The Hanging of Samuel Ash (25 page)

“I've been riding with Samuel Ash all the way from Carlsbad, and we've not had a cross word. If Bet isn't afraid, you shouldn't be either. Come on in, and I'll explain.”

*   *   *

Celia looked around the caboose before taking up a seat at the table.

“It feels like a home,” she said. “And all these books.”

“I'm a collector,” he said.

“But books?”

“I'd explain it if I could, but it's like Beam and water. There's no explaining why a man drinks what shortens his life and increases his enemies. He just does, that's all.

“Speaking of which, I'm all out of tea. Would you care for a drink?”

“Well,” she said, “I don't normally drink.”

“I'm not much of a normal drinker myself,” he said.

“No, thanks, a water.”

Hook fixed her a water, and handed it to her. He poured himself a Beam.

“You may think this is all a bit strange,” he said.

“You mean having a casket with a body in it strapped on the porch of the caboose that you live in? Why would I think that?”

“I found Samuel Ash hanging from the potash wigwag signal outside of Carlsbad.”

She shuddered. “Oh, dear.”

“Things like that can happen on this job,” he said. “Over the years, I've gathered up more bodies than I care to remember. But this one's different.”

She sipped at her water. “How, different?”

He reached into his pocket and laid the Bronze Star on the table. “For one thing, he had this around his neck.” He turned it over. “The name Samuel Ash has been inscribed on the back.”

“A war hero?”

“He'd been scabbing on the railroad, probably broke and needing money to get back home. Strikers don't favor scabs, hero or no hero. I thought I'd nailed who might have done it, more than once in fact, but too many unexplained things have happened since.”

“What do you mean?”

“Someone took a shot at me, for one thing. I don't know who, and I don't know why. It could have been random, but I'm not much on coincidences, not when my life's at stake. I've pretty much ruled out every other possibility.”

“And do you always bring these bodies home with you?”

“On rare occasion, I admit, but they were going to bury this boy in a pauper's grave back in Carlsbad, a war hero. I just couldn't let that happen. I need to find his people.”

She locked her fingers, long and white as chalk, in front of her. “But why Carmen?”

“When Samuel Ash enlisted, he named Carmen as his hometown.”

“And you think he may have come from the orphanage?”

“Thought it possible since on that same form he indicated that his parents were deceased.”

Hook finished off his drink and slid the glass aside. “No one in the entire town has heard of him. Either everyone is lying, or I've been wrong about the whole thing.”

Mixer scratched on the door, and Hook got up to let him in. He jumped up on the seat next to Celia and lay down.

“Get,” Hook said.

“No, it's alright,” she said. “What are you going to do now?”

“The mortuary in Carmen is expecting a body to be delivered to them from Carlsbad. If I don't find his people soon, I'll have no choice but to turn him over. He'll be buried without friends or family in a strange town. And the worst of it, his killer might still be on the loose.”

“His killer?”

“It's a possibility,” he said.

“Oh, it's time. I must go. I'm sorry about Samuel Ash. I wish I could have helped.”

“Wait,” he said, reaching for his billfold. “I owe Bet a dollar.”

“I'll see she gets it.”

As she left, she paused at the casket and made the sign of the cross. She turned to Hook, who watched from the door.

“You're right about that straight line,” she said. “Good-bye, Hook, and good luck.”

*   *   *

After she'd gone, Hook shaved and put on a clean shirt. He lined his books across the table and pulled out his newly acquired American first edition of
The Hound of the Baskervilles.
She had perfect boards, not a smudge or dent, and the “Published 1902” appeared on the reverse of the title page, indicating a first state. Had it not been for the library marking, it would have been a mint copy indeed, yet one more reason for him to rescue it from an indifferent public.

The sun struck through the cupola, warming his head and shoulders. Weariness rose up in him as if it had waited for this exact moment for him to get home. He lay down on the bunk and soon fell asleep.

He dreamed of blue flags and disembodied parts, and when a rap came at the door, he sat straight up, his heart pounding. Mixer crawled from under the bunk and commenced barking. Again, the knock came, louder this time.

“Alright, alright,” he said. “I'm coming.”

When he opened it, Celia and Bet stood side by side in the moonlight.

“What is it?” he asked, rubbing the sleep from his face.

“May we come in?” Celia asked.

“Oh, sure. Hi, Bet,” he said.

Bet's lip quivered, and Mixer moved in next to her. Hook glanced at Celia.

“I'll fix something to eat,” he said.

“No, thanks anyway,” Celia said.

“What's the problem?” Hook asked.

“I don't want to go to an orphanage,” Bet said.

“I see,” Hook said. “I'm sorry about your grandma, Bet.”

“They burned her up,” she said. “'Cause we didn't have any money.”

“Bet says she'll go if Mixer can go with her,” Celia said. “You know, until she gets adjusted.”

Hook took out his handkerchief and wiped the tears from Bet's cheeks.

“Well,” he said, “how would the orphanage feel about that, I wonder?”

Celia pursed her lips. “The orphanage has a farm, so I don't see what a dog would hurt. Anyway, it wouldn't be permanent.”

“I'll give your dollar back,” Bet said.

“No, you earned that for taking such great care of Mixer, and I'm sure he'd like to take care of you for a while.”

“Will you go, too?” she asked.

“Me? Well, I don't know.”

“It would make things easier,” Celia said.

“I do have some time left on my rent with Patch, and Frenchy hasn't called in yet. Sure, I'll go back, and Mixer can stay with you. How would that be?”

Bet nodded and looked at Celia. “Can Mixer sleep with me?”

“Of course,” she said.

Hook turned out the lamp and secured the door, while Celia and Bet waited in the car with Mixer. He climbed down the steps and looked up at the casket, which reflected the moonlight back like giant cat eyes. He slid in next to Bet.

“Aren't you going to take Samuel Ash home now?” she asked.

“Not yet. I haven't found his people.”

Celia pulled away, and Bet leaned against Hook. “I don't have people either,” she said.

“You have Mixer and Miss Feola,” he said. “They are your people now.”

“And you,” she said.

Hook glanced at Celia, who looked at him through the darkness.

“Yes,” he said. “And me.”

 

27

 

H
OOK THOUGHT THE
tapping noise must be Celia Feola knocking at his caboose door again. He opened it to find her standing there, smiling and stark-naked, except for the bouquet of roses she held in front of her. When the noise came again, he sat up, remembering that he had returned to the shoe shop and that the noise had to be Patch or Skink instead.

Slipping on his prosthesis and clothes, he opened the door to find Patch busy nailing new heels onto a pair of engineer boots.

Patch looked up from his work. “Benny Hoffsteader bought these engineer boots in the city. Now he thinks he's a goddang motorcycle rider. Truth is he ain't nothing but the garbage man and a damn sorry one at that.”

“We all have our illusions,” Hook said, searching out the coffeepot.

“How'd that talk go with the sheriff?” Patch asked.

“You mean you don't know?”

“Well I know the sheriff,” he said. “I'd as soon call out the quilting club if serious trouble set in.”

Hook pulled up to the workbench and sipped his coffee. “You got a newspaper around here, Patch?”

“Over there,” he said. “No charge.”

Hook opened the paper and searched for sales. “Looks like the Methodists are having a rummage sale today,” he said.

“Guess you didn't notice that pothole in the sheriff's head, seeing as how you didn't bring it up?”

“The sheriff and I have an agreement,” Hook said. “Wonder if there'd be books?”

“I don't think the sheriff's given to reading, 'less you want to count comic books and the Sears catalog.”

“I mean the rummage sale, Patch.”

“Never know what you'll find in a rummage sale around here,” he said. “But finding books ain't as likely as finding almost anything else.”

“The sheriff said he'd never heard of Samuel Ash,” Hook said.

“I could have told you that,” Patch said, setting the boots aside. “Samuel Ash never lived here. If he did, I damn sure would know it, 'cause I lived here my whole life.”

Hook scanned the rest of the paper and folded it up. “So, are you going to tell me how the sheriff got that dent in his bumper?”

“You'll have to ask him, though there's been plenty of rumors.”

“Come on, Patch. I know you're going to tell me.”

“Some say he got in a dustup with that Buck Steele who works out to the orphanage. Wouldn't surprise me. Buck Steele wears Justin boots with riding heels, and he wouldn't know a horse from a jackrabbit. You just can't trust a phony like that.

“First thing we hear, the sheriff's gone to the city, laid up in the hospital. The Watkins salesman said the hospital cook told him they were going to put a steel plate big as a hubcap in the sheriff's head, but he wouldn't have it.”

“Well, it's his business,” Hook said.

“Not so long as I have to look at it. A pig could make a wallow in that thing. We never heard another word about it back here in Carmen.”

“About this coffee,” Hook said.

Patch laid down his hammer. “Now, if you are fixin' to complain about my coffee, you just keep in mind how much you paid for it.”

Hook dumped the coffee in the sink and rinsed out his cup.

“I'm off to the rummage sale, Patch. If anyone's looking for me, tell them to go to hell.”

“I'll tell them
you
said to, Hook. I don't need no dent in my head.”

*   *   *

Hook found the rummage sale in the auxiliary building of the Methodist church. The room, dimly lit, smelled of old clothes and scented candles. An old lady with watermelon breasts sat at the door paring her nails. She wore a man's wedding band on her thumb. She looked at Hook over her glasses when he came in.

“Twenty percent off on everything today,” she said. “There're some nice overalls on that back rack.”

“Thanks,” Hook said. “Just looking.”

Hook worked his way around the room, checking the boxes that had been pushed under the table. Being less convenient, they were more often overlooked by bargain hunters. He dug his way through mountains of pots and pans, scented candles, matchbooks, and strings of Christmas lights.

A young woman with a kid in tow came in and made for the clothes section. Pregnant, she wore a large shirt buttoned only at the top. Her shoes, overrun and oversized, made sucking noises on her feet as she pulled the kid along by his arm.

Every now and again, the kid whimpered and wiped his nose on his sleeve, which caused the woman to jerk him up short and fire off an array of threats, none of which had any impact on the boy's whimpering.

After an hour of hunting, Hook had found only a small stack of Jehovah's Witnesses pamphlets and three Gideon Bibles for his trouble. He'd nearly given up, when he spotted a book with a sewing box sitting on top of it. The book, with red covers, turned out to be Lewis Carroll's
Alice's Adventures in Wonderland,
not the 1869 edition, but an American first in very good condition.

He paid up and headed back to the shop, satisfied that his time spent had been worthwhile. He'd gone only a couple blocks when he spotted the sheriff up on a ladder painting the eaves of a white bungalow.

“Hello, Sheriff,” Hook said.

The sheriff looked under his arm. “Oh, it's you,” he said, climbing down. Taking off his hat, he wiped the sweat from his head with his sleeve.

“Damn it's hot,” he said.

“How's old lady Engle?” Hook asked.

“Didn't have to shoot her,” he said. “Not yet, anyway. You find out anything about that Samuel Ash?”

“Not a thing,” Hook said.

The sheriff laid his paintbrush across his paint can and searched out his cigarettes. Hook retrieved a match with his prosthesis, struck it on his zipper, and lit him up.

“You're pretty good with that thing,” the sheriff said, blowing smoke into the air.

“Thanks,” Hook said.

“How'd you lose it, anyway?”

Hook smiled. “Car wreck. My girlfriend didn't drive so well.”

“She still your girlfriend?”

“She turned out to be a bit squeamish,” he said.

“The world's a shithouse, ain't it?” he said.

“Pretty much. How about you?”

“What do you mean?”

“We had a deal. If I showed you mine, you had to show me yours.”

“You mean this?” he said, pointing to his head. “That ain't nothing.”

“Nonetheless.”

“Stupid argument over a pool game,” he said.

“I heard that Buck Steele did it, but then you know rumors in a small town. I heard he is a pretty nice guy.”