Two Trains Running

by Andrew Vachss

  “You know a lot about land, huh?”

  “Well, not like you. I mean, not like a real-estate person. But I love reading about houses. Little ones, not big mansions. I like looking at pictures of houses in faraway places, and thinking about the people who live in them.”

  “Like Levittown?”

  “Yes. But, you know, those little houses, they’re not like mine.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, they’re all alike. They look different from the outside—I think they have five or six different fronts—but inside, they’re all the exact same. It would be like living in one of those housing projects, only all on the first floor.”

  “No, it wouldn’t,” Dett said, steering onto Tussy’s block.

  “Why do you say that?” she asked.

  “I’ve never been to Levittown. But it’s all individual homes, isn’t it? They may be all the same, but each little house, somebody owns it. It’s yours. You don’t have people on top of you, or below you. You have some . . . privacy.”

  “I’ve never seen a project, except in magazines. They look like awful places to live.”

  “They are.”

  “Oh,” she said, as Dett pulled the car to the curb in front of her house.

  He shut off the ignition, climbed out, walked around behind the car, and opened Tussy’s door. She held out her hand. He gently took her elbow as she exited, then dropped his grip when she stood up. They walked to her front door, shoulders touching, hands at their sides.

  “It was a lovely evening,” Tussy said, facing him. “I’ll never forget it.”

  “Neither will I.”

  “I . . .” Tussy looked around furtively, then whispered, “Could you really do it? Come back so nobody would see you?”

  “I promise,” Dett said. “But it’ll be at least an hour, maybe more.”

  “I’m not sleepy,” she said. “There’s a back door. But it’s pitch-black dark out behind the houses. Are you sure you can—?”

  “I’m sure, Tussy. I promise I am.”

  * * *

  1959 October 06 Tuesday 02:00

  * * *

  “Lights,” the spotter called from behind his binoculars.

  His partner waited, notebook in hand.

  “On-off . . . two, three, four. Brights. Off.”

  “That’s him, then.”

  “Yeah.”

  “What should we do?”

  “Nothing,” the rifleman said. “He knows how to find us. He only signaled so we wouldn’t mistake him for a hostile.”

  “He’s off the screen. Now where did he—?”

  “He’s inside,” the rifleman said, gesturing for silence as he swung his weapon around to cover the doorway.

  Thirty seconds later, the man in the alpaca suit stepped onto the top floor of the warehouse. He held a small flashlight, the beam aimed at his face, as if holding out his passport to border guards.

  * * *

  1959 October 06 Tuesday 02:46

  * * *

  When Tussy heard the tap at her back door, she opened it

  instantly.

  “You shouldn’t do that, not without looking first,” Dett said, gently. “How could you be sure it was me?”

  “Well, who else would be knocking at my door in the middle of the night?”

  “I don’t know. But still . . .”

  “Oh, come on in,” Tussy said, pointing at the kitchen table. She had changed into a pair of jeans, rolled up to mid-calf, and a man’s flannel shirt, the sleeves pushed back to her elbows. She was barefoot, and her face had been scrubbed free of makeup. “How do you take it?” she asked, as Dett sat down.

  “Take . . . ?”

  “Coffee. My goodness.”

  “Oh. Black, please.”

  “Why are you . . . staring like that.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said, dropping his gaze. “It’s just . . . Remember, before, when I was off by so much? When I was guessing how old you are? Well, now you look like you’re not even that old.”

  “That’s very sweet of you to say,” she said, laughing. “But if I had to spend another minute in that girdle, I’d get blood clots, I swear.”

  Dett ducked his head, not saying anything.

  “You changed, too,” Tussy said. “Boy, I can understand why nobody would see you, dressed like that. Where did you get all that black stuff?”

  “They’re work clothes,” Dett said. “Uh, for when I have to walk around certain kinds of property. Sometimes, you can’t wear good clothes. They’d get ruined in a minute. Stuff like this, even if I get them all dirty, it wouldn’t show.”

  “I know what you mean. Some nights, my uniform looks like I’m wearing what everybody had for dinner.”

  She placed a steaming mug in front of Dett. He sipped it, said, “This is really good.”

  Tussy sat across from him. She lit a cigarette, and left it smoldering in an ashtray while she went to the refrigerator for a small bottle of cream. “Fireball,” she called. “Come on, boy. I’ve got your favorite cocktail.”

  “I thought cats don’t come when you—” Dett interrupted himself when he saw Fireball enter the kitchen and stalk haughtily over to the saucer of cream Tussy had placed on the floor.

  * * *

  1959 October 06 Tuesday 02:48

  * * *

  “You’re out pretty late tonight, Holden.”

  “Well, there was a lot going on, Sherman. ‘Specially for a Monday night.”

  “Is that right?”

  “Yes, sir! I got my logbook all ready for you,” Holden said. “See?”

  “You do a beautiful job, Holden,” the big detective said. “I wish I had ten men like you. Let’s have a look. Hmmm . . . a couple of new ones, huh? Never saw these before.”

  “The Buick? There was a man and a girl in it. Well, not so much in it. They was standing around, talking.”

  “You hear what they were talking about?”

  “Sort of. It wasn’t any of the stuff you said to be sure and listen for, Sherman, I know that. Just about growing up and things. The girl told him about her parents being killed.”

  “Killed?” Sherman Layne said, taking care to keep his voice level.

  “By a drunk driver,” Holden said, proud that he had remembered. “It was a long time ago.”

  “A blond girl? Kind of short? Chubby?”

  “That’s right! Boy oh boy, Sherman. You must be as smart as Sherlock Holmes in the movies.”

  Tussy Chambers? He repeated the name to himself, as he copied down the license number of the Buick Holden had discovered.

  “And I got something else, too!” Holden said, excitedly. “About the Cadillac? I never seen it before. And I couldn’t see the people inside, neither. Where they were parked, I couldn’t get close enough to hear what they was saying, but I know the voice, Sherman. Of the girl, I mean.”

  “Who was she?”

  “I don’t know her name, Sherman. But I know her voice. It was a colored girl.”

  “Out here? In your section?”

  “Yes, sir! And that’s not all, Sherman. I know her name. Part of her name, anyway.”

  “Slow down, Holden. Easy . . . That’s right. Let’s you and me go sit in the car, where we can discuss this like professionals.”

  “In your car, Sherman? The police car?”

  “The unmarked car, Holden. Detectives don’t use black-and-whites, right?”

  “Right!”

  The two men walked over to Sherman’s Ford and climbed in. Sherman let Holden devour the interior with his eyes for a couple of minutes, then said, “Tell me about the girl, Holden.”

  “She was a colored girl, Sherman.”

  “Yes. I wrote that down, Holden. But you said you knew her name . . . ?”

  “Kitty,” Holden said. “That’s what the man called her.”

  “You sure he didn’t say ‘kitten,’ now? That’s what some guys call their girlfriends. You know, like ‘honey,’ or something lik
e that?”

  “No, sir. I heard it plain. ‘Kitty.’ He called her that a lot. ‘Kitty.’ Plain as day.”

  Might be a street name, Sherman thought to himself. But I can’t see any Darktown working girl coming way out here to turn a trick.

  “But, listen, Sherman. There’s something else. See, the man she was with, I heard his name, too.”

  “And what was that, Holden?” Sherman said, feeling his interest fade. Holden always tried his best, but . . .

  “Harley,” the forest prowler said. “Harley was what she called him.”

  * * *

  1959 October 06 Tuesday 05:41

  * * *

  As Carl showed up for work, early as always, Dett and Tussy were falling asleep together, she in her beloved house, Dett in Room 809.

  Dioguardi was at his weight bench in the cellar of his restaurant, stripped to a pair of gym shorts and sneakers, seeking that almost-exhausted physical state that unleashed his mind.

  Rufus daydreamed of fire.

  * * *

  1959 October 06 Tuesday 08:01

  * * *

  “Come on, Beau. It’s a real Indian-summer day. We won’t have many more like this before it gets cold out.”

  “Not today, Cyn. I’ve got too much work to do.”

  “You always have work to do. So do I. So does everyone else. But you never get any sun, Beau. That’s no good for you. Remember what Dr.—”

  “I haven’t believed a doctor since I was a kid,” Beaumont said, flatly. “Why should I?”

  “Oh, forget the doctor, then. But you need to get out, get some fresh air. You could play a few games of horseshoes with Luther. You know he loves it when you do.”

  “Luther’s fine.”

  “Beau, please.”

  “Cyn, you know how long it takes to roll this damn wheelchair out of here?”

  “Well, you could go straight out the back, through that little doorway, if you’d only let me—”

  “What? Tear the cellar apart, rip out the stairs, build a whole bunch of . . . We can’t have that kind of work done on this house, honey. We can’t let outsiders down there. And if we just used our own men, it would take months. The garage, that’s our escape hatch, remember? We could leave from there and never go near a main road for miles. So it was worth whatever time and money it took to get that built. But just so you could wheel me straight out to the backyard? No.”

  “Well, even if you won’t let me build what it takes to make it easy, that doesn’t mean you can’t go at all,” Cynthia said, walking behind Beaumont and pulling the wheelchair toward her. “Now, come on!”

  * * *

  1959 October 06 Tuesday 08:19

  * * *

  “You know full well I’m meeting Royal Beaumont himself this very afternoon, Sean,” Shalare said to the bulky man seated across from him in his upstairs office.

  “I do, Mickey. And your timing is a thing of beauty, as always.”

  “So I need to know,” Shalare went on, as if the other man had not spoken, “what it is, exactly, I’ll be offering him.”

  “Offering him? Why, this whole town, son. And everything in it. Dioguardi’s been told, and he’ll do as he’s told. Once the election’s over, for all we care, they can go at each other like rats and terriers.”

  Shalare templed his fingertips, touched the tip of his nose, then said, “The way Beaumont looks at it, offering him this town, Sean, that’s like offering a man sex with his own wife.”

  “Oh? You did say Beaumont’s worried enough about Dioguardi that he’s brought in a specialist.”

  “I did.”

  “Doesn’t seem to have actually done anything, this man, does he?”

  “There’s those two of Dioguardi’s men that—”

  “Ah, you’re not telling me that Beaumont had to send for outside help to handle something like that, are you?”

  “No. You’re right there,” Shalare admitted. “But, just because you can’t see the miners, it doesn’t mean the coal’s not being dug.”

  “Let me tell you something about trains, Mickey Shalare,” the bulky man said, pointing a stubby finger for emphasis. “You can control the conductor, you can control the engineer, but it’s the men who lay the tracks who get to say where it ends up going.”

  “That’s all well said,” Shalare replied, unruffled. “But we’ve been watching Locke City a long time, now. Getting the feel of the land before we plant our crops. And this is what I know about Royal Beaumont: he’s one of your hard men. The genuine article. Hear me, the man’s a pit bull, veteran of a hundred fights. You pull his teeth, he’ll still try and gum you to death. A man like him, he may come at you like a locomotive, but it’ll be on tracks he laid himself.”

  “That’s the way he negotiates? Or is he—?”

  “All in,” Shalare said, as if reluctantly proud of his adversary.

  “I should hope it wouldn’t come to that,” Sean said, judiciously. “But there’s too much riding on this for any one man to be allowed to derail our train. Should it come to it, your Mr. Beaumont’s not the only one who can call in a specialist.”

  * * *

  1959 October 06 Tuesday 10:12

  * * *

  “A ringer!” Luther yelled. “Look, Roy! I got one!”

  “Go for the six-pack, Luther,” Seth urged him on. “You can do it.”

  The slack-mouthed man hesitated, one of the custom-made “turn shoes” the Beaumonts had given him last Christmas steady in his hand.

  “Bring it home, Luther,” Beaumont said. “One more and we’ve got forty. That’ll teach these young bucks to mess with old stags like us.”

  Luther stood at the edge of the platform, sighted down the length of the pit to the stake, exhaled slowly, and delicately rainbowed the shoe through the air.

  “Damn!” Harley said. “You nailed it, Luther. We’re done.”

  Luther’s slack mouth flopped into a wide grin. Beaumont rolled over to him, and extended his hand.

  “Easiest hundred bucks I ever made,” he said. “A pure slaughter. You and me, Luther, we’re a hell of a team.”

  “Well, you got most of the points, Roy. Nobody pitches as good as you.”

  “Yeah? Well, it wasn’t me that went back to back and slammed the door on them, Luther.”

  The slack-mouthed man pumped Beaumont’s hand, speechless.

  Cynthia caught her brother’s eye, and beamed her approval. Their love arced between them, as palpable as an electric current.

  * * *

  1959 October 06 Tuesday 10:28

  * * *

  “Yes?” Dett said, his voice as inanimate as the receiver he was holding.

  “He’d like to see you.” Cynthia’s businesslike voice.

  “When?”

  “That would depend on your . . . schedule. He knows you’re working on an important project.”

  Dett felt the muscles in his neck unclench. If he wants it for lunch today—anytime today—I can’t do it. But if you don’t come when they call, they start thinking you’ve slipped the leash. . . . “How would tomorrow be?” he said.

  “If that’s the soonest you can make it, that would be fine.”

  Was there something in her voice?

  “I’m still collecting some of the information he wanted,” Dett said. “I expect to have a good bit more of it come in sometime today. Tomorrow, my report would be more complete.”

  “I understand. Tomorrow then. You have no time preference?”

  “No.”

  “Sometime in the evening, then. Say, eight?”

  “I’ll be there,” Dett said.

  * * *

  1959 October 06 Tuesday 10:33

  * * *

  Tussy stood before her bedroom mirror, studying her face for

  the tenth time that morning. Oh, what is wrong with you? she thought. I don’t care if you only got a couple of hours sleep, you don’t gop on the war paint in the daytime. Stop stalling and start cooking! She brushed
her tousled hair vigorously, then gave herself a sharp crack on the bottom with the hairbrush. All right,

  now! She nodded briskly at the mirror, grabbed a fresh pair of

  dungarees and pulled them on, holding her breath to fasten the

  waist.

  “And what are you looking at?” she said to Fireball, who was curled up on her bed, inspecting her.

  What would he want for lunch? she mused, as she walked through her kitchen, idly opening and closing the overhead cabinets. Some men like a big steak. I still have time to go out and— No, wait! That’s too much for lunch. Maybe tuna salad and some . . . Oh, damn! I should have just asked him. . . .

  * * *

  1959 October 06 Tuesday 10:42

  * * *

  “Where does a man take a girl like you?” Rufus said to Rosa Mae.

  “Take me? Rufus Hightower, I—”

  “I didn’t mean for it to come out like that, Rosa Mae. I was trying to ask, when you go out, a woman like you, where does a man take you? I know you’re not going for some juke joint, but you don’t seem like you’re the nightclub type, either. I . . . I guess I don’t know much—hell, I don’t know anything—about where a respectable woman would go on a date. The movies, maybe?”

  “Are you taking a survey, Rufus? Because, if you are, there’s a whole lot of women at my church you could go and ask. I’m sure they’d be happy to talk to you.”

  “Why you want to make this so hard, Rosa Mae?”

  “Me?”

  “You, girl. You know how I feel about you. I . . . declared myself, didn’t I?”

  “You said some things. But am I supposed to know you . . . like me just because you talk to me?”