“Alright,” she said. “How long will you be gone?”
“That depends on the hearing,” he said. “I’ll call.”
Hook bought tickets from a lady who looked remarkably like Bette Davis. Then Hook, Seth, and Oatney waited on the bench outside. Seth had shaved and slicked back his hair, and Oatney had applied a fresh run of lipstick.
They drank colas and smoked cigarettes, and, when the bus sent a cloud of dust up in the distance, Oatney dropped her arm over Seth’s shoulder. She looked back at the fort.
“I’m going to miss those boys,” she said.
“Not as much as they’ll miss you,” Seth said.
Hook took an inside seat in the bus and dropped the window against the staleness. Moving from one place to another had always represented a beginning for him, a chance to start anew. But this time a knot drew tight in his stomach. Leaving Andrea behind did not sit well with his conscience.
A lot of people died in that fire in Barstow, unexplained even now, and then Elizabeth and Frankie were killed on his watch. He didn’t believe in coincidence. Not that it was impossible, but he’d placed enough bets to know that odds mattered.
The bus traveled north through the Cherokee Outlet, a land void of all but the occasional ranch or the town drawn by little more than a railroad track or water well or dirt intersection. People sat in the shade to watch the bus roll in, a point marked in lives otherwise vacant.
Seth slept in his seat, rest that had eluded him in the night hours at the asylum, and he snored quietly. Oatney studied the landscape and dug objects from her purse. The bus driver, a man who wore sunglasses, checked his passengers through the mirror and ate peanuts from a bag he kept on the dash.
When they came into the Wichita station, they waited for their luggage to be unloaded and then stood about as if looking for instructions. Finally Hook checked the schedule, Oatney having yet to decide her destination, and reported that Seth had a two-hour layover and that he had one.
Seth and Oatney were waiting in the coffee shop.
“What are we going to do in the meantime?” Seth asked.
“Well,” Oatney said. “There’s always church services.”
“Or we could have a drink,” Hook said.
“I went to church once,” Seth said. “I prayed not to get shot in the war. I’m voting for a drink.”
Oatney applied a new layer of lipstick and dropped the tube into her purse.
“Well, I’m voting for church services. But it’s two to one, so I guess I lose.”
“We could have a cocktail in the bar,” Seth said.
“Or a fifth for half the price,” Hook said.
“But where would we drink it?” Seth asked.
“In a patch of sunlight,” Hook said. “It’s a fine day to enjoy nature.”
“Who’s going to go get it?” Oatney asked.
Hook held up his prosthesis. “I’m disabled.”
“And I have night terrors,” Seth said. “And a Purple Heart.”
“And I’m screwed again,” Oatney said, gathering up the money.
Oatney returned with a fifth of whiskey in her purse. They hung their luggage over their arms and convened in an alley down the street.
Hook unscrewed the cap and gave it the sniff test. “Like taking the gas cap off a John Deere tractor,” he said, handing the bottle to Oatney.
Oatney took a pull, her eyes tearing. “I prefer church,” she said. “Though we are all called upon for sacrifices now and again.”
Seth tipped the bottle. Wiping his mouth with his sleeve, he shook his head.
“Like being hit with a Mauser shell,” he said. “Only more so.”
Hook took his turn. “I’m not one to drink without the blessings of nature about me,” he said.
Seth lit a cigarette and sat down on his luggage. Oatney hiked her leg on the curb, bracing her arm on her knee.
“I think I was here once,” she said.
Hook leaned against the wall, which now sidled a little to the north.
“It’s a well-known fact that a bottle of whiskey can evaporate by as much as a third on a hot day in Kansas.”
“Put your thumb over it,” Seth said.
Hook held up his prosthesis. “I don’t have one.”
Seth took the bottle. “It’s a goddang shame a man can’t provide a thumb when it’s called for.”
“I knew a man in Fort Worth had a thumb long as a thunder lizard,” Oatney said.
“Thunder lizards don’t have thumbs,” Hook said.
“Neither do yard dogs,” Seth said.
By the end of the hour, the empty bottle sat between them on the curb. Hook watched his bus pull in.
“Guess it’s time,” he said. “See you folks down line.”
“So long,” Seth said.
Oatney gave him a hug. “You ever want a job, let me know.”
Hook sat on the seat behind the bus driver, who had a dot of shaving soap behind his ear. As the bus pulled out, he could see Seth and Oatney still sitting on the curb. Seth gave him thumbs up as the bus pulled away.
33
Hook stood under the hot shower washing away the grime of the bus. The board had set the hearing for ten in the morning. He’d hardly had time to consider the possibilities. He’d done his job as best he could, but sometimes things happened in the field that couldn’t be understood from behind a desk.
He sat on the edge of the bed and watched a neon light flick on and off across the street. A siren eased away in the distance. He dialed the operator and asked for the fort. With luck, they would have the phones up by now.
Roy answered. “Baldwin Asylum,” he said.
“This is Hook, Roy. I want to talk to Andrea.”
“Hook who?” he asked.
“How many Hooks do you know?”
“Too goddang many,” he said.
“Damn it, Roy, go get Andrea.”
“She’s showing Shorty how to keep that inmate in cell two from biting off your finger when you give him meds.”
Hook paused. “How do you do that?”
“Push his cheek in between his teeth with your finger. Works like a goddang charm.”
“Go get Andrea, Roy.”
“Right,” he said.
Andrea came on the line out of breath. “Hi,” she said. “You made it?”
“Made it,” he said.
“What about Seth and Oatney?”
“Yeah. We all made it. Oatney decided to stay in Wichita.
He rubbed at the stubble on his chin. He’d have to shave before the hearing.
“Doctor Baldwin’s doctor called,” she said. “He wants to talk to you.”
“Me?”
“He said it was urgent.”
“Baldwin’s still in the hospital?”
“No visitors. I think he has something contagious.”
“I will be here after the hearing.”
“I miss you,” she said.
“I’ll be back soon.”
“Breaking in these new people has me worn out,” she said. “They keep thinking things should be rational.”
“They’ll get over that. I’ll call after the hearing. You can call me, too, if you take a notion,” he said, giving her his number.
“I will,” she said. “Good luck. I’ll be thinking of you.”
They held the hearing in a room the size of an out house. The supervisor sat at the head of the table, flanked by three men with note pads. Hook took his seat at the end, placing his prosthesis in his lap.
The supervisor cleared his throat. “Thank you for coming, Mr. Runyon. I assume you know why you’re here?”
Hook nodded but waited while the supervisor read the charges.
“You understand the seriousness of these allegations?”
The other men turned to their notepads.
“Yes,” he said, wishing he could have a cigarette.
“You understand that another Brownie could force your dismissal?”
“It’s true I didn’t get the truck cleared of the tracks. I was in pursuit, and it was dark. That bo had been cracking sealed cars up and down the line. He needed to be apprehended. Had I taken time to check on your truck, he would have been long gone. Having him on the loose would have cost Uncle John a hell of a lot more than that worn-out truck.”
The man on the left said, “It might have been an entire work train derailed. Had you thought about that?”
“There’s a time for thinking in this business,” Hook said. “But it’s rarely when in pursuit.”
“We understand the nature of your work, Mr. Runyon, and that there’s a certain element of risk involved. The problem here is that the foreman claims he could smell alcohol on you that night.”
“That bo had been drinking Thunderbird down at the livestock pens.”
The man on the supervisor’s right laid down his pencil.
“You’re denying you had anything to drink that night?”
“I’m not saying I don’t have a drink off duty now and then. But I don’t drink on the job, not ever.”
“Is there anything you’d like to add?” the supervisor asked.
Hook looked at the blank pad they’d placed in front of him. “You have to understand that in this job, there’s a trade-off between risk and success. There’s never one without the other. A man unwilling to risk when it’s called for will never catch a bo or stop a thief.”
The supervisor said, “Is that your defense?”
“That’s the truth.”
“Thank you, Mr. Runyon. Now, if you’ll wait outside, we’ll consider the facts and then let you know our decision.”
Hook smoked a cigarette and walked the hall. He’d never really thought that much about what he’d do if he wasn’t a railroad bull. As far as most jobs went, having only one arm closed a hell of a lot of doors. Though he had a bent for books, his education was minimal. With his beat-up mug, he doubted there would be many openings in Hollywood. Maybe he’d just go on the bum again. He knew that world best of all, knew how to survive when others couldn’t.
When they called him in, the supervisor asked him to take a seat.
“We’ve considered your case, Mr. Runyon. We believe that there is insufficient evidence to charge you with drinking on the night in question. That portion of the allegations will be dismissed.
“However, it’s clear you were negligent with company equipment; consequently, your continued employment with the railroad will be contingent on reimbursement for the truck. Your first payment is due immediately.
“Now, before you respond, I want it understood that you are walking a thin line here. It’s only the exemplary way you solved the case in the Alva POW camp a time back that allows us to be this lenient.
“Is there anything you’d like to say?”
“No,” Hook said.
“Good day, then. I trust we’ll not be hearing from you again.”
Hook lay in his bed and considered the injustice of having to pay for a wrecked truck. The first payment had taken a sizeable chunk out of an already-meager budget. He barely had enough discretionary funds to buy a few books. He should have told them what they could do with their truck, the problem being that he loved this damn job. In another life he would have been a gypsy or desert nomad. A life on the rails came as close to that as he could get.
When the phone rang, adrenaline shot through him like electricity. He found the phone hidden beneath a stack of clothes.
“Hello.”
“Mr. Runyon?”
“Yes,” he said. “This is Hook.”
“This is Doctor Anderson.”
“Who?”
“Anderson. Doctor Baldwin’s physician.”
“Oh, yes.”
“I’m phoning you as an objective third party and, frankly, because of your association with the justice system. You see, I have decided to quarantine Doctor Baldwin.”
“Doctor Baldwin has a contagious disease?”
“Not exactly,” he said. “This has been a very perplexing case.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I’ve run every test I can think of and have been unable to diagnose his problem. I don’t quite know how to say this, but I suspect that he might be addicted to chloral hydrate.”
“Doctor Baldwin?”
“It’s commonly administered to mental patients and can be addictive. Doctor Baldwin’s symptoms are compatible with this sort of addiction, and it would be readily available to him. He strongly denies it of course. A quarantine should force the issue.”
Hook listened to the buzz on the line, or was it in his head?
“His condition hasn’t improved?”
“To the contrary. I suspect he still has access to the drug. That’s why the quarantine.”
“Thank you for calling, Doctor. I’ll keep in touch.”
When he awoke, he was still in his clothes, and the morning sun had edged into the window. He’d spent a long time in the night trying to put Baldwin’s situation into some kind of perspective. Baldwin’s situation just didn’t fit what he knew about addiction, which was admittedly limited. He knew a hell of a lot more about winos than doctors taking chloral hydrate.
He showered and ordered a pot of coffee and a newspaper from room service. A used bookstore had a fifty-percent sale advertised in the paper. Maybe he could work it in. One of the things he’d learned in the detective business was that when he came up against a wall, it was almost always better to walk around it.
He’d have to be selective with his book buys, which wasn’t his style, but he had damn little money left and no way of transporting a bunch of books around.
After his coffee, he called Eddie at Division.
“Division,” Eddie said.
“Hook here,” he said.
“You make that board hearing, Runyon?”
“Yeah,” he said. “I’m paying for their goddang truck.”
“Where are you now?”
“In Topeka, Eddie. That’s where the hearing was.”
“Don’t put that hotel room on the company dime, Runyon.”
“I wouldn’t think about it, Eddie.”
“We got problems out of El Paso,” he said. “Mexicans been hopping freighters north. Immigration is raising hell.”
“I’m tied up here, Eddie. I’ll catch the bus back to Fort Supply.”
“Why can’t you just hop a reefer train to El Paso?”
“Cause my caboose is sitting in a goddang pasture at Fort Supply.”
“You’re lucky they don’t can you, Runyon.”
“Send one of your new boys to El Paso. It would be damn good experience.”
Eddie cleared his throat. “I did. They found him in the desert with his jaw broke. Now the little prick is suing the company.”
“Tell Frenchy to come get my bouncer. He can connect me up with a reefer going south.”
“This ain’t your goddang private railroad, Runyon.”
“You want me in El Paso or not, Eddie?”
He could hear Eddie puffing on the other end of the line. “I’ll see if I can get something, but there’s a shortage of equipment, you know.”
“Believe me, I know.”
“And I want you ready to go when it gets there.”
“Sure, Eddie. I’ll be ready.”
Hook dressed and checked with the front desk about the location of the bookstore, which turned out to be within walking distance from the hotel. He needed time to think, and nothing provided that like a little book scouting.
The store, located next door to a Woolworth’s, turned out to be well stocked. It smelled of mold and paper, and the proprietor, an old lady with thinning hair, peered at him.
“We don’t take trade,” she said.
“Just browsing,” he said.
“No charge for that,” she said. “Though we’d be knee-deep in cash if we did.”
He worked his way through the stacks on his knees so he could scout the bottom
shelves. Within a couple hours, he’d found a half-dozen titles, realizing that even those were too many to lug about. Finally, he settled on The Heart Is a Lonely Hunter, by Carson McCullers. Not only was it a fine copy, but he had yet to read it. Perhaps it would take some of the pain out of the bus ride home.
The old lady pointed him to a restaurant down the street. “It don’t look like much, but the food’s good,” she said. “You come back. I don’t get many men readers.”
The waitress, thickened a little about the waist and wearing horn-rimmed glasses, slid the menu in front of him.
“Special’s meatloaf,” she said, taking her pencil from behind her ear.
“Is it good?” he asked.
“No, hon, it’s awful. That’s why we put it on special.”
He couldn’t afford to eat out after paying that fine, but a person had to live a little.
“That’s what I’ll have,” he said.
“A man who knows his mind,” she said, slipping the receipt book into her pocket. “The apple pie is terrible, too.”
“With cheddar,” he said.
When the meal arrived, he pushed back and waited as the waitress set the dishes in front of him. Steam rose from the meatloaf, which had been stacked to dangerously high levels and then topped with a red sauce. Brown gravy pooled in the mashed potatoes, and a slab of butter melted on the sourdough roll. There were green beans; a helping of corn, buttered and heavily peppered; and a serving of coleslaw swimming in cream.
When he’d finished, the waitress brought him a slice of Amish apple pie topped with a slab of cheddar cheese. She poured him black coffee, looking at him through the steam.
“How was it, hon?” she asked.
Hook dabbed at his mouth with his napkin. “Just awful,” he said.
She smiled and swept off to the next table.
That night he read awhile and then dozed. When he awoke, he sat up and leaned back against the headboard of his bed. The day’s distractions had cleared his head, like opening a window curtain and letting the sun shine in.
He lit a cigarette and talked himself through the scenarios. The one consistent element from the beginning had been Frankie Yager. There had not been a single incident in which he couldn’t have been directly involved. He figured Andrea was right. Frankie Yager wasn’t a planner. But now he was dead, and the bad luck continued. And why hadn’t anyone caught Frankie’s bogus employment application at Baldwin?
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