Whistle Pass (4 page)

Heading for the door, groans stopped him. “C-c-cold. Help. Help me. Please.”

Gabe massaged his forehead. What more could he do?

“H-h-help m-m-me.”

Gabe turned. Harris was trembling so much the whole bed shook. He had to do something. Heaving a sigh of resignation, he crossed the room. With volumes of trepidation, he slipped off his shoes, then his vest, which he hung on the doorknob, pulled down the covers, and climbed in. He sidled up next to Harris and put his arms around him, stroking his wet hair. “We can’t make a habit of this, Mr. Harris. People will talk.” But the stirring in Gabe’s groin indicated Mr. Harris might be a most welcome habit.

Chapter 5

C
HARLIE
kept his eyes closed as the hotel manager slid out of bed. He remained motionless, providing no hint he was aware the man tiptoed out of the room until the door latched. Then he kicked off the covers and rolled to the edge of the mattress.

He sat, winced, and slugged down a mouthful of air. His thigh was on fire. He rolled his head over his neck. Cracks and snaps splintered tensed nerves. He turned. The pea coat hung as a reminder of the man who owed him nothing, but had provided Charlie more than the manager would ever know.

Charlie’d nearly lost it out there in the street. A laugh spilled out of him.
Nearly? A nutcase. That’s what you are.
And yet, the manager had done for him what only one other man had ever done—worried about… cared about… him. Something writhed in his stomach and crawled upward. Charlie nipped it by bending and picking up his duffle. He opened it and dug around for the bottle of Bufferin. He unscrewed the cap and shook a couple into his mouth, then swallowed them dry.

Time remained an unknown, but if the shade of black behind the curtains of the lone window meant anything, it was late. And with no word from Roger, he still had no idea what he was doing here. He dumped the contents of the duffle on the bed. A clean pair of boxers, socks, jeans, tee, and a flannel shirt, and he was ready to go. He slipped on his boots. At the pea coat, he ran a hand over the wool and smiled. The darn thing hadn’t felt so clean in a long time.

He walked to the window and pulled back the curtains. The fire escape was near enough if it came to that. The problem was, he just wasn’t quite sure what
that
was. With a bit of luck, he wouldn’t need to find out. But he did have some unfinished business.

He closed the door behind him.

G
ABE
hit every other step up the stairs to his apartment.

How could he have fallen asleep? Once Harris’s trembling had stopped, he should have left. But he hadn’t. He’d stayed there, next to him, reveling in the pleasure of the man in his arms. Now he needed to hurry or he’d miss the train.

He threw some clothes in a valise, then rearranged them to prevent wrinkles. Finished, he dialed the phone. MN 321.

“Whistle Pass Cab.”

“Carol—”

“Gabe. I was starting to wonder if you’d call. I’ll send Clarence right over. Train’s due any minute now.”

He bolted down the stairs. The sun yellow cab slid to a stop. Gabe jumped in the back. Clarence whipped a U-turn and sped down the wet street.

“What do you find to do in Chicago, Gabe? I suppose it’s exciting and all in the big city, but every weekend?”

Morose, he stared out the window. “Live the life I don’t have here.”

They arrived at the Milwaukee depot as the passenger train slowed to a stop. Gabe ran into the small wood-framed building and set the correct change on the window counter. The ticket agent handed him a ticket, and Gabe ran out the double doors.

The conductor punched his ticket, and Gabe climbed the steps. Quickly walking through two cars to the Pullman car, he found his seat and tossed his bag onto the overhead luggage rack. Sitting, he stuck his ticket under the metal tab on the wall so the conductor passing through would see his ticket had been punched and not disturb him. He laid his head back on the red leather seat and inhaled the dense combination of diesel and exhaust fumes.

He adjusted his shoulders to ease an inner discomfort. Something was different. The butterflies of anticipation hadn’t climbed onboard with him. Excitement should have filled him like a child on Christmas morning. Instead, he felt more like every opened present had been pajamas.

The car jerked, then slowly rolled forward. The air replenished and recycled, cleaning away the residue of the station. Gabe reached up and switched off the reading lamp. Turning, he idly watched the shadowy freight cars in the yards pass by until darkness obscured his view. The rhythmic clickety-clack of steel wheels on steel rails lulled him to a semi-dream state.

Charlie Harris was in his arms once again. But this time, they were both naked.

T
HE
rain had stopped, replaced by a thick paste of damp. Charlie stuffed his hands in the pockets of the pea coat.
Damn it.
Empty. He looked up and down the street, chose the lighted ship’s wheel as the most likely target, and began walking. In the next block he could make out “BAR” in green letters under the wheel. He strode through the dank street until he stood under the sign. Through the small window of the wooden door, he could see a few lights were on, so he pulled the door open and walked in.

It took a few seconds for his vision to adjust. Not many people in the place. One at the bar. Two at one of the six tables. The Hamm’s clock on the wall answered his question of what time it had gotten to be: ten thirty. The bubbling Wurlitzer stood silent. Just as well. Charlie wasn’t in the mood for music. He sat on a stool at the bar. A balding, potbellied man in a soiled white shirt and suspenders walked over to him.

“What can I get you?”

“Pack of Luckies and a bottle of Busch.”

The barkeep pulled the cigarette pack from a wall rack and tossed it onto the bar along with a pack of matches. Charlie ripped open one end, tapped out the tip of a cigarette, then pulled it out between his teeth. He folded the matchbook cover behind one match, which he thumbed across the striker, and blew out when he exhaled the first puff.

The bottle of beer appeared in front of him. Charlie set a crumpled dollar on the bar. “Keep it.”

The bartender snapped the bill open and closed twice. “To what do I owe the honor? You don’t look like Daddy Warbucks. Must want something for this kind of tip.”

Charlie looked around again. “Always this quiet on a Friday night? Don’t the kids around here cut loose on Main Street?”

“No, and yes. Just not tonight. Weather’s too shitty for most folks to come out. Hunters didn’t come to town for the same reason. I’m gonna close early if it stays like this. Street punks are all mourning out at the roller rink.”

“Mourning? Who died?”

A thin brow rose. “You live in a cave?”

“The hotel.”

The bartender curled a lip. “Same difference. Railroader, huh? Been all over the news. That greaser movie star James Dean killed himself in a car wreck.”

Charlie nodded knowingly, even though he had no clue who James Dean was. “Where’s the roller rink?”

The bartender wiped a cloth across the bar and met Charlie’s gaze. “Why? Only kids and punks hang out there. You don’t look like either one. But you might look like trouble.”

“Me?” Charlie shook his head. “Not me. First time I ever laid over here. Just like to know where the trouble’s at so I can avoid it is all. Need my job more than I need a night in the slammer. Speaking of which, what time’s the night heat come on? I s’pose like most places the night cop here’s the biggest jerk of the bunch.”

The man chuckled. “Got that right. Comes on at eleven. If you’re buying your drinks over on Fourth Street, you got no problem. They pay him to turn a blind eye to the slots in the basement. But downtown where we run clean businesses, Austin’s a hemorrhoid.”

“Austin?”

“Phil Austin.” The man folded his arms on the bar and leaned over them. “You sure you’re not looking for trouble?”

Charlie guzzled the beer and set down the empty bottle. “Never know when you might need a cop. Pays to know who might be coming.”

The man pocketed Charlie’s dollar. “Name’s Captain Tom. I own this place. From now on, you’ve got a running tab here. Settle up the end of each layover before you leave town.” He winked. “And, you ever need an alibi, I’ll swear you were here ’til closing, Mr.…?”

“Charlie Harris.” Charlie slid off the stool.

“One more thing, Charlie.”

“What’s that?”

“Since you’re new and all, and staying at the hotel. Watch your butt around that manager they got there.”

Charlie tensed. The hotel manager could be a problem. His staff would know all his comings and goings. “Why? What about him?”

Captain Tom leaned farther over the beer-stained bar and lowered his voice. “He’s a butt packer. He may have been born here, but he’s one of them queers you hear about, all the same. When he’s around, keep your back to the wall.”

Charlie relaxed, then tensed up again. The manager wasn’t a threat, but he bit back the urge to rip off Captain Tom’s mizzenmast and ram it down his throat. “I’ll remember you said that.” He took a long drag on the cigarette and glared at the bartender through the smoke. “If you don’t like
them queers
, why don’t you do something about one in your town?”

The man rocked his head back and forth. “Like I said, he was born here. Until we catch him wearing women’s clothes or hanging around the grade school, that’s the way it is, and the way it stays. You don’t mess with one of your own ’til you have reason to. But we ever have reason to, we’ll have us a little fun some night.”

Charlie snorted his contempt in two lines of smoke that spilled across the bar. “Would you call me a cab?”

“Sure thing. You’re a cab.” A snicker parted chafed lips, followed by a guffaw. He picked up the phone and laughed into the receiver. “Good one, huh?”

“Yeah. You’re a real Red Skelton.” He quickly walked outside to avoid breaking a chair over somebody’s head.

The cab arrived in less than three minutes.

“Where to?”

“Not going anywhere, really. Would you just drive me past the roller rink so I can see where it is and then drop me at the hotel?”

“You’re the boss. Still cost you a quarter, though.”

Charlie sat back on the seat, smoking a cigarette, as they cruised the roller rink. Like leather-jacketed roaches, a number of them crawled in and out and over cars. He smiled and took a drag off the Lucky. The red-headed roach was sitting on top of the driver’s seat of an aqua Chevy convertible. Large furry dice hung from the mirror.

“Want to stop, or you still want to go to the hotel?” the cab driver asked.

“Hotel’s good.”

H
E
STEPPED
out of the cab and into the entryway of the hotel. When the cab drove away, Charlie jogged across the street. He walked around the corner and into the alley. As he walked, he studied the second-floor porches. In the third block he found what he wanted—a porch with no stairway.

Charlie slipped out of his coat and stashed it behind a couple of trashcans. He rubbed his hands over a round support pole, then shinnied up to the porch. Grabbing an outer flooring board, he swung himself up to the railing and climbed over it. Not knowing when the cop would come along, he retreated into the shadows and waited.

He figured it to be an hour, somewhere around midnight, when the squad appeared in the alley. The spotlight’s beam washed over doorways and stairways, but not the porch Charlie was on. Charlie smiled. The copper wasn’t concerned about upper levels with no exposed way to get to them.

When the squad passed and entered the next block’s alley, Charlie scooted down the pole and retrieved his coat. He walked back to the hotel and up the stairs to his room. After unlocking the door, he swung it open and then stood dead still in the doorway.

The man stretched out on his bed, illuminated by the bulb under the butterfly shade of the lamp on the nightstand, didn’t flash the smile displayed on the campaign poster. In fact, he didn’t appear anywhere even close to smiling. The green eyes heated to a color nearing ruby. “What are you doing in Whistle Pass, Charlie?”

Charlie closed the door behind him. Whatever sliver of hope he’d held in his heart was fading fast with the man’s less than pleased scowl. “Nice to see you too, Roger.”

Chapter 6