the Devil's Workshop (1999) (37 page)

"Jesus, that's not as easy as it looks," she said, but she was smiling broadly, invigorated by the experience.

Now that the train was gone, keening insects took over, playing their field music. The other hobos had all magically disappeared like cockroaches under a baseboard. Stacy and Cris began walking along the track, toward the line of wood shacks. Cris pointed to some crude stick drawings on the side of one of the buildings. "See those?" he said.

She nodded.

"Over the years, hobos have put them there to tell other 'bos what's going on up ahead in the switching yard." He pointed to a triangle with two arms on either side: "That means the cops in the switching yard carry guns." Then he pointed to another symbol: "That means a kind lady lives here." Next to the cat were three triangles, each one larger than the last:

"What's that mean?" she asked.

"It means an exaggerated story will work with her. She's gullible. Come on."

They walked along the side of the shack with the cat and found the gate, pushed it open, then crossed a dirt yard strewn with rusting junk. Cris knocked on the back door of the weather-beaten house, which was badly in need of paint. After a minute the door opened, and an old woman with her hair tied in a bandanna appeared at the screen door.

"Well, lookie here," she said, smiling at Cris. Then she shifted her speculating gaze to Stacy. "Don't believe I've seen you two before."

"We just got off that train, and were wondering if you'd be kind enough to tell us more about the yard up ahead."

"Stay outta Shreveport. Them SP bulls is the worst." She smiled at Cris. "You got a name, son?"

"I'm Lucky, she's Stacy," Cris answered.

"Cinder-Ella," the old woman said proudly. "Cinder for the trains, Ella 'cause my given name is Eloise."

"Nice knowin' ya," he smiled, then added, "We need to know where the jungle is around here and what kinda place it is."

"That's Black Bed Jungle, but it ain't too healthy. It's east a' here, down by the river, but lotsa Low Enders hang there. Two old 'bos got murdered at Black Bed last year. The cops didn't do nothing, and the word spread. It's been fillin' up with F
. T. R. A. S
ever since. There's a new camp been forming 'bout two miles away, called Need More Jungle. It's safer." She smiled at Stacy, who smiled back. " 'Course things ain't like in the old days. Everybody's packin' guns. Some 'bos shot a cinder bull in the switching yard just this mornin'--plugged the bastard right outside the Yardmaster's office," Cinder-Ella said.

"No kidding," Cris said.

"Yep, been on the TV all day. News said the dead man was an SP yard bull, shot with a nine-millimeter."

Cris remembered it was a nine-millimeter that Fannon Kincaid had pointed at him when he'd been in the water at Vanishing Lake. "How far down the tracks is the switching yard?" he asked.

"Not far, 'bout half a mile. But them yard bulls is crazed right now. They'll be billy-jackin' anybody looks like a train rider."

"Would it be okay if my friend stayed here while I run a few errands?" he asked.

"Be fine with me," she smiled. "Can always use the company."

"I'll only be gone a little while," Cris said to Stacy.

Stacy followed him to the garden gate. *4 What're you gonna do?"

"If Kincaid's men shot that bull, I'll bet you anything they were carbon-sheet-spotting. I'm gonna go to Black Bed Jungle, see if they're still around. If I can find them, maybe I can figure out what train they're catching out on. I want you to stay here and listen for that grain train. It should be pulling through anytime. Move out to the side of the tracks and check out the cars as they pass. Look for a sleeper car, and look under all the cars at the suspension rods. Sometimes 'bos ride there, or up on the roof. There'll be around forty of them, probably riding in two or three cars. If they're still on that train, you should be able to spot them."

"If you think they're on that train, why don't we sneak back and check it?"

"I don't, 'cause they wouldn't have been at the Yardmaster's office and killed that cinder bull, but we gotta check in case I'm wrong. Besides, by the time we hike all the way back to that train, my guess is it'll already be moving. Just check it from here when it passes. Be back in a few hours." Then he smiled at her, and in a second he was out the gate. Stacy could hear his footsteps on the gravel as he moved along the side of the house and away.

She turned and faced the old woman, who was busy tucking loose strands of wispy gray hair into her scarf, making herself more presentable for the company. Stacy felt like Alice down the rabbit hole. She was in a whole new world where none of the rules of her old life applied. She could barely understand any of it.

Chapter
39

Cris stood in front of Cinder-Ella's house and tried to guess which way was east. He finally stopped a mail carrier and asked the way to the river.

In the fifties and sixties, Shreveport had been a big center for scrap metal, and as a result it had become a shipping hub in the south. Now, because of the extensive rail and shipping lanes, there were all kinds of local factories making everything from ball bearings to furniture. They were tucked in among lush trees heavy with Spanish moss.

The summer air was moist. Cris walked until his shirt was dripping. The majority of buildings he passed were fifties-style motel structures; an occasional antebellum house looked out from between its stucco neighbors like a beautiful mistake.

It took Cris almost an hour to find Black Bed Jungle. When he saw it through the trees, it lived up to the warning. There were almost no dogs or children, always a bad sign. Also, the dwellings were even more temporary and makeshift than usual. In other camps, hobos would often build a house of scrounged lumber and materials, then leave the dwelling behind for others to use. This jungle had no "permanent" structures; they were unfriendly hovels built by unfriendly men. As transients moved on, the hovels were immediately picked clean as vultures' prey.

Cris stripped off his inappropriate polo shirt, with the monogram horse and rider, and rolled it up out of sight, wrapping it around his waist. His once lean muscles had become thin and stringy. He still had the shape of a college athlete, but not the bulk. He reached down and grabbed some damp river mud, then rubbed it in his new head fuzz and on his face. It took a few minutes before it dried, then he shook his head and rubbed his face until he had knocked most of it off. It left him looking dusty and lost, as if he had not bathed in weeks. Then he removed his good Spanish leather loafers and hid them under the moss of a tree.

Barefoot and shirtless, "Lucky" Cunningham walked into Black Bed Jungle. No one bothered him; he had transformed himself into one of them. In his current state, he was of no benefit to anyone. After one glance, he was ignored.

He began to wander through the jungle, his gait uneven, as i
f d
azed or drunk. He also had a growing desire to have a drink

His mouth began to water and his stomach began to ache. He remembered reading once that if you were on a diet you should stay out of the kitchen, because once you entered a room where you were accustomed to snacking your hunger would overpower you. Cris had always been drunk in these jungles, and now an unreasoning thirst for a drink overtook him. He could feel his resolve crumbling, so he kept moving, remembering Kennidi and his promise of vengeance. But his hand was in his pocket on some money, certainly enough to buy a bottle from one of these 'bos. These conflicting thoughts were in his mind as his eyes scanned the transients in the jungle.

Then Cris spotted Ben Brook Bob and the Pullman Kid. They were down by the lake, away from the others. Cris remembered them from a few years back. Ben Brook Bob was a mean son-of-a-bitch, who was almost Cris's height and weighed at least 250 pounds. Worse still, he was half crazy. Cris recalled a time outside of Denver when he had seen Ben Brook Bob fly into a rage and attack a hobo with a hammer. He had almost pulverized the man before several 'bos had pulled him off. The Pullman Kid was a boyish-looking "bottom," Bob's personal property and homosexual lover. There were quite a few gay men on the rails, as the train-riding society had a scarcity of women.

Cris figured he could probably get good jungle scuttlebutt from the Pullman Kid if he could separate him from Ben Brook Bob, who would jealously protect his slender lover. Twenty minutes later the Pullman Kid moved off, leaving Bob by the river. Cris trailed him, staying out of sight by skirting the tree line at the edge of the jungle. He soon realized that the Kid was going into the woods to take a shit. The man-boy took a bottle out of his pocket and set it down on the ground. Then he undid his belt, dropped his pants down around his ankles, and squatted. Cris stood in the trees a short distance away, his attention split between the squatting Kid and the bottle of rye which was sitting tantalizingly before him. Then he must have rustled some leaves, because the Pullman Kid looked directly up at him. "Howdy," Cris grinned. "Been a long time, Kid. Go ahead and pinch that one off, then we'll talk." He moved out of hiding and picked up the bottle of rye. Just having his hands on the bottle made Cris's stomach rumble. He could already imagine the fiery warmth of the liquor going down his throat.

The Pullman Kid shot him a look of dismay and quickly stood, yanking his pants up and pulling his belt tight. "I don't know you," the Kid said, fear and excitement competing for control of his narrow face.

"We met a few years back at Gnaw Bone Jungle outside of Denver. You still swappin' spit with Ben Brook Bob?" Cris grinned lecherously, trying to keep the Kid off balance with attitude, holding his bottle in front of him.

"You better gimme that back and get the fuck away from here. If Bob sees you talkin' to me, he'll kill you."

"He won't know we're talkin' 'less you get dumb and tell him. All I need is some info. I heard Fannon Kincaid was here at this jungle. I wanna know where he went." And without even realizing it, Cris was unscrewing the cap on the bottle and raising it to his lips.

"Get the fuck away from me. You got any idea what will happen, Bob catches us together?" The Kid was panicking.

"Just answer me. You seen Kincaid around?" Cris took a mouthful of liquor and held it in the back of his throat. But something wouldn't let him swallow. He heard Clancy's voice somewhere in his subconscious: "He's gonna know if you fuck up, so you ain 7 gonna drink. You're gonna go get this godless prick.9' Cris stood there, unable to spit out the liquor, unable to swallow it. Then the decision was taken out of his hands.

"The fuck you doin' with my punk?" Ben Brook Bob's voice cut the momentary silence like a sickle slashing dry wheat.

Cris spun toward the voice, but he was too late. The huge hobo hit him in the face, and Cris went down hard, spewing rye whiskey. He rolled right, a split second before a knife thrown with deadly accuracy stuck in the ground and quivered in the exact spot he had just been. Cris came up to his feet in a fluid motion, just in time to take Ben Brook Bob's rhino charge. Bob buried a shoulder in Cris's stomach, screaming in rage as he hit Cris's thin wiry body, driving him back until they both fell painfully into a pile of rocks.

Ben Brook Bob was now snarling like a wild beast as he threw three quick punches at Cris, all of them hitting him on the side of his head, knocking stars into his eyes and blood into his mouth. The fight was already on the verge of being over; Cris was still conscious, but just barely. In a desperate combat-training reflex he pulled Ben Brook Bob in close, Ranger-style, taking away his chopping fists and pinning his arms to his sides. As Cris's head cleared slightly, he rolled once, scissor-kicking and pushing har
d w
ith his left leg, until he was on top of Bob. Then he shifted his grip for better traction around the big man's chest. Because Cris was weak, his hold slipped. Bob heaved backward and broke Cris's grasp, stumbling to his feet. Cris was dizzy and still on his knees. Ben Brook Bob turned and kicked Cris square in the face with his hard leather boot. Cris went over on his back. Bob rushed him, but as he charged, the ex-Ranger managed to kick his bare left foot up between Ben Brook's legs. The ball-shot doubled Bob over. While on his back, Cris reached up, grabbed Bob, and pulled him down. This time he shifted his grip quickly and got a choke hold on the muscled neck of the larger, groaning man, squeezing off the blood supply to Bob's brain. In a last desperate effort, Bob lunged up, and Cris heard something pop in Bob's neck. In seconds, Ben Brook Bob was facedown and out on the ground. Cris struggled up to his feet and faced the Pullman Kid.

"Don't hit me," the man-boy shrieked in terror.

"Talk to me, you piece of shit," Cris said, trying to scare the little pansy. He was completely spent by the two minutes of fighting, and he knew that if the Pullman Kid just turned and ran, Cris would never catch him. Fortunately, this tactic didn't occur to the skinny Kid.

"Leave me alone," he said, backing up a few steps.

"You tell me what I want to know or you're gonna get the same," Cris bluffed. His head felt light on his shoulders and his vision was blurred.

"I don't know shit about Kincaid or that fat killer he travels with. Me an' Bob, we only been here a couple hours."

"What fat killer? Who you talkin' about?" Cris took a threatening step forward, and the Pullman Kid looked to Ben Brook Bob for help, but the huge hobo was still facedown.