Knight's Late Train

by Gordon A. Kessler

  “Uh-huh,” I said and smiled. Then I recalled the name. “Specks — Jimmie “Specks” Reader? Wears thick glasses?”

  “One and the same.”

  “Yeah, I remember him from back when Doc let me ride in the cab on a local out of Newton running to Emporia, Kansas. He’d always let me ride on his lap and blow the horn — and he’d give me red licorice.”

  “Yep, that’s gotta be Specks. Always has a pack of red licorice on him. So how long ago was this that you were riding on Specks’ lap and tooting his horn? You’re not like, weird or anything, are you.”

  “When I was six years old, thank you very much.”

  “No need to get testicle on me. I was just checking.”

  “Got any ideas who called Doc or what was said to get him all worked up?”

  “Not a clue. Doc has a lot of friends — and plenty of foes, too. Some people get kinda pissed when you tell them the truth. Doc’s never pulled a punch the two years I’ve known him. And we were together for most of that time.”

  My dad is, well, let’s say opinionated. He’s made his share of enemies over his sixty years of life by speaking his mind every chance he gets.

  The curiosity was killing me. “Together?”

  “Yeah, he was my ramrod, and I was his driver.”

  “Conductor and engineer?”

  “Sure. What else would I mean?”

  I didn’t reply.

  She turned away, keeping her eyes averted, and she seemed somewhat solemn. “We were that, too, for about eighteen months before he dumped me in favor of his Mary.”

  My mother died five years back, just before I went to prison. Doc had hooked up with his Mary two years later. She’s a wonderful gal. She’d been close friends with my mother. Doc always referred to her as “my Mary”.

  Then one day, Doc decided to retire early. He moved his Mary and my kids to Crested Butte, bought a B & B and started contracting to the Colorado Western Express, part time. In the two years he’d been in Colorado, he said he made more money, worked less and was able to be home more.

  To think that he’d cheat on his Mary, even though they weren’t actually married, was disheartening to me. Of course, I wasn’t privy to all the details. There could have been extenuating circumstances I didn’t know to consider.

  We didn’t talk anymore until we made the heliport, and then the conversation was all business.

  Within forty-five minutes, we were inspecting the Bell Jetranger III on the tarmac.

  Rillie said, “By the way, they said we shouldn’t need the rotor heater.”

  I was impressed. “This bird has a rotor de-icing system?”

  “Yeah, electronic.”

  I took a look at the thin rubber sheet cemented to the leading edge of the rotor blades. This system was the type that had resistive elements embedded in the rubber. An uncommon feature on a JetRanger, when they worked, they were great.

  “Of course, they didn’t know the real direction we’re headed, but I think they were wrong about us not needing the heaters,” Rillie said. She pointed at the thunderheads looming in the west. “Thundersnow.”

  Towering and ominous, the billowing wall of storm clouds threw fiery bolts from their dark underbellies along with millions of tons of snow and ice — and that was exactly where we were headed.

  Chapter 3

  Whirly Bird, Snow Bird or Dead Bird?

  1:35 PM MST, Heading west from Denver International Airport, gaining altitude

  The chatter from the helicopter leasing facility, then the Denver control tower, seemed endless and very annoying. After reporting the Jetranger’s compass and GPS malfunctioning, I switched the helicopter’s radio off.

  Rillie turned it back on and synced her iPhone with it. She began bopping to her favorite music. Not necessarily appropriate at the moment to me, still, I enjoyed glancing at her on occasion as she sang along to the lyrics of “Call Me, Maybe” a few too many times. She had a lovely voice, and it lifted my spirits some watching the beautiful woman enjoying herself — especially when she’d throw me a coy but sexy smile. She had a look that would melt steel and harden men’s flesh in a glance.

  We followed Interstate 70 most of the way west. About sixty miles out, we found a little turbulence along with some snow and ice while ascending the Continental Divide in the last few miles of the east slope of the Rockies near Loveland Pass. With the rotor collecting the frozen moisture along its airfoil and the added weight due to icing over the entire aircraft, the Jetranger engine seemed sluggish. It was working hard as we finally made 12,500 feet. We scraped over the saddle between peaks above the Eisenhower Tunnel, and to the western slope of the continent. And that’s where we hit the monstrous front, nose down.

  We descended to 11,000 feet and found a less than smooth ride between there and 11,500, while trying to avoid the reported 100 mph, gusty surface winds, heavy snow and ice. Still, fighting the sporadic fifty mph crosswind was a battle even in the powerful Bell helicopter, and I had to stay attentive to the collective lever to my left side and especially the cyclic stick between my knees to keep us on course and off the mountain.

  Rillie had turned off her music, and although white-knuckled on the sides of the copilot seat to my left, she was taking the rough flight rather well. My own knuckles were like ivory bones from my grip on the cyclic control stick. With the tunes off, Rillie turned out to be a pretty good navigator, eyeing the map and the reportedly erroneous GPS while ensuring we stayed off the mountain slopes. With a complete whiteout, we couldn’t see the ground, let alone a wall of granite that we might be flying headlong into at 150 mph.

  When the yellow strobes of Colorado State Highway trucks appeared below, I checked the radio just in case there might be any distress calls — as if we could possibly do any more than observe in a blizzard like this. It would be nearly impossible to set down, even if there was a safe place to do it. Highway crews in the snow-bladed trucks were trying to clear the interstate just outside the Eisenhower Tunnel. What little progress they made might give them a small jump on the huge job they’d be facing once the enormous storm finally blew over.

  Not hearing radio chatter of any kind, we proceeded toward the railroad yards.

  “Doc told me a lot about you, you know,” Rillie said. “We spent a bunch of lonely nights out there, just him and me pulling rolling stock through the mountains. About all you can do is talk or sleep when you’re watching that ol’ ribbon rail. He’d say, ‘E Z did this, E Z did that — it was always about E Z. I kinda started feeling as if we were family.”

  Something about what she was saying bothered me, but I didn’t know what. “Doc hasn’t been much for keeping family secrets. He’s extremely open about everything. He’ll tell you if you’ve got a booger on your nose in front of the Queen, or how many stitches they gave him in his hemorrhoid operation.”

  Rillie agreed. “That’s Doc, all right. A fart is a fart and an asshole is an asshole. That’s what makes him the most enemies.” She raised her eyebrows. “Yeah, I know all about your military life and how you ended up in prison. I even know how you got out and —”

  “And what color of underwear I prefer — I know. I’m sure he told you everything.”

  The chit-chat continued, and I listened carefully to every word Rillie said, analyzing her emotions, her sincerity, trying to figure out this young woman who apparently had a fling with my now sexagenarian father, thirty years her senior.

  In another twenty-five miles, the snow had let up some. Rillie guided me north, and we found the bleary train yard and office lights of Slaughterhouse Yards below.

  The yard tracks were surprisingly clear, and two locomotives worked, shoving freight cars, sorting them into several tracks loaded with strings of more train cars.

  Mindful of overhead power lines and a handful of snow-covered vehicles, I brought our Bell helicopter in slowly, fighting the blustery snowstorm. We landed about twenty yards out from the well-lit yard office entrance, and I cut the
engine.

  The wind blasted icy snow in our faces as soon as we opened the chopper doors. We ran to the office door, the angry blizzard like a grizzly bear growling at our heels.

  As soon as we pushed through the doorway, we ran into a fireplug of a man wearing an extremely angry scowl.

  * * *

  Rillie whispers in my ear from behind, “Shit. It’s Officer Dye, the railroad dick. Whatever you do, don’t say anything about his height or circus relatives.”

  “Hmm,” I say and smile at him, preparing to bid him hello.

  “You must be the asshole’s son,” are the first words out of the five-by-five man’s mouth.

  That’s strike one and two for him. He gets a strike for not liking my dad, and, since you’re an enemy of mine if you’re an enemy of my father, he gets a second strike, as well. I’m sure in the next second he’ll fan out, and fists will fly.

  “So you’re Dead Dick?” I ask him. “The circus train must be in town.”

  His eyes are wide, his teeth bared. “Officer R. Yule Dye, to you.”

  I give him an incredulous frown. “How cute. Was that your carney midget father’s brainstorm or your mother’s idea, the bearded lady? And what’s the ‘R’ for — Runt?”

  From behind, Rillie says, “Oh, shit!”

  I guessed right about flying fists. He comes up with a pretty fair uppercut. His quickness catches me off guard.

  I step back but run into Rillie before I’m far enough to avoid the full blow. His knuckles catch the edge of my chin, and it hurts like hell.

  He follows with a roundhouse left. The guy is good. His meaty paw is large for his height. His fist glances off my bicep as I block, but it catches me in the ribs. That punch puts stars before my eyes.

  I return with a snap-kick to his groin, but he’s ready. He twists to the side, blocking with his own thigh.

  I’m impressed.

  Time to regroup. I’m thinking I’d like to push off the outside door and fly at him, but Rillie is still behind me. I chide myself for being unprepared as I step backward again, pushing Rillie into the closed entryway.

  I can’t help but admire this railroad bull. He’s tough, and he doesn’t jaw-jack about it, he just acts. Still, he doesn’t like Doc.

  “You’d better back off,” I tell Dye. “Or you’ll regret it for the rest of a very short life.”

  Out of the side of my mouth, I tell Rillie in a low voice, “When I tell you, shove me as hard as you can.”

  I feel Rillie’s foot on my butt after I turn back to the little man. I’m not giving her more than a foot of room, so I’m sure she must be as limber as a circus contortionist — that’s a titillating thought. But the image that pops into my head is distracting in a particularly unpalatable way; Rillie, the beautiful rubber girl, standing between the detective’s midget father and his bearded-lady mother. That mental picture I don’t need right now.

  “Threatening an officer of the law?” Dye grumbles.

  I answer, “Let’s put it this way, you’ll never sucker punch me again. I gave you two strikes.” I don’t tell him that he got the strikes for disliking my father and not for punching me twice. “One more swing and I’m up to bat.”

  Without hesitation, he comes at me like some kind of ninja hamster. I’ve never faced anyone so fast. And his short but powerful punches are real whoppers.

  This time, I’m busy blocking, his fists and feet flying at me. Hamster, hell, he’s like an octopus armed with rotor tillers.

  “Now!” I yell out, and Rillie answers with one hell of a shove.

  I’d underestimated Rillie’s strength, as well. I’m vaulted inside the railroad dick’s punches so hard, I bowl him over and to the floor. I’m on top of him in an instant. Standing little chance wrestling my thick-muscled adversary, I somersault off him, back onto my feet on the other side and then give a smile to the four other office workers at their desks ogling back at me.

  When I turn toward him, he stands, and I give him a snap-kick to the face. I don’t wish to kill this man and end up back in prison, so I ensure my effort doesn’t strike him in the bridge of the nose. My toe lands squarely on his cheek, and I snap it back and return it into his chest, then again into his gut and a fourth kick into his groin — all within two seconds.

  As he collapses to the floor, Rillie picks up a three-foot pipe wrench leaning against the wall, and she steps up behind him.

  Dye is somehow able to raise his head, preparing to get to his feet, but Rillie rears back the long steel tool and whacks him on top of the brain cage.

  I cringe. That blow alone could have killed a normal man. But this guy’s about as normal as a three-peckered billy goat—and every bit as tenacious. He’s shaking the blow off, his eyes fluttering.

  I point at him and order, “Stay down!”

  He’s putting his feet underneath himself to stand when Rillie swings the big adjustable plumber’s wrench a second time.

  Chapter 4

  Stepping in Chicken Schmidt

  I frowned at her as Officer R. Yule Dye’s face hit the floor. “Damn, Rillie, don’t kill him.”

  “It’d take a hell of a lot more to kill this bastard,” she answered. “A hobo worked him over with a buggy bar for a full thirty seconds last year. Got the whole incident on one of the yard cameras. They counted twenty hits. Dye came back at the dumb tramp, broke his neck and threw him in front of a moving box car.” She worked her jaw muscles as she stood over him. “And he hates your dad. He and Doc mix like piss and gear grease.”

  Just because someone didn’t get along with my father, maybe even hated him, didn’t mean they were a bad person — just maybe as bullheaded as he is.

  A voice from behind me shouted, “Stop!”

  I turned to look down the barrel of a 9mm Glock in the hand of a sandy-haired man of about forty.

  “Oh, put the gun down, Jones,” Rillie said. “You saw him. He swung first. He could have killed E Z.”

  I realized who the guy was by a few things my father had told me about the place. This man was the trainmaster and part owner of the Colorado Western Express short-line railroad, Big Deal Dill Jones.

  “E Z?” Jones’ eyes got big, now. “Doc Knight’s son? Well, well, well.”

  Those were not good “wells”. My father had definitely made an impression here at Slaughterhouse.

  Big Deal Jones asked, “What the hell you doing bringing this asshole here, Rillie?”

  “He brought me,” Rillie said. “He needs information.”

  “Doc Knight’s son won’t get shit here,” Big Deal said.

  I told him, “I’ve already gotten shit here. And considering your breath, I’d guess that’s all you’ll give me.”

  The two women and two men sitting behind computers at their desks still gazed at me, astonished.

  One of the office pogues was a small bald man of about fifty. He left his desk and stepped up to Jones from behind.

  After shoving a black dry-erase marker into Big Deal’s side, the clerk said, “Go ahead and give me a reason to use this, Big Dill-do.” His voice was deep but oddly feminine.

  It must have been the blizzard. The entire yard office seemed to have gone stir crazy while waiting out the storm. But the small man’s bluff worked.

  Big Deal Jones opened his gun hand and raised the other. He asked El Marko man, “Where’d you get the gun?”

  Before he answered, I stepped up quickly and took the firearm away from Jones.

  My little ally began a loud cackle that got incredibly annoying after about three seconds. He swiped Big Deal Jones across his top lip with the strong-smelling marker, and then slipped it into Jones’ shirt pocket, making a wide, black line from his shoulder down his otherwise spotless, white shirt.

  “From my pen cup,” the brave little guy answered.

  The other three office workers chuckled.

  I put Big Deal’s handgun under my belt. “I’ll hold onto this until the Long Branch settles down some.”


  “I’m the train order clerk and operator, Chic Schmidt,” the small, thin man said. “Friends just call me Chic.”

  “Chickadee Schmidt,” Jones said. “Chicken Shit, that’s what Big Deal calls him.”

  “Like I say,” Chic answered, and held his hand out. “Friends call me Chic. This SOB is the trainmaster, Dill Jones — likes to be called Big Deal — and always talks in third person. He’s more like a bad deal to me.”

  “Big Deal’s gonna fire you someday, you little transvestite. If Big Deal gets a friendly witness in here, your union can’t say shit.”

  “See what I mean?” Chic said, ignoring him. “I’m building a discrimination case against the dumb bastard, and he doesn’t give a damn. That’s how smart he is, Mr. Knight. When I get ready, I’m going to sue his ass and go to Trinidad to finish my sex change with the lottery winnings.”

  “Sounds like a man with a plan. But it’s E Z Knight, not ‘mister’,” I said and shook Chic’s proffered hand. “Just E Z to you.”

  “Some fancy kickin’ there, E Z,” Chic said. “Ol’ Dye’s gonna seriously hate your guts when he comes to and sees all those bruises on his face. For an ugly guy, he sure thinks he’s pretty — he’ll flex and pose at a water puddle.”

  “I need some information,” I told Chic. “Mind if I ask you a few questions?”

  Big Deal interrupted, “I’m the damn trainmaster. You ask questions here, you ask me.”

  Chic offered us a couple of seats next to his desk, still ignoring Big Deal. He sat down and said, “So, lookin’ for Doc, I’ll bet.” He crossed his legs tight and rubbed his chin.

  I never understood how some guys could do that — put one thigh over the other while sitting up. I mean; when I cross my legs, the best I can do is put one shin over the other knee — and I’m pretty flexible. If I even thought of crossing my legs like Chic’s, they’d hear my nuts crack in Nebraska. But I remembered Big Deal called him a transvestite and even Chic said something about finishing his sex change. I didn’t want to think about what might be going on under his pants.