by R. T. Ray
Matuszak smiled in agreement, observing the dark, nicotine-stained fingers on Farley's right hand.
“As I was saying it was about one, I went down to the first floor to get some fresh makings from my jacket pocket. I had just started to roll a cigarette when I heard a train.” With that Farley paused, allowing his mind to clarify the events of that night.
Matuszak sat quietly, making no effort to hurry the old man. This was Matthew Farley's story and he was content to let him tell it at his own pace.
“No,” Farley said, after giving the statement some thought. “Felt a train would be a better term for it. You know, like a slight trembling or vibration in the tower's flooring when a train's passing nearby,” said Farley, in response to the puzzled expression on Matuszak's face.
Matuszak nodded.
Farley continued. “Since there weren't any trains due over at the Camden Station side, and weren't no switching being done in the yard, I got kinda curious. I went to the window for a look-see, but it was too cursed foggy.”
“Didn’t you go outside?”
“No. I upped and ran back upstairs, to the tower and switched on the outside floodlights. At first, I couldn't make out anything. Like I said, it being so damn soupy. Then on the far side of the yard, that would be on the Sharp Street side, the fog sorta parted like. That's when I saw the damnedest thing this side of Hades; this pale, ghostly shadow appeared out of the mist. It weren't visible long, a few seconds at the most, and then it just disappeared, fading like some kind of a gray shadow back into the fog.”
“The Royal Blue?”
Farley gave the question some thought. “Mmmm... I can't rightly say for sure... maybe. Back then, I thought it might be, and that’s what I told all them newspaper fellers.” His brow furrowed. “Only now I kinda doubt it.”
“Why not? You yourself said you only saw it for a few seconds. What makes you think otherwise?”
“Well for one thing it was the wrong track and wrong time. Besides, the Royal Blue was due long before I went on duty. What would she be doing in the freight yard at that time? She should've been sitting over at Riverside yard, being serviced for her next run by the time my shift started.”
“Okay, if it wasn't the Royal Blue, then what's your best guess?”
Farley shrugged his shoulders. “Hard to say. Too dark and foggy to venture any kind of a guess. A queer thing though, whatever it was it was running real slow and had its headlamp switched off. Engines don't run without headlamps. But I'll tell you this, it was a engine I saw, that much I'm sure of. It weren't no ghost or phantom like them newspaper fellers claim.”
“And when no one else could confirm your sighting, they tagged you Mad Matty?”
“Yes sir, that they sure did. Naturally, old Riggins said he had been awake the whole time and hadn't seen or heard anything. Said I musta made the whole thing up. That I only wanted to get my name in the newspapers.” Farley held up three nicotine-stained fingers. “Because of Riggins’s report the railroad upped and docked me three whole days pay. Claimed I was drinking on the job.”
“I see. And in the intervening years, you never saw fit to recant or change your story?”
“No sir. Never saw no reason to.”
“Even after all you went through?”
“Especially after that,” Farley said. “Hell, I’d already been punished. Besides, it would have gone worse on me if I had backtrack on my story then.”
“And now?”
“I’m a old man, Mr. Matuszak. I've got nothing to lose or anything to gain. No reason for me to lie, not now.” Grinding the spent cigarette in the ashtray, he fingered a fresh one from the nearby pack. “Granted it may not have been your Royal Blue I saw that night, but that train weren’t no phantom. It was real iron and steam. I saw it!”
Matuszak didn’t doubt Farley’s sincerity, but there was still the nagging question of the railroad’s charge of drinking on duty to consider. “What about the drinking part?”
“I wasn't drunk that night if that’s what you mean.” A slight impish smile appeared on the old man’s lips. “That’s not to say I didn’t have a beer or two before I went to work, like most railroaders did. Not the hard stuff though. No sir, I leave that hard stuff alone. Never touched a drop of liquor in my whole life. That you’ve got to believe, Mr. Matuszak.”
“I believe you, Mr. Farley.”
“Ah you can call me Matty. Most people do.”
Matuszak nodded. “Okay Matty. Will you do me a favor?”
“Sure thing, Mr. Matuszak.”
“Could you arrange a short tour of the museum for me?” Nothing fancy. So far I’ve had nothing but a few grainy, newspaper photos to look at and I’d like to get a feeling for this ghost I’m chasing.”
Matthew Farley's expression instantly brightened. “Why, sure thing, Mr. Matuszak. Be glad to. Tell you what, pick me up first thing in the morning and I'll give you the fifty-cent tour.” He hooked a thumb in the direction of the window. “The 5300, that’s the sister engine to your missing engine, is setting on the display track outside the main entrance. Same 4-6-2 configuration as the President Cleveland.”
“Great!” Matuszak said. “What time?”
“How ‘bout nine? I’ve got a group of school kids due in at ten, but up until then I’ll be free.”
Matuszak nodded. He held little hope a museum tour would provide any useful insight in locating the missing coaches. Still, he had to do something. O. M. Bradford wanted daily updates, and with the exception of his interview with Farley, there was nothing new to report.
His thoughts went back to his youth. “Know your quarry. Know what he’s likely to do, where he’ll run, where he’ll hunker down, that’s the key for a successful hunt.” That was what his father would often say as they set about preparing for their annual trek into the mountains of Western Maryland in search of a trophy deer.
Perhaps he could apply those same principles here. If nothing else, a tour of the train museum would provide him with an understanding of this elusive ghost he was pursuing. He rose. His interview with Matthew Farley complete, he took his leave and returned to the street.
On the sidewalk, his attention was drawn to the crowd gathered near the Escort. In its center stood a plump, fishwife of a woman, dressed in a sleeveless, lime green, polyester dress, a small child held fast by one of her bloated arms. With her oily, uncombed hair, missing teeth and hard, unkempt appearance, she seemed much older than her twenty-odd years. She swaggered to the center of the sidewalk. There, urged on by the crowd, she engaged in a drunken shouting match with a woman on the opposite side of the street.
“Slut?” A coarse, vulgar laugh rose from deep inside her. “Well, he didn't think so last night,” she boasted.
His way blocked, and not wanting to pass between the verbal combatants, Matuszak skirted the rear of the group.
The barrage continued. “Yeah, keep that so-called stud on your side of the street and I won't have to-”
Suddenly aware of Matuszak's presence, the second woman stopped. Matuszak felt her stare, just as he felt the other prying eyes watching from the shadows. This was their turf and he was an interloper. He had felt their stares the moment he left Farley's apartment building. Police, social worker, bill collector, it made no difference who or what he was, all strangers were unwelcome in Pigtown.
* * *
Returning to his office, Matuszak conferred with LaMatta.
“Not much,” LaMatta answered when asked if there was any news. “There were several requests.” He fumbled through some papers and produced a hastily scrawled list. “The media is asking for interviews or maybe a news conference to bring them up-to-date.”
Matuszak removed the nylon holster containing the snub nosed Smith & Wesson from his waistband. “See if Public Affairs can handle it,” he said, slipping the weapon into the top desk drawer and turning the key. “Never did feel comfortable with a microphone shoved in front of my face.”
“I'll
see what I can do. Oh, there was one more thing,” LaMatta said. “A call came in to the switchboard for you while you were out.”
“Oh?”
“From a sheriff. From Williamsport I believe.”
“Williamsport?” Matuszak said looking up. “That's out in the western part of the state isn't it? What did he want?”
“Beats me. Didn't leave a name or message, but if it's important he'll call back. Now, what do you have for me? Bradford wants his daily report.”
“What's he expecting? Miracles? I've only been on the case a couple of days.”
LaMatta jotted down a few notes as Matuszak filled him in on his progress and mentioned his upcoming meeting with Matthew Farley.
“I plan on meeting Farley tomorrow morning. Go to the railroad museum for some background material; maybe go over his story again. Then, while I'm that close to downtown, I'll pay a visit to Police Headquarters. Who knows, maybe I still have some old contacts in central records.”
“Might cut through some red tape.” LaMatta nodded his head in approval. “I'll yank some strings with the State Police, maybe they can come up with some records.”
8
The Following Morning
Matuszak maneuvered the Escort toward the trash-lined curb and was greeted by the sound of glass breaking. Cursing, he got out to inspect the damage. A brown bag, containing the shattered remnants of a wine bottle, lay crushed under the Escort's front tire. An apparent castaway from some drunken spree it had laid there, like a strategically placed land mine, waiting for the next unsuspecting tire. Frustration set in as he heard the hiss of escaping air from the rapidly deflating tire.
“Later,” he grumbled, his voice filled with disgust. “I'll walk Farley to the museum and change it later.”
He had gone only a short distance when an uneasy feeling overcame him. He was still a good block from Farley's apartment, but even at that distance he could easily pick out the four-door plainclothes unit with its telltale antenna. A blue uniform stood guard at the alley entrance. Matuszak's pace quickened, and he reached the alley just as the morgue wagon pulled up.
“Agent Matuszak,” Matuszak said, producing his badge and glancing over the cop's shoulder to the alley beyond.
The rookie gestured with his nightstick. “Check in with the sergeant. That's him next to the deceased.”
The veteran detective looked up at Matuszak's approach and then down at the body. No words were uttered, but still the question had been asked. Do you know him?
Just as silent, Matuszak nodded.
The detective motioned and Matuszak approached. The fragile, crumpled body was lying face down. The face was turned away, mercifully sparing him the ordeal of seeing its battered features. It didn't matter. He didn't need to see the face to identify the body. The baggy, faded green work pants, the crumpled T-shirt and the thinning wisps of silver/gray hair now matted with blood, were proof enough. As if to confirm it, the soft, faded railroader's cap lay close by.
No, proof was not needed for Matuszak. It was Matthew Farley - Matty to his friends.
The detective, middle age with a tired, sad face, was immaculately groomed. A dark, well-tailored business suit, combined with classic coiffured salt-and-pepper hair, gave him the appearance of having just stepped from the pages of a Mercedes commercial. Holding out a freshly manicured hand, he introduced himself. “Sergeant Andrew Becker, CID.” He motioned to the lifeless body. “Was he an acquaintance of yours?”
Matuszak returned the greeting. “No. Not really, only met him yesterday.”
“What about this morning?”
“I had an appointment of sorts. He was going to help me with a case I'm working on.”
“A case?” The detective's eyes narrowed. “Any chance it has something to do with this?”
Matuszak shook his head. “No, I don't think so. We planned to meet this morning and tour the train museum together.”
“This case of yours, what's it about?”
“The missing engine, the one that turned up in England. I'm the state investigator assigned to it.”
“Ah, I’ve heard about it.” Again Becker gestured toward Farley. Doesn’t look like he’ll be of much help to you now.”
“How did it happen?” Matuszak said, watching the morgue crew lift the limp body onto the gurney.
“Took a swan dive off the roof, sometime late last night.”
“Homicide?”
“I don't know at this point,” Becker replied. “Fell, slipped, who knows? It's too soon to say. There weren't any obvious signs of foul play.” He brushed at some unseen lint on his jacket sleeve. “I'll wait until I get the medical examiner's findings before I make a final determination.”
“Any witnesses?”
“No. At least none that will talk. My partner's interviewing the building's tenants now, but it's like shoveling shit against the tide. In this neighborhood the QE 2 could sail up the boulevard, dock at the local bar and no one would see a damn thing.”
Becker picked up Matty's faded cap. Carefully brushing off the dirt, he placed it into the body bag as the morgue team zipped it closed.
“Twenty years in this rotten business and I'll never understand it,” Becker said.
“What's that?”
“Why they drink so damn much whiskey.”
“Whiskey?” Matuszak blurted out. “Are you sure?”
“Sure? Get close to him and you can smell the alcohol. There's a half bottle of Wild Turkey on the roof where he dove off.”
“That can't be. Not whiskey.”
“Why not? Alcohol's the local pastime around here.”
Matuszak wasn’t convinced. “I spent the better part of the afternoon talking with him. When I left he was in good spirits and looking forward to our meeting this morning. We were going to tour the train museum. That doesn’t sound like a man bent on suicide. Christ, if anybody had a reason to drink, it would be him. He swore he drank an occasional beer, nothing stronger. Like I said, I only met him yesterday, but I believed him.”
“Aaaaah shit!” Becker groaned. Looking up at the side of the building, he cupped his hands to his face and yelled, “Johnson!”
A few seconds later, the sound of a window opening on the upper floor floated down, and a head appeared.
“Make sure no one touches that bottle.”
The head nodded and disappeared back into the building.
Becker turned back to Matuszak. His fingers massaged his temple and the left portion of his face, in a fruitless attempt to erase the tiredness from his thin face. He was deliberate in choosing his words, careful not to offend Matuszak.
“Look,” he said, pulling out one of his business cards, “I don’t want to interfere in your case. I'll be at my office in about an hour; maybe I can be of some help to you, check our central records or something. Stop by if you get a chance.”
Accepting the card, Matuszak said. “Thanks.”
With Farley’s death there were few other leads to follow. Despite his best efforts the case was slowly grinding to a halt. A fresh mind, even if only for a few moments, might help. “Any assistance would be appreciated,” Matuszak said. “I've reached a stone wall.”
“It happens,” said Becker nodding his head in agreement. He turned to stare up at the roof’s edge. Christ, he thought. I could use some help myself. Who would want to throw a harmless old man off a roof?
Agreeing to meet Becker later in the morning, Matuszak made his way back to the Escort. There was still the matter of a flat tire to tend to. As he neared the car a mongrel, a line of ribs visible through its mange-covered coat, wandered out of the alley and headed straight toward the Escort's wheel well.
“No!” Matuszak yelled, quickening his pace.
The dog reached the car first and paused only a moment before sniffing the wheel. Finding it unmarked territory, he turned, lifted a hind leg, and released a stream on the hubcap. The animal then faced away from the Escort and began pawing at the sidewalk in
a ritualized effort to cover up the deed, all the while keeping a wary eye on Matuszak’s approach. His brief life on the streets had taught him not to allow any human to get too close.
The act completed, the dog began a slow gait back into the trash-strewn alley. Stopping at a discarded mattress, he turned his head and looked back. The sad, amber eyes stared listlessly at Matuszak. Their message said, Welcome to Pigtown, Agent Matuszak. Welcome to Pigtown.
With his territory marked and more urgent needs to tend to, the dog continued down the alley in a daily search for food. Matuszak and the auto were forgotten. Matuszak, his pace reduced to a slow walk, removed his suit jacket and fumbled for the trunk key.
* * *
Matuszak applied the harsh, liquid soap for the third time in an effort to erase all traces of the dog and Pigtown from his hands. He splashed cold water onto his face and looked into the mirror. A tired, haggard face stared back. While his impossible assignment was relatively straight forward, it had suddenly taken on a deadly twist. He had become an unwilling pawn caught in a deadly game of chess.
Farley’s death, occurring mere hours after his visit was no coincidence. That he was sure of. Someone had followed him to Pigtown and brutally murdered the old man. The question remained, why? To silence Farley? Why? What information could Farley possess that would justify his murder.
Donut World was the first, relatively clean eatery he found on leaving the side alley. Stopping would give Becker time to finish up the crime scene investigation and start the necessary reports. But he also needed time. Time to think, to clear his head, time to make some sense of the morning's tragedy.
He dried his face on the coarse paper towel and returned to the restaurant section. With the morning rush over, the service counter with its line of chrome stools lay deserted. He skirted the twin palm trees, the ones with a cloth monkey sitting atop the highest palm. Slowly suffocating, under the continuous onslaught of oily vapors wafting from the nearby deep fryers, the plants stood like wilting sentinels at either end of the donut display case. Someone's botched attempt at sales promotion, he thought as he ducked under one of the palm’s sagging branches and headed toward an empty booth.