The Hanging of Samuel Ash (9 page)

He thumbed its pages, and the smell of time and promise rose up from them. This copy, were it his, would bring closure to a collection he had worked on for a good long while.

Looking around, he slipped it into his stack of bargain books, gathered them up, and made his way to the counter.

 

10

 

B
ACK AT THE
caboose, Hook filled Mixer's water dish before laying out the day's acquisitions. When he came to the
Hound of the Baskervilles
he'd taken from the library, a small knot twisted in the back of his throat. He'd never considered himself a thief, except for the usual childhood transgressions: a pack of cigarettes from his father's nightstand and a comic book from the drugstore, which he'd hidden for days in a coffee can buried under the front porch.

So maybe it hadn't been right, him taking the book like that, but then he could trade it out, couldn't he? His London edition would be considered in very good condition by even the most meticulous collector. Anyway, the library and its patrons would never know the difference. They could not care less about editions and points and impressions. Such things mattered only in the minds of collectors with their obsessions for rarity.

Taking his knife out, he removed the library-card pocket from the American first and attached it to the London edition, after which he slipped the book under his belt and pulled his shirt down over it.

He waited until nearly closing time before returning to the library, where he placed the London edition on the shelf.

The librarian, who stood behind the checkout counting the day's receipts, only nodded as Hook made his way out the door.

*   *   *

Mixer awakened him at eight with a slurp across his ear.

Hook sat up and rubbed his cheek dry with his shoulder. “Damn it, Mixer,” he said. “Can't you hold it?” Mixer went to the door and whined. “Okay, okay,” Hook said, looking for his shoes.

Determined to make up for the money he'd spent on books the day before, Hook skipped breakfast and walked to the signal department in the yards. The smell of oil and grease filled the morning, and the drum of idling diesels pooled in his core as he picked his way over the tracks. Pigeons pranced on the roof of the roundhouse like sentries and chortled their disapproval.

He found the day shift just arriving, men in overalls and denim shirts with their lunch boxes in tow. Slope Hurley, the signal foreman, sat on the tailgate of the crew truck.

They called him Slope because, according to Slope himself, his skull had been squeezed through a birth canal no bigger than a banana. So narrow had been the passageway that he shot out like a champagne cork and with his skull cast into a permanent ski slope. Slope claimed that he remembered the exact moment still after fifty-odd years, though he was just a newborn at the time.

Hook figured maybe more than his skull had been damaged, because Slope enjoyed the reputation as the meanest son of a bitch to work for in the southwest division. Moose Barrick had become his right-hand man. Between them, the turnover rate in the Clovis signal department rivaled that of the battle of Okinawa. Both Slope and Moose knew how to make men miserable and never passed up the chance to do just that.

The crew stowed their gear and watched Hook walk across the yard toward them. They mumbled among themselves and turned their backs. Slope stood and pulled at his chin, which had accommodated his profile by banking skyward on the end.

“Slope,” Hook said. “Nice morning.”

“Would be if I didn't have a stack of calls coming in,” he said.

“Backed up, are you?”

“There hasn't been nothing fixed on this line since the war started, and now that it's over the brass wants it done overnight.”

Hook looked around. “Your boys look a little unhappy this morning.”

“Maybe they heard the news about Moose Barrick,” he said.

“And what would that be?”

“That some bastard shut him down for exercising his American right to strike.”

“Moose can strike all he wants long as he doesn't block the line. It's my job to see the law's not broken, Slope. Simple as that.”

“Most these lazy bastards should back up to their paychecks, anyway,” Slope said. “Up to me, I'd send them all to the county farm and start over with a new crop.”

“I guess it's your optimism what brightens the day for everyone, Slope.”

“There's damn little reason for grinning around here,” he said.

“I'd like to ask you a few questions, if you don't mind.”

He pulled his pocket watch out and looked at it. “I've got men waiting, Runyon. Maybe another day.”

“I can take your boys into the shop one at a time to talk to them, if you want it that way.”

Slope's nose reached for his chin. “I don't know nothing about Moose Barrick, except he shows up to work and keeps these bastards away from the water bucket.”

“It's not about Moose,” he said.

“Well, make it quick. Some folks work for a living around here.”

“You ever heard of a man named Samuel Ash?”

Slope took out his watch again, wound the stem, and then dropped it back into its pocket.

“I heard of him.”

“Did he ever work for you?”

“I didn't hire him, if that's what you mean. Topeka sent him down. I figure the company smelled a strike and decided to beef up the workforce with scabs while they could.”

Hook took out his knife and worked at another stone that had lodged in the bottom of his shoe.

“How'd he get along with the crew?” he asked.

“Scabs ain't welcomed with open arms around here or those what take their side. You might remember that, Runyon.”

“Anyone in particular find him disagreeable?”

“Everyone in general, I'd say. Thing is, I couldn't have that kind of problem brewing in the crew, so I pulled him.”

“And did what with him?”

“Put him on the road painting wigwag bases. I didn't hear nothing back for a week, and then I get this call that the company truck had been abandoned at a crossing. I figure the son of a bitch cut and run. Wouldn't surprise me if he picked up what he could before he left.”

“He didn't get off with much, Slope, given I found him hanging from the wigwag cantilever out on the potash spur.”

“Dead? Too bad.”

“I'm thinking one of your boys maybe gave him a ride to the top of the cantilever and forgot to bring him down.”

“It's all I can do to put in a shift around here, Runyon. I make it a point not to know what these men do or don't do after hours. I don't much give a damn if they're killing scabs or not, though I got my doubts there's one among them with the grit for hanging a man.”

Hook searched for a cigarette. “Did Samuel Ash say anything about being in the army?”

“He didn't say nothing about nothing, and that's more than I wanted to know.”

Hook turned to leave. He paused.

“It's hard to understand why a man decides to kill someone, Slope. Maybe he just wants to know what it feels like. Or maybe he reaches his limit. Maybe he's just pushed too far on the wrong day. It's something to think about, though.”

*   *   *

Hook cut by the Harvey House on his way back to the depot. He stopped to light a cigarette just as the chef stepped out the back door.

“Hook,” he said. “You come to pay that ten dollars. It never showed up in my tip jar.”

Hook hiked his foot on the bench and lit his cigarette. “I meant that money to be for taking care of my dog while I solved crimes,” he said. “Far as I can tell, Mixer didn't get any attention whatsoever. Poor devil could barely stand on his feet. Another day and he'd have starved to death.”

“He ate better than I did, Hook, not to mention what he stole out the back. On top of that, he terrorized an old lady's poodle so bad it went into shock and had to be revived.”

“I didn't pay ten dollars for my dog to be set loose on stray animals. Intelligent dogs, being high-strung as they are, shouldn't be coaxed into fighting without cause.”

“If Fred Harvey ever hears what happened in his dining room, I'll lose my job and maybe my life.”

“Look,” Hook said. “I'll pay you the ten, even though you failed to earn it, strictly speaking, but I've had a run of bad luck with my health.” Hook rubbed at his shoulder. “I'll just cut back on the medicine and make payments along, if that will be alright?”

“I don't remember you saying nothing about making late payments when you left that dog here in the first place, Hook.”

“A few days' wait is the least a man can do for a sick friend,” Hook said.

“If I have to wait for my money, I should be getting fifteen dollars instead of ten, interest for the inconvenience, so to speak.”

“I could do twelve, though a man's health is not under his control, you know. Anyway, if Fred Harvey gets word of Mixer's indiscretions, I'll take full responsibility for it myself.”

“Twelve, then,” he said. “But no more delays.”

“Your patience and understanding of my situation is noted, Chef, and I don't forget a favor. I'll be doing business with you again.”

The chef opened the kitchen door. “You and your business can go to hell, Hook, and that crazy mutt right along with you.”

*   *   *

Popeye pointed to the desk drawer. “Another security badge came,” he said. “They must have a factory working overtime.”

“Maybe you could just point it out minus the commentary, Popeye.”

“It's in that drawer,” he said.

“Thanks,” Hook said, opening the drawer.

He dropped the badge in his pocket and helped himself to the peanuts Popeye kept hidden in the back.

Popeye lifted his brows. “You'd think a yard dog could keep track of his own badge, wouldn't you?”

“Need to use your phone, Popeye, if you're through questioning my ability.”

“Just go ahead but try not to lose it somewhere before you're done,” he said.

Hook kicked his feet up and dialed Eddie Preston.

“Security,” Eddie said.

“Eddie, Hook here.”

“Runyon, I've been trying to reach you all morning.”

“I've been working that wigwag case. Turns out the company hired Samuel Ash for scabbing on the signal gang. I'm thinking one of Slope Hurley's crew may have taken matters into his own hands.”

“I get this call from the Carlsbad police department, see,” Eddie said. “He claims some idiot ran over their patrol car with a road-rail.”

“That bastard ran the signal, Eddie, and I couldn't get stopped. Brake line's broke. I don't think it will cost the company much.”

“You got
something
right,” Eddie said. “It won't cost the company nothing. Operating company equipment safely is your responsibility, broke line or no broke line. I expect you to get this straight with Carlsbad. Are we clear?”

Hook popped a peanut into his mouth. “We're clear, Eddie.”

“What about that bus thing over to Gallup?”

“It's under control.”

“And Junior Monroe?”

“Junior's fine, Eddie. I got him a sugar tit to keep him from crying.”

“I don't want nothing to happen to that boy.”

“We're like goddang brothers, Eddie.”

“Every time you call, it's trouble, Runyon. You're supposed to solve problems, not make them.”

“Believe me, Eddie. If I had my way, you'd never hear from me again.”

Hook hung up the phone and tossed another peanut into his mouth.

Popeye pushed Hook's feet down from the desk, took the peanuts, and put them back in the drawer. Just as he started to say something, the phone rang.

Popeye picked it up. “Clovis depot. Yeah, he's the yard dog here,” he said, looking over at Hook. “You want to talk to him? Okay, sure. I'll tell him.”

Hook stood. “Tell me what, Popeye?”

“You might want to get on over to Gallup, Hook. They got Junior Monroe locked up in the city jail for stealing the B&B company bus.”

 

11

 

“
D
AMN IT,” HOOK
said. “Junior Monroe has been on the job ten minutes, and he's already in jail?”

“A finely held tradition of yard dogs, as I remember it,” Popeye said.

Hook walked to the window and looked out. From there, the tracks shot off into the yards like the rays of a desert sunset.

“You got a passenger train scheduled that way?” he asked.

Popeye checked the board and shook his head. “There's an old teakettle getting serviced out in the yards. She's pulling a couple steamers to the graveyard. You might catch her if you hurry.”

“Right,” Hook said, heading for the door. “Keep an eye on Mixer for me, will you, Popeye?”

“Don't worry. I'll watch that son of a bitch every second,” he said, waving Hook off.

*   *   *

Hook found the steamer just as she backed off the siding and onto the main line. Deadheading two old engines at her back, she reached down hard to break them loose from a cold start. Black steam thundered out her stack, her drivers slipping and spinning under the enormous weight of her load. Her bell clanged again and again, filling up the morning.

Hook waved her down from across the yards, and steam shot out her sides as she idled back to wait for him. Holding his hand over his eyes against the sun, Hook waited at the bottom of the ladder.

Frenchy stuck his head out the cab window. “I'll be shot,” he said, looking over at the fireman. “It's that one-armed yard dog, Hook Runyon. Hide the hooch and lock up your daughters.”

“Frenchy, is that you?” Hook asked.

“No,” he said. “It's Franklin D. up from the grave. Who the hell you think it is?”