Two Trains Running

by Andrew Vachss

  “Yes, ‘here,’ indeed,” the bulky man said. “No Brit soldiers on patrol outside, sure. But America’s not the Promised Land—we’ve got our enemies ‘here,’ do we not?”

  “Aye.”

  “And they buy our people the same way they do at home—every chance they get.”

  “I’ve been in Locke City long enough to learn the way of things, Sean. Here, it’s us who does the buying.”

  “The police—”

  “Not the police. Everybody who wants to do business here pays them. It’s like a bloody tax.”

  “The big men, the men who are putting this together, they don’t rent the police, Mickey. They own them.”

  “Maybe in Boston or Chicago. Not here,” Shalare said, emphatically.

  “Is that so?”

  “It is. But that doesn’t mean they’re free agents. Around here, it’s Mr. Royal J. Beaumont who holds those cards.”

  “That’s why I’ve come,” the bulky man said. “Why I’ve been sent, I should say.”

  “You never did answer my question,” Shalare told him, making it clear that bridge had to be crossed first.

  “What it’s going to mean for our people? Just imagine it, Mick.”

  “When I was down in that little cell, I used to imagine all kinds of things, Sean. They didn’t keep me long, but they kept me cruel. I had to make up beautiful stories in my head, just to stop from going mad. Because that was all I could do, yes? That’s not the way it is anymore. Now I’d want to see the road map. Hold it in my hands.”

  “Well, I’d be lying if I said I could give you that,” the bulky man admitted. “It’s not as if we’d really be running the show, is it? You know we’d only have a seat or two at the table.”

  “So we’d be a bloody minority again, you’re saying?”

  “It’s not the numbers, Mickey, it’s the strength. Look at Korea. The war’s supposed to be over, but America’s still standing between two raging forces, to keep them from each other’s throats. Just like the Limeys say they’re doing back home.”

  Ignoring the smaller man’s puzzled look, the emissary opened another organ stop in his mesmeric voice. “Now listen close to me, Mickey Shalare. Because that’s the key I gave you, right there. That’s what has to change. Not just at home, all over the world. You have to know your enemy. And the Brits, all we ever need to know about them is that they’re colonialists in their hearts. It’s in their very souls. Right this minute, they’ve got far more troops in Africa than they’ll ever have in Ireland. It’s the bloody British Empire, isn’t it?”

  “It is,” Shalare agreed. “But you make it out as if they’re the only ones.”

  “Who? The Americans? They’re done with all that.”

  “Are they, then? Wasn’t it you just talking about Korea?”

  “Ah, but the Yanks don’t think Korea’s part of America, do they?” The bulky man said, sweeping away the comparison. “They don’t want to stay there. You know how many bloody Koreans there are? Occupying that country, why, it’s just impossible. They’d have to slaughter everyone first, like they did the Indians, here, and then they’d have to persuade enough Americans to go over there and live. Or transport them, the way the Brits did the Aussies. No, the Yanks have a different scheme. They want to do as they did in Japan. Put their lackeys in power and get the hell out.”

  “Sure,” Shalare said. “And that’s what the Brits would like to do, too. But the very moment they leave . . .”

  “And that’s where the change has to come, Mick. We have to show them a different model.”

  “Speak plainly,” Shalare said, his tone matching his words.

  “All right, then,” Sean said, squaring his shoulders. “Every time the Brits pull out of a place they once controlled, what happens? The country they leave behind celebrates with a civil war, doesn’t it? Look, they’re supposed to be leaving Nigeria soon. Now, that’s a big country. I’ve been there. I swear to you, if you closed your eyes and couldn’t see skin color, you’d think you were in England. They speak English like the Brits, they have a parliament like the Brits. Why, even their money is in pounds. Lagos, that’s their capital city, it’s got buildings as tall as London’s. Very . . . cosmopolitan, I’d call it.”

  The bulky man paused a beat, then said, “All that, it didn’t come from farming, Mickey. What they have there is oil. A lot of oil. Just like the Arabs, maybe more. British Petroleum probably pumps more out of Nigeria than anyplace else on earth. And the minute, the very minute the Brits take their troops out of there, there’s going to be bloody chaos. You know why?”

  “Because they’re a pack of fucking savages,” Shalare said, folding his oversized hands.

  “No, my son,” the bulky man said. “It’s because the Brits picked one tribe out of all the different ones to be their pet. The same way they picked the Ulstermen to be their darlings in our country. So it was one tribe that got all the businessmen. And the lawyers and the doctors and the judges and the politicians and the . . . Well, you see, don’t you?”

  “I do,” Shalare said. “And when we finally drive them out of—”

  “No, no, no,” the bulky man said, his ruddy face set in hard lines. “Not drive. Induce. How long now have we been trying to force them off? It’s been twenty years since the S Plan, and what has changed? What good have the border wars done for us? Operation Harvest? It’s been almost three years now, Mickey Shalare. And all we’ve gathered from it is blood and tears.”

  “The Jews managed it,” Shalare said, stubbornly.

  “In Israel, you mean? Sure, they got the Brits out. But you’re not saying that’s a country at peace, now are you? I mean, they’re bloody surrounded, aren’t they?”

  “So what’s the answer, then?”

  “America,” the bulky man said, his voice heavy with the weight of the word. “We can do from here what we could never do from home.”

  “So—we should all emigrate, then?” Shalare said.

  “No,” Sean said, ignoring the heavy sarcasm. “We should build a power base inside a country that can call the shots. This isn’t about the righteousness of our cause; it’s about the power we need to prevail. And that won’t come from gunfire, not in the end.”

  The bulky man leaned back in his chair, as if to withdraw from the smaller man’s level stare. “Am I wrong, Mickey Shalare? Am I wrong to say that, for all our sacrifices, for all the Irish mothers and wives and sisters who mourn our soldiers, we’ve nothing to show?”

  “If it wasn’t for those sacrifices, we’d all be living under the yoke of the—”

  Sean filled his chest with air, injecting power into his voice without raising the volume. “Damn, man, won’t you see? We’ve put all our strength into trying to drive them out. And come up short. But what if America were to side with us?”

  “Against the Brits? You can’t be that drunk this early in the day.”

  “The next president is going to owe a lot of debts, Mick. And we’re going to be holding some of that paper. Our cause has taken . . . aid, shall we say, from other governments all along. But when we take it under the table, it’s always much less by the time it reaches us, isn’t it? On the black market, every hand that touches the goods, a little sticks to it. But if we could get it direct, think of the possibilities! That’s a stake worth playing for, isn’t it?”

  “I don’t see it,” Shalare said. “The Yanks aren’t going to arm us, no matter what we do in this damn election.”

  “Not arm us, Mick. Support us. Stand with us. Push the Brits out with political pressure, as we were never able to do with guns and bombs.”

  “Sean, it sounds sweet, like I said. But I can’t see it, much less taste it.”

  “Ah,” the bulky man sighed, “will you give me a listen, Mickey Shalare? Our cause, we say it’s for a united Ireland, do we not? But we don’t mean a word of it, no more than the tribes in Nigeria really want to live together. There’s plenty that could call themselves ‘Irish,’ yes? But
how many of us are there in that big stew?”

  “Most of the—”

  “Nah, Mickey. Don’t fall into that trap, now. You think every Catholic in Ireland is with us?”

  “No,” the smaller man said, coldly.

  “No,” the man opposite him agreed. “And here? In America? There’s those who send us support, sure. They’re with us, but they’re not of us. But in this election, we’re playing a role all out of proportion to our numbers, if you follow me.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “But damn nothing! I’m telling you, straight out, they cannot put their man in power without us doing our part. And when it’s over, it’s not those ‘Irish-Americans’ they’ll owe, Mickey. It’ll be us. Because, inside every local political machine that can bring the Irish vote, we’ve got those of our own.”

  “Sean . . .”

  “Will you listen? I said our own, Mickey Shalare. Because they’ve got the talkers and the poets and the dreamers. They’ve got the precinct captains and the police chiefs. They’ve got the silver tongues and the greasy palms. But what they don’t have is the soldiers. Men of commitment. One of us is worth a thousand of them, and the people trying to make this happen, well, they understand that.”

  “You really believe—?”

  “It’s not what I believe, Mickey . . . although I do believe. It’s the decision of the leadership. But the only way it happens is if we keep the coalition in place. That’s why I’ve been sent to you now.”

  “Yes?” Shalare said, a dozen questions in that single word.

  “This whole territory has been Beaumont’s for a long time. You and that wop Dioguardi, you’ve both been coming at him, but from different directions.”

  “Dioguardi’s a stupid thug.”

  “Granted. And you’re a soldier. A general, I should say. You’ve built up a fine collection of allies, all over the state.”

  “With the Organization’s money,” Shalare said. “I know.”

  “Ah, that’s not where I’m going at all, Mickey. Haven’t I been talking politics from the moment I came here today? And that’s why Dioguardi is important.”

  “Dioguardi doesn’t have one single—”

  “If you’re going to say ‘judge,’ or ‘senator,’ you’re right. But what he does have is friends. Or bosses, more likely, the way those people work. And the people over him, they’ve reached out to us.

  “You understand? We’re all of us agreed, each for his own reasons, sure, but all as one for this. The last thing we need now, when we’re so close, is some kind of raging gang war. The big cities have gone quiet. The way they’re supposed to. Oh, there’s crime. Always will be. And there’s people making their living from it. Always will be that, too. But there’s a deal in place, Mick. From New York to Chicago to Detroit to Los Angeles to Houston to New Orleans to . . . Well, if you took a map of America and stuck pins in it for all the places who’ve come under our control, you’d hardly be able to see what’s underneath.

  “I’ve been around a long time, my son. And if I’ve learnt one thing, it’s this. A free press doesn’t mean it’s not a tame press. So this whole business of crime, it makes a headline once in a while, but it’s not the daily fare. If you read the papers—I don’t mean just here, I mean anywhere throughout this country—you’ll see nothing but teenagers on the crime pages. That’s what’s got this country all in an uproar. Not the men at the top. Not who controls prostitution, or gambling, or booze. No, what scares Americans is crazy children who kill each other over who gets to hang out in what sweetshop.”

  Shalare calmly regarded the man across from him. “Still, the crime-fighters always get the vote, don’t they?”

  “Not if that’s all they have to offer,” the bulky man shot back. “A man named Dewey found that out a few years back, didn’t he? Now, listen,” he said, a quicker, deeper current entering the dark river of his voice, “Kefauver’s done. He had his chance. He won’t be on the national ticket ever again. The Democrats are going our way. All the way. The train has already left the station. But if the press starts up again, if bodies start dropping in the streets, the public could turn on us.”

  “Turn to where, Sean? Whoever runs for office in this country, they always say the same things. They all promise to clean up whatever mob’s making the papers.”

  “Sure,” the other man said, not rising to the implied challenge. “But this election, it’s going to be paper-thin. We’re going to need every last vote. That’s a huge machine to keep oiled, Mick. The coalition has to come at it from both sides. We need the organized groups to work the vote. And we need the wild kids to keep the public’s eye off us.”

  “What is it you want from me, then? Every single politician on my payroll is actually on yours, already.”

  “You’ve been brilliant at that,” the other man said. “Stunning, really, considering how little time you’ve had. It’s the other side of your work that’s the problem.”

  “Sean . . .”

  “Dioguardi. You and him, you’ve got to call a truce.”

  “We’re not at war. He wants the—”

  “You both want what Beaumont has. So it’s just a matter of time before you step on each other. And it’s Beaumont we’ve got to approach.”

  “What do we approach him with, then?”

  “With whatever it takes, Mickey. But it’s got to happen. Beaumont’s been the ruler around here since before most of the other big dogs were puppies. Like I said, my son . . . every single vote.”

  “Spell it out.”

  “The killing has to stop. Dioguardi’s lost two men. Three, really, if you count that boy in a coma.”

  “Wasn’t any of our work,” Shalare said flatly.

  “Who, then? Beaumont?”

  “Nobody knows. Some think it’s just one of their vendettas. Among themselves, I mean. Those people are like that.”

  “I told you, that’s over. If the Commission—that’s what the Italians call their council—was going to sanction a killing, it would be Dioguardi himself who got done. And that would only be because he refused to go along with the plan I told you about.”

  “It wasn’t any of us,” Shalare repeated.

  “Then it had to be Beaumont.”

  “I might be able to tell you something about that, in a short time.”

  “You have someone . . . ?”

  “I do.”

  “When you talk with him, then, will you ask him a question? For us?”

  “Aye,” Shalare said.

  “The question isn’t what you think. Sure, we need to know if it’s Beaumont hitting Dioguardi’s men. If it is, we’ll ask him to stop. A truce, we can call it. A freeze, more likely. Everybody keeps what they have, nobody goes after anything that belongs to another. That will work for Beaumont, because he’s the one who’s got what the others are coming after. It’s in his best interests to work with us.”

  “So the question is . . . ?”

  “The question is this: if Beaumont were to go, are any of his people in a position strong enough to take over and keep his enterprises going, like proper businessmen? Or are those hillbillies crazy enough to start a war?”

  “I’ll ask,” Shalare said.

  “That’s all we ask,” the man across from him said, smiling broadly as he extended his hand.

  * * *

  1959 October 04 Sunday 09:04

  * * *

  “Nobody saw anything?” Procter asked, notebook open in his lap.

  “In that neighborhood? The only people on the street that time of night are the kind who don’t volunteer as witnesses,” Chief George Jessup said, sitting behind his ornate desk, framed between an American flag to his right and the state flag to his left.

  “So all I can go with is—”

  “It was a murder,” Jessup said, as if underscoring an indisputable fact. “Anything beyond that would be pure speculation at this point.”

  “My sources tell me it had all the earmarks of a gang
land assassination. A professional hit.”

  “Or a jealous husband,” the chief said, dismissively. “This is off the record, but we’ve got it on pretty good authority that the deceased—Tony LoPresti—was a class-A cockhound. The other one, Lorenzo Gagnatella, he was probably just in the wrong place, with the wrong guy.”

  “You think so? I heard whoever shot them gave each one the coup de grâce. That sounds pretty professional to me.”

  “Anyone’s ever gut-shot a deer would know to do that much,” the chief said.

  * * *

  1959 October 04 Sunday 09:12

  * * *

  “That’s all he wanted for his meal last night?” Rufus asked Rosa Mae. “Nothing else?”

  “Celery sticks, carrots, radishes, lettuce, and a red onion,” the young woman recited, as if reading back an order.

  “That’s nothing but a salad.”

  “No, Rufus. He didn’t want them mixed. Didn’t want no dressing, either. Now I got to get going. I’m going to be late for church.”

  “That’s no kind of meal for a man. Especially a drinking man.”

  “I don’t know about that,” Rosa Mae said, shrugging her shoulders. “Clara down in the kitchen said they didn’t even know what to charge for all that. She had to call upstairs to ask.”

  “That is one strange white man.”

  “You didn’t know that, behind what I told you was in his suitcase, you’re not as smart as everyone says you are, Rufus Hightower.”

  * * *

  1959 October 04 Sunday 10:10

  * * *

  “How long have we known each other, Lymon?”

  “All our lives, I guess. I was in the same class as Cynthia, from the time we started school. I guess we could count up the years, but that’d just make us sound old,” Lymon said, smiling. “How come you ask, Roy?”