Let It Burn

by Steve Hamilton

“Cars and trains. My two passions. Would you mind if I ask you a couple of questions?”

  “Sure, go ahead.”

  “Is there someplace around here I can buy you a beer?”

  *

  I followed him to a place two blocks down the street. It was a workingman’s bar, for the rail workers and for the men who worked at the city’s truck garage right next door, too. A lot of steel-toed work boots had come through these doors.

  “So let me ask you something,” I said, when I’d set us both up. “What’s with your man, Mr. Maglie?”

  “Oh, he’s always been like that,” the man said. I hadn’t gotten his name yet. “You should have seen him before his wife came back.”

  “Someone came back to that?”

  “Imagine being that lonely, yeah.”

  “The people who ride the trains,” I said. “I was just wondering how that works, and I guess I must have hit a nerve.”

  “Yeah, I’d hate to be hitching a ride and run into Maglie, but you’re really not gonna see that kind of thing here anyway.”

  “Why not?”

  “It just doesn’t make sense. Trying to get through that fence, then pick out the right train … There’s too much going on here. Much better to let the train get on its way, so you know which direction it’s going in, then hop on later.”

  “So you’re saying you could hop on just about anywhere.”

  “No, that wouldn’t make any sense, either. Depending on what kind of load they’re carrying, these trains will get up to seventy miles an hour. You feel like trying to jump onto that?”

  “So where do they get on?”

  “They call it ‘catching out,’ by the way, but usually one of the small stations is your best bet. The trains will still come in slow. Sometimes they’ll even stop to switch out the crew or take on a new car or two. There’s a lot less security, plus you already know pretty much where the train is heading, because there’s not that much traffic. Hell, sometimes the crew will even tell you if you catch the right guy on the right day.”

  “Have you been that guy before?”

  “Maybe. Once upon a time. When I was working down the line.”

  “Maglie said these guys have to break into the helper locomotives now. That that’s the only way they can ride.”

  “He’s an idiot. It’s true there aren’t that many open boxcars anymore, but you’ve got the rear platforms of grain cars, you’ve got your empty slots in a car carrier. You can even lie down under a semi if it’s getting piggybacked. There’s all sorts of places you can ride, believe me. I admit, even though I’ve worked around trains all my life, I’ve often thought it might be a blast to just hop on and ride someday. See where I end up.”

  “Okay,” I said, “so here’s the big question. If I wanted to find someone who’s riding the rails, where would I go?”

  He looked at me. “You’re not really a train geek at all. This is why you’re buying me this beer.”

  “I think you got me,” I said, “but I did love your car.”

  That made him smile. “You could have asked me that from the beginning,” he said. “Because the answer is pretty simple. If someone is riding the rails, the only person in the world who’ll be able to find them is another person who’s also riding the rails. You’d be surprised at how fast word can get around. Especially if you put a little money behind it.”

  “So how do I find someone like that?”

  “Go to one of the smaller stations, like I said. Probably River Rouge is your best bet. Lots of trains, pretty much anything going south or east has to go through there. You should be able to find a rider if you look hard enough. Or find a worker who looks like he’s an easy touch. Like me. He’ll know where to send you.”

  “River Rouge,” I said. “I got it. Here’s the last question, I promise. This one’s the hardest yet.”

  “Shoot.”

  “Say I don’t want to get the word out. Say I want to find out what the word is that’s already gotten out.”

  “Come again?”

  “My guess is that somebody’s already done exactly what you’ve just described to me. He’s found out how to get a message down the line to someone on the rails.”

  “So you want to know what that message is. Even though it’s not a message for you.”

  “That’s about the size of it, yes.”

  “Well, remember how I said a little money would help?”

  “Yes.”

  “Just bring more. That’s the one thing these guys will always respond to.”

  I reached out and shook his hand.

  “Can’t tell you how much I appreciate it,” I said. “My name’s Alex, by the way.”

  “Jerry, and I wish you good luck. It sounds like you could use some.”

  “You can say that again.”

  I thanked him one more time. Then I went out, got in my truck, and headed downriver.

  *

  It’s called downriver, naturally, because the Detroit River flows south between Michigan and Canada, all the way to Lake Erie, and on the Michigan side you’ll find a set of suburbs that probably aren’t going to rival the French Riviera. The River Rouge cuts inland from the Detroit River, and it was once so polluted it caught on fire. I hear it’s a lot cleaner now, but as you cross the River Rouge you’ll still pick up the heavy smell of pig iron from the blast furnaces on Zug Island.

  I found the rail yard. My new friend was right—it was a lot smaller than Livernois. There were maybe a dozen tracks at its widest point, all running north and south, with plenty of freight cars standing by. Probably just enough to give a rider a little cover, without being an overwhelming jumble. The fence that ran along Haltiner Street had a token string of barbed wire on top, but I’m pretty sure I could have gotten over it myself if I had to.

  I knew better than to march through the front entrance and ask to see the head of security. Even if he didn’t turn out to be another Maglie, I had already learned my lesson about who to talk to. I found the main parking lot, across the street from the yard. A sign let me know that I’d be towed if I wasn’t there on official yard business, but I figured I could take my chances. I parked the truck and waited.

  Another human being, I thought. That’s all I need here. Funny how that’s a real commodity these days, no matter where you go.

  It was still the middle of the afternoon. Not exactly prime time for the men who worked in this yard to be coming out to their vehicles. Eventually, I did see two men walking across the street to the parking lot, but I didn’t get the right vibe from them. They both looked unhappy, like maybe they’d both just gotten fired. So I let them go without a word. About a half hour later, I saw another man. He looked a little happier, so I figured he was worth a shot.

  “Hey, hold up,” I said as I got out of the truck. “Can I ask you a quick question?”

  “Who are you?” He didn’t stop moving.

  “I just want to ask you a question. I’m a private investigator.”

  That usually gets people interested, at least, but this guy put it into a higher gear and practically jumped into his car. He sped off without so much as another glance in my direction.

  “Now that,” I said to myself, “is a man who’s expecting to be served with a summons any day now. Either that, or I’m a lot scarier than I think.”

  I got back in my truck and sat there for another hour. I had the windows rolled down and there was a nice breeze, but it was still my own version of hell, just sitting there and not accomplishing anything. Finally, I saw a car pull into the lot. A man got out. He didn’t look particularly unfriendly. As he was about to walk across the street, I got out to intercept him.

  “Hey there,” I said. “Sorry to bother you. Can I ask you something?”

  “I’m in a hurry here.”

  “Just one quick question?”

  “Sorry, pal.”

  “I’m a private investigator,” I said, deciding it was time to pull out all the stops if I didn’t w
ant to spend the rest of the day sitting here. “And I’ve got fifty bucks right here if you’ll answer one question.”

  That stopped him dead. He turned around.

  “What’s this about, pal?”

  I stepped closer to him. I opened my wallet and took out a fresh fifty-dollar bill.

  “One question,” I said, “and then I’ll let you go.”

  He looked at the fifty. I could tell he didn’t mind the sight of it.

  “I’m told that certain people hitch a ride on freight trains here,” I said. “I think they call it ‘catching out,’ right?”

  “That’s right.”

  A good sign, that he recognized the term.

  “Any chance you know where I could find these people?”

  “Anyone in particular?”

  “Well, I’m looking for one person, but I’d settle for anybody who could tell me if a message got sent down the line recently.”

  He nodded his head, then sneaked a look at the front entrance to the yard.

  “You know, catching a ride is trespassing,” he said, “and helping anyone catch a ride is grounds for getting your ass fired.”

  “Sounds like that’s none of my business,” I said. “None of Mr. Grant’s business, either.”

  He looked a little confused about that one, until he looked at the face on the bill.

  “Well, I may be able to put you in contact with someone,” he said. “If you give me a little while.”

  “How long’s a little while?”

  “There’s a train going out at nine thirty tonight. I’m guessing you might be able to talk to a couple of guys who just might be hitching a ride.”

  “That’s a long time to wait.”

  “That’s their train,” he said. “This isn’t Amtrak, in case you didn’t notice.”

  “I appreciate the help,” I said, giving him the bill. “Where do I meet these guys?”

  “Be back here in the lot at nine. I’ll set it up.”

  “I’ll be here.”

  “Oh,” he said, “and you might want to bring some more of those fifties.”

  *

  I grabbed something to eat. I sat in my truck and read the paper. I found a bar and watched the first two innings of the Tigers game. When I looked at my watch for the five hundredth time, I figured it was finally time to head back to the rail yard.

  The sun was down. It was a cool night, almost cold. I knew it was probably below freezing up in Paradise. A good night to be sitting by the fireplace at the Glasgow. So of course here I was, waiting to meet a couple of vagrants in River Rouge.

  I pulled into the lot. I sat there and waited for a while. The lights were on in the yard, and I could see a long train coming through. It didn’t stop. Not the train these guys were waiting for, I thought. It was only eight thirty.

  At eight forty-five, I saw my new friend walking across the street to the lot. He looked both ways on the street and then came over to my truck. I rolled down my window.

  “Evening, pal,” he said. “You got another fifty for me?”

  “I thought I already paid you.”

  “You paid me for the front end of the deal. I made the contact and arranged the meet. Now I need the back end.”

  “That doesn’t sound like two ends of anything,” I said, but I was already pulling out my wallet. I wasn’t about to see the whole day go down the drain over another fifty bucks.

  “You go down this street,” he said as he pocketed the bill. “Toward the southern end of the yard. There’s a street there called Emiline. On your right, you’ll see a boarded-up house. The guys hang out there until it’s time to jump the fence and get on board.”

  “How do I know you’re not just sending me down a dead end and pocketing a hundred dollars?”

  “You don’t,” he said. “Have a good night.”

  He left me and walked back across the road. I shook my head and started up the truck. When I pulled out and hit my lights, he gave me a little wave over his shoulder.

  I drove down the street, parallel to the fence line. I found Emiline Street about a quarter mile down. There was a boarded-up house on the corner, just as advertised. I pulled up in front and turned off the truck. I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to do next. Eventually, I got out and wandered around to the backyard of the house. I knew I was just over the Detroit line, but here was yet another house that had once held a family, with kids playing in the yard and a dad going off to work every day. The job disappeared and then so did the family. They couldn’t sell this house, because it’s one of a million other houses for sale. So now it’s just a boarded-up wreck.

  I heard a scraping noise. Then I realized one of the boards was moving. Two men emerged from the house and came toward me. As they got closer I could smell cigarettes and cheap liquor, sweat, and maybe a few other things that they probably wouldn’t be bottling as perfume anytime soon. They were both wearing dark clothing, the better to blend into the darkness, I’m sure. One had his hair tied in a ponytail. The other’s was wrapped up in a bandanna.

  “You the guy with the fifties?” one of them said.

  “Apparently I am.”

  “Let’s see ’em.”

  I let out a long breath as I took out my poor wallet again. I didn’t even bother asking if they’d be willing to split one bill.

  “I’ve got a hundred right here,” I said, “but first tell me what you know.”

  “Guy said you’re looking for a message that got sent down the line. Maybe we heard something.”

  “When did you hear it?”

  “Two nights ago.”

  I worked that out in my mind. Two nights ago was the night Darryl King took his aunt’s car and disappeared. So far, it was checking out.

  “What was the message?” I said.

  The two of them looked at each other. “It’s gonna sound a little fuzzy,” the one said. Apparently he’d been elected to do all of the talking.

  “I’m all ears,” I said.

  “The message was ‘Meet me in the breadbox. At midnight.’”

  “That’s it?”

  “That’s the message.”

  “Meet me in the breadbox. Whatever that is. At midnight, when? What night?”

  “Whatever night,” he said. “Guy’s probably just going there every midnight until the man he wants to see shows up.”

  It occurred to me as I gave them their money that they could have just made up this message. They might be hopping on the train and laughing about it for the next few hundred miles, but then the silent partner finally spoke up.

  “The message was for TK,” he said. “If that’s any help.”

  “Oh yeah,” the other one said. “For TK.”

  TK. Tremont King.

  I thanked the two of them and wished them well. I was tempted to ask them a lot more questions about life on the rails, but they had a train to catch, and I had to go figure out just what the hell the breadbox was, so I could be there at midnight.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  It was going on ten o’clock at night when I pulled up at Mrs. King’s house. Too late for polite company to knock on her door, but I figured this was important enough to bend the rules.

  Then I stopped myself, just as I was about to get out of the truck. I was working with the gut feeling that one of her sons might be a killer, after all. I was still trying to find her other son, but in doing that it felt more and more like I might eventually end up finding them both. Could I really ask her to help me do that?

  I thought about it for a few seconds. That’s really all it took. Then I got out and went to knock on the door.

  “Alex!” she said as she opened it. “I thought you were going back home!”

  “Yeah, I thought so, too, but then I thought better of it.”

  “I don’t understand. You said there was nothing left for you to do.”

  “There really isn’t,” I said, “but there is something for you to do.”

  “What’s that?”
/>
  “Tell me where the breadbox is.”

  She looked at me for a long moment.

  “It’s in the kitchen,” she finally said. “Where else would a breadbox be?”

  “I don’t think that’s the breadbox I’m looking for.”

  “Come sit down,” she said. “I’ll make some coffee. You can tell me what in heaven’s name you’re talking about.”

  I was about to protest, but a cup of coffee sounded perfect at that point. I sat in the kitchen and watched her make it. I tried not to show my disappointment, because I had just seen my angle disappear. Her intimate knowledge of her two sons, that was my advantage, after all. My only advantage. The FBI had a national organization with agents spread out across the country. They had the technology. They had satellites in space, for God’s sake. All I had was Mrs. King.

  “You’re the only one who can figure this out,” I said to her. “If Darryl wanted to meet Tremont at the breadbox, where would that be?”

  She put the two mugs of coffee on the table and sat down.

  “I never heard them use that term before,” she said. “Neither one of them.”

  “Are you sure? Think back.”

  She sat there and worked it over.

  “No, Alex, I’m sorry. I’ve never heard either one of my boys call anything a breadbox, except the one we’ve got right here in the kitchen.”

  “Well, I suppose they could always meet here,” I said, looking over at the wooden box on the counter, “but that just doesn’t make sense. Why would you say it that way? You might as well say, ‘Meet me at the toaster.’”

  “Maybe they’re going to meet at a bakery,” she said. “Somewhere they make bread.”

  “Do you know of a place like that? Maybe even called the Breadbox?”

  “No, I don’t, but that bakery where they made the Wonder Bread, that was just a few blocks over.”

  “Wait a minute,” I said. “Was that still open when Darryl was still…”

  I did the math in my head.

  “I think it was,” I said. “The big Wagner Bakery, with the WONDER BREAD sign out front. On Grand River.”

  “Which isn’t there anymore.”

  “He has to know it’s not there anymore, right? It’s been closed for years. In fact…”