by Tim Dorsey
Sam was a loud one.
“Oh yes! Oh no! Oh yes! Oh no!…”
“I like you, too,” said Serge.
Sam reached up and grabbed him by the hair on the back of his head. “Oh my God! What are you thinking about? Tell me now!”
“The blooming of the tulips on Park Avenue, those little lamps in the New York Public Library, the lighting of the tree at Rockefeller Center, the playful audacity of the Guggenheim, the Babe, the Mic, Earl ‘the Pearl,’ Yoko, Prometheus…”
“Faster! Faster!”
Serge talked faster: “…The new Times Square, the Stork Club, the old Times Square, the Sunday Times, Black Tuesday, Blue Man Group, the ‘21’ Club, the ’69 Mets, Breakfast at Tiffany’s, corned beef on rye, My Dinner with André, Restaurant Row, King Kong, Queen Latifah, Jack Lemmon, the Statue of Liberty, Son of Sam, the Sharks and the Jets, the Flatiron, ‘Ford to City,’ Do the Right Thing, ‘Don’t block the box’…”
“Oh my God!…”
“Here it comes,” Dick Clark said on TV.
The ball began dropping outside, just over Serge’s bouncing derrière, the mob down on the street counting down. “…Ten, nine, eight…” Teresa leaned over to Paige as they watched the ball from the street. “Those two sure are going to be disappointed they missed this.”
“…Three, two, one…!”
“I’m there!” screamed Sam, back arched and quivering.
Serge raised up and exploded: “I did it my way!”
“Happy New Year!” said Dick Clark.
33
The first day of the new year in Manhattan.
Everyone hungover.
New York slowed to a crawl. The steam trays of oriental food in the corner convenience stores went untouched. Nothing selling except aspirin and stomach remedies. Others swore by ginseng. They sat on benches, trying to conserve movement, walking only when they had to, shuffling slowly through Times Square with the street sweepers.
Serge and Sam stepped over two people on the sidewalk in front of McHale’s Café and continued up Forty-sixth to the Edison Hotel. They walked into the 1930s lobby, deco murals wrapping around the tops of the walls, Rockettes, Twentieth Century Limited, Bronx Bombers, Cotton Club.
“They said they’d meet us in the restaurant after they checked out of their rooms,” said Sam. “Café Edison.”
“I know the place well,” said Serge. “Affectionately nicknamed the Polish Tearoom, a simple yet culturally rich coffee shop for Broadway people in the know. Neil Simon’s setting a play…Hey, there they are.”
Four women waved from a table up front. Serge and Sam walked over. A waiter arrived with pancakes and eggs.
“Where did you two disappear to last night?” Teresa asked with a grin. They were all grinning.
“Knock it off,” said Sam.
“We were beginning to worry you might not make it back in time for the train.”
“Never a problem,” said Serge. “I was keeping track of time.”
“I thought you didn’t want him along,” said Paige.
“Yeah,” added Rebecca. “We really don’t know anything about him.”
“Don’t think I won’t hit you,” said Sam.
They poured syrup and sipped tomato juice.
“I’m impressed,” said Serge. “You picked The Table.”
“What table?” asked Teresa.
Serge looked around the group. “You don’t know?”
They shook their heads.
“This is the table where Al Pacino shot those two guys in The Godfather. Remember when they taped the gun behind the toilet tank?”
“No way!” said Maria.
“Way!” said Serge. “Ask anyone.” He waved at the waiter. “Didn’t Pacino shoot those guys right here?” The waiter nodded.
The next thing the women knew, Serge was clutching an imaginary bullet wound in his neck with one hand, grabbing the tablecloth with the other, falling to the floor with all the dishes.
They were quiet for a time as they stood on the curb with their luggage, waiting for cabs.
“I’ve never been kicked out of a place before,” said Teresa. “Taxi!”
Half the group got in the first one that stopped and headed for Penn Station. Serge flagged down a second and the rest got in. “Follow that cab! I’ve always wanted to say that.”
The two taxis quickly covered the dozen blocks to Thirty-fourth.
“Here we are!” said Serge, helping the women out. The book club rolled luggage inside the building.
“You should have seen the original station, the historic one—they tore it down in 1963,” said Serge, hand over his heart. “But there’s a little silver lining. It produced a preservationist outcry. It’s been said that Penn Station had to die so that Grand Central could live.”
Their luggage wheels squeaked on the concourse. Serge rolled an overnight case and carried a box in his other arm.
“What have you got there?” asked Maria.
“This?” said Serge. “My trains.”
“Your what?”
Serge stopped and opened the box.
“See? There’s the engine, The City of Miami. They didn’t actually have a model one, so I had to buy a Union Pacific and repaint it by hand. Took hours. And this is the Rambler. I’m really proud of that one. Built it from scratch, balsa wood and dowels and Dremel tools. Got the plans from historic collections in the Palm Beach Library. As long as you know the gauge conversion, which happens to be three-point-five millimeters to the foot, the rest is easy. These silver babies are the train we’re walking toward. And you’ve got a hopper over here, a tanker, an old caboose, and a logging car that really tips sideways to dump its load. See the plastic logs?”
“When did you first get interested in trains?” asked Rebecca.
“Watching Captain Kangaroo. My favorite part of the show was a commercial. They had a train set on the soundstage, and the steam engine would come puffing out of a mountain, past Mr. Moose and Green Jeans and Bunny Rabbit, and stop and pour out a load of Rice Krispies from one of the cars.”
“Those models are all quite nice,” said Teresa. “But why bring them? Isn’t actually riding on a real train enough?”
“No.”
They resumed rolling luggage.
“They’re going to build a new one,” said Serge.
“New what?” asked Teresa.
“Penn Station. It’s supposed to be an unbelievable piece of modern architecture—I’ve seen the models, and I can hardly wait! I saw the president’s speech on C-SPAN during the dedication and took notes and committed it to memory: ‘Whether you are a wealthy industrialist or just a person with a few dollars to your name, you can feel ennobled, as people did, in the old glass-and-steel cathedral that was Penn Station. People without tickets could come in the afternoon just to dream about what it would be like to get on the train.’”
The women noticed Serge wasn’t walking with them anymore and looked back. Serge held up a hand as he composed himself. “I’ll be okay.”
Public announcements echoed through the station. Waves of people poured in from subway connectors. Overcoats and newspapers. Serge and the women continued until they got to the big train board and looked up. The letters and numbers clattered as they flipped over, updating arrivals. Three down from the top: “Miami…Silver Stingray…On Time…Track 12W.”
“This way,” said Serge. They took the escalator down to the departure platform. Ahead was a gleaming metal rocket, the pride of the Amtrak Corporation. They rolled luggage past the diesel and several silver cars until they came to the steps of their sleeper. The women climbed aboard; Serge stood in the doorway passing up luggage.
The BBB found their sleeping compartments, and Serge found his. He cranked down the upper bunk, cranked it up, flipped the sink open from the wall, flipped it back up, then down again just to be sure, flushed the toilet, hit the button for porter assistance, changed channels on the flat-screen TV, angled the vents up and do
wn, left and right, adjusted the thermostat, cycled the reading and wall lights, turned on the radio, climbed into the overhead luggage compartment, let himself down, and finally clipped all his spy travel bags to the various handrails with spring-action mountain-climber D rings.
The porter showed up in the doorway. He had never seen a fully activated sleeping cabin before, TV and radio, lights, air, sink, toilet, Serge giving the upper bunk another quick up-and-down on the pulleys.
“Is everything okay?”
“Fine,” said Serge. “Just a shakedown cruise.”
“You hit the porter button?”
“It was a test. I’m happy to report your response time is excellent.” Serge tucked a five in the porter’s shirt pocket, then began unloading his box of trains on the floor. “That will be all.”
When the porter was out of sight, Serge reached in his overnight bag and removed an egglike metal object wrapped in orange silk. “My ace in the hole.” He stuffed the grenade in another cool storage nook.
More people headed for Track 12W. Tanner Lebos smiled and spread his arms wide when he spotted his old friend coming down the escalators.
“If it isn’t that good-for-nothing Ralph Krunkleton!”
“Tan!” yelled Ralph. “There you are!”
They met in the middle of the platform and hugged and headed for The Silver Stingray.
“How you been?” asked Tanner.
“Never better.”
“How’d the book signing go in Miami?”
“Raided by police.”
“That’s just Florida,” said Tanner. “Some people exchanged fire at a Tom Clancy deal last month.”
Out on Thirty-fourth, more cabs arrived. A woman in a floral dress got out, followed by a bunch of guys in blue velvet tuxedos. They stopped and looked up at the train station in befuddlement. The Pickpocket Comedian scratched his head. “But I thought you said we were going to play—”
“I know what I said!” snapped Spider. “There’s been a big fuck-up, and I’m going to get to the bottom of it! C’mon!”
The BBB finished squirreling away possessions in their sleepers and headed out. They moved single file up the narrow aisle, hitting the automatic button that opened the door at the front of the car, passing through the connecting chamber, hitting another button, into the dining car. They grabbed a table and called the waiter. “What do you drink on a train?” asked Teresa.
“I don’t know,” said Sam. “A blue caboose?”
“What’s that?”
“Whiskey and Irish Cream and something else, I think.”
“Amaretto,” said the waiter.
“Five blue cabooses,” said Teresa.
“Don’t look now,” Rebecca whispered, “but I think that’s Ralph Krunkleton.”
“That’s him, all right,” said Maria.
“Doesn’t look like the book photo,” said Teresa.
“That was eleven years ago.”
“He’s shorter than I thought.”
“I’m going to get his autograph,” said Maria.
“It’s too soon,” said Sam. “Let him settle in. Don’t embarrass us.”
Ralph was joking around with his agent when a bunch of people climbed aboard. Tanner made the introductions. “Ralph, this is Preston Lancaster, also known as the Great Mez-mo, and Andy Francesco—you might have seen his stuff on Showtime—and Xorack the Mentalist…”
“Xolack.”
“Sorry, Xolack the Mentalist, I can never keep that straight, and Spider—he juggles, quite good, too—and Dee Dee Lowenstein as Carmen Miranda.” Tanner pointed at Bob Kowolski. “Of course you know Steppenwolf.”
Ralph shook hands and smiled, wondering what he had gotten himself into. Tanner had told him he’d branched into live entertainment, but it didn’t quite prepare him.
A new person with stringy long brown hair walked up. Tanner put his arm around the man’s shoulders. “I have a surprise for you. Meet the newest member of your troupe, the drummer for——.”
Spider pointed at Steppenwolf. “We already got a musical act.”
“I’ve decided to have them perform together as a super group.”
Tanner turned to Ralph. “You’re gonna get a chuckle out of this.” He began pulling books from an overnight bag. “I found these when I went digging for bio material. They’re your old novels. The jacket photos are a scream! Here’s B Is for Bongo. Note the goatee and the fashionable suicidal look. And here’s Bad Trip. What’s with the flowers on that shirt? You look like you played tambourine in Herman’s Hermits…. And here’s Murder at the Watergate. Ralph, is that genuine polyester?”
The laughter finally subsided, and Spider stepped forward. “Mr. Lebos, I don’t mean to sound ungrateful, but in your phone call, I thought you said we were going to play Carnegie…”
“Almost right,” said Tanner. “The Carnegie car.” He pointed up at a fancy brass sign on the bulkhead.
Preston turned to Spider. “That’s even better! Who wants to play Carnegie when you can play the Carnegie car?”
“Shut up!”
“There’s no slowing this career juggernaut now…”
“I said, shut up!”
“…Next stop, the Hollywood Bowl…public bus!”
Spider grabbed Preston’s collar, and there was a quick, wordless struggle in the aisle. A sleeve ripped.
“Break it up!” said Tanner. “We’ve got rehearsing to do.”
Bruno Litsky cleared his throat. “Uh, Mr. Lebos. I’m still not clear on precisely what it is we’re supposed to be doing.”
“I’m not an actor,” said Andy.
“I’m not even sure what a mystery train is,” said Dee Dee.
“What’s my motivation?” asked Frankie.
“All of you—relax or you’ll give yourselves heart attacks,” said Tanner. “Look at me. Who takes care of you? Huh?”
They stared at the floor and spoke in unison: “You do, Mr. Lebos.”
“That’s right!” said Tanner, holding up his briefcase. “Got your scripts right here. And the props.”
“Scripts?”
“Props?”
Tanner nodded. “Fake guns, rubber knives, play money, stuff like that. Didn’t you read Ralph’s last book? I had some copy editors convert it to a script. You’re going to perform it on the way to Florida, interact with the passengers. Do you have any idea how much money these people are paying for this? It’s an incredible opportunity. If everything works out, we might even be talking cruise ships.”
Preston nudged Spider. “The Carnegie ship.”
“I’m warning you!”
Out on the loading platform, a train conductor in black slacks headed for Track 12W. He stopped at the front of The Silver Stingray, pulled a hundred-year-old gold Elgin pocket watch from his pants and flipped it open. He snapped it closed and returned it to his pants, then fit a conductor’s hat on his head. “Alllllllll aboard!”
Serge stepped up next to him. He wore his own souvenir conductor’s hat and opened his own gold pocket watch. “Alllllll aboard!…The Silver Stingray, serving Dade City, Winter Haven, Delray Beach and Coooo-kamunnnnnnga!”
The conductor grabbed a handrail and climbed up. “I hate these fucking mystery trains.”
In a rest room on the northwest side of Penn Station, Eugene Tibbs sat on a toilet in a locked stall with his knees and a silver briefcase tucked to his chest, the same position he’d been in for the last twenty-four hours. When the public address system announced final boarding for Miami, Eugene stretched out his legs. He slowly opened the stall door, looked both ways, then ran out of the rest room and across the station. He raced down the escalator and didn’t stop until he had bounded up the steps of the train just as it started to move.
“Here come our drinks,” said Teresa. The waiter placed five blue shots on the table.
“Cheers!”
The waiter held his empty tray to his stomach and Eugene Tibbs held the briefcase to his as they turned sidew
ays and passed in the aisle. Eugene sat down at the last table in the car, his back to the wall.
Ivan and Zigzag were on day two of their stakeout at the SoHo loft. They were still on the same bench across the street, eating dollar hot dogs from a corner vendor, a pile of trash next to them, soda and coffee cups, bagel chip bags, lollipop wrappers. Growing impatience.
“We have to make a move,” said Ivan. “It’s now or never.”
“You got mustard,” said Zigzag.
Ivan touched the corner of his mouth with a paper napkin.
“Other side.”
They headed across the street and up the stairs to the loft. Ivan picked the lock. They had begun sifting through the wreckage when Ivan saw the red light blinking on the answering machine. He pressed play.
The pair sprinted north on Eighth Avenue, pushing tailors to the ground, running through racks of clothes, Ivan yanking a mink stole off his face and throwing it over his shoulder, crossing Thirty-third Street, knocking over an elegant blonde in a strapless evening gown walking a tiger on a diamond-studded leash next to the luxurious new Mercury Sable with dual-stage air bags.
“Cut! Cut!”
They reached Thirty-fourth, down the stairs into the train station, looking around frantically, tracks to the left, tracks to the right…
“There he is!” yelled Ivan, pointing at Eugene Tibbs sprinting from the rest room to the escalators on the far side of the concourse.
Zigzag and Ivan bolted across the station. The train was already moving pretty good as they vaulted down the escalator, crashing into people, scattering luggage. Ten miles an hour, twelve, fifteen, the diesel engines roaring to life. They finally caught up with the last car, running alongside it as hard as they could, yelling and slapping the corrugated metal side, twenty miles an hour, still accelerating, gradually pulling away from the two men, who broke off pursuit and bent over and grabbed their knees, out of breath. When they looked up again, The Silver Stingray was a hundred yards down the snow-covered tracks, pulling away from New York’s Pennsylvania Station for Florida, Serge waving from the back window.