you today?”
He looked up at me and smiled weakly. “Detective Spitelli. Look.” He pointed out the window. Off in the distance, a freight train was just leaving the yard with a string of about fifteen cars. “That’s a CSX on her way to Maine,” he said. His voice sounded faint but determined. “By the time she gets there, she’ll have herself two diesels, ninety-five rail cars, four crewmen and a dozen or so non-paying passengers.”
“Hobos?”
He gave me a little wink. “Let’s call them men of adventure, shall we?”
I laughed politely, “You got it.” I pulled a chair up and sat down beside him. “Listen, I want to thank you for giving me so much of your time yesterday. I really enjoyed our conservation.”
“Me, too,” he said, though his eyes remained fixed on the train pulling out of the yard. “It’s fun talking `bout the old days.”
“I bet, but you know, I can’t stop thinking about what you told me about your son.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. If you don’t mind me saying, some things don’t add up. For instance, you said that when you got back from the war, you couldn’t find your son because all the records pertaining to his whereabouts were destroyed.”
“That’s right.”
“You didn’t check with the Department of Children’s Services?”
“No. The county had no such department back in those days.”
“What about—”
He turned his head sharply to cut me off. “I checked,” he said, and then refocused his attention out the window.
In any other instance, I would have left it at that. But all my life I had questions about who I was and where I came from, and only one person, whose days now were literally numbered, possessed the answers. I knew he wouldn’t understand my motives for persisting, but at the risk of upsetting a dying old man, I had to know. I kicked back in my chair to soften my delivery, though I knew that any way I dished it out, it would sound like a challenge.