the Devil's Workshop (1999) (33 page)

"So these train-yard jerkoffs who run the switching operation are just gonna tell you what's coming in and going out?" Buddy said doubtfully.

"They won't tell me anything, so I won't bother asking."

"If they won't talk, then you won't get dick."

"This information is guarded, but not protected."

"You sound just like a fucking agent," Buddy said, getting irate, rubbing his eyes and wishing he had slept better.

"Be right back," Cris said, and moved away, heading across the tracks, staying in between cars, moving toward the spot where he remembered the Southern Pacific Yardmaster's office was located. He'd only been in this place once before, and back then he'd been drunk and still suffering the aftereffects of the great tennis shoe robbery. Now, as he moved along, he could feel a terrible weakness in his legs, and it startled him. Then he realized that although he had stopped drinking, his appetite had not come back. He'd had no calories in almost twenty-four hours.

The Yardmaster's office was in a three-story tower at the east end of the switching yard. The observation windows overlooked the tracks and most of the railroad cars parked on the several acres of sidings. Cris skirted a line of parked grainers and then moved down between two rows of stack cars. Crouching on trembling thighs, he inched along, staying out of sight of the high, green
-
tinted windows until he got opposite the tower. He hoped that the three or four people in the office would be looking back the other way, at the incoming tracks. If the Trainmaster spotted him, he'd be arrested and questioned by the yard bulls.

Cris had been taught the art of carbon-sheet-spotting by an old
-
time hobo with the unlikely name of Begone John. "These dufuses get their train line-ups and consist sheets delivered in sealed, locked pouchesJohn had once told him, grinning, his brown teeth and stringy pencil-neck belying a soul as crafty as an Arab merchant's. "Everything has five copies, but with downsizing, a lot of these carbon copies are no longer necessary. The stupid pricks just throw the extra sheets in the trash. If ya know what trains are leaving and where the sleepers are, then ya don't have ta wait on the grade with forty other drunk assholes while the sun's fry in' yer brains. Ya just show up at the appointed hour and catch out on the exact right car.9'

Cris snuck around to the windowless back of the Yardmaster's tower, where he found the trash cans. Three fifty-gallon oil drums were pushed up against the yellow-painted wood building. An aerial circus of black horseflies the size of gypsy moths, strafed the top of the oil drums, competing for airspace in the fetid containers.

Cris waved his hands over the can to flush away the angry flies, then began to gingerly pick through the refuse.

He quickly found one of yesterday's train line-up carbons on top. He began to gather up the three-page report, careful not to smudge the sheets as he folded them into an old newspaper he also found in the trash. After some more digging, farther down in the second drum he found the consist sheets. Cris included them in his newspaper package and made his way back to the Blazer, where Buddy and Stacy were waiting.

"Let's go over there," he said, pointing to a small park acros
s t
he street. They walked to the nearest shaded picnic table, then Cris unfolded the newspaper and began to sort the track line-up carbons from the consist sheets.

"What the hell's all that?" Buddy asked, looking at the sheets.

"Each day, the Trainmaster gets a train line-up, which lists all the trains scheduled to come through the yard in that twenty-four
-
hour period. That's these sheets up here. He also gets 'consist' sheets, detailing what cars are on each train, and what cars need to be switched in his yard, or held for transfer to other trains. There are always five copies of everything: one for the Yardmaster, one for the Trainmaster, and one for the Engine Foreman; the extra copies are for us." He smiled, and finished spreading them out on the picnic table. First he studied the train line-up and thinned out the choices. He began by eliminating the "locals," trains that made multiple stops.

"A seasoned hobo will rarely ride a local," he explained. "All the stops increase his chances of getting busted by some nosy cinder bull. Plus, locals are slow, and often have to 'go in the hole' to let a 'priority train' pass. You can bet Kincaid and his band of thugs won't be on a local."

Finally, Cris ended up with three sheets: one for manifest trains, with many different types of cars and products, all headed to the same destination; one for unit trains carrying just one type of cargo; and one for passenger trains. He spread them out and started studying them.

"Okay, according to the slip we found in the bottom of the boat, the next place they said they would go is Grandview, on the Kansas City Southern Line. Grandview is up in Colorado, just across the Continental Divide. So if Buddy is right and this slip we found is bullshit, then we got three choices. Either they took this grain unit train to Sheriland, Louisiana, or they went south on this eight-o'clock manifest train to New Orleans. It left forty minutes after the train they arrived on hit the yard. They woulda just had time to catch itThe third choice is this 'varnish' leaving for Portsmouth, at six P
. M
., in which case maybe they're still here."

"This what?" Stacy asked.

"Varnish. It's an old-time rail term for a passenger train. But for Kincaid, riding varnish is both good and bad. It's good because it's fast and won't get sided, but it's hard to catch out on a passenger train. They don't pull many cars, so they don't slow much on a grade. They're also damned uncomfortable. You have to ride the 'blind'--that's a flexible piece of metal between the coaches, on either side of the coupling unit. Since there are almost forty men and women with Kincaid, I doubt they'll be 'blinding.' " He hesitated for a minute as a wave of nausea hit him, followed by such trembling weakness in his arms and legs that he had to sit down. "I need something to eat," he finally said. "I feel shitty."

"I saw a McDonald's on the way into town," Stacy said.

"Jesus, a McDonald's?" Buddy grumbled, "Let's just skip eating and go right to the Maalox."

"Gee, Buddy, I'm so sorry. Why don't ya gimme your cellphone and I'll make us reservations at Spago," Stacy cracked.

The air conditioner was broken, so they sat outside McDonald's on the deck under the colorful umbrellas. While sweat collected under their arms and ran in rivulets from their hairlines, they started breakfast.

Cris took two bites of his Chicken McNugget, excused himself, then went into the men's room and threw up. "Shit," he said to himself as he splashed water on his face and looked up at his scary reflection in the mirror. His eyes seemed to have receded deeper into his face. His cheekbones jutted. Then his stomach rolled, churned, and erupted. He spewed a mouthful of bile into the sink that was the color and consistency of 3-In-One Oil. "Fuck," he whispered softly. He gulped two handfuls of tap water, then returned to the table.

Sugar Shack Jungle was all the way down by the tributary that fed Eagle Lake on the northwest side of Fort Worth. The jungle was nestled into the elbow of the river and took up over three acres. It was out of sight of but near the SP track heading out of Fort Worth. Nearby was a two-mile stretch of track that had a two-percent grade and slowed most hundred-car freights to less than five miles an hour, making them easy to hop. Sugar Shack Jungle contained hundreds of hobos squatting in every imaginable kind of dwelling. It was the final parking place for half a dozen rusting cars that now served as upscale housing for the families that owned them. A graveyard of old tires and oil drums performed every imaginable task, from tire-swings for children to fire-pits and structural supports. The "houses," like the residents who lived there, were the unwanted refuse of a steel-and-glass world that had no further use for them. Old wood cartons and scrounged or stolen lumber made up house sidings; corrugated tin created patches of shade; old, sagging chairs and three-legged tables leaned precariously on makeshift supports like wounded veterans. What really defined the place was the eyes of the people. As Cris led Stacy and Buddy into the camp, the eyes of the inhabitants tracked them like enemy radar ... eyes vacant of emotion, like licked stones or holes bored in an empty box.

"I feel like the last piece of cake at a Weight Watchers party," Stacy said softly, as they stood on the edge of the camp and felt the silent, angry appraisals.

"Grab a seat over there," Cris said. "Don't look at anyone directly, or lock eyes. Just watch the river." He left them and moved across the jungle, walking slowly, looking at the makeshift houses. He didn't belong here anymore, and the unfriendly stares were like silent curses, unmistakable in their hostility. Had Cris entered this camp a few weeks ago as Lucky, a long-haired, dirty man with garbage-bagged feet, he would not have merited a second glance. In his expensive loafers, new clothes, and recent denta
l w
ork, he was now a class enemy, a representative of a world that first mandated their failure and then engineered their exile.

He had just about decided his quest was hopeless when he saw the old hobo poet Steam Train Jack. He was flat on his back near the river, looking like a pile of discarded clothes from the Goodwill. His snow-white beard and huge girth made him hard to mistake. He had an old, river-soaked neckerchief across his forehead cooling his eyes. Cris moved over and sat near him. He could tell the old man knew he was there, but Jack didn't move or take the kerchief off his face.

44 41 was walkin' down the street with my bundle on my back/ When I saw a 'bo I used ta know/His name was Steam Train Jack,' " Cris recited. The poem had been written by the old man beside him.

Steam Train didn't move, didn't twitch. He just lay there. 4'Since I wrote that damn poem/I sure as hell should know him," Jack finally said. He took the damp cloth off his eyes and looked over at Cris. Then he propped up his enormous girth on one elbow and looked a second time.

Recollection dawned. 44Lucky?" Steam Train asked, as he sat straight up, but in so doing, he gained only a couple more feet of altitude. Steam Train was oddly proportioned, with short legs and torso but unusually long arms. He had simian dimensions. 44Lucky! Shit, that is you, ain't it? What happened, man? This can't be true/ I can't believe it's really you/Yer lookin' thin as jungle pot stew," he rhymed.

"It's a long story," Lucky said.

Then Steam Train reached out and pounded Cris on the shoulder. "From the look of them tails/You ain't on the rails?"

"I'm retired from high-iron drifting. Stopped drinkin' too," he added, and watched Steam Train smile his approval.

Steam Train Jack was what they called a boxcar barnacle. He was a legend on the rails. He'd been riding boxcars since the earl
y f
orties, and he almost never uttered a sentence that wasn't in rhyme.

Steam Train strained to pull his prodigious girth up to his feet. "Shit," he said, groaning. "Harder and harder ta git up an' go/ Got more pains than a stained-glass window." Standing, he was only slightly taller than sitting. He weighed over 250 pounds, and seemed a gravelly-voiced cross between Jabba the Hut and Santa Claus. He mopped his red face with the damp cloth. "So, if y'stopped ridin' trains and y'don't drink no more/What brings ya here ta my jungle door?"

"I'm looking for Fannon Kincaid. I was wondering if anybody's seen him and his F
. T. R. A
. bunch around. I know he was headed this way. I need to find out which train he caught out on."

Steam Train shook his head. "He's a Texas tomcat with an ass fulla buckshot. Kincaid's the devil, let him be, son/He'll kill in a heartbeat, without no reason."

"I don't care about his reason. 'Cause vengeance is my reason. It's my reason and my higher power," he said, more to himself than to the old man standing before him. Steam Train looked off toward the river where Buddy and Stacy were sitting, trying hard not to engage the cold-eyed stares around them.

"You wait over there, I'll go ask about/I heard he was around/ But he mighta catched out." Steam Train moved off, waddling on sore feet, then began to talk to people who were seated in leaning chairs in front of makeshift houses.

When Cris got over to Buddy, the producer was fidgeting. "Who the hell is that?" Buddy said. "Looks like a character from a Spielberg movie."

"It's a break he was here. If anybody in this jungle knows anything, Steam Train Jack will find out for us."

They sat by the river and watched undernourished children playing in the water.

Stacy looked at the camp in wonder. "This is amazing. I neve
r k
new something like this existed. It's like pictures I saw of Hoovervilles in the thirties. Why are they here?"

"These people are rejects."

"You weren't a reject," she said, looking at him carefully.

"No," Cris said softly. "I was running from myself."

After twenty minutes, Steam Train moved back to them. He must have returned to his shanty, because now he had a walking stick, a long piece of polished oak with a knotted handle. He hobbled down to the river and motioned to Cris, who left Stacy and Buddy and joined him.

"On the two-mile grade/Three hours ago/They left on the NETT/On a Burlington, MO."