Tracks

by K. M. Tolan

  “After you tried, brother,” Willy broke in. “All you managed to do was line up more unions against you. Even the Brotherhood of Railroad Workers threw in their support after hearing about you enslaving steam children.”

  “The very nature of Hobohemia enslaves them, William. Business is a science, not an art built on men’s fancies.” He pulled a rapier-thin cane from beneath his coat and gestured at the angry wraiths circling the calliope. “Those are assets of the Erie Railroad. Stolen assets. I warned you not to make this place a safe haven. Not for those creatures and especially not for Samantha.”

  “Hardly our fault if she comes walking in unasked, Bram,” Willy replied. “This is what? The third time she ran off? I would have thought, after losing her for nearly three years, you would be a bit more careful.”

  Bram slapped his cane inside his other palm. “Hand Samantha and the others over, or I’ll finish what we started last year.”

  Willy folded his arms. “Can’t do that. Samantha’s of age and can go where she pleases. Same for the riders. Nothing here but free men and women.”

  “Then tell your goons to get their paws off me!” Samantha’s voice rose from within the back ranks. A commotion rippled its way through the hobos like a burrowing gopher. Not toward the two leaders, but straight at Vincent.

  “Nice of you to let me know,” Vincent snapped as she twisted free of the grasping guards to face him. Still, he found himself admiring her defiant spirit despite his reservations about her character.

  She pointed a finger toward the scowling baron. “Any surprise I wouldn’t want to be associated with the likes of him?”

  “And my supposedly adopted sister? Any of what you said about her still true?”

  Samantha jerked at her tangled hair. “You seriously can’t see why my father wanted to adopt another? I’m a lab animal to him, an experiment in the process of failing.” Her voice lowered. “He’ll take me to Lima. Find me. Tell the union he’s building a hybrid diesel able to travel living track. That alone should get you all the muscle you need.”

  “How about I ask him to return Katy and forget your tricks?” Vincent countered in a matching near-whisper.

  “Because he’ll use her as bait to kill you. The tracks we need to find Red Socks on are…”

  “Samantha!”

  Vincent and Samantha both turned at the baron’s booming voice.

  “I’ll leave with you on one condition,” Samantha returned in a hurried shout. “You keep your damn hands off the steam children, Father, or so help me, I’ll tell everyone here what you’re really going to use them for.”

  The baron blanched. “That’s enough, Samantha.”

  She stamped her foot on the wet grass. “Agree to it. On the Erie name. Agree, or I’ll show you just how ruthless you bred me to be.” Samantha’s words dripped frozen from thin lips. “I swear I will kill you right here where you stand, Father. Right now.”

  Vincent thought her threat an odd way to please one’s parent, but the baron produced a smile in the face of what sounded like a genuine threat. “I will accept your compromise on our good name. For today.”

  “Remember what I just told you if you want your sister back,” Samantha muttered next to Vincent’s ear.

  “Don’t!” he blurted without thinking, reaching for her narrow shoulder.

  She twisted from his grasp, favoring him with a slight smile before crossing over to the baron’s outstretched arm.

  Bram Van Erie turned with Samantha in hand and paused to regard Willy a final time. “It’s not too late to make this a proper family reunion, William. There is still a place waiting for you on the board. Leave this rabble to their fate.”

  King Willy sighed and shook his head. “You mean condemn them to lives like those we saw on Detroit’s assembly lines? Unpaid overtime. Hospitals whose physicians would let you die on their doorstep if you couldn’t pay? Families thrown out of homes for the sake of a bank’s return on investment? No wonder so many went yegg. The Scientific Principles of Management isn’t a gospel, Bram. It’s an excuse used to draw wealth from men’s lives.”

  The baron spread his hand to encompass those waiting atop the hill. “I can salvage these people. Taylorism is about shared profit, not exploitation. Up this hill are the workers for a new world, William. Strong. Aggressive. As high-priced a man as the great Fredrick Taylor ever envisioned. Think what we could do with them. What Erie Railroad would become with such efficiency.”

  Willy’s smile reflected an inner pain. “I’ve given it thought, Bram. You’re right. I shouldn’t have left. I see that now. Our father’s ring deserves a better finger.”

  Bram stiffened. “The ring has received one. The matter sealed itself on the day you handed the baronial signet to me with no regrets. You do remember saying that, brother? Now, with Erie on the cusp of success and the hard work finished, you want the title back? You’ve lived among these parasites too long, King Willy. Accept a board position and end the shame you’ve brought on your family. The rest we can discuss after you’ve re-embraced the Golden Tenets.” Gripping Samantha’s arm, he headed back up the incline.

  Vincent fought an urge to run up and pull her back. She was better off on her own than with this yegg lover.

  Only when the last shadows departed did Vincent witness King Willy’s shoulders sag.

  “Brass?” The grizzled king motioned him over. “What did she say to you?”

  “You knew she was the baron’s daughter,” Vincent countered doubly ready to catch the first train out. “Why’d you let her go?”

  Willy nodded, his face as tired as his voice. “It’s what she wanted, Brass. She’s my niece, and both sides spent lives over her tonight. More would have been lost had she not surrendered herself. Even still, I’m afraid she only won us a reprieve. So did she say anything to you?”

  “Yeah. She wants me to come get her, and I damn sure intend to.”

  King Willy grinned. “Getting a little fond of our Samantha, are we, Brass?”

  He bit his lip. All right, so she was cute, but that was beside the point. He didn’t come out here to involve himself with a crazy baron’s crazier daughter. “She thinks her father’s taking her to Lima. Something about hybrid diesels designed to run on living tracks.”

  Willy sighed. “Lima, eh? Makes sense since the Locomotive Works is up there.” He glanced toward the embankment’s crest. “Heard you tried leaving. Still think you can walk into Erie alone, Brass? Against what you saw tonight?”

  Vincent tried to take a deep breath in order to digest Willy’s truth, and nearly choked on what drifted down from the battlefield. His idea about simply finding Katy had long since left the station. “Samantha said something about you having a train conductor?”

  “A wise man knows when to get a bigger shovel. Long Tommy says you gave a good account of yourself tonight. We’ve folks enough to clean up the mess, so head down to the big tent and get yourself fixed up. I’ll fetch you in the morning when we’ve sunlight. Got just the man you’ll need.” Willy held out a hand. “Deal?”

  Swallowing pride was easy when you hurt like hell. Willy was right. He couldn’t do this alone. Vincent took the offered hand. “Deal.”

  ~ * ~

  Hours later, he was still wearing an old army blanket in lieu of his duster. An insistent member of Local Seventy Four had pulled the coat from him, swearing to return it better than new. Sleeves and all. The same offer didn’t apply to what was left of his black T-shirt where claws had penetrated the leather. Fresh wounds tended and a bowl of mulligan stew in his belly, he curled up with others next to a potbelly stove and tried to sleep.

  There was little attention paid to royal flourishes or other pretentions in the hobo court he attended after a breakfast of hot coffee and flapjacks. A man shuffled forward with a blue cap in his hands, his attire not fitting the garish patchwork motif favored by those crowding the packed meadow. He wore a uniform for one thing, though granted the midnight blue coat and pants had
seen their share of travel. Still, each brass button adorning the outfit looked recently polished, and the arrival’s short brown hair and thin mustache were meticulously trimmed. Round wire-frame glasses perched over troubled, middle-aged eyes. The nasal tone in his voice as he spoke reminded Vincent of a bookie he knew in Chicago. “I’m told you needed to see me, Your Honor?”

  “Morning, Timepiece,” Willy answered. “Heard you stayed out of the fight this time. Rather strange for a man like you to be sitting around a nice warm campfire with the yegg pressing at our gates.”

  Timepiece straightened. “I did my part once before.”

  Willy nodded, glancing around as if for consensus. “That you did. Saw those yegg pouring across the yard last winter and ran your train in front of them. Gave us the time we needed to defend ourselves. Fought like a madman at my side and did your fellow trainmen right proud.”

  “Got my crew killed and a runaway train to-boot,” Timepiece countered. “That’s what I got for sticking my nose into other people’s business.”

  Willy leaned forward on his can. “So tell me, Timepiece. What did you get for yourself last night? Peace? Solace? What filled your heart while others joined your crew on Rock Candy Mountain? Yes, we’re square. You saved our necks and we gave you a place to stay until you got your Hudson steamer back. Too proud to ask a bunch of hobos for more than that, eh Skipper? Pity we’re all squared up, because I might’ve thought to do more.”

  Timepiece adjusted his coat and set the conductor’s cap firmly on his balding head. “You said I was done fighting your wars, Willy. Remember? The Blue Goose is a runaway. She won’t abide by my schedule until I fetch a new crew. Assuming I can find her after gathering them up. She’s probably halfway to hell by now.”

  “And you haven’t even stepped one foot out of this jungle to hunt her down, have you? I’d say you’re halfway to hell yourself. So, here’s a little incentive.” King Willy pulled a piece of chalk from his gambling vest pocket. “Say what you want, Skipper, but hobos got some smarts. Look at our signs, for instance. Some tell us where the meals are. Others tell us of places to go, and places to avoid.” He motioned to one of the knights, who handed the king a shard of gray slate. A quiet fell across the court, save for the scrape of chalk against stone.

  Willy canted his head to one side and raised a hand to his ear. No one spoke, the other hobos apparently understanding the meaning behind each of the king’s strokes.

  The silence elongated into awkward stillness, threatening to make a mockery of King Willy’s expectant pose. Vincent found himself sharing Timepiece’s nervous fidgeting. Then it came—a steam whistle’s plaintive cry carrying over the rustle of branches above them. Something in the sonorous tone tugged at Vincent’s heart with the same empty despair as on the day he stared down empty track after Katy.

  Timepiece’s shaven jaw hung slack as the horns trumpeted again in mourning. He took a hesitant step before letting out a breath, seeming to realize the engine would be long gone by the time he reached the yard.

  “A smart ’bo can always find a ride if he has to,” King Willy softly pointed out once the whistle faded into a distant wail. “Even if we don’t have a fancy gold watch, we hobo kings can do a thing or two. Just have to know how to want it bad enough. I’m thinking an honorary hobo such as yourself could use a favor. Maybe set a little of your trainman’s pride aside and listen.”

  Timepiece’s throat worked. He pulled his cap off. “So what do I have to do, your honor?”

  King Willy gestured toward Vincent. “You’re going to be Brass’s angel. Being fresh from Big Town, he’s going to need someone to show him the ropes. He’s heading out to Erie to finish what his daddy started. A noble cause to embark on to be sure, but one with a lot of bad track in-between.”

  “Baron Van Erie’s track,” Timepiece clarified with a scowl. “Yegg watch every mile of it. Nobody’s been that way in years.”

  “Well, here’s the thing,” King Willy said in a reassuring voice. “You won’t have to use it. Wouldn’t stand a chance if you did. You’re going to do what conductors do best—schedule a special stop. Samantha hid out somewhere between Lima and Cleveland for a few years. She says there’s a gandy dancer there named Red Socks who can train up Brass. Samantha hasn’t a clue how she got there in the first place, but a conductor could schedule a stop.”

  “If a conductor knew where in the hell this stop is,” Timepiece replied, his voice edging on sarcasm. “Station got a name?”

  “You’ll get that from Samantha once Brass pulls her away from the baron somewhere around Lima, Ohio. I talked to Boss Shannon at Local Seventy-Four and he’ll have an engine waiting in Lima for you to schedule.”

  Timepiece pursed his lips, then jabbed a finger at Vincent. “Cracker Jack’s kid, right? That means he’ll be after the Detroit line.”

  Willy nodded. “Among other things.”

  “Among other things,” Timepiece repeated with even less relish. He folded his arms. “I’ll get him to where this Red Socks fellah is. Take him through the yards near Kingsbury Row in Cleveland, too, but no further. I’ve had my fill of heroics.”

  “We’ll leave such things to Freedom. She’ll be going up the line with you two in case you need her help sniffing out Samantha.”

  “That sounds a bit better.” The conductor stuck out his hand. “Got yourself a deal.”

  “Fair enough,” King Willy replied, leaving his seat. He solemnly exchanged handshakes. “Best you and Brass get better acquainted.”

  Vincent threw a dangling part of his blanket over a shoulder and reluctantly walked out to meet this new guide. Hopefully, one who wouldn’t lie through his teeth every few minutes like his last companion.

  “Timepiece, this here is Brass,” Willy introduced them with a salesman’s grin.

  “A pleasure, youngster,” the old conductor said, giving Vincent’s hand a vigorous pump. No doubt for show.

  “Obliged,” Vincent finished, already seeing a critical narrowing in Timepiece’s eyes as the conductor turned away to talk further with Willy. I’m not too thrilled about this either, old man.

  The hobo court broke up into casual knots, Vincent deciding to lose the crowd in exchange for a loam-covered log beside the creek. He let the stream’s deep gurgles console his disgust at how such a simple-sounding chore like fetching Katy snowballed so far out of control. So Samantha and Katy were sisters, and the only way he was going to free Katy was by helping some self-styled hobo king retake Erie Railroad? Oh, and don’t forget Samantha still expected something from him for saving his skin over those two yegg. Then there was the unfinished business of this Bram Van Erie ordering Dad’s murder. Yeah. A lot to think about.

  It didn’t take long before another long face joined his on the log. Timepiece eased down beside Vincent and pushed his wire frames atop the bridge of a narrow nose. “If you hadn’t noticed, old Willy is one sly, manipulating son of a bitch.”

  “I just came for my sister.” The weak answer was all Vincent could muster. “You guys live in your own little world out here.”

  “Don’t we at that?” Timepiece replied, removing his conductor’s cap to reveal a graying scalp. “In my profession, Hobohemia is simply a matter of times and places.” He pulled out a palm-sized pocket watch, its trailing chain gleaming like a set of gold fillings. A bullet-shaped steam locomotive embossed the silver lid, an afterthought of fine wisps rising to travel along the beveled edges. The cover snapped open, revealing an unblemished crystal face beneath which the hands of time coursed in geared precision.

  “Figure that’s where you got your moniker,” Vincent guessed, admiring the jeweled settings and hand-painted numbers. A tiny window allowed a glimpse into an inner working of sparkling cogs and springs.

  “Yep. A good watch and a tight schedule’s all a conductor needs.” Timepiece ran his finger around the clock face. “That and a train of course.” He took a breath. “You tell me where you need to go and I’ll figure out the rest.
” He closed the pocket watch with a crisp click. “That’s my part in this little shindig. What’s yours? Trying to be a hero? Tell you right now the job doesn’t pay.”

  Vincent picked up a twig and tossed it into the creek, watching as the bit of flotsam mimicked his life, drifting into a filmy backwash. He gave Timepiece a sideways glance, seeing the man struggling to be sociable. “So you want your train, and I want my sister. Sounds so simple, right?”

  Timepiece’s eyes peered far beyond those round lenses of his. “So you’re Cracker Jack’s boy, eh?”

  “Yeah, but I ain’t no hero, either.” Not when I just stood there and let him die.

  The conductor’s laugh was more an acidic snort. “Ain’t we a pair? They got Taylorism where you’re from, Brass?”

  He shook his head. “Never heard of it until now.”

  “Your trains got cabooses?”

  “Dad said they used to.”

  Timepiece looked down for a moment. “Lots of fallen lands are out there. Tracks don’t sing, and people haven’t enough spirit left in them to breathe life into a thimble.”

  The conductor stood up and adjusted his glasses. “Let me tell you this about trains, young man. They aren’t just pieces of metal rolling down track. Not here. A locomotive and its caboose are part of each other. An engine gets its spirit from the sweat and pride of everyone who built or rode in it, and those memories live in its caboose. Call that last car a soul if you want, but sundering a caboose from its engine is about the worst thing you could do to a locomotive. Imagine the kind of man who would do such a thing just to line his pockets. That’s what you’ll be up against in Erie. That’s Taylorism in a nutshell. You’re damn right. There isn’t anything simple about this. Figure you ought to know what you’re walking into before we start.” He rubbed at his thin mustache. “Don’t want to be wasting my time.”

  “Appreciate that,” Vincent replied, not sure whether the man was trying to confuse him or get him to bolt on the spot. He rose slowly, focusing on the job on hand. “So where’s this Lima we’re supposed to head to?”