“Good God!” he said, grabbing Mixer around the neck. “It’s Frenchy.”
He rolled off the tracks with Mixer in tow, spilling down and into the right-of-way. The engine’s whistle screamed, and her bell clanged in alarm as she thundered past. Heat and steam shot from her sides and debris blew into his face. Mixer squirmed free from Hook’s grip and bounded off down the tracks to greet Frenchy, who had climbed down from the cab and was making his way back.
Frenchy knelt at Hook’s side and looked at the lump on his head.
“Hell, Hook,” he said. “You out to derail me?”
* * *
Hook rested in the engine cab while Frenchy and the bakehead loaded Mixer into the caboose and connected up the coupler. The knot behind his ear throbbed, and his ribs, bruised from the bullet’s impact on his prosthesis, complained with every breath.
Frenchy pulled out onto the high rail and brought her up. He lit his cigar and turned to Hook.
“Okay, what the hell is going on?”
“Someone took a shot at me,” he said.
“A damn poor shot, lucky for you.”
Hook turned to the fireman. “Hand me that screwdriver, will you?”
“I was just funning about killing the engineer,” he said.
Hook laid his prosthesis across his lap and dug at the wrist mechanism with the screwdriver. He popped out the spent bullet that had lodged there and held it in the light of the boiler furnace for them to see.
“A quarter inch to the side, and this bullet would have made a hole through me the size of Johnson Canyon Tunnel,” he said.
“And a second later, this engine would have turned you into a hookburger,” Frenchy said. “It’s a good job that dang dog brought you around. I guess you could call him a hero.”
“You could, ’cept he was just looking for that pork chop bone in my pocket,” Hook said.
Frenchy lit his cigar stub and hung his elbow out the window.
“Who do you figure would do such a thing?” he asked.
“Might have been strikers,” Hook said. “They’re pretty riled up.”
He settled back against the cab. The moon, having escaped the clouds, hung outside the window like a yellow lantern as the old steam engine labored under the dead weight of the 2-10-2 at her back.
“Frenchy,” he said. “I think I spotted one of those pickpockets back there at the depot.”
“Maybe they shot you up, Hook?”
“Maybe,” he said. “But picking pockets is a misdemeanor. Carrying a weapon to do it is a felony. They’re thieves, but they aren’t stupid.”
“Eddie Preston’s stupid,” Frenchy said. “Maybe he did it.”
“The only thing I’m sure about, Frenchy, is that some son of a bitch is out to get me, and I better get him first before it’s too late.”
17
BY THE TIME they pulled into the Amarillo yards, dusk had fallen. The lights of the roundhouse shone dim through the smoke-laden panes. Both steamers and diesels rumbled about like spring thunder, and the smell of smoke and heat filled the evening. Frenchy pulled onto a siding and sat silent for a moment.
“She’s running cold, boys,” he said. “I think the oil jets are plugged. Wait here while I talk to the yardmaster. This old girl needs a checkup.”
Hook let Mixer out for a run and stretched his own legs as they waited for Frenchy to return. He rubbed the sore spot on his chest where the prosthesis had slammed into it and considered how things could have been a hell of a lot different.
When Frenchy came back, he hiked his foot on the rail and torched up his cigar.
“They’re going to take a look at her,” he said. “That means a layover. I figure at least twenty hours. The yardmaster wants the 2-10-2 and the caboose set off on that spur next to the sand house over there.”
“Why didn’t you just put me in the machine shop?” Hook said. “That way I couldn’t get any sleep at all.”
“Ain’t it too bad the railroad don’t provide you with a private car instead of a caboose, seeing as how important you are. Now, me and the bakehead will put up in the sleeping rooms. I reckon you could bunk there if you’ve a mind to.”
“Thanks, Frenchy, but I have property to protect. Anyway, I’d as soon bunk in the machine shop as listen to an engineer and bakehead snore all night.”
“Suit yourself,” he said. “The yardmaster thinks we will be ready to roll by seven tomorrow evening after the line’s cleared.”
* * *
When they’d sided the caboose and the 2-10-2 steamer, Hook checked his store of food, finding several cans of Spam shoved to the back of the larder. He ate half of one on dry crackers and fed the rest to Mixer, who had been sitting at his feet watching him eat.
He’d no sooner let Mixer out, with a warning about the dangers of loitering under the cars, when the yardmaster showed up.
“Don’t be making camp,” he said, pushing back his hat. “I might have to move you around if something comes in.”
“This isn’t my idea of a permanent residence,” Hook said. “You happen to know what time the Super Chief’s due?”
The yardmaster looked at his pocket watch. “Four ten and on time,” he said. “She don’t stay long. Them celebrities ain’t big on exploring Amarillo. Can’t figure why.”
“Thanks,” Hook said.
“What’s in the box?” he asked.
“Dead body.”
“Right,” he said. “You know you ain’t supposed to haul nothing on that deck, don’t you?”
Hook showed him his badge. “Security matter,” he said.
“We got boys shooting windows out of the roundhouse. I don’t suppose there’s anything you can do about that security matter?”
“I’ll check it out,” Hook said. “And that dog there is my tracker. Try not to run him over, will you?”
The yardmaster squinted an eye. “He don’t look like much to me.”
“If looks mattered, the railroad would be in a hell of a shape,” Hook said.
The yardmaster grinned. “You sure got that right,” he said.
* * *
The next day, after listening to the bump and haul of engines all night, Hook made his way to the depot. The Texas heat quivered up from the brick platform outside. He sat on the bench next to the baggage room to watch the passengers.
He’d awakened in the night thinking about the pickpockets and had concluded that a definite pattern could be identified. First came the distraction, and then the lift, and then the handoff. The culprits involved in the actual heist never had the goods on them except for a brief moment. Everything came down to a set of preplanned maneuvers.
So far, he figured he’d come up short on the distraction and the lift. Given another shot, maybe he could pin down the handoff and redeem himself.
When the Super Chief’s glimmer broke downline, folks stirred on deck and proceeded to pick up bags and check their tickets.
Hook moved to the end of the baggage wagon for a better view. The Super Chief blew her whistle as she came sliding into the platform. The crew stretched the fuel hose across the tracks and buckled into the engine. The conductor dropped down and set up his steps that led into the car.
Hook worked his way around the end of the train and came up to the other side door. He knocked, and the porter, who had been clearing the aisle, peeked out the window. Hook flashed his badge, waited for him to open the door, and then hoisted himself up.
“Pickpockets,” he said, holding a finger over his lips.
The porter nodded and moved off. Hook found a window where he could see the platform. And within moments he spotted her, the girl in pink walking through the crowd. She carried a diaper bag in one hand and a baby’s milk bottle in the other.
Determined not to be distracted himself, he concentrated on the people surrounding her. A man wearing a hat stood off to the side. Suddenly the milk bottle crashed onto the platform. Milk and glass sprayed everywhere, and the girl covered her mouth
with her hand.
An old lady with a purse over her shoulder reached out to help, and the man behind leaned in. Just as quickly he turned and made his way to the back of the line where another man, who carried a leather suitcase, waited to board. The exchange happened so fast, Hook wasn’t sure he’d seen it.
By then the girl in pink had recovered and was on her way to the restroom, while the man in the hat had moved into the crowd. Hook waited at the top of the steps for him to work his way to the conductor. The conductor punched his ticket and then reached down to load the steps into the car.
Hook stepped out, blocking the man’s way. The man’s nose had been shoved to the side like a boxer’s nose, and he smelled of beer and cologne.
“One moment,” Hook said.
The man’s face blanched, and the conductor, having overheard, hurried on past. The man turned to descend the steps, and Hook caught him by the arm.
“Who the hell are you?” he said, yanking his arm away.
“Railroad security,” Hook said. “You’re under arrest.”
The man’s eyes narrowed, and when he doubled his fist, Hook caught him across the bridge of his nose with the prosthesis. The blow cracked like gunfire, and the man stumbled back, his eyes filling with water. Hook shoved him in the chest with his foot, spilling him out the door. Dazed, the man squirmed on the platform.
Hook dropped down next to him. The passenger train’s whistle blew, and the cars edged off. The man shook his head, pulled onto all fours, and struggled to stand.
“You son of a bitch,” he said. “I’ll kill you.”
Hook caught him across the ear with a short punch. He grunted and rolled onto his back. His eyes flipped white, and his lungs sucked for wind. Blood oozed from the bridge of his nose.
Hook picked up the leather suitcase, which had fallen onto the platform. He caught the man under the arm and lifted him to his feet.
“Like I said, you’re under arrest.”
Hook pulled him into the baggage room and closed the door. The man dabbed blood from his nose and cursed under his breath. Hook dumped his leather bag onto the floor and scattered the cash and jewelry and wallets about with his foot.
“Who’s working with you?” he asked.
“I’m not talking to no one-armed dick,” he said, snorting.
Hook snapped him again across the bridge of his nose, and he melted onto his knees.
“Someone took a shot at me,” Hook said. “I figure it might have been you. Frankly, my feelings are hurt.”
“I don’t need a gun to pick a pocket,” the man said, sniffing. “Why would I chance a felony?”
“Because you’re a brainless shit?” Hook said. “And that girl looks underage to me. I’m going to find out, and when I do, the charge won’t be a misdemeanor anymore. In the meantime, I’m turning you over to the Amarillo police. You’re going to love it.”
* * *
By day’s end Hook had given his statement to the locals and had the pickpocket booked in the city jail. He went back to the depot to use the operator’s phone.
“Yeah,” Eddie said.
“I’m in Amarillo,” Hook said. “I nabbed one of those pickpockets. He’s cooling out.”
Eddie said, “They don’t work alone, you know? You only get the one?”
“So far, but I’m hot on their trail. Course, Frenchy’s dragging in every stack of rust between here and Kansas City. All the pickpockets in the country will be retired and living on the lake by the time I get there.”
“So Carlsbad City Hall calls me, see,” Eddie said. “They’re pissed because they haven’t been paid for that cop car. What the hell you do with that money, Runyon?”
“I gave it to the cop. You can’t trust anyone anymore.”
“Those bastards aren’t getting a penny more from the company,” Eddie said.
“That’s how I feel about it, too, Eddie. Everybody thinks they can squeeze the railroad.”
“You need to wind this pickpocket thing up. There’s talk of a general strike, and Truman’s got his steam up. The unions could shut down the whole line.”
“I’m pretty good, Eddie, but I don’t know if I can stop a general strike.”
“What about that Lubbock hoptoad?”
“Just another derailment far as I can tell so far. Poor switch maintenance, probably.”
“Call me if you find out anything.”
“Right, Eddie, and I don’t care who says otherwise, I like your style.”
* * *
Hook hung up, thought for a moment, and then dialed Popeye’s number in Clovis.
“Clovis depot,” Popeye said.
“Hook Runyon. Has Junior checked in?”
“He’s standing right here eating my peanuts,” he said.
“Let me talk to him?”
Junior picked up. “Hook,” he said, “have you arrived in Carmen?”
“Not yet. What did you find out about that hoptoad?”
“Slope Hurley wasn’t forthcoming about where his men were working. He said that he ran the signal department, not Hook Runyon.”
“So?”
“So, I told him we’d be looking into the signal department’s overtime and sending in a report.”
“Threatening someone is against the rules, Junior. What did he say?”
“He said that Moose Barrick and his boys moved their crew car to Pampa several days ago.”
“And?”
“I believe it’s possible that they could have gone on to Lubbock and sabotaged the track.”
“I want you to catch the next train to Panhandle. I’ll be laying over there while Frenchy goes to Borger to pick up an old smoker. While you’re waiting, keep an eye out for a girl in a pink dress.”
“Yes, sir. I will. Have you acquired a pass for me yet?”
“I’m working on it. In the meantime, hop something going through.”
“But it’s so irregular, sir, hopping a train, and really rather embarrassing.”
“You want to learn to walk that tightwire, don’t you?”
“Yes, sir, I do but…”
“When I get to Panhandle, you and me are going to have a talk with Moose and his boys.”
“Hook?”
“What?”
“About that knot.”
“What knot?”
“The one you asked me to identify?”
“Oh, yeah.”
“It’s a honda knot.”
“A what?”
“A honda knot. It’s like a lasso knot that cowboys use.”
“How do you know?”
“I asked a Mexican coming out of the beer joint downtown. He told me and then he called me a stupid gringo.”
“Honda. Yeah, I knew that,” Hook said.
“Hook?”
“What?”
“May I put my shoestring back in my shoe now?”
* * *
The lights of the yards gathered up in the low-hanging clouds as Hook made his way back to the caboose. When he arrived, Frenchy had already coupled in and had brought up steam.
Hook climbed the engine ladder and stuck his head in the cab. He found Frenchy checking the boiler pressure.
Frenchy turned. “Well, it’s about time,” he said. “This old sweetheart’s humming and rearing to go.”
“Let me go find my dog, Frenchy.”
“The bakehead’s already found him and put him in the caboose.”
The bakehead stuck out his boot to show Hook the teeth marks. “That son of a bitch tried to bite me.”
“He’s just spirited,” Hook said.
“John Perez says he’s the antichrist,” Frenchy said.
“If you bastards are going to belittle my dog, I’m going to ride in the caboose. I could use some rest, anyway. Even a yard dog can’t work all the time, you know.”
* * *
Back at the caboose, Mixer jumped up and placed both paws on Hook’s chest.
“Go lay down,” Hook said. “I swear I�
��m going to give you to Eddie Preston.”
Mixer crawled under the bunk, his tail clumping against the floor. Hook took off his prosthesis and put it on the table. He stretched out on the bunk and pried his shoes off with his toe. Catching pickpockets had proved to be a tiring activity.
Frenchy finessed the old steamer out of the yards, and they were soon churning their way down the high rail toward Panhandle. Hook considered a Beam and water. But weariness overtook him, and he soon fell asleep under the hypnotic cadence of Frenchy’s engine.
* * *
Sometime in the night he awoke to Mixer scratching at the door. Hook sat up on the edge of the bunk. The caboose clipped along in a high waddle, and steam from Frenchy’s engine wafted over the cupola.
“Go back to sleep,” he said. “You’re just going to have to wait until we get to Panhandle.” Mixer whined and dug at the base of the door with his paw. “Alright, alright,” Hook said, slipping on his shoes. “Damn dog. You’ll have to go on the porch, I guess.”
When he opened the caboose door, Mixer darted onto the porch and commenced barking at the coffin. Hook went out to get him. The wind whipped his hair into his eyes, and the clack of the wheels beat out a rhythm. He stared into the blackness and shivered against the night cool.
“Come on,” he said, hollering into the wind. “Get back in here.”
But Mixer’s bark turned pitched and certain. Just then the clouds parted, and Samuel Ash’s coffin lit up in the moonlight. Hook moved forward, gripping the rail against the roll of the caboose. And there, squeezed in behind the coffin, the girl in the pink dress looked up at him.
18
“WHAT THE HELL are you doing?” Hook asked, pulling her out from behind the casket.
She shoved him in the chest with both hands, and he stumbled back against the caboose. Before he could regain his composure, she headed for the railing to jump. Hook leapt forward, catching her by the foot and dragging her back. She whirled about, her eyes lit in the moonlight, and drew back her fist. Hook caught her on the chin, and she wilted onto the deck. Mixer barked and ran in a circle around her.
The Hanging of Samuel Ash Page 12