The Insane Train (7 page)

Hook headed for the jungle under the bridge after deciding to leave the company truck at supply. It had been pretty much a mess when he left it, and he didn't feel like explaining to the supply clerk.

The Mojave sun blazed low on the horizon, but the heat still lingered. He wiped the sweat from his eyes. He would have preferred a little book scouting, but there would be time enough for that tomorrow.

As he approached the bridge, he smelled the fatback and beans wafting up from the jungle, a smell he'd encountered often enough on the line.

He slid down the bank and ducked under the bridge. A pot of beans simmered over a small fire, and clothes dried over one of the bridge beams. Bedrolls lay about here and there, old blankets mostly, tied up with ropes and pieces of wire.

“Seth,” he said.

Seth rose from the patch of weeds just beyond, and then two or three others cropped up behind him.

“That you, Hook?” Seth asked.

“No, it's the president come for dinner,” he said.

Seth clambered up the embankment. “Glad you could make it, Hook. Sorry about the greeting. The cops been keeping pretty close watch lately. I guess they figure we might be a threat to America.”

“Well, they're probably right about that,” Hook said.

“Come on up, boys,” Seth said, waving the others in.

The men who climbed the bank looked more like bums than war vets. Their clothes were worn thin, and their eyes were dark and hollow.

“This is Hook Runyon, a friend of mine,” Seth said. “We met in the yards, you might say.

“This here is Santos,” Seth said, pointing to the Mexican fellow. “Santos is from El Paso or Juárez. We haven't figured that out for sure. Either way, he's a hell of a soldier. He wiped out a whole squad of Germans. Only problem was, one of them turned out to be his first lieutenant. They weren't sure if they should give him a medal or kick him out. They kicked him out.”

Santos dropped his eyes, which were black as night. His hair was cropped military style. He stood as tall as Hook and was a fourth again as large, but he moved in a smooth catlike way.

“Santos,” Hook said, shaking his hand.

Seth nodded toward the skinny one standing off from the others.

“That's Roy,” he said. “Out of Kentucky, though he won't say exactly where. He cooked for the army, good, too, which requires some doing in the army. The Krauts shot one of his nuts off when he was dumping garbage one day. He says he was tired of the damn thing banging against his knees anyway.”

“You make Kentucky shine, Roy?” Hook asked.

“It ain't lawful,” Roy said.

“And that's Ethan over there,” Seth said. “He's from New York City, but his people died off while he was away to war. We're about as close to relatives as he's got. He was gut shot making a hill. He made the hill alright but with half his intestine strung out behind. He's been a bit on the frail side ever since. He can't do much about that, I guess, or his looks either one. Ethan says living under a bridge is just like living in the Bronx, except quieter. He don't look like much wet, but there's a half-dozen dead enemy wished they hadn't met up with him.”

Roy moved in closer. “Where'd you lose your arm, Hook?” he asked. “Land mine?”

Hook shook his head. “Car wreck. It wasn't much count but for sticking in my pocket, anyway.”

Seth said, “Sit down, Hook. Roy's got the beans on and cornbread cooking in the iron skillet there. Santos came up with an onion from the grocery, and Ethan pulled greens in the backwash.”

“Thanks,” Hook said. “Smells right at home.”

Ethan folded his legs under him. “You get a medical out of the army, Hook?”

Hook held up his prosthesis. “Lost it before the war. Never got in.”

“Army prefers limbs intact when you enlist,” Ethan said. “They're less particular about how you muster out.”

“I hear you been working yard dog?” Roy said.

Hook glanced up at Seth. “I'm not here in an official capacity today.”

“Bulls can be a dangerous lot,” Roy said.

“I'm not on duty. Anyway, you boys would never hop my trains, would you?”

“Oh, hell no,” Roy said. “But once I rode the Chief from Tucumcari. Drank martinis with Clark Gable the whole way. Beat him in three games of no-limit hold 'em poker. Poor ole Santos drank tea with Katy Hepburn the entire run.”

“That a fact?” Hook said.

Santos grinned and added wood to the fire.

Pretty soon Roy gave the beans a stir and then poked a grass stem into the cornbread, which had turned golden brown. He served up the beans in tins that had been stored on top of the bridge beam. He cut the cornbread into pie-shaped slices and handed them around.

“I didn't get the flowers picked for the table,” Roy said.

“Here I had my heart set on a nice bouquet,” Hook said, digging in.

Afterward, they all sat back and had cigars that Santos had bought when the grocery clerk wasn't looking.

“I believe those are the best beans I ever ate,” Hook said, “except maybe those I had at Bogie's house one time.”

Roy shrugged. “Seems to me Bogie always shorted the fatback.”

Hook dusted the ash off his cigar and gave it some thought.

“Your point's well-taken, Roy. I believe your beans
are
the best ever.”

“Sure would like a taste of shine, if it wasn't against the law, I mean,” Roy said.

Hook studied the end of his cigar. “Being somewhat of an expert on legal matters, it's my understanding that shine can be cooked up so long as it's in small batches and so long as the taxes are paid up.”

“That a fact?” Roy said.

“So I've been advised,” Hook said.

“Just happens I got a mighty small batch, and it's my intention to be paying taxes up before year's end. Would you care for a taste?”

“Long as it's a small batch,” Hook said. “And long as the taxes are scheduled, I don't see what it could hurt.”

Roy fetched a mason jar from behind the bridge pier, unscrewed the lid, and handed it to Hook. Hook took a sip and handed it back.

“That's fine busthead, Roy,” he said. “You aren't related to a fellow by the name of Runt Wallace, are you?”

“Not so's I remember,” he said.

“He's a man talented such as yourself,” Hook said, “though his bean-cooking skills are somewhat lacking.”

Seth took a swig of shine and handed it to Ethan. “It's a rare man can cook beans and shine with equal skill,” he said.

Ethan took a long drink and shuddered. “Better hope the Waldorf doesn't get this recipe, Roy. We'll be paying forty dollars a quart.”

Roy grinned. “You bastards know how to butter a man up, don't you?”

Hook took another drink and held the quart up to the firelight.

“What proof is that, Roy? I think my life's slipping away.”

“Can't say,” he said. “But you might not want to hold it too close to the fire.”

Hook took another sip and passed it over to Seth.

“So,” Hook said, “what is it you boys wanted to talk to me about?”

Seth picked up a stick and poked at the fire, which sent a spray of embers into the air.

“Well,” he said, “you know how you're looking to hire security to move those inmates out of the Baldwin Insane Asylum?”

Hook took the jar and tipped it up. “I recall that,” he said, wiping his mouth. “Too bad you boys don't have another small batch stored away somewhere, isn't it?”

Roy stood and dusted off his pants, reaching up under a bridge support.

“By golly,” he said, handing the jar to Hook. “I believe there's one left.”

Hook unscrewed the lid and gave it the smell test. “And you'll be paying up taxes on this one, too?”

“Oh, yes sir,” Roy said. “Right along with my church tithe.”

Hook took a long pull and passed it around. “Now,” he said, tugging at his nose, which had now disappeared altogether, “about this proposition. You're telling me you want to hire on as security to help transport mental patients from California to Oklahoma?”

“It's not exactly a matter of want to,” Seth said.

Hook looked at the men, the firelight flickering in their eyes.

“You boys don't have much training in such matters, do you?”

“Hell, Hook,” Seth said, handing him the quart back. “We've been fighting Germans for years. We ought be able to move a few folks across country.”

Hook took another drink, and the bridge shifted a little to the left.

“Maybe we should have talked about this before Roy found that second small batch of shine,” he said.

“Every one of us been in combat, Hook. Dead center of it, too.”

“But you had weapons,” he said. “Besides, how would I tell security from the inmates?”

“Pick out the crazy ones,” Roy said. “They would be security.”

Hook started to take another drink, when Santos stood. “Listen,” he said.

All fell quiet, their ears trained into the darkness. When it came again, Ethan bolted to his feet. “Cops,” he said.

A flashlight beam shot from out of the darkness, and they all scrambled for the weed patch beyond the bridge. Hook jumped to his feet, only to discover that he had no feet, and he pitched headlong down the embankment. He struggled to get up, but by then a cop had his knee on his neck and was snapping on a handcuff.

“You'll get thirty days for this you son of a bitch,” the cop said, cuffing Hook to a bridge support. The cop motioned for the others to follow. “The bastards are headed for the weeds, boys,” he said. “Circle round. I'll be back for
you
,” he said to Hook.

Hook could hear the cops as they circled out through the weeds, their breathing labored. Eddie Preston prayed for just such a calamity. There'd be thirty days in the slammer with the disciplinary board just waiting in the wings.

Voices rose up, and flashlights shined this way and that as the cops searched out the area. Hook tugged at the cuff, at that moment realizing that it had not cut into his wrist. He pulled again.

“I'll be damn,” he said.

Within moments he climbed his way up the embankment, his prosthesis swinging from the bridge support like some macabre lynching.

 

Hook ducked into the depot and headed down the hall just as the operator stepped out of the bathroom.

“Hello, Hook,” he said.

Hook lowered his head and grunted.

“Hey,” the operator said. “Where the hell is your arm?”

Hook stopped. “I don't ask where your goddang arm is, do I?”

The operator wrinkled his brow. “But I ain't never lost one, Hook.”

Hook turned for his room. “Just mind your own goddang business in the future,” he said, “or you might.”

Hook showered for the second time in one day and climbed into his bunk. If he ever found Seth again, he planned to kill him and place his body on the tracks. How had he managed to get mixed up with a bunch of castoffs in the first place?

Outside his window, a switch engine took the slack out of a line of cars and then growled off for the yards. Hook's head thumped from Roy's mighty small batch, and he had a patch of hide missing from his cheek.

At first he thought a thunderstorm had gathered up in the distance, but when the thump came again, he sat up on the edge of his bunk. He could see a silhouette against the yard lights outside his window. He reached for his sidearm and slid open the window.

“Hook?” Seth said. “It's me.”

“I ain't shot a burglar all week,” Hook said. “What the hell you want?”

“I got your arm,” he said.

“What?”

“We conked that son of a bitch on the head and took his cuff keys. For a minute me and the boys thought they'd hung you off the bridge.”

“Well, give it to me,” Hook said, “or had you figured on charging me for it?”

Seth handed the arm through the window. “Roy dropped it in the river, but it ain't hurt.

“Listen, Hook, about that proposition?”

“You got about two seconds to get out of my window,” Hook said, “before I empty this gun.”

“Right,” Seth said. “Good night, Hook.”

When the telephone rang, Andrea rolled over and searched for the receiver.

“Hello,” she said, sleep in her voice.

“Andrea, this is Hook.”

“Who?”

“Hook Runyon, you know, with the railroad.”

“Oh, yes,” she said. “Is something wrong?”

“No, no, nothing wrong. I was just wondering about those bookstores you mentioned.”

“I could get the addresses and call you back.”

“That would be alright, but then I was hoping to talk to you actually. I've some concerns about that fire and thought you might have some ideas.”

“Well,” she said.

“And I don't have a ride, this being the weekend and all. I thought maybe we could sort of do it all at the same time.”

“I did have plans to get some things done here,” she said.

“Oh, sure. I understand. Another time.”

“Well,” she said, pausing, “I suppose I could show you where they are.”

“That would be great. I'll be waiting out front of the depot. I'm the guy with one arm.”

Andrea sat on the edge of the bed. She had misgivings about meeting Hook, not that she disliked him, but he
was
a yard dog. With Barstow being a railroad town, she'd grown up aware of the transient nature of railroaders and of yard dogs in particular.

On top of that, her breakup had been a difficult one, and she wasn't at all certain that she was emotionally prepared to deal with a man on any level. Still, he'd given her no reason to believe that he was interested in anything but getting his job done in the safest way possible. She guessed she owed her patients that much.

 

Hook finished his coffee and headed out of the depot. When he walked by the ticket office, the operator turned to his ledger without speaking.

The day shined bright and clear, and the pigeons gathered atop the depot, chortling and gurgling like teapots. Hook lit a cigarette and checked out the new scratches on his battered prosthesis.

When Andrea drove up, he doused his cigarette and slid in next to her. She wore a white ball cap that lit up her freckles and her slate-colored eyes.

“Morning,” he said. “Hope I haven't ruined your weekend.”

“Glad to be of help,” she said. “What exactly are you looking for?”

“Books,” he said. “So any place I can find them cheap and plentiful.”

“There's a thrift.”

“Works for me,” he said.

Andrea checked her mirror before pulling out. “What happened to the face?”

Hook touched his cheek. He'd forgotten that the cop had parked a knee on his head.

“Jackrabbit kicked me,” he said.

Andrea looked over at him. “A mighty big one by the looks of it.”

“You never know what you're going to shake loose in a rail yard,” he said.

When they passed the bridge, Hook rolled his window down. He wondered where Seth and the others had spent the night. He figured the cops hadn't left much of the jungle.

“Have you heard any more about getting a train for the asylum?” Andrea asked.

“I didn't call Division again,” he said. “Thought I'd let it simmer for a bit. Too much information too fast shunts Eddie onto a siding, and he forgets where he's headed.”

“There,” she said, pointing to an old Quonset. “It's a pretty shabby place. You sure you wouldn't prefer a bookstore?”

“It's the hunt more than the finding,” he said. “I like poking around, digging up treasure where no one else sees it. Problem is, it gets in your blood, and pretty soon you can't see out your windows for the books.”

A cowbell attached to the door with a rope rang when they entered. An old guy with eyes the color of milk nodded and turned back to his reading. The Quonset smelled of dust, old clothes, and grease. Hook checked out the usual array of mismatched dishes, pots and pans, and toasters with frayed cords. Racks of accessories were near the window: belts, leather purses, scarves, and costume jewelry. Used furniture had been stacked in the back, kitchen chairs with the seats missing, crippled tables, and old sewing machines.

“It's all so disorganized,” Andrea said.

Hook pushed aside the kitchen chairs and looked under the table.

“Keep focused on what you're looking for or you go home with a ton of junk. See those boxes under there? Treasure,” he said. “But like all treasure there's a certain amount of overburden to dig through.”

Andrea got down on all fours and pulled the boxes out, the white of her back peeking from under her shirt.

“Good Lord,” she said, dusting her hands. “There's hundreds of them. We'll be all day.”

“I'm going to talk to the clerk,” he said. “Be right back.”

When he returned, he said, “Okay. Got what I need.”

“You found the book you wanted?” she asked.

“I bought them all.”

“What?”

“This sort of thing takes time.”

“I should be getting back.”

“Oh, sure,” he said. “Let me buy you lunch first. I owe you that much.”

They stopped by the Mojave Hamburger stand before driving to the park. After they'd eaten, Hook put the boxes on the picnic table.

“A quick look,” he said. “It won't take long, I promise.”

“We're already here, I suppose,” she said. “It's old books you're looking for, right?”

“It's rare books,” he said. “Sometimes they're old and sometimes not. Condition is everything, and dust jackets are essential. We want first editions, signed if possible. Beware of book-club editions. They're not worth a damn. You can tell by their weight, or lack of it, I should say.”

“But how do you know what titles to collect?”

Hook thumbed through a book, checking the title page and the series of numbers at the bottom. “Practice,” he said. “Even then, it's easy to make a mistake. Look for an author's first book. It tends to be the smallest print run. Beware of bestsellers. Everybody in the country will have a copy just like yours.”

Andrea picked up a book and examined it. “But what do you do with them once you've collected them?” she asked.

Hook looked over at her. “Own them,” he said. “One day you die, and somebody else owns them. That's how it works.”

Andrea studied him. “That's a little weird.”

“It's a lot weird,” he said.

An hour later, Hook leaned back and lit a cigarette. “That about does it,” he said.

Andrea looked at the books Hook had set aside. “Out of all those, you have only two?”

“Not just
any
two,” he said. “This one is Steinbeck's
Cup of Gold
, his first. Not many of those published. It will be valuable someday. And this one is Lawrence's
Lady Chatterley's Lover
. Not much now but a groundbreaker. Someday it will be important.”

Andrea gathered her knees into her arms. “You've quite an interest in all this?”

“An obsession, and I'm not the best company when I'm in the midst of a hunt.”

Hook started putting the books back into the boxes. “So tell me about yourself.”

Andrea shrugged. “My life's pretty simple,” she said.

“No life is simple. How did you wind up at Baldwin?”

“Went to nursing school first, of course. Took my internship with the nuns. I've always been a pretty good student. Things were going well until I discovered something about myself.”

“What would that be?”

“I couldn't deal with blood. This is not a good thing for a nurse.”

“Or for yard dogs,” he said.

“But I'm pretty good with what I'm doing, at least I like to think I am.”

“I'll bet you are,” he said.

“So how did you get to be a yard dog?” she asked.

Hook held up his prosthesis. “My life began and ended with this,” he said. “Car wreck, and then I sort of went out to get even with the world.”

“And did you?”

“I hit the skids and learned a lot about survival. Then, with the war came a shortage of men. Hiring a one-arm yard dog doesn't seem so unreasonable when there's no one else. I've been at it awhile now. Me and the railroad have had our ups and downs over the years.”

“Married?”

“Never been asked,” he said. “You?”

“I've been asked,” she said. “And then he changed his mind.”

“Sorry,” he said. “I didn't mean to pry.

“The law turned out to be something I could do, and I had spent a lot of time riding the rods by then. I have a pretty good eye for detail and tend to think like a criminal, all necessary in a job like mine.”

“Where do you live?”

“Caboose,” he said.

Andrea plunked her chin in her hands. “You're kidding me?”

“It's like living at the tail end of a bullwhip,” he said.

“Do you have relatives?” she asked.

“Not that I admit to. Other than Mixer, that is.”

“Mixer?”

“My dog. He fights everything that comes along, and it doesn't matter a damn how big or mean it is. Don't know how he's managed to stay alive. Section foreman's taking care of him back in Needles.”

“And now you're charged with moving an entire insane asylum,” she said.

“It just might be the end of a fine career,” he said.

“Why do you say that?”

“Other than there's about a thousand things that could go wrong, I've some real concerns about that fire out there.”

“I wake up in the night thinking about that horrible accident,” she said.

“If it was an accident,” he said.

“You don't think so, do you?”

“I don't know. That's just the point, but I can't have an arsonist running around loose on my train. I can't take that chance.”

“They said it was the electrical wiring.”

Hook picked up the boxes of books and took them to the car. When he came back, he said, “What do you think?”

“I guess it could have been.”

“But how do they know? There was nothing left of that building but ashes. Did the fire department investigate or the local police?”

Andrea gathered up the papers and sacks from lunch and put them in the trash can.

“Both came,” she said.

“And?”

“They looked around, talked to Doctor Baldwin.”

“If the fire had been anywhere but in an insane asylum, do you think things would have been handled differently?” he asked.

Andrea fell silent for a moment. “I've gotten used to people's indifference when it comes to the mentally ill. As far as other people are concerned, those inmates out there are already dead. They didn't spend that much time investigating, I guess.”

Hook sat down on the table and lit a cigarette. A squirrel peeked around a limb before vaulting to the top of the tree.

“If I can't be certain it was accidental, I can't be certain it wasn't set,” he said.

“But why would anyone do such a thing?” Andrea asked. “There would have to be a reason.”

“That's usually the case,” he said. “Unless what Doctor Helms says is correct, that pyromaniacs don't need a reason.”

“Like Van Diefendorf?”

Hook shook his head. “Anyone who would burn his house with his family in it might enjoy setting fire to his fellow inmates.”

“But that's the security ward,” Andrea said. “The place is locked down twenty-four hours a day.”

Hook snuffed out his cigarette. “Maybe security has been breached. Men who are locked up can be unusually clever in finding ways to get what they want. Perhaps there is someone on the outside who's involved.”

Andrea thought for a moment. “There's the guard, I suppose, but he's worked there for many years now. The staff has access. Other than that, no one can even get in there.”

“How are they fed?”

“Food is brought in from the cafeteria. Everything is searched going in and coming out.”

“The safety of those boys lay with Frankie. How do you figure he let such a thing happen?”

“He had two floors to cover. It's not easy to keep track of so many, believe me.”

“Does he have friends, a girlfriend maybe?” he asked.

“Not that I know of. Frankie has his music, and he goes out to a movie occasionally, but I've never seen him with a girl.”

“How does he get along with Doctor Baldwin?”

“He doesn't interact with people much one way or the other.”

“And so what about you, Andrea? What made you decide to make this trip?”

“Am I a suspect as well?”

“No,” he said. “You came after the fire had started, and you tried to put it out. There are burns on your hands to prove it.”

Andrea turned her hands over. “I'm going so that I can look out for my patients. If not for them, I wouldn't be going. Everything I have is here.

“Look, I don't mean to tell you your business, but have you considered the possibility that this was just a tragic accident?”

“I've been a yard dog a long time now. Being suspicious has kept me alive.” He looked over at her. “I admit that sometimes I see the world through a broken glass.”

“Well,” she said, standing, “I really must be getting home. What do we do with all these books you don't want?”

“Take them back to the thrift,” he said.

“But you've already paid for them.”

“Lots of people depend on these for their reading material,” he said. “I've found what I wanted.”

 

Back at the depot, Hook got out of the car. “Thanks for showing me around,” he said, “and for answering my questions. I'll be seeing you soon.”

Andrea watched him walk toward the depot. He was nearly at the door when she called after him.

“It's the sedation mostly,” she said.

Hook turned. “What do you mean?”