Dead Man's Tunnel (22 page)

*   *   *

Hook dropped down from the ladder. The truck driver lay at the bottom like a piece of crumpled paper. That left the engineer, but getting up to the engine cab without being detected might get tricky.

He looked down line and into the darkness. He could smell the heat from the engine in the night air. There could be a fireman in the cab with the engineer as well, though short hauls didn't always stick to regs. What with stolen goods involved, he figured they were operating lean.

*   *   *

The signal lamp, still lit, lay next to the switchman. Hook took it and donned the switchman's hat. It smelled of Wildroot Cream Oil and sat atop his head like a bird nest.

As he walked toward the engine, he made sure the engineer could see the lamp at his side. About halfway to the engine, he paused and then ducked between the cars. He waited a few moments before stepping back out. He swung the lamp in a full-body circle to signal a separated coupling. The engineer acknowledged him with two short blasts of the whistle.

Hook swung up on the grab iron, slipped off his belt, and cinched the signal lamp to the car. He pulled his sidearm out and moved between the cars again to wait. Sooner or later that engineer would be coming to find out what the hell had happened.

He didn't have to wait long before he spotted a flashlight bobbing down track.

As the engineer approached, he said, “Goddang it, Frank, what's going on?” When no answer came, he stopped. “Frank?” he said.

Hook pulled in tight against the car. If the switchman had been armed, the engineer might be, too. The engineer panned the area with his flashlight. “Frank?” he said again, uncertainty in his voice.

When the flashlight beam settled in on the signal lamp, Hook stepped out with his pistol leveled. But the engineer had moved in next to the car.

“Security,” Hook said. “Raise your…”

He never finished the sentence because an explosion in his head scrambled his words into bits of light that scattered and flashed behind his eyes.

When he opened them, he lay on the ground, and Hump stood over him. Hook's sidearm lay on the ground just out of reach. At that point Hook figured he could talk or attack. Given Hump's size and disposition, he concluded that the talking phase had pretty much ended.

Pulling his leg into his chest, Hook shoved his foot full bore into Hump's kneecap. The howl that followed could have been Hump's or it could have been his, because he'd completely forgotten about his lack of shoes. His big toe telegraphed a pain, hot as boiling grease, into his groin.

Hook located his weapon and waited for the engineer to recover.

“Get up,” he said.

“I think you broke my leg, you bastard,” he said.

“It's the other leg I'm going to break if you don't do as I say,” he said. “Now, let's move.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I'm going to round up some steers for market,” he said. “And you're going to give me a hand, so to speak.”

Hook watched from the truck, sidearm at the ready, as the engineer loaded the others one by one into a cattle car.

Hook picked up a piece of pipe. “Now it's your turn. Climb in.”

The engineer hoisted himself up into the car, and Hook slid the door shut behind him. Hump hung his hands out between the slats of the car.

“You're not going to leave us out here?” he asked.

Hook jimmied the pipe into the door's latch and bent it over. “Someone will be back to get you,” he said. “Providing the slaughter run doesn't get here first.”

*   *   *

Hook lit a cigarette and looked down track. The steamer, now absent its engineer, chugged away on its own, and the depot light winked in the distance. He'd have to walk, he supposed, shoes or no shoes, and get the locals out here before those boys figured a way out of that car.

As he picked his way down track, he shook his head. Why he did this job, he didn't know. Maybe it was just the big money and glamour of it all.

 

26

A
FTER THE OPERATOR
had called the sheriff, he pushed his chair back.

“Jesus, Hook,” he said. “You don't have no shoes on.”

Looking at his bloodied heels, Hook said, “I guess it's your attention to detail what makes you such a great operator, Bill.”

Bill picked up his coffee cup and looked into it before taking a sip.

“I seen cinder dicks with slick knees,” he said. “And bad hair pieces. I even seen one wearing a vest and a gold watch fob, but I ain't never seen one barefooted. Must be the new fashion.”

“Ever seen an operator with a broken nose?” Hook said.

“No need to get sore, Hook. I think it's right stylish. Maybe you should consider painting up your toenails.”

Hook squinted his eyes. “I might consider using my sidearm on smart-ass operators,” he said. “The world's got too many as it is. Now maybe you could quit grinning long enough to find me something to put on?”

“Well,” the operator said. “There might be something in my locker, though I can't guarantee they will be the perfect color.”

“I'll make do,” Hook said.

“You watch the office, and I'll go check,” he said.

“Alright,” Hook said.

“And don't run no trains together. Just watch.”

“Goddang it, Bill.”

“Alright, alright,” he said.

Hook sat down on the lobby bench. He lit a cigarette and examined what remained of his socks. When he looked up, a woman stood in the doorway.

“Do you know when the eastbound to Chicago comes in?” she asked.

Hook rose and checked the board. “Six,” he said.

“
A.M.
?”

“Yes,” he said.

She looked at Hook's arm and then at his bare feet. She fumbled through her purse and handed him a dollar bill.

“Remember God loves you,” she said.

*   *   *

“This is all I could find,” Bill said, handing Hook the shoes.

“Dang it, Bill, those are galoshes.”

“I didn't know barefooted yard dogs were so fussy. You want them or not?”

“I guess I have no choice,” Hook said, putting them on. “And they're too damn big, aren't they?”

“Well, now,” Bill said. “This may look like a department store to you. Fact is, it's a railroad depot, and I don't remember any money exchanging hands. You don't like the galoshes, just take them off.”

“Oh, I intend to pay you back, don't you worry about that.

“Now, do you think I could use the company phone, or is there a charge on that as well?”

Bill grinned. “Phone's back there,” he said. “No charge. Don't let it be said I ain't generous with my friends.”

*   *   *

Hook dialed Division and waited for the phone to ring. He could see Bill pouring something out of a flask into his coffee thermos.

“Yeah?” Eddie said.

“Eddie, this is Hook.”

“You got something against calling during working hours, Runyon?”

“Couldn't wait to hear your voice, Eddie.”

“This better be important.”

“I rounded up those copper thieves.”

“About time.”

“Two of them are railway employees. One of them's an engineer, Humpback or whatever his name is. Management needs to be a little more careful about who it hires, Eddie.”

“You got that right. Where are they now?”

“Turned 'em over to the locals here in Williams. That short haul's sitting on the siding at the salvage yard. You better have someone get out there.”

“Yeah,” he said. “I'll make a call.”

Hook lit a cigarette and watched the operator pour another coffee.

“Listen, Eddie, how about a transfer out of that junkyard now? It's like sleeping in a parking lot.”

“What's another parking lot more or less, Runyon?”

“Scrap West doesn't need his own private security anymore.”

“Look,” Eddie said. “That tunnel is important. I need someone out there to keep an eye on things.”

“Hell, the war's over, hadn't you heard? They dropped a bomb, and everyone is dead.”

“Yeah, I know all about it. Listen, I got a call from a guy in Ash Fork looking for you. Said his name was Blue Boy.”

“Blue Boy?” Hook said.

“That's right.”

“There's a Blue's Café.”

“Whatever.”

“Jesus, Eddie,
Blue Boy
is a famous painting by Thomas Gainsborough.”

“I know that.”

“Why don't you read a book, Eddie?”

“Why don't you buy a burial plot in Ash Fork, Runyon, 'cause that's how long you're going to be there?”

“What did he want?”

“Who?”

“Blue Boy,” Hook said.

“How the hell would I know?”

“Glad to know you have things under control as usual, Eddie. Gotta run.”

*   *   *

Hook dialed the operator and asked for Blue's Café in Ash Fork. A woman answered.

“Blue's Café,” she said.

“Is Blue in?”

“He's in the john,” she said. “Hang on.”

Hook lit a cigarette and watched Bill work the board. An operator could screw things up in a big way if he didn't pay attention.

Blue came on the phone. “Hello,” he said.

“This is Hook Runyon. Division said you were trying to get hold of me.”

“I stopped by Linda Sue's trailer on the way home like you asked.”

“And?”

“I ain't no detective, but it didn't look right to me.”

“Could you be a little more specific?”

“Looked like somebody's been nosing around. There's kind of a path worn through the weeds, and the screen on the window is hanging loose.”

“I'm in Williams right now, but I'll have a look when I get back.”

“I could sure use Linda Sue around here. The waitress I hired spends all her time smoking.

“Listen,” Blue said. “You didn't get a chance to talk to anyone, did you?”

“About what?”

“About sending those crews this way for dinner once in a while. They ain't hit my place yet.”

“I intended to check on that, Blue, but things turned a little hectic. I'll see what I can do. Thanks for the call.”

*   *   *

On the way out, Hook stopped at the operator's cage.

“When's the next ride to Ash Fork, Bill?”

Bill checked the schedule. “There's a westbound freighter with twenty blackjacks in tow.”

“How long before she arrives?”

“Forty-five minutes.”

“I'm going to catch her at the crossing. Give her a slow signal for me, will you?”

“Coal cars ain't the cleanest ride in the world, Hook. Wait a few hours, and you could catch the
Super
.”

“I'll hop the crummy and listen to the brakeman tell lies. Helps pass the time. Let the engineer know I'll be bailing at West's Salvage in Ash Fork, will you?”

“Okay.”

Hook paused. “You're a good operator, Bill. I'd hate to see the railroad lose you.”

Bill pushed his glasses up on his nose. “What does that mean, Hook?”

“Thing is, too much coffee isn't good for a man. Pretty soon he gets all jittery and can't pay attention to his job. Operators have to keep their feet under them, if you know what I mean.”

Bill's face ashened, and he set his cup down.

“You ain't reporting me, are you, Hook?”

“I've done my share of drinking over the years, Bill, but never on the job. It's the one thing will get a man fired around here. I'm thinking that maybe you didn't understand that when you hired out.”

Bill swallowed and looked over at his thermos. “I understand it now, Hook.”

“Thanks for the shoes, Bill. I'll get them back next time through.”

*   *   *

The train slowed to a crawl at West's Salvage just as the sun broke. Hook swung down and made his way to the office. Scrap sat at his desk having his morning coffee. He looked over the top of his newspaper.

“You expecting a rain, Hook?”

“What do you mean?”

“Them's galoshes, if I ain't mistaken.”

Hook held up his foot. “It's a complicated story.”

“I'll bet. Anyway, I get this call from the smelter, see. They're wondering where my copper is. Turns out the whole dang car is missing.”

Hook poured himself a cup of coffee and sat down. “That car's on a siding over to Williams. I rounded those boys up last night while you were planning out your next tax-evasion scheme.”

“Well, I'll be damned,” he said, laying down his paper. “Who are they?”

“Two of them are railroad employees, an engineer and a switchman. I've seen the engineer working a pusher right here off this siding. I figure the others work for Williams Salvage one way or the other.”

“That son of a bitch,” Scrap said.

“They've been selling the same copper to you over and over again, Scrap. Steal it one week and truck it back the next. Hard telling how many times you paid for the same pipe.”

Scrap stood. “I been buying back my own copper?”

“I tell you, Scrap, I'd as soon trust a Juárez hooker as a salvage man.”

Scrap looked into his open hands. “I been buying my own copper?”

“Don't take it so hard, Scrap. Everyone gets taken sooner or later.”

He took off his hat and ran his hands over his bald pate.

“A good businessman don't get screwed, Hook. He's supposed to do the screwing hisself.”

“Well, just cut back a little on your expenses, Scrap. It will be alright. Maybe you ought stop paying Pepe by the hour. And then you got your hogs and tomato garden to fall back on if things get tough.”

“I don't have no hogs,” he said. “Traded them for a truckload of empty ammo boxes.”