Dead Man's Tunnel (15 page)

“I know dog tracks when I see them.”

“I'll have a talk with him,” Hook said.

“And another thing, I had a load of copper weigh in light again. Those bastards know I got copper going out before I do.”

Hook reached for a cigarette. “You hired any new people lately, Scrap?”

Scrap loaded his pipe with tobacco. “Same crew I've had all along. Once they work for Scrap West, they're spoiled for any other job.”

“You trust those boys, do you?”

“I watch them every goddang minute.”

Hook lit his cigarette and studied the line of cars. “You got any copper going out today?”

Scrap fired up his pipe, and a cloud of smoke drifted off.

“They're tearing down an old power plant over to Kingman, and a scrounger's trucking in the copper pipe. It's high quality and a good profit in it, if I could ever get it to the smelter.”

“Give me a little time on it, Scrap. I'm getting closer.”

“Well, now, if you got a plan, Hook, I'd sure like to hear it.”

“These things can't be rushed, Scrap. They require thought. Patience is required when it comes to solving crime.”

“Thing is,” Scrap said. “I'm near bankrupt from copper thieves, and I find myself rubbing up against old age to boot.”

“You wouldn't have a grease pencil, would you?”

Scrap dug his pencil from his pocket and blew away the lint.

“Every good junkman carries a grease pencil,” he said. “I expect you'll be giving it back?”

“I'll see you later, Scrap. Frenchy's about got the train made up.”

Hook walked the line looking for Scrap's copper car, finding it at the end. He swung up on the ladder, threw back some of the pipe, and swiped a few with Scrap's grease pencil.

Dropping down from the ladder, he made his way to the front. Just as he climbed up on Frenchy's engine, the pusher coupled in at the tail.

Frenchy looked over his shoulder at Hook and then blew his whistle.

“Another second and you'd been left at the gate,” he said.

“Might want to be more respectful of the law,” Hook said. “Seeing as how I'm the only thing between you and trouble.”

“Trouble's my best friend,” Frenchy said.

“You stop this teapot anywhere else before you get to the smelter, Frenchy?”

“Sure. Make up the rest of the train at Williams,” he said.

Frenchy eased the throttle forward, and with the pusher at their backs, they were soon up to speed. The sun lowered in the west, and the smells of the country rode in through the window.

As they made a bend, Frenchy leaned out and checked the line for blazers, bad wheel bushings that could turn white-hot and set half the countryside afire. Frenchy cultivated his reputation as the most cantankerous engineer on the corridor, but no man knew better how to tease out the best in an old steamer.

When they hit the grade, the engine bore down. She rumbled and thundered and blew steam out her stack as they crawled up the ascent. Black smoke from the pusher boiled skyward as she hauled in behind. Even so, by the time they'd exited the tunnel once again, they'd slowed to walking speed. Hook spotted one of the guards climbing up the trestle path.

“I'm bailing here,” he said, swinging out on the ladder. “When you coming back through, Frenchy?”

“Few days probably,” he said. “Don't you want me to stop, Hook? Ain't no wonder you got more Brownies than the Girl Scouts.”

“I've jumped off more of these teakettles than you've seen in a lifetime, Frenchy. Thanks for the lift. I'll buy you a whiskey and branch water when you come through.”

*   *   *

Lance Corporal Severe climbed the last few steps up the trestle path. He looked up to see Hook sitting on a bracing having a cigarette.

“Quite a climb, isn't it?” Hook said.

Corporal Severe nodded. “Sure is,” he said. “What you doing out here?”

“Just checking to see if you boys need anything.”

The corporal leaned his rifle on a rock. Lines pulled at the corners of his eyes, lines that can come from too much experience at too young an age.

“We're a little short of girls and hooch,” he said.

“Yeah,” Hook said. “It can get dry out here. You living in the guardhouse, are you?”

“Just duty hours,” he said. “Found a place in town. It isn't much, but it beats staying in this canyon twenty-four hours a day.”

“Guess there haven't been any German invasions?” Hook said, smiling.

“Yesterday I thought I spotted a patrol coming up the canyon. Turned out to be a herd of range cows.”

“Cigarette?” Hook asked.

“Thanks,” he said, slipping one out of the pack.

“I hear you boys been careful about checking the board before going in.”

Corporal Severe lit his cigarette. “After what happened to Sergeant Erikson? You bet your ass.”

“The operator said he got two calls on the same run. Can't say I blame you, though.”

The corporal sat down on the rock and pulled his knee into his arms. “Wasn't us,” he said. “Though I can't say I haven't wanted to call more than once just to make certain. The operator could make a mistake, you know, wrong time, wrong day, wrong train. Hell, could be anything, couldn't it? Walking that tunnel can make a man jittery.”

“You wouldn't be headed for town soon, would you?” Hook asked.

“I'm off duty now. You want a lift?”

“I'd appreciate that,” Hook said. “I won't have to wait on that pusher to get back. Anyway, I've had about all the engineers I can take for one day.”

*   *   *

Hook waited in the jeep for Corporal Severe to get his things out of the guardhouse, and as they drove off a cloud of dust boiled up behind them. The road had taken a beating from the increased construction traffic. When it leveled out, the corporal settled back against his seat.

“Where you from, Corporal?” Hook asked.

The corporal shifted gears and eased the jeep over a dry wash.

“About everywhere, I guess,” he said. “My old man didn't like to stay in one spot very long.”

“You been stationed at Los Alamos for quite a while?”

“About a year. Before that I saw a little action. Picked up shrapnel in my back, and they sent me stateside. They said if it moves, I could wind up in a wheelchair.”

“What do you do at Los Alamos?” he asked.

“Civil Engineers. You know, fixin' shit, for the officers' wives mostly.”

“You and Sergeant Folsom both are assigned to Civil Engineers?”

“Yeah, that's right,” he said, pulling out onto the highway. “Where to?”

“West's Salvage Yard,” Hook said.

By the time Corporal Severe pulled up at the gate, darkness had set in. Scrap's floodlights lit up the yard.

“You live here?” the corporal asked.

“That's right,” Hook said. “In a caboose.”

The corporal looked at the mountains of salvage and then over at Hook.

“I'd about as soon live out at the canyon,” he said.

“Yeah, me too,” Hook said. “But then I'd miss all of Scrap West's brilliant conversation. Thanks for the lift, Corporal.”

*   *   *

Hook could see the office light still on, and despite his better judgment, he stopped. Scrap, engaged in doing something at his desk, didn't look up for several moments.

“I'll be a son of a bitch,” he said, dropping his pencil.

“What now?” Hook said.

“I've got three hundred and twenty-eight car generators in this yard.”

Hook sat down and rubbed at his shoulder. Sometimes his prosthesis hung as heavy as a side of beef.

“That's great,” Hook said. “If you've got a call for car generators.”

“If a man put all those generators to spinning, he could sell electricity. I figure there's a fortune just waiting to be made.”

Hook dropped his forehead into his hand. “And how you going to spin three hundred and twenty-eight car generators?”

“Well, I hadn't thought that out just yet,” he said.

Hook stood. “I'm going to bed, Scrap. Between you and Frenchy, my head feels like it's going to fall off.”

“By the way,” Scrap said. “That Eddie Preston called again.”

“Yeah? What did he want?”

“He wants you to call.”

“What for?”

“Someone held up the Albuquerque operator or something.”

“Jesus,” Hook said, looking at his watch. “Eddie hates to be called at home. I'll do it first thing in the morning.”

 

19

H
OOK WOKE UP
to the thump of the pusher engine as she came up to steam outside his caboose. Climbing out of bed, he peeked out the window. In the distance, the whistle of a freighter sounded, her voice soft and throaty in the morning.

The pusher engineer leaned out of the cab, his arm big as a tree stump, and checked on the train coming down line. The caboose trembled beneath Hook's feet as the freighter rolled in.

He made coffee, poured himself a cup, and checked his watch. Eddie should be at work by now. Eddie raised hell when Hook called him at home. In fact, Eddie didn't like to be called anywhere by anyone for any reason. How someone so averse to being disturbed wound up as head of security was one of life's mysteries. But then if the world made sense, he would have been Walter Runyon, bookstore owner or professor of literature, instead of Hook Runyon, yard dog.

On his way to the office, he met Pepe, who had just clocked in for the day.

“You seen Scrap?” Hook asked.

“He's greasing the crane.”

“Thought that was your job, Pepe.”

Pepe rolled his eyes. “I'm taking out generators.”

“You don't mean Scrap's serious about that harebrain scheme?”

Pepe nodded. “I made two hundred flower planters out of old tires one time. He didn't sell a one.”

“What did he do with them?”

“Burned them for heat in the woodstove down at the shop. By the end of the winter, my hat stank so bad I had to throw it away.”

“Keep smiling, Pepe.”

He shrugged. “I get paid by the hour.”

*   *   *

Hook put his feet up on Scrap's desk and called Eddie.

“Security,” Eddie said.

“This is Hook, Eddie.”

“Why didn't you call last night, Runyon?”

“It was after working hours.”

“Security is a twenty-four-hour-a-day commitment, Runyon. Some of us take our work seriously.”

Hook rubbed at the pain that drilled into his forehead.

“You're an inspiration, Eddie. What's going on?”

“Someone robbed the Albuquerque operator on second shift last night.”

“Who?”

“You think he checked in with me first?”

“Was anyone hurt?”

“The operator's got a fat lip, and his wallet's missing. It could have been a hell of a lot worse if he'd missed a call and sent a couple of trains together. How would you explain that one, Runyon?”

“I don't have to, Eddie. I didn't rob him.”

“It's high time Bonnie and Clyde were shut down before they destroy the entire line.”

“Got it, Eddie,” he said, lighting a cigarette.

“Get over to Albuquerque and see what you can come up with.”

“There's a highwheeler coming through about ten. I'll catch it over.”

“You got those copper thieves yet?”

“Closing in, Eddie. I'll check that Albuquerque thing and get back to you,” he said, hanging up.

*   *   *

At ten, Hook waited on the platform as the highwheeler came to a stop. He showed his pass to the conductor and worked his way to the back of the car. The train wasn't the
Super Chief,
the most glorious ride on the line, but it was good enough to get him there and provide him a nap along the way.

He'd called the lieutenant's number and left a message about the robbery. Whether she'd come or not he didn't know. He had mixed emotions about it anyway. Working a case with someone else cramped his style. And he couldn't shake the feeling that she knew more than she was sharing.

Just then the kid across the aisle spotted Hook's prosthesis. He stuck his finger into his nose and whispered something to his mother.

“Hush,” she said, squaring him back into his seat.

Hook rolled up his jacket and lay his head on it. The clack of the wheels soon lulled him to sleep. When he awakened, the woman and the little boy were gone. In their place an old man snored beneath his paper.

*   *   *

When the train slowed for Albuquerque, Hook checked his watch. The second trick would be on now. With luck, the same operator would be working the shift.

When he stepped off the train, the lieutenant waved at him from across the platform.

“Well,” she said, moving up beside him. “We meet again.”

He took her by the arm and guided her through the crowd. She smelled of soap, and her heels clicked on the brick platform. They moved behind the baggage cart and out of the way of the crowd.

“You think it's them?” she asked.

“Can't be certain, but it sounded like it might be our corporal and his girlfriend.”

“My commander's anxious to get this guy rounded up,” she said. “The army isn't happy about one of its soldiers looting his way across country.”

“The operator will be busy until the train departs. Let's grab a cup of coffee.”

“Alright,” she said.

They found a booth near the back of the café. The lieutenant ordered an RC Cola and settled her purse in next to her. Through the window, they could see the passengers boarding the highwheeler. The service crew milled around the engine with their oilcans. One of the crew set a blue flag and then crawled beneath the engine.

“What's the flag?” she asked.