The Hanging of Samuel Ash (11 page)

When he looked up again, Frenchy's glimmer lit the horizon, and the wail of his whistle lifted into the night. Hook turned the ignition key and flipped on the stoplights. The clicker ticked and tocked, and the red glow of the lights pulsated in the mirror. The chug of the steamer deepened as she slowed, and Frenchy lay in with short blasts of his whistle to announce his stop.

Hook tossed the keys under the seat and made his way to the track to wait. Frenchy brought her in as easy as a rocking chair and slid up beside him. The steamer huffed and sighed, and the smell of heat filled the night. Frenchy stuck an elbow out the cab window and leaned over it.

“You boarding or taking hostages?” he asked.

“I haven't thought it out,” Hook said, working his way up the ladder.

The fireman ducked his chin at Hook before turning back to his gauges. Hook located a perch. Frenchy bumped her ahead, and they were soon making time.

“Running light, aren't you, Frenchy?” Hook asked.

“Just this here bullgine and a couple of hopper cars I'm deadheading back to Belen. Picking up an old louse box there and hauling her into Clovis.”

“Sometimes they don't even bother to run a caboose anymore,” Hook said. “Don't know what the world's coming to.”

Frenchy dug out a new cigar and rolled it between thumb and index finger next to his ear. He bit off the end and struck a match on his overalls' button.

“Did you get that greenhorn out of jail?” he asked between puffs of smoke.

Hook said, “Didn't know the B&B work bus from his ass and took her for a spin.”

“Too dang much education,” Frenchy said. “Causes a man not to think his own thoughts.”

Hook nodded. “Junior Monroe wears a bow tie, drinks hot tea, and fans his face every time someone stokes up a butt.”

Frenchy turned and pushed the bill of his hat up. “The hell? He should have got twenty years hard labor, if you ask me.”

Hook smiled and leaned back for a nap. “Bat the stack off her, Frenchy, and wake me when we get to Belen.”

*   *   *

Frenchy kicked the bottom of Hook's shoe and pointed at the door.

“Belen,” he said. “I'm taking her into the yards for a drink, and I'll be picking up that old louse box after that. Be about an hour.”

Hook rubbed the sleep from his face. “I'm headed for the Harvey House to eat. You want anything?”

“I brought a nosebag,” he said. “The Harvey's too ritzy for the likes of me.”

*   *   *

Hook searched out a table near the back of the restaurant and had just pulled up his chair when the waitress arrived. He ordered the blue plate special and a glass of milk.

The dining area, nearly empty, smelled of baked pies and fresh-brewed coffee.

A woman sat at a table near the front and dabbed her linen napkin against her mouth. For a moment, Hook thought he recognized her but decided that it must be the familiar remnants of old age that he recognized.

He considered the possibility of hot apple pie topped with a slab of cheddar and had nearly caught the attention of the waitress, when the old lady stood, took up her purse, and made for the restroom.

When she passed by Hook's table, she glanced at him. Only then did he notice the white socks and realized that the purse looked exactly like the knitting bag the old lady had that day in the Amarillo depot.

He started to get up but hesitated, not anxious for yet another public confrontation with an old lady. By then she had disappeared into the ladies' room at the back.

Minutes passed, and she didn't come out. They brought his dinner, and he ate it. He ordered apple pie, and she still hadn't come out. After finishing his pie, he drank another cup of coffee. Perhaps she'd recognized him, found a different exit, or perhaps she had simply decided to wait him out.

He checked his watch. Frenchy would be coming soon. He paid his tab and then made his way to the restroom hallway. Pausing at the ladies' door, he listened. After a second look down the hallway, he pushed the door open and went in.

The lights were off, save for a single bulb over the sink, and he could see no one inside. He moved into the nearby stall and bent over for a look-see under them. From there, he spotted the old lady standing in the back stall, her white socks clearly visible.

Hook flushed the toilet, waited a few seconds, and then opened the bathroom door as if to leave. Slipping back into the stall he waited, quieting his breath.

First came the squeak of her stall door and then the shuffle of her feet as she made her way to the exit. When she opened it, Hook stepped out and grabbed her by the arm.

She yelped and struggled to get loose. Hook clamped his hand over her mouth.

“Railroad security,” he said. “Keep your voice down or we're off to jail.”

He slowly removed his hand.

“Rapist,” she said. “Murderer. I'll scream.”

He laid his hook against her cheek. “I twisted a man's tongue right out of his head with this thing one time. I suggest you not scream.”

“What do you want from me?” she asked.

He pulled her in close, and his fingers disappeared into the soft flesh of her arm. She smelled of stale perfume and menthol.

“You been working diversion for those pickpockets,” he said. “I never forget a thief's face.”

“I don't know what you're talking about,” she said. “I'm just an old lady traveling alone.”

“This could mean prison,” he said. “Maybe years, and, believe me, that's not the way you want to spend your old age.”

“You're going to arrest me?”

“An accomplice is just as guilty as a perpetrator. We'll go out the back way and have a talk with the cops.”

“I'm just an old lady. They said all I had to do was pretend to fall. I needed the money. I'm alone and have to make my way. The world doesn't care about old ladies.”

“The world doesn't care about anyone, and neither do I.”

He started for the door with her in tow. “No, wait,” she said, pulling back. “Isn't there something I can do?”

Hook hesitated. “Maybe you know where those pickpockets are working?” he said. “Maybe you could provide a little information?”

“They paid me to kick up a disturbance. I did and then I left. That's all I know, I swear.”

“Too little too late,” he said. “Let's go downtown.”

“No, wait. Maybe I did overhear something. I mean, maybe I did hear them talking.”

“Hear what?”

“If I tell you, will you let me go?”

“No,” he said. “But then it's hard to watch someone every second.”

“I heard them say that the Amarillo to Wellington run had heavy passenger traffic and light security. That's all I heard, I swear.”

Hook relaxed his grip. “I dropped my cigarettes in that stall. You stay here. I'll be right back.”

*   *   *

When Hook stepped out of the ladies' room, a woman coming down the hall stopped and put her hand over her mouth. “Oh, my,” she said.

Hook shouldered past her. “That toilet's fixed now,” he said. “But be damn careful what you put in it.”

 

13

 

H
OOK SWUNG DOWN
from the steam engine at the Clovis depot. With nothing but the louse box in tow, they'd made good time out of Belen.

“Thanks for the lift, Frenchy,” he said.

Frenchy lit his cigar and waved as he pulled off down the high rail.

Back at his caboose, Hook kicked off his shoes and fixed himself a Beam and water. He favored Runt Wallace shine, but he only had the one bottle of twenty-year-old that Runt had presented him a few years back. Someday, given a celebration, he'd open it up and see what the years had wrought.

He pulled back the covers of the bunk and collapsed into bed. For now, sleep would do. Tomorrow, he'd pick up his check and see if he couldn't get the road-rail repaired.

*   *   *

The westbound blew her whistle and sat Hook straight up in his bed. Swinging his legs over the side of the bunk, he rubbed at the stubble on his face.

He located his prosthesis and looked out the window. He'd slept half the day away.

“Damn,” he said, slipping on his pants.

After making certain the chef wasn't smoking at the back door of the Harvey House, he cut through the alley to the road-rail. Cranking her up, he nursed her out to the yards and pulled around to the back of the machine shop, where he found the machinist helper working on the steam jenny.

The helper propped his foot up on the jenny and tied his work boot. “I don't know nothing about fixing brake lines, Hook; besides, I got three bushings to turn, and some son of a bitch ran a switch engine through a buffer stop.”

Hook opened the door to the road-rail. “I heard you could fix anything, but then I understand you're a busy man. Far be it from me to bring up that little incident, anyway.”

The machinist helper dropped his foot down. “What little incident would that be, Hook?”

“Those welding rods I found in the back of your truck that day. Hell, I knew you wouldn't carry off railroad property on purpose, even though that's the way it appeared at the time.”

The machinist helper walked around the jenny and paused. “I got some fittings might work, if you ain't in a hurry?”

“No hurry,” Hook said. “Drop her off at my caboose when you get finished, will you?”

Hook stopped at the paymaster's and then walked the line back to the depot, where he found Popeye sitting behind his desk, his glasses pushed to the end of his nose.

“Well,” Popeye said. “If it isn't the crime fighter hisself.”

“Hello, Popeye.”

“You get that road-rail off the sidewalk yet? If an official comes through here, there will be hell to pay.”

“Yes, I did,” Hook said. “Though, I'd thought a good friend might have taken care of that himself, seeing as how I put my life on the line for this company every day.”

“I loan you money and sit your dog, Hook. I figure that's about as far as I can stretch a friendship. And if I'm not mistaken, it
is
payday.”

“And that's why I'm here, to pay you those two dollars I owe you and with my thanks, I might add.”

Popeye pushed his chair back and looked at Hook over the tops of his glasses. “It isn't two dollars. It's five, and it ought to be seven, given the time I've had to wait for my money.”

“Five was it? Are you sure?”

“Sure as sure.”

“Well, damn,” Hook said. “Here I've been thinking two. Take these two, and I'll get the other three to you next payday.”

Popeye stuck the money in his pocket and shook his head. “Don't forget it, either, Hook, 'cause I damn sure won't.”

Hook opened the desk drawer and took a handful of peanuts. “That Junior Monroe get back?”

“Yes, he did, smelling like he'd been riding in a cow cage. Why don't you get that boy a pass?”

“I been meaning to,” Hook said. “Where is he now?”

“Hotel Clovis.”

Hook rolled his eyes and popped some peanuts into his mouth.

“Hotel Clovis, is it? Drinking tea and eating crumpets, I suppose?”

“Not everyone lives in a caboose, Hook. Some folks sleep in real beds, take their baths on a regular basis, and pay their bills on time.”

“Where's my dog, Popeye, or is he staying at Hotel Clovis, too?”

“Headed east last I saw, chasing an old highwheeler steam engine. Guess he figured it to be a giant rabbit with wheels.”

“He'd as soon fight a giant as a midget.”

Popeye closed the drawer to the peanuts. “They have a derailment over to Lubbock. Half-dozen reefer cars jumped track just north of the signal. Said the rail buckled up like a ribbon, so the line's tied up for who knows how long.”

“We've had an unusual number of accidents the last few weeks,” Hook said.

“Acts of God, you might say,” Popeye said.

“You might, though I have my doubts God had anything to do with it,” Hook said.

“And another thing: that digger called from Carlsbad. Said he couldn't delay burying that wigwag body no longer. Said he only had the one cooler, and folks were waiting.”

Hook dusted the peanut salt off the front of his shirt. “You have any more bad news, Popeye? If not, I'm going home and get some rest before my head explodes.”

*   *   *

When Hook awoke from his nap, he dug his books from under the bunk and laid them in a row across the table. He drew his finger over the covers. There were few enough things in life that could be finished, zipped up from beginning to end with nothing left undone. Perhaps that's why he liked collecting books so much, the passion, the pursuit, but most of all the completion.

He slid out the American first
Baskerville
from the row, a fine copy to be sure. Without it, the collection remained incomplete. He slid it back. That's where it belonged, not hidden away on some dark shelf in a library; besides, libraries cared only about the latest romance novel, or political rant, or high suspense. They didn't give a damn about some obscure first edition.

When a knock came at the door, Hook said, “Who is it?”

“Junior Monroe? Are you home?”

“No, I'm still in Gallup,” he said.

“May I come in?”

“Door's open.”

Junior stepped in with his hat in his hand. He shined like a newborn, and he smelled of soap.

“Where's my dog?” Hook asked.

“At first I couldn't catch him, and then I was afraid I would,” Junior said.

“Well, he's not my dog, strictly speaking, so I can't be held responsible for any transgressions, real or imagined.

“I'm about to work up a drink here, Junior. Care for one?”

“No, thank you,” he said. “I don't drink. My father doesn't approve.”