Two Trains Running

by Andrew Vachss

“You mean if you wanted to acquire the property for yourself?” the lawyer asked, his hands working expertly with a cigar cutter.

  “No, nothing like that. Just pay off someone’s mortgage. So they’d own their house, free and clear.”

  “Give them the money, let them walk down to the bank,” the lawyer said, the corners of his eyes tightening.

  “I can’t do it like that.”

  “Because . . . ?”

  “I don’t want them to know. . . . I mean I want it to be a surprise.”

  “You want to be someone’s mystery benefactor?” Gendell said, using a long match to distribute flame evenly around the tip of his cigar.

  “There’s nothing shady about what I want to do,” Dett said, calmly. “There’s someone I care about. A woman. If I just offered to pay off her mortgage, she’d never accept. So I want it to be a surprise. For after I’m not around.”

  “Oh, I get it. You want to leave her the money in your will, so when you—”

  “No,” Dett said, slowly. “After I’ve gone from here. From Locke City.”

  “And that would be . . . ?”

  “In a few days.”

  “What, exactly, would you want me to do?”

  “I want to leave the money with you. Enough to pay off the mortgage. A month from now, I want you to go to the bank, get the mortgage canceled, and give the papers, the free-and-clear papers, to her.”

  “Well, I’d need a power of attorney, together with—”

  “Just the money,” Dett said. He reached into his overcoat and took out several stacks of neatly banded bills. “There’s a thousand in each one,” he said. “Six thousand total. The mortgage is thirty-seven dollars and forty-nine cents a month. It’s at least twenty years paid. That’ll be more than enough to cover it. And your fee, too.”

  “You don’t need a lawyer for this,” Gendell said, puffing on his cigar. “All you need is a messenger boy.”

  “I do need a lawyer,” Dett said. “To be sure she doesn’t get cheated, make certain the deed they give her is what it’s supposed to be. I don’t want anyone at the bank pulling a fast one.”

  Dett got to his feet.

  “Wait a minute,” the lawyer said. “You come in here talking about the bank pulling a fast one, but you drop six grand on my desk and don’t even ask for a receipt. How do you know I won’t just pocket the money?”

  “Because I know what kind of man you are, lawyer or not,” Dett said. “The mortgage I want you to pay off, it belongs to Tussy Chambers.”

  * * *

  1959 October 07 Wednesday 19:03

  * * *

  “The address is a bottle club in Cleveland. On East Seventy-ninth. In what they call the Hough area. It’s all colored there; a white man would stick out a mile away.”

  “I never been there, boss.”

  “But you got people there, right? A cousin, a friend, something?”

  “Well, I knows people there, sure. But what you want, that’s pretty tricky stuff. Like being a spy.”

  “It’s not tricky at all,” Dioguardi said, soothingly. Don’t want to spook the nigger, he thought, grinning inwardly as he realized his unintentional pun, vowing to use it later, when he got back to his headquarters. “The package is going to look like this,” he said, holding up a nine-by-twelve-inch manila envelope with thick red bands running both horizontally and vertically to form a cross.

  “Looks like a Christmas package, boss.”

  “That’s right,” Dioguardi said, encouragingly. “You could spot it at fifty feet. Now, we’ll make sure it gets delivered this coming Monday. All you have to do is watch for a white man coming out of that club, with this envelope in his hand.”

  “What if he don’t pick it up on Monday, boss?”

  “I told you; this is a colored place, in a colored neighborhood. A rough one, too. The guy I’m interested in, he’s a white man. So he’s not going to want to hang around. The way I have it figured, whoever he’s got working for him—inside the place, I mean—that person is going to call him as soon as the package gets delivered. And the guy I want you to watch for, he’ll be close by, ready to make his move.”

  “I don’t think this is something I could do for you, boss. I mean, I wants to do it, sure, I do. I know you pays good. But I be worried that . . . well, they’s just too many things that could go wrong. And then you be mad at me. If this was Locke City, in Darktown, I mean, I could follow any man you say. But Cleveland, I ain’t never even been there myself. How I gonna chase after a man, I don’t even know the streets?”

  “I was counting on you, Rufus.”

  “That’s just it, boss. I wants you to count on me. I got a good reputation with you, don’t I? You ask Rufus to do something, it gets done. For a long time now, ain’t that true? Well, this time, something go wrong, now Rufus ain’t so reliable anymore, see? I can’t have that, boss. Now, you got a slick plan, find out who’s going to pick up your package. I know you a big man. You could probably make one little phone call, get a dozen good men to watch that place, if you wanted.”

  Dioguardi leaned back in his seat, staring at nothing.

  Rufus waited, silently.

  “You make good sense, Rufus,” Dioguardi said, grudgingly. “You’re right. I’ll have it taken care of.”

  “Thank you, boss. You said there was two things. . . .”

  “Yeah. And the other one, it’s right up your alley. All I want you to do is tell me if Walker Dett leaves town.”

  “I gonna do that anyway, boss. I watching that man like a hawk for you.”

  “You understand, I don’t just mean if he checks out, right? If he leaves town at all, even if he comes back. You can tell if he spent the night at the hotel, right?”

  “Yes, sir. Easiest thing in the—”

  “It’s a long drive to Cleveland,” Dioguardi said. “But it could be done in a day, easy. You watch him close, hear?”

  * * *

  1959 October 07 Wednesday 20:17

  * * *

  “How come you won’t be needing that shack you asked me about before?” Beaumont asked.

  “I changed the plan,” Dett told him. “After I sapped that one punk, and that didn’t work, I took out two of his other men. That got him on the phone. I offered him a bunch of options, but, bottom line, either he was going to pay, or more of his men were going to die.”

  “You shook down Sal Dioguardi?” Beaumont said, grinning. “A one-man protection racket, huh?”

  “He couldn’t know how many people were involved,” Dett said. “All he knew was a voice on the phone.”

  “How did he even know you were the same one who—?”

  “I mailed him that souvenir. From the first one.”

  “So what was the shack supposed to be for?”

  “I figured he’d make some deal, say he had work for me. He’d know I wouldn’t come into his place, so he’d promise to meet me wherever I said. That’s why I wanted it local, so he’d think it was someone from around here. Like I said, he couldn’t know how many people were involved at my end. So he’d send a whole bunch of his best men to storm the shack.”

  “And then?”

  Dett gestured pushing a plunger with both hands. “Boom,” he said.

  “Christ,” Beaumont said, exchanging a quick glance with Cynthia. “What kind of ‘strategy’ is that?”

  “The kind that would make him deal with me the next time he heard my voice on the phone.”

  “I guess it damn well would. But . . . why do you think he paid you off, instead?”

  “I don’t know,” Dett admitted. “It wasn’t what I expected. Probably he thinks he’s going to snatch me when I go to pick up the money.”

  “But there’s no chance of that?”

  “None.”

  “Maybe he’s doing just what Shalare promised he would,” Cynthia said. “Backing off.”

  “Maybe,” Beaumont said, musing. “But maybe he’s got something else he’s thinking about.”


  “I don’t think he runs that tight an operation,” Dett said. “I could just hit him, be done with it.”

  “That’s just it,” Beaumont told him. “I don’t think that would put an end to anything. When I first sent for you, I thought Dioguardi was our problem. And he still is a problem, unless, like Cynthia says, he moves off, like we’ve been promised.”

  “By Shalare,” Dett said, quietly.

  “Yeah,” Beaumont agreed. “So now it’s Shalare that’s the problem. I . . . think. It’s like we’re watching a puppet theater. All we can see is the puppets; we can’t see who’s pulling their strings.”

  “What do you want?” Dett said.

  “Huh? You know what we want. The reason we brought you in here—”

  “You thought there was going to be a war,” Dett interrupted. “Now you’re not sure. If you can’t say what you want, I can’t get it done.”

  “I’m paying you—”

  “—to do something. Or get something done. That’s what I do. Then I move along. No trouble for you; no trouble for me. I’m not looking for a salary.”

  Beaumont sipped at his drink. Cynthia got up and stirred the logs in the fireplace. Luther watched from the corner.

  Dett lit a cigarette. He took a deep drag, then looked pointedly at the cigarette, as if to say the fuse was burning down on his patience.

  “You’re supposed to be a master planner,” Beaumont broke the silence. “So plan me this: how can we get Ernest Hoffman to back us?”

  “Who’s Ernest Hoffman?”

  “Ernest Hoffman is the most powerful man in the whole state. I’ve been studying him for years. Probably know more about him than he knows about himself.”

  “Tell me,” Dett said, settling back in his chair.

  * * *

  1959 October 07 Wednesday 21:54

  * * *

  “Where Preacher at? We supposed to go, man!”

  “How many times I gotta say it?” a round-faced youth with a shaven skull said. “Preacher gonna meet us at the corner. He say he got a surprise for those motherfucking Hawks. One they never gonna forget.”

  “It don’t seem right, Buddha,” another youth protested.

  “You see this?” the round-faced youth said, getting to his feet, and pointing to an embroidered orange thunderbolt on the sleeve of his long black coat. “This says I’m the Warlord of the South Side Kings. Preacher called this meet, but I’m the one who set it up. And you know what? Me, I’m going down on the Golden Hawks if I got to do it by my motherfucking self.”

  Buddha opened his coat, to display a heavy chain draped through his belt. From his pocket, he took a switchblade. As the others watched, he thumbed it into life.

  “South Side! South Side Kings!” he chanted.

  “South Side, do or die!” another youth picked up the cry.

  “Walk with me,” Buddha commanded.

  * * *

  1959 October 07 Wednesday 21:56

  * * *

  “After tonight, everything changes,” Ace said. He held the pistol aloft, like a torch. “And this, this is what changes it.”

  “What about the Gladiators?” Larry said, tapping a length of lead pipe into his open palm.

  “We don’t need them,” Ace said, quietly. “But I hope they show. I want them all to see this.”

  Hog took a final swig of blackberry wine, tossed the empty bottle onto the ratty couch, and stood up. “Hawks!” he shouted to the waiting gang. “Mighty, mighty Hawks! Tonight’s our night. Pick up your weapons, men. Time to roll.”

  * * *

  1959 October 07 Wednesday 22:03

  * * *

  “They’re moving,” Sunglasses said to Lacy. “Looks like . . . maybe twenty men. More than we thought.”

  “Cut across Davenport, so we can come in from the side,” Lacy told the driver, from the back seat. “We’re not driving through nigger territory. Not tonight.”

  * * *

  1959 October 07 Wednesday 22:05

  * * *

  A battered silver truck with RELIABLE MOVERS stenciled in black letters on its sides slowed to a stop underneath a streetlight whose bulb had been shattered earlier that same evening. Inside the back of the truck, Rufus spoke urgently to Preacher.

  “We got a ramp all ready, walk you down nice and easy. Four men going to go with you, right up to the lot, just to make sure you get there all right. But then it’s all you, young brother. Be the boss!”

  “I’m ready,” Preacher said, grim-voiced.

  “After tonight, nobody be calling you Preacher no more,” Rufus said. “You going to be the Magic Man. And people, they going to follow you, son. Understand?”

  “Yes, sir!”

  “All right. Now, remember what we went over. You just stay there when it’s done. Don’t even try and get up. Everyone else’s going to be running away, but we going to be running at you, get that stuff off, and bring you with us, just like we planned.”

  “It’s hotter than a damn oven in all this,” Preacher said, sweat pouring down his face and into his voice.

  * * *

  1959 October 07 Wednesday 22:10

  * * *

  “Spread out!” Hog ordered the bunched-up Hawks. “Corner to corner. Don’t let any of them past the line, no matter what. Long as we keep them in front of us, we got control, no matter how many of them there are.”

  “Here they come!” the acne-scarred boy hissed.

  The Hawks moved to meet their enemies, shuffling forward in a ragged line. Some carried sawed-down baseball bats. Others had lengths of lead pipe, bicycle chains, tire irons, car antennas. One brandished a glass whip—a length of rope coated in white glue, rolled in broken glass, and allowed to harden. Two held zip guns. Every youth had a knife of some kind, from cane-cutters to switchblades.

  * * *

  1959 October 07 Wednesday 22:11

  * * *

  “There’s Preacher!” one of the Kings yelled.

  “Fuck, he walking slow,” another said. “You think he hurt?”

  “No, man. Remember what Buddha told us?”

  “Behind me,” Preacher called out, as he joined the Kings and merged with the night.

  * * *

  1959 October 07 Wednesday 22:12

  * * *

  “He’s doing it,” Darryl said, quietly. “Boy got himself a ton of heart.”

  “Ton of trust, too,” Rufus said. “And he brought it to the right people.”

  * * *

  1959 October 07 Wednesday 22:14

  * * *

  The gangs closed the ground between them, moving in a silence so deep it vibrated, their wine-and-reefer courage already starting to fade.

  “Rush!” shouted Hog, breaking into a run.

  The Kings immediately fell back a few paces, creating an arrow formation, with Preacher at its apex. As the Hawks charged in, one of the Kings screamed “Ahhhhh!” and leaped ahead of Preacher, swinging a chain over his head like a mace.

  In seconds, the vacant lot was a swirling vortex of violence, punctuated by the sounds of blunt objects against flesh, screams when knife blades found homes, the popping of zip guns.

  Ace and Preacher stood apart, in the center of the chaos, seeing only each other.

  Ace pulled his pistol.

  Preacher walked directly toward him, hands in his pockets, moving stiffly.

  “Die, nigger!” Ace screamed.

  Preacher kept coming.

  Ace leveled his pistol and fired.

  Preacher dropped. His black-coated body disappeared into the deeper darkness of the ground.

  Ace stood frozen, his hand locked to the salvation-promising pistol. His mouth opened like a hinge. A shock wave hit his stomach. He closed his eyes and fired again.

  “They got cannons!” one of the Kings shouted.

  Sirens ripped the night. Closing fast.

  “Rollers!” someone screamed.

  Like contestants hearing a referee’s whistle, both gangs immed
iately started back the way they had come, dragging off their wounded.

  Ace was rooted in place. He tried to sight down the barrel of his pistol, but his hands were in spasm. Suddenly, Buddha loomed out of the blackness, arms spread wide as if embracing whatever was to come. He dived to the ground, flinging his body over Preacher. Startled, Ace turned and ran, firing randomly over his shoulder. I was the last to go! blazed through his mind. They all saw it.

  From the far side of the lot, Rufus, Darryl, Kendall, and Garfield raced toward where they had seen Preacher go down.

  Buddha saw them coming, struggled to his feet. “Come on, motherfuckers!” he shrieked his war cry, standing over the body of his fallen leader, twirling his chain in one hand. “I got something for all of you!”

  “Back up, fool!” Rufus snarled at him as they closed in. “We look like white boys to you?”

  Buddha staggered backward. He watched in stunned amazement as the four men skillfully turned Preacher over on his stomach. Garfield used an industrial shears to cut Preacher’s long black coat off, then quickly unbuckled a series of straps. The other men gripped together and pulled in unison, rolling Preacher out of his wrappings.

  “You all right, son?” Rufus said, bending down.

  “Got my . . . rib, I think,” the young man gasped. “Like I was hit with a sledgehammer.”

  “Let me see,” Darryl said. He felt with his fingers. “There?”

  “Yeah!” Preacher grunted in pain.

  “Never got in,” Darryl said, triumphantly. “You got to walk a little now, brother. Going to hurt, but you can do it.” He draped Preacher’s arm over his neck, helped the young man to his feet.

  “What about . . . ?” Garfield said, gesturing in Buddha’s direction with the shears. The round-faced youth hadn’t moved.