Two Trains Running

by Andrew Vachss

  “I’m not a gossip,” the younger man said, stiffly.

  “I know you’re not,” Mack said. “You don’t smoke, you don’t drink, you don’t gamble, you don’t cheat on your wife, and all you want to do is serve your country.”

  “Why do you have to—?”

  “I’m not mocking you, kid. I mean it,” Mack said, his voice just short of affectionate. “Okay, look, I’m going to answer my own question. What are we doing here? Our job. And what is our job? We’re blackmailers, kid. You, me, and the entire Federal Bureau of Investigation.”

  “Mack!”

  “That’s the way things get done,” the older man said, calmly. “That’s the way people stay in power. Because there’s one thing on earth that’s more valuable than gold or diamonds, Davy. Information. The most precious commodity of all. You get enough on a man, it’s like there’s a handle growing out of his back. And whoever’s hand is on the tiller, he gets to steer.”

  “That’s not blackmail; that’s just . . . law enforcement.”

  The older man leaned back in his seat and lit a Winston, ignoring the younger man’s frown. “Law enforcement means keeping tabs on people who are breaking the law, kid. But the Bureau watches everybody. If the boss had his way, he’d have a file on every man, woman, and child in America. Wouldn’t be surprised if he already did.”

  “Well, the way things are today—”

  “Don’t start with that ‘Communist’ nonsense, again, Dave. That’s just a cover story. We’re supposed to be cops, not spies. That’s the CIA’s job.”

  “But the CIA can’t work in America. It was the FBI that caught the Rosenbergs. And it was the Bureau that—”

  “The Bureau spies on people because that’s what it does, kid. And they’ll be doing it long after Communism’s dead and gone.”

  “You’re . . . you’re wrong, Mack. We’re not spies, we’re crime-fighters. America’s most important—”

  “Yeah, I know. Doesn’t it strike you as unfair that we have to play by the rules and the bad guys don’t?”

  “Well . . . sure. But if they did play by the rules, there wouldn’t be any need for us at all.”

  Mack tossed his still-burning cigarette out of the side window of the plain-Jane sedan. “Want me to tell you a story, Dave?”

  “I . . . don’t know,” the younger man said, warily.

  “Oh, it’s a good one,” Mack promised. “You want to hear the inside scoop on how we nailed Al Capone?”

  “I already know that. The Chicago police weren’t ever going to stop him. Probably half of them were on his payroll. But the Bureau got him on income tax, and that finished him and his whole empire.”

  “Not a word of that’s true, kid.”

  “Al Capone didn’t go to prison for tax evasion?”

  “Of course he did. That’s not what I’m talking about. You want to hear the story or not? We’ve got another four, five hours to sit here and wait, anyway.”

  * * *

  1959 October 05 Monday 12:29

  * * *

  “Take the chair, child.”

  “Oh, no, Daddy. That’s your chair. I’ll be fine on this,” Rosa Mae said, carefully perching herself on an upended crate.

  “Bother you if I smoke my pipe?” Moses asked, holding up a long-stemmed white clay model as if for her inspection.

  “Daddy, you know I love the way that cherry tobacco smells.”

  “Never hurts to have manners,” the old man said.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Come on, gal. I know you didn’t give up your lunch break for no reason. What you want me to help you with?”

  “Daddy Moses, what do you think of Rufus Hightower?”

  “That boy? Why you be asking—? Oh, I see. . . .”

  Rosa Mae lowered her head for a moment, then turned her amber eyes on Moses. “That’s what I want to know, Daddy,” she said, very softly. “What do you see? Because, sometimes, I see him . . . different than the way other people do. At least, I think I do.”

  “Rufus is a very intelligent young man,” Moses said, cautiously. “A lot smarter than he let most folks know. But that’s nothing so strange, gal. Our people been doing that since we was on the plantations.”

  “Oh, I know that,” Rosa Mae said. “But that’s for dealing with white folks, not our own. Rufus, he . . . Daddy, sometimes, it seems like he is two different people. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  “One minute, he all diddybop, right?” Moses replied. “Got his mind on nothing more than a bottle of wine, some sharp clothes, a nice car, and a piece of—excuse me, gal—and as many women as he can catch. Next minute, he all serious. Not preacher-serious, all righteous and stiff: serious like he got plans.”

  “That’s it!”

  “He been talking to you, child?”

  “Well, sure. I mean—”

  “Don’t go all country-girl on me, Rosa Mae,” the elderly man said, sternly. “You know what I mean when I say ‘talking to you.’ ”

  “Yes, Daddy,” she said, meekly. “He’s been talking to me.”

  “Both parts of him?”

  “Yes! Oh, Daddy, I knew you’d understand. Sometimes when Rufus talks to me, he’s like all the others. You know what I mean.”

  “Wants to be the boss rooster.”

  “That’s him. That’s him sometimes. But other times, it’s like he really, truly . . . sees me. Not just . . . you know. Me. The real me.”

  “You know what they say about a good burglar, little girl?”

  “No, Daddy.”

  “He can’t get in the door, he’ll try the window.”

  “Yes,” Rosa Mae said, sadly. “My momma always told me that, only she said it different.”

  “Your momma was done wrong by a man, honey. She just don’t want you to make her same mistake. That’s natural.”

  “You know my momma?”

  “Know her story, is all. She’s a whole lot younger than I am. We don’t be going to the same places.”

  “My momma goes to church,” Rosa Mae said, tartly, smiling to take the edge off her words.

  “So did I, child. Went every day when my Lulabelle had the cancer. Prayed and prayed. Spent so much time on my knees, I wore out the pants of my good suit. I promised God, You let my woman live, You can have whatever you want from me. Take me instead, You want that. But He didn’t listen to me then. And I don’t listen to Him now.”

  “I’m sorry, Daddy,” Rosa Mae said, eyes misting. “I was only playing. And I should know better.”

  “That’s all done, gal,” Moses said, drawing on his pipe. “Now it’s time for you to tell me.”

  “Tell you what?”

  “Whatever Rufus asked you. Or told you. Whatever it is that’s got you all upset.”

  “You know the man who stays in 809? His name is—”

  “Yeah, that’s Mr. Dett.”

  “Yes. Rufus, he is very interested in that man. And what he asked me . . . what he asked me, would I look around his room. Not take anything,” she said, unconsciously putting her hand over her heart, “just tell him what I saw while I was cleaning.”

  “Rufus don’t steal,” said the elderly man, surprising himself with his spontaneous defense.

  “Oh, no, Daddy. It wasn’t nothing like that. I know it wasn’t.”

  “So you did it.”

  “Yes, sir. Yes, I did. And Rufus paid me, too. So I figure someone must be paying him.”

  “Now, that sounds like the boy.”

  “You mean, a hustler? I know he does that, Daddy. I know he brings things to men in their rooms. Even . . . you know. But that isn’t why he has me so confused. See, other times when Rufus talks to me, it’s . . . it’s like I said, he’s got plans.”

  “And you in those plans?” Moses said, catching on.

  “I . . . I think that’s what he’s saying. Daddy, did you know Rufus was a race man?”

  “A lot of those young boys say they race men, but that’s just putting
on a show for the girls.”

  “I know. But Rufus, when he talks, it feels like truth to me, Daddy. I don’t know what to do.”

  “Well, at least you told me something, child.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You got feelings for that young man. Real feelings. And you know what that means?”

  “No . . .”

  “Means I got to make it my business to take a closer look at him.”

  * * *

  1959 October 05 Monday 12:34

  * * *

  This is beautiful! Ace thought, as he was escorted into a large room with freshly painted white walls, furnished with a couch and two easy chairs, all covered in the same tan leatherette. A blond wood coffee table was set in front of the couch, a matching set of red glass ashtrays positioned at each corner.

  “This is the President’s office,” Sunglasses said. “Just have a seat,” indicating one of the easy chairs. “He’ll be here in a few.”

  The escort team positioned themselves at various points around the room.

  “This is some setup you got here,” Ace said.

  Nobody answered.

  Like that, huh? he thought to himself. Okay, motherfuckers. You want ice, you got ice. He lit a Camel, leaned back in the chair, half-lidded his eyes.

  As Ace ground out the butt of his cigarette in the red glass ashtray, a man of average height entered the room. He was wearing a fingertip-length black leather jacket over a black dress shirt, buttoned to the throat. His dark-blond hair was worn long on the sides and square-cut across the back. He looked to be in his early twenties, with what Ace thought of as a hillbilly’s face—narrow, long-jawed, with suspicious brown eyes. Lacy Miller himself, Ace thought. President of the Gladiators. Should I . . . ?

  The man in the leather jacket crossed the room and held out his hand, interrupting Ace’s thoughts. Ace got to his feet, and they shook. Lacy’s grip was perfunctory. Got nothing to prove to the likes of me, Ace thought, resentfully.

  The President of the Gladiators stepped back and took the un-occupied armchair. As he settled in, the other gang members took seats, too. All except for Sunglasses.

  “It’s still on for Wednesday night?” Lacy asked.

  “The Hawks will be there,” Ace assured him.

  “How many Hawks?”

  “Well, I can’t say exactly. We’ve got seventeen counted, but there could be more. There usually is.”

  “The Kings have got at least thirty men,” Lacy said, his tone indicating that he would not entertain a contradiction.

  “Thirty niggers,” Ace said.

  Sunglasses snorted.

  “You think a nigger’s blade doesn’t cut as deep?” Lacy said, his voice mild and unthreatening.

  “I didn’t mean nothing like that. Just that, well, the Hawks can hold their own, even if we’re outnumbered. We done it before. Plenty of times.”

  “You know what that comes from, ‘holding your own’?” Lacy asked.

  “Comes from?” Ace said, confused.

  “Where it started,” Lacy said, patiently. “It came from the pioneers. The ones who went out west, a long time ago. They went out there to farm, or ranch, or pan for gold. To do that, you had to stake a claim. Sometimes, people would try and take it from you. Indians, maybe. Or white men too lazy to work for what they wanted. You had to fight them off your land. Hold your own, see?”

  “Yeah,” Ace said, thinking, This guy, the President of the Gladia-tors, he talks like some faggy schoolteacher. Jesus.

  “So—you see what I’m telling you?” Lacy said, smiling as if he read Ace’s thoughts . . . and forgave him the mistake. “You—the Hawks, I mean—you never really did hold your own.”

  “The niggers wouldn’t dare to move against us on our own turf,” Ace said, hotly.

  “Why should they?” Lacy countered. “They don’t want your territory; it’s on the wrong side of town. But that lot on Halstead, that’s No Man’s Land, right?”

  “Well . . . well, sure it is. I mean, it’s just a whole block of dirt and junk. Nobody even lives around there.”

  “Uh-huh. Last time you rumbled there, who won?”

  “We did,” Ace said confidently, knowing each side would tell a different story. Hell, he thought, when a rumble’s over, everyone tells a different story . . . ‘specially those who weren’t even there.

  “So you won . . . what, exactly? A fight?”

  “What else is—?”

  “There’s the land, is what I’m telling you. When you win a war, you get the land, right?”

  “Nobody wants that land, man. It’s just a—”

  “Yeah, I know. But, see, if you control land, you can do things with it.”

  The same thing those Klan guys were telling me, Ace thought. “I see what you mean,” he said, aloud.

  “We’ve been thinking about that property ourselves,” Lacy said. “So we’re going to send along a few men Wednesday night. Just to make sure the Kings don’t try anything extra.”

  “That’s cool.”

  “And after it’s over, that lot on Halstead, it’s going to be Gladiator turf,” Lacy said, his voice subtly downshifting to a tighter gear.

  “Well, I guess. I mean, we got this treaty—”

  “The treaty means you don’t move on us and we don’t move on you. It means you can walk through our turf flying your own colors and you don’t get jumped. It doesn’t mean we’re partners.”

  Ace felt his face flush. He lit another cigarette, quickly glancing down to satisfy himself his hands were steady. “If your club went to war, we’d be right there with you,” he said.

  “That’s not going to happen,” Lacy said. “You see what it says on our jackets now?” He nodded to his right.

  Sunglasses plucked a white satin jacket from the seat of a straight chair in the corner. He held it up in both hands, displaying the back, with its ornate red script yoked across the shoulders:

  Gladiators SAC

  “Social and Athletic Club? You’re going collegiate!?” Ace blurted out. “The Gladiators always been the strongest bopping club in the whole—”

  “Relax,” Lacy said, holding up his palm like a traffic cop. “What we’re doing is moving up. Rumbling, that’s for kids. We’ve got bigger plans. Who needs the cops looking over your shoulder every minute?”

  “They don’t bother us,” Ace said, struggling with what he was hearing.

  “No offense, but why should they, unless you’re getting it on with some other club?”

  “Yeah, I can see that, but . . .”

  “But what?”

  “It’s like . . . I don’t know, not what I expected, maybe. What do you want us to do?”

  “Do? Nothing. You have your meet Wednesday night. After that, it’s over.”

  “No warring with the—?”

  “Listen, when it comes to other clubs, you guys do whatever you want. But not on Halstead. Wednesday night is going to be the last rumble in that lot. On that whole block, in fact. The Kings cross your border, it’s okay with us, you kill every last one of them. And if you decide to go down on them, jump them in their own territory, that’s your business, too. Wednesday, we’ll have enough men there, make sure you guys come out all right. But after that, the lot on Halstead, it’s Gladiator turf. Understand?”

  “We’ll come out all right,” Ace said, sullenly.

  “Because they’re niggers?” Lacy said.

  “No,” Ace told him, pausing dramatically, “because they ain’t got nothing like what we got.”

  “What’s that?”

  “This,” Ace said, slowly taking the pistol out of his jacket.

  Nobody moved.

  “It’s not loaded,” Ace said, thrilling inside at the silence he had produced. “I’d never bring a loaded piece inside your clubhouse.”

  * * *

  1959 October 05 Monday 13:18

  * * *

  “You know how old Capone was when he went to prison?”

&n
bsp; “Fifty?” Dave guessed.

  “Just a little past thirty,” Mack told him. “And when he was released, he was barely forty. So how come he didn’t move right back in, take over the rackets again?”

  “He was sick, I thought.”

  “He was sick all right, kid. Paresis, you know what that is?”

  “Like, cancer?”

  “No. His brain was all rotted out. From syphilis.”

  “Ugh. That’s . . .”

  “What? A nigger disease?”

  “I didn’t say—”

  “I’m not accusing you of being prejudiced, Davy. But that is what you heard, isn’t it? That only coloreds get it?”

  “No. That’s not true at all. In the army, they showed us this film—”

  “And gave you the short-arm inspection when you got back from leave, sure. But that’s for the clap, gonorrhea. Syphilis, it’s what the colored people call ‘bad blood.’ Compared to the clap, it’s like a howitzer against a rifle.”

  “How come you know so much about this?”

  “That’s another story. Now you’re hearing this one. So pay attention. Syphilis, it’s a special disease. When you got the clap, you know it—it burns like hell when you take a piss. But the syph isn’t like that. When you first get it, what they call the primary or the secondary stage, you get these sores on your body. Right at the same spot where you . . . made contact. They look like all holy horror, like leprosy or something, but they don’t hurt. And here’s the special thing about them: they go away. All by themselves.”

  “You only get it from having sex?”

  “Yeah. No matter what else you might have heard, that is the only way. And it doesn’t matter what kind of sex, okay? So even queers get it. Anyway, if you ever go into a neighborhood where it’s all colored—not just a place where they let them live, where it’s wall-to-wall black, businesses and everything—you’ll find some of what they call ‘men’s doctors.’ They’re not real doctors. Not even witch doctors,” Mack said, making a sound of disgust. “They’re just con men. You come to one of them with syphilis sores and they’ll sell you some potion supposed to be just the thing for it. So, when the sores go away—and they always do—you think you’re all cured. Only you’re not.”