Flanagan's Run

by Tom McNab

  “Am I glad to see you,” said Willard Clay, shaking his head as he walked towards his employer.

  “What’s the problem now?” said Flanagan, contentedly looking around the busy camp-site.

  Willard pointed back to the trucks. “We stopped the road crew at a diner ten miles back for a couple of hours this morning. When we got out half the tents had been slashed clean through. We’ve lost billeting for over two hundred guys.”

  Flanagan threw his Panama hat to the ground. He looked up at the sky and raised both hands, palms up, imploringly.

  “Why me? Why me, Lord? What have I done?” he groaned.

  Willard waited for his employer to subside before he continued.

  “Sure as hell wasn’t an inside job – every one of our crew was in the diner with me. But it could have been anybody who stopped outside – trucks were rolling in and out of the car park all the time. It could’ve been anybody,” Willard repeated disconsolately, placing his hands on his hips and looking round him. “Anyhow, where do we go from here, boss?”

  Flanagan bared his teeth in a humourless, wolfish grin.

  “Fill me in. Just how long have we got?”

  “Five hours before the first runners get here,” replied Willard. “Two hours, maybe three on top of that, before they need to bed down for the night.”

  “Could they sleep out?”

  “Too cold,” said Willard, shaking his head.

  The two men walked back slowly to the Trans-America caravan. Once inside Willard made immediately for the drinks cabinet.

  “Whiskey, boss?”

  Flanagan nodded, then flopped down on the couch. Willard turned on the radio, flicking through the stations through Rudy Vallee and Amos ’n Andy to the local station. “Gospel Hour,” intoned the announcer. “Today we have a song specially written for those doing God’s bidding as sportsmen or athletes. It is specially dedicated to the brave men of the Trans-America road-race, now just west of Agate, Colorado, and has been written by America’s leading evangelist, Alice Craig McAllister. It is called ‘The Song of the Road’, and is now sung by pastor Jeremiah Broome, accompanied by Miss Sarah Cotton.”

  The strong Georgian voice of Pastor Broome filled the caravan.

  Runner, why do you run,

  Runner, why do you run,

  Is it the pain, is it the gain,

  Runner, why do you run?

  Runner, why do you race,

  Endlessly raising the pace,

  Is it for wealth,

  Or for yourself,

  Runner, why do you race?

  Flanagan leant back in his couch and shut his eyes.

  Runner, why do you run,

  Set on your way by the gun,

  Is it for gold,

  What can you hold,

  Runner, why do you run?

  Willard shook his head and moved to switch off the radio, but Flanagan checked him, and instead turned up the volume, smiling.

  The singer’s voice rose and gained strength as he delivered the final verse.

  Runner, what do you find,

  There at the end of your mind,

  Is it the prize,

  Is it all lies,

  Runner, what do you find?

  “And now,” continued the announcer, “a few words from Miss Alice Craig McAllister herself.” There was the buzz and crackle of static, but Flanagan’s eyes were now open wide and he was listening intently.

  Alice Craig McAllister’s voice came through strong and clear. “I don’t suppose you can hear me, you Trans-Americans out there on the road to Agate, but let me say this,” said the evangelist. “As far as we know our Lord Jesus Christ never competed in track and field athletics, but in my book He was the all-time world’s champion. So be certain that He would understand what you Trans-Americans are doing today out on that dry and dusty road. For do you know what each of you is doing? He is digging deep into his heart, deep into his soul, every foot of the way across our beloved United States of America. And don’t you know that Jesus Christ wants every man to realize his abilities, his potential? In doing that you glorify not only yourself, you also glorify Him and serve His Almighty will. So be sure, every one of you, Jesus loves you and the Lord Jesus is watching over you, every step of the way across our dear United States.

  “You may recall that in my last broadcast I spoke to you about that old enemy, temptation, that same temptation that our dear Lord faced in forty days and nights in the desert without drink and without vittles. And that’s what each of you faces, every step of the way, that old man temptation, saying ‘Stop, it don’t matter whether you run or walk, nobody’s a-going to care.’ And every time a runner keeps right on a-going he does exactly what our dear Lord did, all those two thousand years ago back in the desert.

  “Do you know what hell is, ladies and gentlemen? Well, I’ll tell you what hell is. Hell is life without dreams. And every Trans-American on the road to New York is living his dream every long and painful step of the way.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, are we not all athletes, striding along the road of life? But can we look into our hearts and truly say, like these Trans-Americans, that we have given all we have in the daily race? Look into your hearts, look into your souls, and ask yourself that question. That is my message to you all today. God bless you all!”

  Flanagan turned off the radio. “Alice,” he whispered. “Little ol’ Alice, right here in Colorado.”

  “Wow,” said Willard. “That Miss McAllister sure can lay it out sweet and hot. Most Bible-thumpers give me haemorrhoids in the ears.”

  Flanagan was suddenly alive again, pacing up and down the caravan.

  “Forget about your piles, Willard,” he said. “Where did that broadcast come from?”

  “No idea,” said Willard, bemused. “Somewhere hereabouts. Maybe Denver, maybe Burlington.”

  “Find out, goddamit. And then get me Miss McAllister on the telephone. The Lord helps those who help themselves. And I plan to do just that.” Flanagan sat back as his assistant went to work. He shut his eyes, his lips moving soundlessly. The next few hours might provide the best possible evidence of the power of prayer.

  Three hours later the first of the Colorado farmers arrived. They stood silently in front of the Trans-America caravan, their lean, stubbled faces lined with years of labour, their jeans dusty and thin. About twenty of them had assembled when a truck drew up behind them and a lanky, white-haired old man descended.

  “You Mr Flanagan?” asked the newcomer, pushing his way through the crowd and walking to the door of the Trans-America.

  Flanagan nodded, tilting his Tom Mix sombrero as he stood between Dixie and Willard.

  “We got word you was in a peck of trouble,” said the old man, chewing on a straw, unblinking.

  “Miss McAllister called you?” said Flanagan.

  “She sure did. Miss McAllister called all of her people west of Burlington.” He turned to the farmers assembled behind him. “We got barns enough for nigh on five hundred men five miles east of here. We got vittles and we got clean running water. So you get your boys to these farms. Writ down here.” He took out a rumpled piece of paper and handed it to Flanagan. “Our people’ll have things fixed up clean and proper by six o’clock.”

  “Je – ” Flanagan froze the word on his lips. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “No need to say nothing,” said the man, taking the straw from his mouth and spitting on the ground in front of him. “We saw some moving pictures of your boys in Burlington a week back in the movie house. They was running through the Rockies, and they looked real tuckered out. I reckon if the Almighty got your men all the way through them Rockies, He sure as Juniper didn’t intend it that they stop out here on the Plains.”

  The farmers walked back to their trucks, leaving Willard shaking his head. “Boss, I don’t know how you manage it. I really don’t.”

  Flanagan grinned. “Willard,” he said, “God moves in mysterious ways.”

  17<
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  The Gamble

  The Trans-America was holding together. Perhaps only by a strip of plaster, but it was holding. In the space of twenty-four hours Flanagan had regained Burlington, Colorado, and brought Alice Craig McAllister to the rescue of his stricken camp. But he could not rely on an unholy alliance of the FBI and the Almighty all the way to New York. And as he faced the staff of De Luxe Catering, crammed into the small, sticky conference room of the Capital Hotel in Hays, Kansas, the clock above striking twelve, it looked like the end of the line.

  The staff’s position was desperate. Poliakoff had not paid them for a fortnight and had now served them notice to return immediately to their Kansas City base. Had it been possible for a room to sweat then the committee room would have done so as thirty angry De Luxe employees babbled and argued with each other in half a dozen different languages. It was an ugly situation. Flanagan beckoned to a white-jacketed waiter who squeezed through the crowd towards him. “Whiskey all round,” he said. He pulled on the waiter’s sleeve. “Best make it doubles.”

  Before the waiter had turned towards the door a burly man with a red beard at the front of the crowd had stood up. It was McGregor, the head cook, and he was vigorously shaking his head.

  “Bide a wee, Flanagan,” he said. He turned to the men behind him. “Now you lads know I like a dram as well as the next man, but I want a clear head to look at this problem.” He scratched his shock of flaming red hair and put his hands on his hips.

  “Here’s the way I see it,” he said, pointing a finger at Flanagan. “We’ve had no pay for two weeks. No blame on you, Flanagan – that’s the Polack’s fault. But he wants us back in Kansas City in a hurry. The way I see it Poliakoff’s the piper, and he plays the tune.”

  “So you’re going to pull out?” Flanagan said, head down.

  McGregor spread his hands. “I don’t see there’s much else we can do, Flanagan. Look at it from our point of view. We’ve all got wives and families. If Poliakoff shows us the door we’re on the breadline, and that’s the plain truth of it.”

  Flanagan looked at the tense, anxious faces in front of him. “Is that how you all feel?”

  The plump French cook, Lemaitre, stood up, sweating profusely in the heat of the room.

  “Mr Flanagan, France has several runners in this race – Bouin, Dasriaux, men like them. Me, I want to see them reach New York. But you must understand our position. Mr Poliakoff, he is our employer. Before the Trans-America I was three months in the soup kitchens. If it is a choice between the Trans-America and – how you say? – the can . . .” He spread his hands and shrugged.

  The little New York-Irish pastry cook, O’Rourke, took over. “Flanagan,” he said. “There can’t be a man here that hasn’t made good friends among your runners.” There was a rumble of agreement. “They’re the salt of the earth – there ain’t much we wouldn’t do for them. But you got to see it our way. Here we are, no pay for weeks, and we’ll be back on the streets if we stay with you. You got no way of knowing if the towns ahead are going to ante up; a coupla hundred miles from now we could end up on our butts somewhere in Nebraska with no job, no money, no nothing.”

  A small group of runners had slipped in quietly at the back of the room while O’Rourke was talking, and now it edged towards the table at which Flanagan stood.

  Meanwhile McGregor stood up again, stilling the noisy hubbub with his hands. “Let’s have some quiet, lads, and hear what Mr Flanagan has to say for himself,” he said.

  Flanagan mopped his brow. “I’ll give it to you straight, boys,” he said. “We’re up shit creek without a paddle. Someone – I can’t say who – is leaning on us heavy from upstairs – someone who wants the Trans-America to fall on its butt. That’s the real reason why Poliakoff is pulling you all out. And I can tell you we’ve got some pretty fancy enemies.”

  He picked up a sheet of paper. “I have food supplies guaranteed all the way to New York. But they’re no good to me without skilled catering staff like you, men capable of working under tough camp conditions the way you guys have done so far. No, you pull out now, and the Trans-America ends right here, in Hays, Kansas.”

  O’Rourke stood up again. “You say some Mr Big is leaning on you? Then I say to hell to him! I say we stay on!”

  McGregor shook his head vigorously. “No, Sean, that just won’t do. I know how you feel. But we’ve got to use our heads here, not our hearts. We’ve got our kin to think of. We’ve got no choice, man.”

  “Gentlemen, I think you have.”

  It was Doc Cole, speaking from the middle of the packed room, where he stood with Morgan, Kate, Eskola, Martinez and McPhail.

  “My apologies, Flanagan,” he said. “I know I’ve got no real business here. But if the Trans-America folds we all go bust.”

  McGregor flushed and made to speak, but stopped himself. Doc Cole moved up to the front of the room, followed by Morgan and McPhail. Within seconds he was at the desk, looking like a sun-blackened gnome, waiting for silence, sensing the mixture of uncertainty and hostility of the men below him.

  “Do you fellas know what odds the smart money is giving against the Trans-America reaching New York?” he asked. “Have any of you the slightest idea?”

  There was no reply from the now silent staff.

  “Two to one? No. Three to one?” He shook his head. “Wrong again. I’ll tell you, gentlemen.” Doc’s voice rose to a shout. “Anything up to ten to one against! Ten to one!”

  Doc placed both palms flat on the table in front of him and leant on them, weighing every word. His voice dropped.

  “Now, my friends, those sort of odds don’t get laid if the information on which it’s based doesn’t come from the very best sources. So it looks as if the smart money is against us, and they know something that we don’t.”

  “So what, Doc?” bellowed a voice from the back of the room.

  “I’ll tell you so what,” Doc shouted back. “We runners came here from all over the world. We gambled, we all sure as hell gambled. Some guys sold up all they had just to get here. Most of those guys never made it beyond the Mojave. But they tried – you all saw them. And, as I said, they gambled. Now I’ll give you guys your chance to gamble. Ten to one against us making New York: those are sweet odds. So pull out, all of you, pull out now and announce it to the press today.”

  Flanagan’s face dropped, and he slumped back into his chair.

  McGregor stood up, shaking his head. “Let me get this clear, Doc. You’re telling us to pull out. Where does that leave you?”

  “Still in the ball park, ready to hit a homer,” said Doc, grinning. “An hour after you announce you boys are pulling out, the odds will go up to twenty to one, perhaps even more. And that’s when we lay five grand on the nose on our making it to New York. When the money’s safely on, you guys have a change of heart and stay with the race.”

  “Five grand? Whose five grand?” asked McGregor, his voice no longer hiding his suspicion.

  “Ours,” said Doc firmly, taking a thin bundle of notes from his back pocket and laying it on the table. “My team have picked up five grand so far in stage prizes. We’re willing to give it to you boys to bet on the Trans-America. If we make New York that might be sixty grand, and that means over two G’s apiece for each one of you. With that sort of money you can each buy your own hamburger joint.”

  McGregor stroked his red beard. “No saying you’re not a cool customer, Doc,” he said finally. “I’ve seen a few stunts in my life, but this one fair beats the band. But are you sure them boys in New York are going to buy it?”

  Eskola stood up and slowly looked around the rest of the men.

  “It could just work,” he said. “It is true, the moment the press hear that you men say that you will withdraw then the odds must rise. It is a gamble; but the rewards are high.”

  Flanagan sensed the change in climate and seized the initiative. “High?” he said, pulling a gold watch from his wrist and a diamond ring from his finger a
nd putting them both on the table in front of him. “These must be worth at least another two grand. Here,” he said, pulling off his diamond cuff-links. “There’s another five hundred dollars in the pot. Take it all.”

  “What about your mink jock-strap, Flanagan?” came a voice from the middle of the group.

  “Must protect the family jewels,” said Flanagan, loosening his tie. “Gentlemen, what do you say?”

  McGregor looked around him, again stroking his beard.

  “You men are laying a lot on the line,” he said. “But it’s real fancy pickings in New York.”

  “Nearly four grand apiece for every one of you now if we make it,” hissed Flanagan. “Four grand each. Just think of it.”

  McGregor again looked at the men nodding around him.

  “Done,” he said, putting out his hand. “Done, and God help us all.”

  Twelve hours and close on eighty telephone calls later, Charles Flanagan was, despite his success of the morning, totally drained. True, Poliakoff had been cut off at the pass, but the road to New York was still beset with troubles. Sometimes, in a weak moment, he wondered if he had not taken on too much, and it was then that he felt the sick lump of uncertainty in his throat, the acid taste in his mouth. He felt it now.

  He plodded wearily up the thick-carpeted stairs of the Capitol Hotel, towards the blissful anonymity of Room 209. The key turned easily in the lock, and he opened the door, turned to close it behind him, and switched on the light.

  “Evening, Flanagan,” said a soft, husky voice behind him. He turned round to face the bed.

  It was Alice Craig McAllister. She lay in his bed under the crisp white sheet, the outline of her trim little body just visible beneath it. She held the top of the sheet demurely over her breasts and reached out a delicately-manicured right hand towards him.