by Monte Schulz
“So I noticed.”
“Now, don’t say I ain’t warned you. ’Night, boys.”
“Good night.”
When he heard the porter open the washroom door, Alvin switched on the berth light and grabbed a handful of the bills lying on the blanket. He riffled through them, counting haphazardly. “We got better’n two hundred bucks here.”
The dwarf switched the light off. “It’s three hundred and seventy-three even, and it’s not ours, it’s mine. I won it fair and square.”
“Says you,” Alvin replied, still holding a handful of bills. “I ain’t had this much cash-money in my whole life. Where’d you steal it?”
“I just told you, I won it playing thirteen unusually trying hands of Fargo Pete with some very sneaky cardsharks back there in the clubcar. In fact, I was fully prepared to be murdered by them when the game was over. A thoroughly nasty fellow named Patch was quite upset with me for emptying his pockets. It’s a wonder I survived.” The dwarf reached for the money. “Here, give it to me.”
Alvin snatched it away. The dwarf lunged across the bed and grabbed at the dollar bills in Alvin’s hands, but he was too slow and the farm boy tucked them under his pillow.
“I’ll ring for the porter,” the dwarf warned.
“Aw, be a sport. Let me have some of it.”
“Why should I? You didn’t win it, I did.”
“Don’t be stingy. I ain’t feeling good.” His pillow was half-drenched in fever sweat.
“Listen here, if you return it to me,” the dwarf said, “I’ll give you a share.”
“Oh yeah?” Alvin coughed. “How much?”
“I won’t say until I have it all back.”
The train passed a crossroad, bells clanging in the dark. Another prairie town briefly lit the upper berth as the Pullman swayed gently. Reluctantly, the farm boy shoved his handful of bills back to the dwarf. “Well, you better not leave me flat, you old skinflint. Remember, if it wasn’t for me, you wouldn’t even been on this train tonight.”
“Thank you. Now, if you’re truly feeling ill, perhaps we ought to call for a doctor.”
Alvin shook his head. “There ain’t nothing wrong with me. It’s just allergies.”
“Oh, I doubt that very much. You’ve been under the weather for weeks now and I’m quite worried. It’s obvious you’re not well.”
“If you say so.”
“Look, there’s no sense in avoiding a fact of health. You’re not afraid of doctors, are you?”
“No!” Alvin scowled. “And there ain’t nothing wrong me, neither. So why don’t you just tell me how you won that dough?”
Collecting the bills together one by one, the dwarf replied, “I told you, it was Fargo Pete.”
“What the hell’s that?”
“A card game, you ninny! The rules are quite involved, otherwise I’d teach them to you.” Rascal began counting up his money in the dark. “As a child, I used to play for hours on end. I’m an expert Fargo Pete player.”
“Maybe we ought to try a hand or two.”
The dwarf stifled a laugh. “That’s precious.”
“Huh?”
“When I was eleven years old, I suffered an awful spell of rheumatism and had to be confined to bed for a week. This was the middle of July, so the upstairs of our house was terribly hot, and, of course, the rheumatism gave me quite a high fever and dreadful sweats and I couldn’t move a muscle without enduring the worst pain imaginable. Auntie shifted my bed under the dormer where a breeze provided some comfort. She and Miss Evalena from next door administered salicylate of soda every two or three hours with buttermilk and Dover’s powder at night and wrapped up my legs in cotton-batting to ease the horrid inflammation. It was quite hellish, I assure you—that is, until I was paid a visit by the sweetest angel in God’s creation. Dear little Betsy Bennett was new to Hadleyville and had no friends before we were introduced to each other by Auntie and Mrs. Bennett, who’d chanced to strike up a conversation at the grocery store. She wore blue gingham and corkscrew curls and a yellow ribbon in her hair and had read every volume of Chatterbox I owned, cover to cover. Betsy was the most remarkable child I’d ever met. Naturally, we became great friends. It was she who taught me how to play Fargo Pete, and I must admit that when it came time for Betsy to go home, I was forced to give her my favorite savings bank as penalty for all the tricks I lost. Even so, the very next morning she returned with a basket of hot cinnamon buns and a pair of loaded dice with which she allowed me to reclaim the penny bank. Wasn’t that lovely? All week long we shared my buttermilk and told each other riddles and quoted poems and jingles from St. Nicholas. She read to me from Marjorie-Joe and I read to her out of Tales of the Days of Chivalry and The Little Colonel. I taught her sailor’s knots and Indian cures and she showed me how to darn my own stockings and to say ‘Merry Christmas’ to the deaf. Why, I believe it may have been the grandest time I ever knew as a child, despite my painful rheumatism. Unfortunately, Mrs. Bennett was called away by relatives to the mines in California. The last I heard from dear Betsy was a Christmas card she mailed from a tiny gold town in the mountains. She wrote that it had been snowing for a week and she’d seen a bear in the woods behind her house that very morning.”
Bells clanged at a crossroads and Alvin heard the salesman across the aisle begin snoring once again. In the dark corridor below, the porter passed by whistling to himself. Rascal folded open the curtain to stop him. The dwarf said, “I’m terribly hungry.”
The porter cracked a grin. “Don’t I know it.”
“I’d like a meat sandwich and a glass of lemonade.”
“Well, sir, don’t know’s I could do that. Kitchen’s closed for the night, but I believe the candybutcher’s catnapping in the dining car right now and I guess he might have you a snack if you can wake him.”
“Splendid! How do I get there?”
“Just follow this aisle ahead through the vestibule to the next car.”
The porter pointed to the rear of the Pullman. “Go through that one, too, and there she’ll be.”
“Wonderful! Thank you very much.”
“Yes, sir.”
The porter walked off.
Alvin said, “I ain’t a-going with you. I’m waiting for breakfast.”
“I don’t recall extending the invitation,” replied the dwarf, struggling to re-tie his shoes.
Across the aisle, a thin fellow in nightclothes parted his curtain. “Shhhh! Trying to sleep here.”
“Sorry,” Alvin whispered, as the dwarf jumped down into the aisle and hustled off.
“Harold! It’s him again!”
“Who?”
“That awful little man!”
The farm boy quickly tied his shoes and slid down off the upper berth into the darkened aisle, landing with a loud thud. At once, several people rang for the porter. Murmuring apologies as he went along, the farm boy chased after the dwarf.
A crowd of men in gray wool flannel suits stood in the drafty vestibule smoking cigarettes and sharing conversation with a pair of conductors. Alvin nodded as he came through. Before he reached the door to the next Pullman car, one of the conductors grabbed his shoulder. “Hold on there, young fellow.”
“Huh?”
“Do you have a ticket for that car?”
Alvin felt his face flush. “No, sir.”
“Well, then, you can’t go in there. These cars are fully engaged.”
Through the glass, Alvin saw somebody come out of the men’s smoking room in the next Pullman. The rhythmic click-clack-click-clack of the gently swaying train vibrated underfoot. The farm boy told the conductor, “I ain’t feeling too good. I need something to eat.”
“Well, son, I’m afraid it’s a little late for that. The diner’s been closed for hours now.”
One of the men piped up, “Oh, Wilbur, don’t be a stiff. Let the poor kid through. The swells won’t mind. Look how skinny he is. It’s obvious he hasn’t eaten in a week. Say, I’ll bet Olli
e’d set him up to a wienie sandwich in half a shake.”
The stocky man smoking a cigarette beside him added, “Why, sure he would. And probably throw in a cup of coffee, too, for a folksy young fellow like this.”
“I ain’t no hick,” said Alvin, his blood rising. As the train swayed, everyone in the vestibule steadied his balance and a touch of vertigo chased behind the farm boy’s eyes.
“Do you hear that, Wilbur?” a third gentleman chimed in. “This boy’s not some sap from blind baggage. He’s an earnest young fellow who won’t let you put it all over him just to keep this railroad running on routine lines. If he’s sick like he says he is, why not do the fair square thing and let him by? A fellow shouldn’t need a lounge suit to get a sandwich.”
“Let him through, Wilbur,” said the other conductor. “The railroad won’t go belly-up on account of a hungry kid.”
“Well, I couldn’t stand the gaff if it did,” Wilbur said, stepping aside to allow Alvin by. “All right, then. Go ahead, son. Have yourself a sandwich, but be quick about it. I’ll be through that car in another quarter of a hour, so there’d better not be any monkey business.”
“Thanks.”
Crossing the threshold, Alvin heard a round of laughter behind him and felt humiliated. Gasbags! Why had that rattlebrained conductor allowed the dwarf to slip by so easily? It wasn’t at all fair. He entered the men’s washroom and used the toilet. Checking himself in the mirror afterward, his face appeared waxy and sallow. He hadn’t any idea he looked so awful. Alvin felt the train rumble under his feet and heard the clanging at another crossroad. He washed his hands, dried them off, and went back out into the empty aisle again in time to see the lights of a Dixie filling station disappear into the darkness. Alvin heard laughter from a compartment near the end of the car. He walked quietly along the aisle to drawing room “A,” found the electric light on and the door cracked open, and stole a peek inside. The brunette from the station platform, now wearing a gold kimono, winked at him, then called to someone out of Alvin’s view, “Oh, Clarence dear, it seems we have company.”
The farm boy backed up into the aisle, flushed with embarrassment. Then the door swung open wide and Chester appeared in a blue flannel robe, holding a plate with a cheese sandwich and a stack of crackers. Seeing Alvin, he broke into a wide grin. “Well, what do you know? Hiya, kid!”
He leaned forward and grabbed Alvin by the elbow and dragged him into the drawing room and shut the door. “Honey, meet Melvin. Kid, say hello to Alma.”
Gardenia perfume wafted up as the brunette offered Alvin her hand. “Evening, dear.”
The farm boy shook her hand politely. “Hello.”
Chester grinned. “Melvin’s a corking athlete, footballer with the college at Lincoln.”
“You don’t say?” she giggled, nudging a soft brown curl off her eyebrow. “Why, he doesn’t look at all the sort. He seems like an awful softie and those freckles are so boyish.”
Alvin blushed to see her study him like she did. He still thought she was swell, and he’d lay her in nothing flat if he had the chance. Chester sat down and took a bite of his sandwich. The green carpet was littered with cracker crumbs and Alvin smelled liquor.
Chester laughed. “Well, I tell you, he’s as rough as they come. Aren’t you, kid?”
The farm boy shrugged. He knew how haggard and pale he looked, but what could he do about it? Truth was, he felt even worse. God, how he hated being sick.
Chester went on, “You bet he is! Why, the papers in Lincoln say he’s another Red Grange, and I don’t doubt it for a minute. Anyone who knows his football can tell he’s got the stuff.”
The brunette slipped a silver hipflask out from the folds of her gold kimono, took a sip, and giggled again. “Well, what’s a hero like you doing riding a train in the middle of the night? Shouldn’t you be in a gymnasium somewhere doing calisthenics or throwing a medicine ball around with the other boys on the team?”
“Sure, I guess so,” Alvin stammered weakly, trying his best to play along. “I just ain’t thought that much about it. Nobody told me what to do today, so soon as my feet started itchin’, I went and got on the train.” He summoned a feeble smile. Lying didn’t seem that tough, anymore.
Chester drew a bottle of Canadian whiskey from his handbag and filled a shotglass on the table beside him. “What he means to say, darling, is that he thinks school’s for the birds. Melvin’s commercial, see, and he’s gotten up a meeting to try for a professional team in St.
Louis and believes he can cinch a job so long as his mother doesn’t find out. She’s something of a trueblood Christer from a rock farm down by Abilene, and more than anything in the world she wants Melvin to get ducked before she passes on to her reward. He’s still got a raft of faith in the Old Book, of course, and the importance of church fellowship and all, but he can’t just chuck everything to take a swim for Jesus. Well, at any rate, as you can see, the poor kid’s feeling awful bum about it.” Alvin saw the pretty brunette staring at him, a bright twinkle in her eye as she took another sip from the silver hipflask. He felt a slight chill from his fever and had to steady himself.
Alma said, “Why, I’ll bet you a cookie that Melvin’s mommy is darned proud of her boy even if he isn’t a Sunday School teacher.” She offered Alvin her hipflask. “Here, honey, have a jolt. It’ll help. Honest.”
Chester grabbed her wrist. “Don’t tempt him, sweetheart. When I met Melvin in the lunchroom of that rube burg this morning, I could see the poor fellow was already about to crack. Why, he almost fainted in his eggs, didn’t you, kid?”
“Sure I did.” The farm boy noticed that the brunette’s kimono had parted above the waist giving him a discreet peek at one of her pale pink breasts. Suddenly he felt flushed, and stifled a cough even as his peenie stiffened.
Alma frowned. “Gee, honey, that’s awful! Maybe you hadn’t ought to’ve taken that church dope so hard. My momma, bless her heart, baked peach pies for twenty-two years at the Methodist fair back in Kimball and never took her eye off the pulpit until Reverend Waller called her down one Sunday evening for sneaking a gallon of sweet-wine into the punch, and him, that mucker, with a cocktail shaker in his office closet and Mabel Hutchins from the choir waiting up in the attic. Poor Momma came home fussing that Reverend Waller didn’t have any call to bawl her out like he did, and if the Lord only asked temperance of the congregation, well, forget it! And I tell you, honey, Momma never went back. If you ask me, all religious folks are crabs.”
Chester downed his whiskey with a smile. “Gee, that’s a swell story, sweetheart, but would you mind awfully taking a smoke in the toilet? Melvin and I have a few things to talk over and that means man to man, darling, get what I mean?” He walked over and opened the door to the washroom annex and jerked his thumb at her to get up.
“Clarence, honey, you know I told you I don’t smoke.”
“Well, this is as good a time as any to get the habit.” He tossed her a package of Chesterfields from the table. “Here, now beat it.”
“Hey!”
He grabbed her harshly and gave her a kiss on the lips. When Chester stepped back again, the brunette was smiling. He said to her, “You love me, don’t you, darling?”
“Honey, I’d give you a clout in the head if you weren’t so nice to pat.” She wiggled her fingers at the farm boy. “Toodle-loo, Melvin.”
After the toilet door closed, Chester dragged Alvin over to the window and sat down in front of him. “She’s a peacherino, isn’t she?”
He nodded. “She’s slick, all right.”
Chester clucked his tongue. “Dumb as a cow, though. For two hours now she’s been gassing about some fellow her sister’s going with and how he bought her a new electric refrigerator.” Chester poured another shot of Canadian whiskey and drank it in one gulp. Then he took a cigarette from his robe and lit up. Flicking the spent match onto the table, he told Alvin, “Look here, you boys are going to ride through to Omaha, then change trains t
o the Missouri Pacific. I need to run in on someone tomorrow morning at Council Bluffs, so I won’t be traveling with you after tonight. When you get to Icaria, there’s a flophouse on Third Street owned by a fellow named Spud Farrell. He’ll hire you a room for the week. Pay him cash-money. He’s an old hellcat, so he’ll give you the lowdown on the smart neighborhoods and where the best eats are. If you like, you and the midget can give the circus a once-over before I get there on Saturday. Just don’t go till after dark. I’ll be staying at the Belvedere Hotel. That’s downtown on Main. I’ll telephone to Spud when my train gets in. He’ll let you know I arrived. All right?”
“Sure.”
“Tell the midget if he does anything to put this job on the fritz, I’ll pop him so hard he’ll need Western Union to tell you good morning.”
The farm boy coughed into his fist, then nodded. “I was out looking for him when I walked by your door and seen that girl sitting here. I ain’t exactly sure where he is right now.”
“I just saw him back there in the smoker playing cards with a flock of bond salesmen. What’ll you bet he’ll have ’em all busted by midnight?”
As the train passed another crossroad, Alvin heard the girl humming a few bars of jazz in the toilet. Her voice was wonderfully clear and lovely. Chester listened briefly, then took a drag off the cigarette and stood up. Somebody buzzed insistently to enter another drawing room back up the darkened aisle.
Chester told Alvin, “All right, you better scram now and get your sleep. You’re not looking that fresh and there’s a little song sparrow next door waiting for me to love her up.” He led the farm boy to the compartment door. “So long, kid.”
Leaving the drawing room, the farm boy bumped straight into the conductor who had blocked him back at the vestibule. One glance at Alvin and the conductor’s face went sour. “You? Why, I shoulda—”
“Awww, keep your shirt on, pal,” Alvin growled, squeezing past. “I’m beating it already!”
At Icaria, the train station was located in a section of town that had run down when the Singer Sewing Machine Company quit its thread mill contract and the labor turnover sent hundreds to public charity and pauper funds. Worn-out plank sidewalks led from the noisy Missouri Pacific locomotives and the crowded depot, past a potato warehouse and a grimy brickyard and a packing plant into the pathetic neighborhood of scratch houses and shiftlessness. A sudden cloudburst had descended upon Icaria earlier that week, drenching the old dirt roads to mud. Sewer drainage by the train district was dismal, too, the oily stench nauseating as the farm boy and the dwarf carried their suitcases past a row of shabby Negro residences and across the railroad tracks toward Third Street. They stopped for a few minutes to watch a freight train going back light to Kansas City. Sooty-eyed men stared at them from empty Illinois Central boxcars and sagging tarpaper cookshacks. Gray clouds were scattered about the late morning sky and the day was cool. A quarter mile past the tracks, a collection of broken-down flivvers crowded the yard of a squat framehouse on Clover Lane across the road from a blacksmith shop and a closed millinery. On a plank fence next to the elm-shrouded house, billposters had pasted a bright colorful notice for Emmett J. Laswell’s Traveling Circus Giganticus. According to the advertisement, all the tent shows would open after the street parade on Friday. That meant this afternoon.