Two Trains Running

by Andrew Vachss

  * * *

  1959 October 04 Sunday 12:40

  * * *

  “How do you think he does it?” Cynthia asked.

  “I don’t know, honey. I think it has something to do with the wiring in his brain. One time, when we were kids, I was trying to help him with his homework. It was arithmetic, I remember. Long division. Luther would just stare at the paper for hours. Like he couldn’t read numbers, or something. I told him Miss Bayliss—you never had her; she came in after you were past her grade—would never know who did the homework, just write down what I told him. And Luther, out of nowhere, he says to me that Miss Bayliss has a baby.”

  “What was so—?”

  “Miss Bayliss wasn’t married, Cyn. But she left, in the spring, before school was out. To have the baby, people said.”

  “You’re saying Luther knew that?”

  “He did. And right after that, he started to know when people were lying, too. He’d just blurt it out. One time, Victor came to the clubhouse with this whole stack of magazines. He said he stole them, right out of Mr. Titleman’s store. He had candy, too. Enough for everyone. And a model-airplane kit. Now, Victor wasn’t just bragging, Cyn. He had the loot, okay?

  “Out of nowhere, Luther pipes up, ‘No!’ We asked him what he was talking about, and he said Victor never stole that stuff. Victor hauled off and punched him, right in the face. But Luther didn’t cry. He never would, no matter what anybody did to him.

  “I was . . . upset, I guess. I mean, I could stop outsiders from picking on Luther, but Vic, he was with us. In our club and everything. So I . . . I had to find out. I went down to Mr. Titleman’s store myself. I could always get people to talk. Probably they felt sorry for me, being a cripple and all.”

  “Beau!”

  “Come on, Cyn. We don’t hide from the truth, you and me. Anyway, I said to Mr. Titleman, Gee, Victor sure had himself a lot of magazines, and a new model airplane, too. I was a little worried, saying that, because if Victor really had stolen the stuff it would be like ratting him out. I had a whole story ready, about how Victor had gotten it all from some big kid none of us knew. But Mr. Titleman just busts out laughing. He says, ‘Yeah, that boy walked in here with a five-dollar bill, and walked out broke.’

  “After that, I got Victor alone. He didn’t want to tell me, but I got him in a lock and told him I’d break his arm if he didn’t. That’s when he admitted he’d gotten the money when his uncle came to visit the family for the first time ever. A big shot, from Chicago, the uncle. He gave Victor a fin, just like that.”

  “How come Victor lied about it?”

  “All the kids were stealing stuff then. But Victor, he was too chicken to do it himself. When his uncle gave him that money, he saw his chance.”

  “That was horrible, hitting Luther like he did.”

  “Yeah. But I could see, right then, it could get even worse if I didn’t do something. So I told Luther it had to be a secret, just between us. Luther, he could keep a secret. I told him, anytime he knew someone was lying, he could tell me, but nobody else. And ever since then, he never has.”

  “But, Beau, you already knew Lymon was—”

  “What Luther’s got is a gift, Cyn. I figure, a gift like that, it just shows up one day; it could just as easy go away, too. So, every once in a while, I like to check.”

  “You’re not fooling anyone, Beau.”

  “What?”

  “You didn’t want Lymon to be lying. You wanted there to be some . . . explanation, for him talking to Shalare. If Luther had said he was telling the truth, you would have . . . I don’t know.”

  “You always know,” Beaumont said.

  * * *

  1959 October 04 Sunday 12:58

  * * *

  “Tomorrow’s my night off,” Tussy said.

  She listened silently as the voice at the other end of the line droned on, occasionally nodding her head as if the speaker were in the room with her.

  “I’m sorry, Armand. You know I’d do it if I could. Have you tried Wanda?”

  She sipped her coffee from a daisy-patterned mug, the receiver held against her ear by an upraised shoulder. A cigarette smoldered in an ashtray on the yellow Formica counter.

  “What about Ginny?” she asked.

  As Armand continued to plead his case, Tussy put the cigarette to her lips and took a shallow drag.

  “I have a date,” she finally said. “No, it isn’t anyone you know.”

  You never miss your water until the well runs dry, she thought to herself, remembering one of her mother’s favorite sayings.

  “No, I can’t make it another night, Armand. We’ve got reservations.”

  Another shallow drag. Another sip. Then, “What difference does it make where, Armand?”

  Tussy poured the dregs of her coffee into the sink, ran the tap to clean out the cup before she placed it on the rubberized drying rack.

  “Oh, don’t be ridiculous!” she said. “I’ll see you Wednesday night, okay?”

  * * *

  1959 October 04 Sunday 14:01

  * * *

  “You work for Mr. Beaumont?” the willowy brunette asked. She was dressed in a tasteful dark-cranberry business suit over a pale-pink blouse, wearing a minimum of expertly applied makeup. Her heart-shaped face was fine-boned, dominated by deceptively vulnerable eyes the color of burnt cork, framed by a pair of cat’s-eye glasses. “I’ve never seen you before,” she said.

  “You see everybody who works for him?”

  “Probably everybody but that sister of his, sooner or later,” the woman said, her face composed, not reacting to Dett’s ignoring her question. “And the big man himself, of course. Most of them aren’t regulars. After all, this is the highest-priced house in the county. Most of those boys, they can only come here when they’re flush.”

  “It’s a beautiful place,” Dett said. “Must cost a lot to keep it up.”

  “It does, for a fact. I wish your boss understood that a little better. Between what I pay the law and the things some of these girls get themselves into . . .”

  “Yeah. So you can’t be making a living just taking care of one . . . group.”

  “You’re not part of Mr. Beaumont’s organization,” she said, her suddenly icy eyes briefly drifting over Dett’s face.

  “You were expecting me,” Dett said, without inflection. “Whoever you spoke to told you to cooperate with me.”

  “And what you want is information about my visitors.”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re a camera guy?” she asked, an unmistakable hint of contempt in her modulated voice.

  “No.”

  “What are you, then?”

  “A strategist.”

  “That’s a big word.”

  “If you say so.”

  “I have to make a phone call,” the woman said. “You can wait right here, in my office, if you like. Or, if you want, I have a couple of girls who aren’t busy right now.”

  * * *

  1959 October 04 Sunday 14:19

  * * *

  “What’s he doing?”

  “That’s Sherman Layne,” the stubby, mostly bald man in the passenger seat of the plain-Jane sedan said to the much younger man behind the wheel. “He’s a cop, local. And that’s a whorehouse. Ritziest one in the county, according to our briefing. Maybe he’s doing a surveillance on some guy they think’s holed up there. Or maybe he’s just taking down license-plate numbers.”

  “Same as we are,” the younger man said, peevishly. His protruding Adam’s apple bobbed with each word.

  “You think we can always be out chasing the Ten Most Wanted, Dave?” the older man said, chuckling. “This is just like the army—everybody’s got their job to do.”

  “Our job must be KP, then.”

  “No,” the older man said, idly tapping his asymmetrical nose with a thick forefinger, “although it may seem like it. We’re part of something, even if we don’t always know what it is.”


  “I wish we did. I wish we could—”

  “Observe and record,” the older man said. “That’s the job. That’s today’s job, anyway.”

  “That’s a weird place to have a whorehouse.”

  “You’re an expert, Davy?”

  “Come on, Mack,” the younger man said, reddening. “It’s sit-ting down in that little clearing, all surrounded by woods. Anyone could just sneak up on it. That cop, where he’s parked, nobody inside would ever spot him.”

  “Who’s going to sneak up on it?”

  “I . . . I don’t know. Kids, maybe. To get a thrill.”

  “Only if they had binoculars that worked at night, and what kids have the money for equipment like that? Come on, Dave. Look closer. See all that open ground? There’s no way anyone could move within fifty yards of that door without being spotted, day or night.”

  “You really think there might be a guy hiding out in there?”

  “Who knows?” the older man said, shrugging his shoulders. “It’s not our problem.”

  “What if he was a bank robber, Mack? You know, we have jurisdiction if there’s been a—”

  “We don’t have any ‘jurisdiction’ to do anything but what our orders are,” the older man said, firmly. “That’s how agents get themselves in trouble, freelancing. And . . . Hey, there he goes. I guess the cop saw everything he had to see.”

  “You think maybe he’s coming back? With reinforcements?”

  “Jesus H. Christ, Dave. This isn’t a goddamn gangster movie; this is real life.”

  * * *

  1959 October 04 Sunday 14:30

  * * *

  “All right,” the brunette said, re-entering the room where Dett waited, “what do you want to know?” Her voice was businesslike, just short of brusque.

  “Who comes here in secrecy?”

  “Secrecy?” she said, coolly. “You mean ‘privacy,’ don’t you?”

  “No,” Dett said, watching her eyes. “I mean the man nobody sees. You bring a girl into the room he uses, put a hood over her head, bend her over, and tie her up. The man comes into the room. He doesn’t say anything, just does what he does. After he’s gone, you go in there and untie the girl. Everyone who works here knows they could be picked for the job, but they never know when their turn is going to come.”

  “Who told you such a—?”

  “Someone who doesn’t work here anymore, so don’t waste your time asking around.”

  “No, I mean, who told you a story like that?”

  “It’s not true, then?”

  “Of course not. We cater to all kinds of . . . tastes here. And I’m not saying we wouldn’t put a girl in the position you described. Or even that we never have. But the idea that this happens all the time, for the same man—”

  “I told Beaumont this was a waste of time.”

  “Well, that’s all right. Surely you understand the way these girls exaggerate their—”

  “I told him it was a waste of time,” Dett went on, level-voiced. “I told him you wouldn’t cooperate.”

  “But I just said . . .”

  “You’re lying,” Dett said, his voice as cold and flat as a glacier. “A woman as smart as you, you’re not owned by anyone. You pay Beaumont because he’s the powerhouse in this town. A business expense, like a lawyer, or an abortionist. But you couldn’t stay in business if you didn’t keep this place neutral. So this isn’t Beaumont’s house. Dioguardi’s men come here, too, right? And Shalare’s. And people who don’t work for any of them. People with money of their own. You don’t work for Beaumont, you pay him. That’s a big difference. If Beaumont was to disappear tomorrow, you’d just pay someone else.”

  “You seem to have figured everything out,” the woman said, lighting a cigarette in what Dett recognized as a time-buying gesture.

  “Except the man’s name.”

  “What good would that do you?” she said, her tone implying she was actually interested in the answer. “So he likes the girls, so what? I could see it if he was a priest, or a—”

  “I told you, this isn’t about blackmail.”

  “What, then?”

  “That’s not something you want to know,” Dett said.

  “What if I told you I don’t know his name?”

  “I’ll tell you what I told Beaumont.”

  The brunette looked a question at Dett, not speaking.

  “I told him that you were going to play your own game, for your own reasons. And I was right. So there’s only one thing to do.”

  “Which is?”

  “Put you out of business. Then the man I’m interested in will have to go someplace else for his fun. The next . . . manager will be glad to work with me.”

  “Putting me out of business wouldn’t be such an easy thing to do,” she said, clipping her words to keep the sudden fear out of her voice.

  “No harder than this,” Dett said, striking a wooden match on his thumbnail.

  * * *

  1959 October 04 Sunday 14:49

  * * *

  “I wish you didn’t have to do this.”

  “Do what, honey?”

  “All of this,” Cynthia said.

  “We had no choice, girl. If I hadn’t started the—”

  “Not at the beginning, I know. But now? What difference could it make, Beau?”

  “You want to go back to the way we were before this all started? That can happen, Cyn. That can always happen, if I get weak.”

  “You were never weak, Beau.”

  “Neither were you. All we wanted was to live in peace, right? But would they let us?”

  “Oh, Beau,” she said, despairingly.

  “What?”

  “You never wanted to live in peace,” she said, bringing her hands together in a prayerful gesture. “Never once. You and Sammy and Lymon and Faron and . . . all of you, you made enough during the war to start real businesses. But you—”

  “We did start real businesses, damn it!”

  “What, the bowling alley? That was just a place for you all to . . . meet, and everything.”

  “We weren’t doing anything people didn’t want done, girl. Other-wise, we couldn’t have made a living at it.”

  “Beau, you don’t have to take care of everyone, like you were their father.”

  “Who’s going to do it, if I don’t? Somebody’s got to run the show. Our show, I mean. If we don’t have our own people in charge, some other outfit will just come in, and . . .”

  “Is that why you want Harley to . . . ?”

  “He’s the one I’ve been thinking of, yeah. I’ve been watching him for a long time, and he’s got the cold mind you need to run a complicated operation like ours. Sammy says so, too. But if Harley ever wants to be in charge, he’s got to show what he’s made of, elsewise no one will follow him. You know that, Cyn. If I hadn’t—”

  “Don’t, Beau.”

  “Don’t what?” the man in the wheelchair said, defiantly. “Say the truth? I’ll say it, Cyn. I’m not afraid of it. If I hadn’t killed Lenny Maddox, he would have eaten us like a slice of apple pie, with vanilla ice cream on top. One bite—poof!—we’re gone. Right down his pig’s gullet.”

  “I don’t like to talk about that.”

  “It was him or us,” Beaumont said, reciting his lifelong mantra.

  “I . . .”

  “Honey, you had your little salary from the dress shop, and I had what we were making from the bowling alley. When we were kids, remember where we lived? Remember how we lived? All of us would have fit into one room of this house.”

  “We never needed such a—”

  “I didn’t kill Lenny Maddox to buy us a house, honey. We had no choice. No choice I could live with, anyway.”

  “I thought you were going to die that day, Beau. I was so terrified, I was frozen. I just sat and stared at the telephone. I knew it was going to ring, and the . . . somebody was going to tell me you were dead.”

  “I remember when they sear
ched me that last time,” Beaumont said. The iron of his eyes began to lighten, like an abating storm. “They just sort of slapped at my clothes, before they let me into the back room. The cripple in his wheelchair, getting an audience with the pope. Maybe they thought Lenny was going to lay his hands on me, cure me like one of those faith healers.”

  “Beau . . .”

  “Yeah, what did he have to worry about?” the man in the wheelchair went on, relentlessly. “It was broad daylight, not even ten in the morning, when we drove up to that roadhouse he owned. Me and Luther. The cripple and the retard.”

  “Beau!”

  “No, that was good, Cyn. It’s always good when they under-estimate you. Lenny thought I was coming to beg. That’s what cripples are, right? Beggars. He had a couple of men around, like he always did. But he’d been feeding at the trough so long, he forgot where he came from. He let them stand around outside his office, so I wouldn’t be embarrassed, having to beg in front of them.

  “I thought I might die that day, too, Cyn. And I was ready for it. I don’t mean I was looking to die, but I could face it. The same way I made all the other guys face it. Before we took off, I told them, ‘By tonight, we’ll have us some ground. It’s either going to belong to us, or we’ll be under it.’ ”

  Cynthia turned toward her brother. Her face was as blanched as it had been on that day so many years ago, when she had waited for the call. And, just as then, she never said a word.

  “He never knew how I could move in this thing,” Beaumont recalled, patting his wheelchair as if it were a prized racehorse. I kept talking, about the bowling alley and how I wanted to expand it, maybe even add a skating rink. That’s what I was there for, to ask his permission. Before he knew what was going on, I had rolled right up to where he was sitting. I put everything I had into that one punch. Right here”—touching a spot just below the inverted V of his rib cage—“and all the breath just whooshed out of him. Then I got these”—holding up two clawed hands—“around his throat and clamped. He never made a sound.