"Down in the citrus?"
"Yes."
"Where you headed for?"
"What?"
"You're going someplace, ain't you?"
"Yes," he said. "To Ridgemont."
"Where?"
"Ridgemont," he said again.
"Where's that?"
"In Idaho."
"You going all that way on the rails?"
"Yes."
'Well, that's a long pull. You want to watch yourself up that. They don't cotton much to fellows riding the freights."
"All right," he said.
They sat down. The one called Lon said, "Say, now, you wouldn't happen to have a smoke on you, would you, friend? I just been dying for a smoke."
"Yes," he said.
"Much obliged."
They both took one. They sat there, smoking, watching him. He could tell that they were thinking he did not look like a man who rode the rails. He was not like them. The one in the baseball cap kept looking at his suitcase.
It was very hot in the box car, now. The two men gave off a kind of sour odor of dirt and sweat. This, mingled with the heat, made his stomach crawl.
He stood and went over to the door to get some air. He was conscious of their eyes on his back. It made him feel uneasy to have them watching him like that.
The freight moved on at considerable speed. They rode in silence most of the day, but the two men continued to watch him. They talked between themselves at brief intervals, but never to him, except when one of them would ask him for another cigarette.
As the afternoon turned into night, it began to cool down. Very suddenly there was a chill in the air. He could smell the salt then, sharp and fresh.
The one in the baseball cap buttoned his shirt up to his throat. "Getting cool," he said.
"We're running up the coast," the one called Lon said. "Be damned cold tonight."
They kept looking at him, then over at his suitcase. "You know, it sure would be nice if we had something to keep us warm on a cold night like it's going to be," the one in the baseball cap said.
"Sure would," Lon said.
"Say, friend," the one in the baseball cap said. "You wouldn't want to let us have anything in that bag there, would you?"
"What do you mean?" he said.
"Well, it's sure going to be chilly tonight. Be real fine if you was to have something in there to keep us warm."
"Like what?"
"Maybe a blanket. Or a coat. Like that."
"No."
"You sure, now?"
"There's nothing in there like that."
"You wouldn't want to be holding out on a couple of fellows, now would you?"
"Then suppose you just open up that case and let us have a look inside," Lon said.
He put his hand on the case.
"You got no right," he said.
"Well, I say we do," the one in the baseball cap said.
"I say we got plenty of right."
"Sure we do," Lon said.
They stood up.
"Come on, friend," the one in the baseball cap said. "Open up that case."
He stood up too.
"No," he said. "Stay away. I'm warning you."
"He's warning us," the one in the baseball cap said. "You get that, Lon?"
"Sure," Lon said. "He's warning us."
They stood there, the two men staring at him. He clutched the suitcase tightly in his right hand. Then, as they stood there, the freight began to slow. They were coming into a siding.
Outside it had begun to get dark. There were long shadows inside the box car.
The men watched each other, warily, and then, suddenly, Lon made a grab for the suitcase, and the one in the baseball cap pushed him back up against the wall of the box, and Lon tore the suitcase from his fingers.
He backed up against the wall. He was breathing hard. They shouldn't have done that, he thought. I told them. They shouldn't have done that.
He took out the knife.
Lon stopped pawing at the catch on the suitcase. They were both staring at him.
"Hey!" Lon said. "Hey, now."
"All right," he said to them. "I told you."
"Take it easy," the one in the baseball cap said, staring at the knife.
"Put the suitcase down," he said to Lou.
"Sure," Lon said. "You just take it easy."
"It was just a joke, friend," the one in the baseball cap said. "You know. A couple of fellows having a little game."
"That's it," Lon said. "Just a joke."
"We wasn't going to take nothing," the one in the baseball cap said.
He held the knife straight out in front of him. The blade was flat and wide and very sharp.
"Put it down," he said again.
"Sure," Lon said. He leaned down, never taking his eyes off the knife, and let go of the suitcase. The catch had been loosened in the struggle, and from Lon's pawing, and when it hit the floor of the box, it came open.
He said, "You get off this train. Right now. You just get off this train." He moved the knife in a wide circle and took a step toward them.
The one in the baseball cap said, "Oh, my God!" He took a step backward, and his face was the color of chalk. The freight was at a standstill, now.
"Get off," he said again. His head had begun to hurt.
The one in the baseball cap backed to the door, watching the knife, and caught on to the jamb and then turned and stepped off. Lon ran to the door and jumped off after him.
He put the knife away. He stood there for a time, and his mind whirled, and for a moment, just a moment, he remembered what had happened last night with Joanie—how he had forced his way into her flat, raging with anger, and told her he knew about the other man, and how she had denied it and said she was going to call the police, and how, then, he had hit her, and hit her again, and then he had seen the knife, the knife there on the table in the kitchen, the flat, sharp knife, and then it went black for him again and he could not remember anything.
The freight had begun to pull out of the siding. It was picking up speed. The whistle sounded in the night.
He turned and walked to where the suitcase lay, open on the floor of the box. He knelt down and began to cry.
He said, "It's all right now. We're going home. Going home to Ridgemont. Just like I promised you, Joanie. We're going home for good."
Joanie's head stared up at him from the open suitcase.
"Liar's Dice" was the basis for a 1995 USA-Cable TV movie called (over my screams of protest) Tails You Live, Heads You're Dead. The film essentially begins where the story ends, supplying a ready answer to the question the narrator—and the reader—is left to contemplate. This is the problem with the movie, which has nowhere to go other than into the realm of the cat-and-mouse, serial-killer subgenre, with routine results. The story's enigmatic ending is far more terrifying, to my mind, than the film's resolution, or any that I might have tacked on myself. You may not agree, of course. Your call.
Liar's Dice
"Excuse me. Do you play liar's dice?"
I looked over at the man two stools to my right. He was about my age, early forties; average height, average weight, brown hair, medium complexion—really a pretty nondescript sort except for a pleasant and disarming smile. Expensively dressed in an Armani suit and a silk jacquard tie. Drinking white wine. I had never seen him before. Or had I? There was something familiar about him, as if our paths had crossed somewhere or other, once or twice.
Not here in Tony's, though. Tony's is a suburban-mall bar that caters to the shopping trade from the big department and grocery stores surrounding it. I stopped in no more than a couple of times a month, usually when Connie asked me to pick up something at Safeway on my way home from San Francisco, occasionally when I had a Saturday errand to run. I knew the few regulars by sight, and it was never very crowded anyway. There were only four patrons at the moment: the nondescript gent and myself on stools, and a young couple in a booth at the rear.
"Would you care to shake for a drink?"
"Well, my usual limit is one . . ."
"For a chit for your next visit, then."
"All right, why not? I feel lucky tonight."
"Do you? Good. I should warn you, I'm very good at the game."
"I'm not so bad myself."
"No, I mean I'm very good. I seldom lose."
It was the kind of remark that would have nettled me if it had been said with even a modicum of conceit. But he wasn't bragging; he was merely stating a fact, mentioning a special skill of which he felt justifiably proud. So instead of annoying me, his comment made me eager to test him.
We introduced ourselves; his name was Jones. Then I called to Tony for the dice cups. He brought them down, winked at me, said, "No gambling now," and went back to the other end of the bar. Strictly speaking, shaking dice for drinks and/or money is illegal in California. But nobody pays much attention to nuisance laws like that, and most bar owners keep dice cups on hand for their customers. The game stimulates business. I know because I've been involved in some spirited liar's dice tournaments in my time.
Like all good games, liar's dice is fairly simple—at least in its rules. Each player has a cup containing five dice, which he shakes out but keeps covered so only he can see what is showing face up. Then each makes a declaration or "call" in turn: one of a kind, two of a kind, three of a kind, and so on. Each call has to be higher than the previous one, and is based on what the player knows is in his hand and what he thinks is in the other fellow's—the combined total of the ten dice. He can lie or tell the truth, whichever suits him; but the better liar he is, the better his chances of winning. When one player decides the other is either lying or has simply exceeded the laws of probability, he says, "Come up," and then both reveal their hands. If he's right, he wins.
In addition to being a clever liar, you also need a good grasp of mathematical odds and the ability to "read" your opponent's facial expressions, the inflection in his voice, his body language. The same skills an experienced poker player has to have, which is one reason the game is also called liar's poker.
Jones and I each rolled one die to determine who would go first; mine was the highest. Then we shook all five dice in our cups, banged them down on the bar. What I had showing was four treys and a deuce.
"Your call, Mr. Quint."
"One five," I said.
"One six."
"Two deuces."
"Two fives."
"Three treys."
"Three sixes."
I considered calling him up, since I had no sixes and he would need three showing to win. But I didn't know his methods and I couldn't read him at all. I decided to keep playing.
"Four treys."
"Five treys."
"Six treys."
Jones smiled and said, "Come up." And he had just one trey (and no sixes). I'd called six treys and there were only five in our combined hands; he was the winner.
"So much for feeling lucky," I said, and signaled Tony to bring another white wine for Mr. Jones. On impulse I decided a second Manhattan wouldn't hurt me and ordered that too.
Jones said, "Shall we play again?"
"Two drinks is definitely my limit."
"For dimes, then? Nickels or pennies, if you prefer."
"Oh, I don't know. . ."
"You're a good player, Mr. Quint, and I don't often find someone who can challenge me. Besides, I have a passion as well as an affinity for liar's dice. Won't you indulge me?"
I didn't see any harm in it. If he'd wanted to play for larger stakes, even a dollar a hand, I might have taken him for a hustler despite his Armani suit and silk tie. But how much could you win or lose playing for a nickel or a dime a hand? So I said, "Your call first this time," and picked up my dice cup.
We played for better than half an hour. And Jones wasn't just good; he was uncanny. Out of nearly twenty-five hands, I won two—two. You could chalk up some of the disparity to luck, but not enough to change the fact that his skill was remarkable. Certainly he was the best I'd ever locked horns with. I would have backed him in a tournament anywhere, anytime.
He was a good winner, too: no gloating or chiding. And a good listener, the sort who seems genuinely (if superficially) interested in other people. I'm not often gregarious, especially with strangers, but I found myself opening up to Jones—and this in spite of him beating the pants off me the whole time.
I told him about Connie, how we met and the second honeymoon trip we'd taken to Lake Louise three years ago and what we were planning for our twentieth wedding anniversary in August. I told him about Lisa, who was eighteen and a freshman studying film at UCLA. I told him about Kevin, sixteen now and captain of his high school baseball team, and the five-hit, two home run game he'd had last week. I told him what it was like working as a design engineer for one of the largest engineering firms in the country, the nagging dissatisfaction and the desire to be my own boss someday, when I had enough money saved so I could afford to take the risk. I told him about remodeling our home, the boat I was thinking of buying, the fact that I'd always wanted to try hang-gliding but never had the courage.
Lord knows what else I might have told him if I hadn't noticed the polite but faintly bored expression on his face, as if I were imparting facts he already knew. It made me realize just how much I'd been nattering on, and embarrassed me a bit. I've never liked people who talk incessantly about themselves, as though they're the focal point of the entire universe. I can be a good listener myself; and for all I knew, Jones was a lot more interesting than bland Jeff Quint.
I said, "Well, that's more than enough about me. It's your turn, Jones. Tell me about yourself."
"If you like, Mr. Quint." Still very formal. I'd told him a couple of times to call me Jeff but he wouldn't do it. Now that I thought about it, he hadn't mentioned his own first name.
"What is it you do?"
He laid his dice cup to one side. I was relieved to see that; I'd had enough of losing but I hadn't wanted to be the one to quit. And it was getting late—dark outside already—and Connie would be wondering where I was. A few minutes of listening to the story of his life, I thought, just to be polite, and then—
"To begin with," Jones was saying, "I travel."
"Sales job?"
"No. I travel because I enjoy traveling. And because I can afford it. I have independent means."
"Lucky you. In more ways than one."
"Yes."
"Europe, the South Pacific—all the exotic places?"
"Actually, no. I prefer the U.S."
"Any particular part?"
"Wherever my fancy leads me."
"Hard to imagine anyone's fancy leading him to Bayport," I said. "You have friends or relatives here?"
"No. I have business in Bayport."
"Business? I thought you said you didn't need to work. . ."
"Independent means, Mr. Quint. That doesn't preclude a purpose, a direction in one's life."
"You do have a profession, then?"
"You might say that. A profession and a hobby combined."
"Lucky you," I said again. "What is it?"
"I kill people," he said.
I thought I'd misheard him. "You. . . what?"
"I kill people."
"Good God. Is that supposed to be a joke?"
"Not at all. I'm quite serious."
"What do you mean, you kill people?"
"Just what I said."
"Are you trying to tell me you're. . . some kind of paid assassin?"
"Not at all. I've never killed anyone for money."
"Then why. . . ?"
"Can't you guess?"
"No, I can't guess. I don't want to guess."
"Call it personal satisfaction," he said.
"What people? Who?"
"No one
in particular," Jones said. "My selection process is completely random. I'm very good at it too. I've been killing people for . . . let's see, nine and a half years now. Eighteen victims in thirteen states. And, oh yes, Puerto Rico—one in Puerto Rico. I don't mind saying that I've never even come close to being caught."
I stared at him. My mouth was open; I knew it but I couldn't seem to unlock my jaw. I felt as if reality had suddenly slipped away from me, as if Tony had dropped some sort of mind-altering drug into my second Manhattan and it was just now taking effect. Jones and I were still sitting companionably, on adjacent stools now, he smiling and speaking in the same low, friendly voice. At the other end of the bar Tony was slicing lemons and limes into wedges. Three of the booths were occupied now, with people laughing and enjoying themselves. Everything was just as it had been two minutes ago, except that instead of me telling Jones about being a dissatisfied design engineer, he was calmly telling me he was a serial murderer.
I got my mouth shut finally, just long enough to swallow into a dry throat. Then I said, "You're crazy, Jones. You must be insane."
"Hardly, Mr. Quint. I'm as sane as you are."
"I don't believe you killed eighteen people."
"Nineteen," he said. "Soon to be twenty."
"Twenty? You mean. . . someone in Bayport?"
"Right here in Bayport."
"You expect me to believe you intend to pick somebody at random and just. . . murder him in cold blood?"
"Oh no, there's more to it than that. Much more."
"More?" I said blankly.
"I choose a person at random, yes, but carefully. Very carefully. I study my target, follow him as he goes about his daily business, learn everything I can about him down to the minutest detail. Then the cat and mouse begins. I don't murder him right away; that wouldn't give sufficient, ah, satisfaction. I wait . . . observe . . . plan. Perhaps, for added spice, I reveal myself to him. I might even be so bold as to tell him to his face that he's my next victim."
My scalp began to crawl.
"Days, weeks . . . then, when the victim least expects it, a gunshot, a push out of nowhere in front of an oncoming car, a hypodermic filled with digitalin and jabbed into the body on a crowded street, simulating heart failure. There are many ways to kill a man. Did you ever stop to consider just how many different ways there are?"
Night Freight Page 5