The Hanging of Samuel Ash (6 page)

As they pulled off, Hook yawned and scrunched down in his seat. Pickpockets rarely struck on a moving train, too much chance of getting caught and with nowhere to run.

When the conductor walked the aisle announcing their arrival time in Amarillo, Hook checked to make certain Junior had been alerted. Some of the passengers stood to retrieve luggage from the overhead racks.

The engineer blew the whistle. The train decelerated and pulled to a stop at the station. The passengers stood and moved into the aisle. Hook could see Junior as he worked his way to the door.

Hook scanned the car but spotted no signs of a problem. He ducked down for a peek out the window. People on the platform had moved forward as they waited for the passengers to get off.

When Hook stepped out onto the platform, he moved into the crowd. He could just see Junior's hat above the others. Pushing his way closer, he scanned the passengers.

Suddenly, Junior's hat disappeared, and someone screamed. Hook shoved his way forward. Junior sat on the ground, and the old lady with the knitting bag lay sprawled out in front of him. Her skirt had hiked up, exposing her garter belt and the hairy backs of her legs.

Hook pulled his sidearm. “You're under arrest,” he said.

The old lady whimpered and buried her face in her hands. A collective gasp rose up from the passengers, who had crowded in about them.

“But Hook, what are you doing?” Junior said. “I didn't call for help.”

“It's a ruse,” Hook said. “She falls. You get distracted, and someone lifts your wallet.”

“She just tripped, and I fell over her. Anyway, I still have my wallet. See.”

“Let her up,” a woman said from the crowd. “She's an old lady, for heaven's sake.”

“Yeah, let her up, you creep,” a man said from the back.

The soldier who had been on the train stepped forward. “What kind of asshole pulls a gun on an old lady?”

“I'm the railroad dick,” Hook said. “She's a pickpocket.”

“Someone check her knitting bag,” the lady in the back said.

The soldier knelt and dumped the bag onto the walk. A ball of yarn, a small magnifying glass, and two knitting needles fell out.

“Nothing,” the soldier said, helping her to her feet. “Since when is knitting against the law?”

The old lady swooned and leaned into him.

“Someone should call the law,” the lady in the back said.

Hook turned. “I
am
the law, lady.”

“Really,” she said. “You should be ashamed.”

The whistle blew, and Hook turned. The old lady had disappeared into the crowd, which now drifted toward the train.

Hook walked to the luggage wagon. Junior, the brim of his Panama bent from his fall, followed behind.

“I didn't feel anything, Hook, or I would have called out as you suggested.”

“Forget it,” Hook said.

“First thing I know, she fell, and I went right over the top of her.”

“You have any money?”

Junior looked at him from under the Panama. “Money?”

“To buy tickets home.”

“But can't you just show them your badge?”

Hook turned and headed for the depot. “Which is just what I'd do, Junior, if they hadn't lifted the damn thing.”

 

7

 

P
OPEYE PUSHED THE
phone across the desk. “Eddie isn't going to be happy about them pickpockets getting away, Hook.”

“How is it operators can predict the future without ever leaving their chairs?” Hook asked.

“It's a matter of uncommon intelligence,” he said.

“It's for sure uncommon,” Hook said.

He could see Junior waiting for him on the bench outside, his Panama drooped down in front like a broken bird wing. Hook dialed Eddie.

“Security,” Eddie said.

“Eddie, Hook.”

“What the hell you doing, Runyon?”

“Chasing crooks, Eddie.”

“You get them pickpockets?”

“The bastards teamed up on me.”

Eddie fell silent. “Have you considered early retirement, Runyon? I'm sure the company would be willing to make an exception.”

“What I
have
considered could put me on death row, Eddie.”

“So, I get this call from Amarillo,” Eddie said. “This guy says a one-armed man pulled a gun on an old lady in the middle of a crowd at the depot. ‘What the hell kind of railroad you running?' he says. So I asked myself, who would be crazy enough to draw down on an old lady and in a crowd? Guess who came to mind?”

“She wasn't that old, Eddie. Anyway, it's not always easy to tell who the criminal is.”

“You got that right. So what's next, a pistol-whipping down at the old-age home?”

“Those pickpockets are probably working the competition by now, anyway, Eddie.”

“They have no reason to leave
us,
Runyon. It couldn't be safer right where they are.”

“I've got their number. It's just a matter of time.”

“Put that boy on it, Runyon. He's college, you know.”

“He drinks tea.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“And cigarette smoke irritates his skin. Jesus, Eddie, why don't you just pay your bills so I don't have to babysit?”

“That coroner called from Carlsbad,” he said. “He has something he wants you to look at before he releases that wigwag body for burial.”

“Like what?”

“Check it out, Runyon, and there's an old bus parked in the right-of-way west of Gallup. See it's removed.”

“Right,” he said. “Listen, I thought you were going to send me a new badge.”

“What the hell you talking about? I sent it a week ago.”

“Well, it didn't arrive.”

“What do you mean, it didn't arrive?”

“You'd think the railroad could deliver the goddang mail without losing it.”

“This is coming out of your pay, Runyon. And if that other badge shows up, send it back. I don't want them floating all over the country. Pretty soon the only one without a badge will be you.”

“Send it by stagecoach, Eddie. Maybe it will get here that way.”

“And there are wildcat strikes breaking out up and down the line. Remember it's your job to protect company property.”

“Got it, Eddie.”

“Truman's threatening to nationalize the railroad if these strikes don't stop. How would you like working for Truman?”

“Maybe he could get my badge here without losing it, Eddie. And you might consider sending some decent transportation out here. That road-rail is like sitting a camel.

“I got to go, Eddie. The operator's making ugly noises about his phone.”

*   *   *

Hook waited for Popeye to come back from the john. “I've got to make a run to Carlsbad,” he said. “I'd like to put that road-rail on the line. You got a slot open?”

“Why don't you just road it, Hook? That way I don't have to do the board over.”

“My kidneys won't take another road trip in that thing.”

Popeye looked at the schedule. “There's a blacksnake with a load of coal coming through in about an hour. After that, the line's open until three. You want an order?”

“Write it up, Popeye.”

*   *   *

Hook joined Junior on the bench. Mixer hopped up to greet him. Junior stood and brushed the hair off his lap. Hook lit a cigarette and looked downline.

“Eddie has an assignment for you,” he said. “There's a bus on the right-of-way west of Gallup. He wants you to have it towed off company property.”

Junior fanned away the smoke that drifted over his head. “But how would I get there?”

“There's a tanker train through here in an hour. Hop her and run on out there. The company will pick up the tow bill for the bus.”

“Hop a freighter? You mean jump on it without a ticket?”

“That's right,” Hook said. “And don't fall under the wheels. It makes a hell of a mess.”

“And where will you be, Hook?”

“First, I'm taking a nap, and then I'm herding the road-rail over to Carlsbad to see the coroner's gold-teeth collection.

“Come on, Mixer,” Hook said, pausing. “And when you get back, find yourself a place to stay. I didn't sign on to share my caboose with a prosecutor.”

*   *   *

Hook stretched out on his bunk and perused his copy of Hemingway's
For Whom the Bell Tolls.
He'd owned a reading copy, too, but this one was in fine condition. Someday it would bring a nice return, and he never tired of Hemingway's clean style. His dialogue shot from the page like a rifle bullet.

If things ever slowed down, he intended to find some of Hemingway's other work. When a book, long after it had been set aside, still lingered in his head, he took it as a sure sign of collectability.

When he awoke, his copy had slid to the floor, and Mixer, with both paws up on the bunk, stared into his face. Hook pushed him away and sat up. He dug out his watch. The blacksnake should have come and gone by now, and, with it, Junior Monroe.

Hook himself had abandoned riding coal cars some years ago. Eating coal dust in a fifty-mile-an-hour gale had taken some of the fun out of it. Still, it would be a good learning experience for Junior.

After setting out some extra food for Mixer, who had apparently worn out his welcome at the Harvey House, Hook checked on the road-rail. One of the tires had lost air, and a bird had deposited a calling card on the windshield.

By the time he cleaned the window and pumped up the tire, the sun had lifted high in the east. He pulled onto the crossing, dropped the pilot wheels, and headed off for Carlsbad.

The countryside slid by like a silent film, and the blue sky, laced in white, swirled about in the exact pattern of an agate shooter marble he'd had as a kid. The smell of heat and thistle rode in on the wind.

Days like this brought back the freedom he'd experienced when he bummed the rails. Being a bo took little from a man's spirit. Some of his happiest times had been tracking through the night atop a boxcar with no plans, no destination, and no expectations. But more often than not, fear and hunger trumped freedom, until at last the fare had become too high to pay.

At dusk he passed by the Clovis signal, and he slowed. He could smell smoke and figured it to be the strikers' campfires somewhere beyond the hill. He brought the road-rail back up to speed. As long as they stayed off company property, he had no quarrel with them.

He hoped the strikers had taken his advice about dropping Moose Barrick as their leader. Moose had worked for the railroad for a long time. Hook never understood how a company would fire a man for sitting down on the job but keep a lowlife like Barrick on the payroll for years.

Night fell, and the stars popped into the sky. The zing of locusts rose up above the hum of the tires. And when the Artesia depot came into view, Hook thought to pull off for a break. But then he remembered the fiver he owed the operator and decided to press on to Carlsbad.

The moon had set, and the night had darkened to ink by the time he hit the crossing in Carlsbad. He found the operator paring his nails into the trash can.

When the operator looked up, he said, “Oh, it's you.”

Hook squinted his eyes into slits. “You ask for my badge, Beauford, and it'll take three surgeons to find where those clippers went.”

The operator shoved the trash can back and dropped his clippers into his pocket.

“What you want, Runyon?”

“You know where the coroner lives around here?”

“Broomfield? Sure. His office is just off Third downtown.”

“Where does he do his coroner work?” Hook asked.

The operator opened his mouth and showed Hook a missing tooth. “In his chair.”

Hook looked up at the clock. “There some place I could catch a nap?”

“I heard the jail's right comfy,” he said, grinning.

“That's real funny. You thought about applying for Eddie Preston's job?” Hook said.

“There's a spot behind the water heater in the baggage room. You get caught, I don't know you,” he said.

“Thanks,” Hook said. “I figured you might have located yourself a roost.”

*   *   *

When Hook awoke, a spider ran across his chest and disappeared under his arm.

“Damn it,” he said, sitting up.

Sunlight struck through the window and lit the wall. He could smell the diesel fumes from the freighter idling outside and hear the men as they went about their maintenance check.

When he came out of the baggage room, a different operator sat behind the desk. He looked like a kid taking up his first job.

The operator looked up at Hook. “Who are you?” he asked.

“I'm Hook Runyon, the bull out of Clovis,” he said. “Where's John?”

“John who?”

“Beauford, the operator who was here.”

“Last shift,” he said. “They bumped him to Needles.”

“What's your name?” Hook asked.

“Clyde.”

“Clyde who? Never mind,” he said. “You goddang operators aren't around long enough for it to matter, anyway.”

“Say, what you doing in the baggage room?” he asked.

“Security,” Hook said. “Why the hell wasn't the door locked?”

“I thought it was.”

“Well, it wasn't. You might want to check on these things when your trick starts.”

“Yes, sir,” he said.

“I'll let it go this time,” Hook said. “But don't let it happen again. I'd hate to have to write you up.”

*   *   *

Hook's road-rail took up two spaces in front of Dr. Broomfield's dentist office. Hook waited in the waiting room for thirty minutes while Broomfield completed an extraction.

“Dr. Broomfield will see you now,” the receptionist said. “If you will follow me.”