by Dorsey, Tim
The BBB finished squirreling away possessions in their sleepers and headed out. They moved single file up the narrow aisle, hitting the automatic button that opened the door at the front of the car, passing through the connecting chamber, hitting another button, into the dining car. They grabbed a table and called the waiter. “What do you drink on a train?” asked Teresa.
“I don’t know,” said Sam. “A blue caboose?”
“What’s that?”
“Whiskey and Irish Cream and something else, I think.”
“Amaretto,” said the waiter.
“Five blue cabooses,” said Teresa.
“Don’t look now,” Rebecca whispered, “but I think that’s Ralph Krunkleton.”
“That’s him, all right,” said Maria.
“Doesn’t look like the book photo,” said Teresa.
“That was eleven years ago.”
“He’s shorter than I thought.”
“I’m going to get his autograph,” said Maria.
“It’s too soon,” said Sam. “Let him settle in. Don’t embarrass us.”
Ralph was joking around with his agent when a bunch of people climbed aboard. Tanner made the introductions. “Ralph, this is Preston Lancaster, also known as the Great Mez-mo, and Andy Francesco—you might have seen his stuff on Showtime—and Xorack the Mentalist…”
“Xolack.”
“Sorry, Xolack the Mentalist, I can never keep that straight, and Spider—he juggles, quite good, too—and Dee Dee Lowenstein as Carmen Miranda.” Tanner pointed at Bob Kowolski. “Of course you know Steppenwolf.”
Ralph shook hands and smiled, wondering what he had gotten himself into. Tanner had told him he’d branched into live entertainment, but it didn’t quite prepare him.
A new person with stringy long brown hair walked up. Tanner put his arm around the man’s shoulders. “I have a surprise for you. Meet the newest member of your troupe, the drummer for——.”
Spider pointed at Steppenwolf. “We already got a musical act.”
“I’ve decided to have them perform together as a super group.”
Tanner turned to Ralph. “You’re gonna get a chuckle out of this.” He began pulling books from an overnight bag. “I found these when I went digging for bio material. They’re your old novels. The jacket photos are a scream! Here’s B Is for Bongo. Note the goatee and the fashionable suicidal look. And here’s Bad Trip. What’s with the flowers on that shirt? You look like you played tambourine in Herman’s Hermits…. And here’s Murder at the Watergate. Ralph, is that genuine polyester?”
The laughter finally subsided, and Spider stepped forward. “Mr. Lebos, I don’t mean to sound ungrateful, but in your phone call, I thought you said we were going to play Carnegie…”
“Almost right,” said Tanner. “The Carnegie car.” He pointed up at a fancy brass sign on the bulkhead.
Preston turned to Spider. “That’s even better! Who wants to play Carnegie when you can play the Carnegie car?”
“Shut up!”
“There’s no slowing this career juggernaut now…”
“I said, shut up!”
“…Next stop, the Hollywood Bowl…public bus!”
Spider grabbed Preston’s collar, and there was a quick, wordless struggle in the aisle. A sleeve ripped.
“Break it up!” said Tanner. “We’ve got rehearsing to do.”
Bruno Litsky cleared his throat. “Uh, Mr. Lebos. I’m still not clear on precisely what it is we’re supposed to be doing.”
“I’m not an actor,” said Andy.
“I’m not even sure what a mystery train is,” said Dee Dee.
“What’s my motivation?” asked Frankie.
“All of you—relax or you’ll give yourselves heart attacks,” said Tanner. “Look at me. Who takes care of you? Huh?”
They stared at the floor and spoke in unison: “You do, Mr. Lebos.”
“That’s right!” said Tanner, holding up his briefcase. “Got your scripts right here. And the props.”
“Scripts?”
“Props?”
Tanner nodded. “Fake guns, rubber knives, play money, stuff like that. Didn’t you read Ralph’s last book? I had some copy editors convert it to a script. You’re going to perform it on the way to Florida, interact with the passengers. Do you have any idea how much money these people are paying for this? It’s an incredible opportunity. If everything works out, we might even be talking cruise ships.”
Preston nudged Spider. “The Carnegie ship.”
“I’m warning you!”
Out on the loading platform, a train conductor in black slacks headed for Track 12W. He stopped at the front of The Silver Stingray, pulled a hundred-year-old gold Elgin pocket watch from his pants and flipped it open. He snapped it closed and returned it to his pants, then fit a conductor’s hat on his head. “Alllllllll aboard!”
Serge stepped up next to him. He wore his own souvenir conductor’s hat and opened his own gold pocket watch. “Alllllll aboard!…The Silver Stingray, serving Dade City, Winter Haven, Delray Beach and Coooo-kamunnnnnnga!”
The conductor grabbed a handrail and climbed up. “I hate these fucking mystery trains.”
In a rest room on the northwest side of Penn Station, Eugene Tibbs sat on a toilet in a locked stall with his knees and a silver briefcase tucked to his chest, the same position he’d been in for the last twenty-four hours. When the public address system announced final boarding for Miami, Eugene stretched out his legs. He slowly opened the stall door, looked both ways, then ran out of the rest room and across the station. He raced down the escalator and didn’t stop until he had bounded up the steps of the train just as it started to move.
“Here come our drinks,” said Teresa. The waiter placed five blue shots on the table.
“Cheers!”
The waiter held his empty tray to his stomach and Eugene Tibbs held the briefcase to his as they turned sideways and passed in the aisle. Eugene sat down at the last table in the car, his back to the wall.
Ivan and Zigzag were on day two of their stakeout at the SoHo loft. They were still on the same bench across the street, eating dollar hot dogs from a corner vendor, a pile of trash next to them, soda and coffee cups, bagel chip bags, lollipop wrappers. Growing impatience.
“We have to make a move,” said Ivan. “It’s now or never.”
“You got mustard,” said Zigzag.
Ivan touched the corner of his mouth with a paper napkin.
“Other side.”
They headed across the street and up the stairs to the loft. Ivan picked the lock. They had begun sifting through the wreckage when Ivan saw the red light blinking on the answering machine. He pressed play.
The pair sprinted north on Eighth Avenue, pushing tailors to the ground, running through racks of clothes, Ivan yanking a mink stole off his face and throwing it over his shoulder, crossing Thirty-third Street, knocking over an elegant blonde in a strapless evening gown walking a tiger on a diamond-studded leash next to the luxurious new Mercury Sable with dual-stage air bags.
“Cut! Cut!”
They reached Thirty-fourth, down the stairs into the train station, looking around frantically, tracks to the left, tracks to the right…
“There he is!” yelled Ivan, pointing at Eugene Tibbs sprinting from the rest room to the escalators on the far side of the concourse.
Zigzag and Ivan bolted across the station. The train was already moving pretty good as they vaulted down the escalator, crashing into people, scattering luggage. Ten miles an hour, twelve, fifteen, the diesel engines roaring to life. They finally caught up with the last car, running alongside it as hard as they could, yelling and slapping the corrugated metal side, twenty miles an hour, still accelerating, gradually pulling away from the two men, who broke off pursuit and bent over and grabbed their knees, out of breath. When they looked up again, The Silver Stingray was a hundred yards down the snow-covered tracks, pulling away from New York’s Pennsylvania Station for
Florida, Serge waving from the back window.
34
Serge had his new digital camera ready, aimed out the window of the dining car, as the Philadelphia skyline came into view. Click, click, click. Running through to the lounge car in case it had a better vantage, taking pictures out windows along the way. Click, click, click…
That’s when he saw it. He couldn’t believe his luck. It was just sitting there in the aisle. A silver briefcase. It was next to a table full of people. Serge stayed cool, pocketing his camera. He scrunched down as he walked and dipped his left shoulder so his hand was at the same level as the briefcase handle. He snagged it without breaking stride and kept going, keeping the briefcase an inch off the floor as he moved away. When he was out of view, Serge brought the case to his hip and walked swiftly back to his sleeping compartment. He closed the door fast behind him, twisting the lock and pulling down the shades. He set the briefcase on the floor and tried the latches. He expected them to be locked, but they just flipped open. Serge broke into a broad smile. “We meet again!”
He raised the lid. His face changed.
“What the hell?”
He began removing plastic guns, plastic handcuffs, rubber knives, rubber candlestick holders, fake passports, packets of play money. He got to the bottom of the briefcase and removed a stack of stapled Xeroxes. He read the cover and riffled the pages.
“Scripts?”
Another skyline in the distance. The Silver Stingray pulled out of the Wilmington station, back into the snow. A bunch of guys in blue tuxes and Dee Dee Lowenstein stood in the aisle of the last sleeping compartment.
“We better find Tanner,” said Spider. “We’re supposed to go on in a few minutes and we still don’t have our scripts.”
They noticed for the first time that a large group of people had gathered behind them, suspiciously quiet. The performers looked at them. The people stared back and smiled. Some had notebooks and pencils out. One wore a T-shirt: “Mystery lovers do it by the book.”
“This is creepy,” said Preston. “Let’s get out of here.”
They went up to the next sleeping compartment and looked back. The doors opened and the group came in, slightly larger now. The performers headed for the next sleeper car. The group followed, picking up new members along the way. The performers walked faster; the crowd stayed with them. Preston hit a button and the automatic doors opened to the next car.
They were practically running when they reached the dining car. They turned around. The door in the back of the compartment opened, and in they came.
“Who the hell are they?” said Spider.
“What do they want from us?” said Andy.
Another voice: “There you are!”
They turned. It was their agent, Tanner Lebos, sitting at one of the tables with Ralph Krunkleton.
“Get over here!” Tanner bellowed, making an exaggerated waving gesture.
They approached the table. The crowd followed.
“I got your scripts right here…” Tanner’s hand felt around next to the table but only found air. “Hold a sec.”
Tanner stuck his head under the table, then came back up. “The scripts! They’re gone!”
“Maybe you left them back in the sleeping car?” said Ralph.
“No, I’m sure,” said Tanner. “I always know where that thing is—it’s my favorite briefcase.” Then Tanner started talking to himself, reenacting recent events. “Okay, I sat down, turned and put the briefcase right there, opened the newspaper…”
“There’s got to be a simple explanation,” said Ralph.
“No chance,” said Tanner. “Something bizarre has happened. This is a real puzzle.”
“Kind of like a mystery?” said Krunkleton.
Tanner glared. “Not now, Ralph.” He went back to recreating his morning. “Then I reached for the salt…”
An Amtrak porter walked through the sleeping compartment, knocking on doors. “Tickets. Check your tickets…”
He knocked on the number seven berth. “Tickets…”
“It’s unlocked.”
The porter opened the door and saw Serge sitting on the top bunk, legs dangling over the side, a conductor’s hat on his head and an electric control box in his hands. On the floor, a miniature train chugged around a small oval of track.
“I need to check your ticket.”
Serge pointed at the train. “It’s coming around.”
The porter bent over and plucked the ticket sticking out of the logging car as it went past his feet. He looked it over—“Thank you”—and stuck the ticket back in the logging car on its next pass. “Having a nice trip?”
Serge nodded without looking up from his controls. “Me ride big choo-choo.”
“That’s nice,” said the porter, closing Serge’s door. “…Holy Jesus!”
Back in the dining car, tables began filling up. Waiters set ice-water glasses on the linen and flipped open order pads. “Poached salmon or prime rib?”
“What are we going to do without scripts?” asked Frankie. “Look—they’re already arriving.”
“I got it,” said Tanner. “You all have regular acts, right?”
They nodded.
“Do ’em,” he said. “That’ll hold us till tomorrow. We’ll find the scripts and write it all in as back story.”
Plates of fish and beef arrived. People buttered rolls. Preston and the others claimed the big rounded booth at the front of the car. When most of the people were finished eating, Tanner stood and tapped a glass of water with a spoon.
“May I have your attention. I want to thank you all for coming to this special production of The Stingray Shuffle…” Tanner paused until the clapping tapered off. “Since most of you have read the book, there really wouldn’t be a whole lot of suspense. So we’ve played around with the story a little. The killer might not be who you think. And you’ll definitely never guess who ends up with the five million dollars! With us tonight to bring the story to life are some of the finest entertainers in the business. Starting from my left, direct from Reno, Nevada, Frankie Chan and His Amazing Shadow Puppet Revue…”
The women at table number five ordered another round of blue cabooses.
“I’m having so much fun,” said Maria. “This was a great idea.”
“Where’s Serge?” asked Rebecca.
“He’ll show up sooner or later,” said Teresa. “If I know him, there’s no way he’ll miss this.”
“…And finally,” Tanner announced, “the reason all of us are here. The author of classics we’ve come to know and love—let’s give a big hand for the one and only Ralph Krunkleton!…Ralph, stand up!”
Ralph stood self-consciously and waved to the applause. Baltimore went by the windows.
A half hour later, Frankie Chan was wrapping up his big finale, the St. Valentine’s Day Massacre in hand shadows. The ovation was deafening. Frankie went back to the booth and bummed a cigarette.
“You hear that applause?” he said. “We should have been doing this from the start!”
“Who’s up?”
“Dee Dee,” said Spider.
Dee Dee Lowenstein took the stage and launched an uncanny rendition of “South American Way.”
Serge walked up the center aisle of the dining car in a burgundy smoking jacket. “It’s murder, I tell you! This man has been poisoned! Nobody leave the room!”
Dee Dee stopped singing and someone turned off her boom box. The audience began taking notes. Some filmed with camcorders. Serge pulled the script from his back pocket. “Wait a minute. There’s no Carmen Miranda in this scene.” He went back to the sleeping car.
Someone turned the music back on, and Dee Dee brought the house down with a medley from Carmen’s Hollywood years.
The applause was off the meter. Dee Dee headed back to the rounded booth. The Washington Monument went by. “What a great room!”
“Preston, you’re up.”
The Great Mez-mo took the stage. “I need some
volunteers.”
Nobody responded. “You gals,” said Preston, pointing at table number five. “Come on up here.”
The women declined, but the audience was behind Preston: “Get up there!”
A few minutes later, Paige was scraping invisible poop off her shoe, Teresa said she swam out to naval carrier escorts, Sam quacked, and Rebecca begged Preston for his autograph.
Preston walked up to Maria.
“Are you a lesbian?”
“No,” Maria said, trancelike.
He handed her a blow-up doll. “Then pretend this is one of the Baldwins.”
The crowd roared.
Three hours later, Books, Booze and Broads were still in the dining car. They barely held a quorum.
“Where did the time go?” said Paige.
“Better yet, where did Rebecca and Sam go?” said Maria.
“I can guess where Sam is,” said Teresa. “But Rebecca must have had some kind of luck we don’t know about.”
The Great Mez-mo closed the door behind him in his sleeping compartment. Rebecca looked around in wonderment. “I can’t believe I’m actually in Brad Pitt’s room!”
The next compartment: “Oh yes! Oh no! Oh yes!” Sam grabbed Serge by the back of the head. “Oh God! Oh God! Tell me what you’re thinking about!…”
“The Great Train Robbery, The California Zephyr, The Wabash Cannonball, the Rock Island Line, Casey Jones, Murder on the Orient Express, the Atchison, Topeka and the Santa Fe, Soul Train…”
35
Ivan and Zigzag listened to Jimmy Cliff on the stereo of an orange ’72 Dodge Charger. Zigzag rocked slowly with the rhythm, but Ivan wasn’t convinced.
“What’s so great about this music? It just makes me antsy.”
“You need to learn how to relax, mon.”
It was after midnight. Ivan changed lanes, passing some farm equipment infarcting the southbound side of Interstate 95. They drove under a big green sign. Richmond, 1/4 mile. Ivan took the exit ramp; Zigzag unfolded a map and navigated through the city to the train station. They skidded up to the curb and ran through slush to the Amtrak window.