Dead Man's Tunnel (16 page)

“The engine can't budge as long as that flag is there, and no one is permitted to move it except the guy under the engine. Even at that, crawling under a live locomotive isn't the most comfortable thing in the world.”

“What's he doing under there?” she asked.

“Checking bushings for the most part,” he said. “These old steamers require a good deal of attention.”

She folded a napkin and set her drink on it. “So how's Mixer?”

“Scrap says he's sucking eggs,” he said.

“Is he?”

“The evidence is circumstantial, though Scrap makes little distinction between that and hard facts.”

“And what do you think?”

“Well, it's true Mixer's weight gain is unexplained. But I prefer to give him the benefit of the doubt until proven otherwise.”

“He's earned your loyalty?” she said.

“Mixer? He's earned nothing but my suspicion.”

The man crawled from beneath the engine and removed the flag. By the time the highwheeler released her brakes, the platform had emptied of passengers. The conductor signaled a go, and air shot from the brakes. The engine chugged out of the station.

“Well,” he said. “You ready?”

She finished her drink and pushed it aside. “Let's go.”

*   *   *

The operator touched his fat lip and rolled his chair back. He crossed his legs and bobbed his foot.

“Yeah, I'm the guy,” he said with a lisp. “A man and a woman showed up here late in the night. The man had a rifle big as a cannon, and the woman kept blowing these boobles.”

“Boobles?” the lieutenant asked.

“You know, gum,” he said. “I hate that.”

“Oh, bubbles,” she said.

“Did anyone else see these two?” Hook asked.

“They waited until the depot emptied,” he said. “I think they hid in the bathroom or something. First thing I know this bastard has a rifle pointed in my face. ‘Give me your cash,' he says, ‘or I'll blow your eyebrows off.'”

“And you gave it to him?” she said. “Because they are the only eyebrows you have.”

“No, I've another pair in my locker,” he said. “So, I gave him what cash I had in the box. But then he says, ‘Now your wallet.' And I says, ‘That's my paycheck you're taking, mister.' And he says, ‘You been sitting on your ass while the rest of us been fighting Germans, so divvy up.' And the girl laughs, see, and blows a booble big as her goddang head.

“So I says, ‘Hadn't been for me, you'd been walking to the war,' and that's when he smacked me.”

“Did they have a car?” the lieutenant asked.

“He told me to keep my head down for five minutes, or he'd come back. I didn't see nothing.”

“You've reported this to the local police?” Hook asked.

“They came by and took a statement, but they're too busy giving out traffic tickets to worry about robberies on railroad property.”

“Anything else you'd like to add?” Hook asked.

The operator touched his lip. “Not in front of the lady.”

“Thanks,” Hook said. “We'll be in touch.”

“Wait for me in the car,” she said, as they started to leave. “I'll only be a second.”

*   *   *

Hook sat in the staff car waiting for her to come from the depot. June bugs circled the streetlight, and the day's heat slipped away in the desert evening.

He moved the lieutenant's briefcase to the side and lit a cigarette. The case, made of heavy cowhide, had been riveted at the seams, and the handle reinforced with extra layers of leather.

After checking the door of the depot again, he opened the briefcase and retrieved a file folder. In it he found a single sheet of paper with a notation that read, “Deliver J.B. as scheduled on the 7th. Departure, 0100 hours. Secure all points.”

*   *   *

“What do you think?” the lieutenant asked, sliding in.

“That's our couple, alright,” he said.

“And we haven't heard the last of them, have we?” she said.

“They're gutsy but green,” Hook said. “It's a combination prime for mistakes. In the meantime, we can only hope no one gets hurt.

“Are you going back tonight?” he asked.

“In the morning,” she said.

“I'm staying in the sleeping rooms. Thought I might do a little book scouting tomorrow. On the way over, I spotted an estate sale in the paper. It's the early bibliophile who gets the book. You wouldn't care to come along, would you?”

“I think not,” she said. “I've some things that need attention.”

“There's this Mexican restaurant,” he said. “I try never to miss it. Would you like to eat?”

“Thanks, anyway, but I'd be glad to drop you off.”

“Okay,” he said. “I'd appreciate it.”

Hook gave directions and watched the sun lower on the horizon.

“By the way,” he said. “I hitched a ride into town with one of the new guards at the tunnel, Severe I think was his name. Nice kid but inexperienced. You did say both guards worked in the motor pool?”

She turned into the parking lot and pulled up. “That's right. They had men to spare, I guess.”

Hook got out and leaned back in the window.

“Thanks, Lieutenant.”

“You will contact me if something comes up in the meantime?”

“If I hear anything,” he said, “I'll let you know.”

*   *   *

The adobe walls of the café extended into a courtyard at the rear. The waitress led him to a table shaded by an arbor. Sunlight darted through the vines and played on the table. The aromas from the kitchen wafted in on the breeze.

He would have preferred to not eat alone, but he never missed a chance for a good meal if he could help it. Living in a caboose and eating out of cans made one appreciate fine food. This restaurant provided exactly what he had in mind.

He ordered Mexican beer, which arrived in a frozen mug rimmed with margarita salt and a slice of lime.

When the food came, he sat back and took it in. There were beef enchiladas swimming in melted cheddar, refried beans and rice, all topped off with a nest of shredded lettuce and tomato. On the side were sliced jalapeño peppers, salsa,
queso blanco
, a basket of chips, and a warmer stacked full of corn tortillas. When finished, he topped the whole thing off with sopapillas and honey.

Outside the restaurant, he lit a cigarette and watched the moon slide over the city, a perfect evening for a short walk back to the sleeping rooms. Tomorrow, he would get in a little book scouting. A railroad bull had few vacations, and detective work never ended at quitting time. He'd learned long ago that he had to take his enjoyment where and when he could, and the only thing he liked better than a great meal was a great book find.

*   *   *

The next morning, Hook dug the city map from his back pocket and checked the address. The house, a frame bungalow, sat in the middle of a modest neighborhood. A single outbuilding leaned to the left, and the yard had degraded into its natural state. Cars lined both sides of the street, and pickers made their way across the yard.

Some of his best finds came from the most unlikely places. He figured this to be the home of a widow. She probably lived here alone for twenty years after her husband died and took the opportunity to do exactly what she'd always wanted to do. In that little house was everything she had owned, but also, more importantly, those things she'd always dreamed of having. Married people sometimes made sacrifices for each other, putting their own wants and needs last.

He preferred estate sales to auctions, everything set out and priced by someone who most often didn't have a clue about value. By the end of the day, there would be nothing left but the ironing board.

The tiny house churned with people digging through the hundreds of boxes that were stacked about on tables. The prices had been marked in red crayon, and a lady in rimless glasses took money near the door.

Hook worked his way through the crowd. Now and then he stopped and examined the contents of a box. The house smelled of burnt toast and old clothes, and the windows were gray with dust and grime. A few pictures were leaned against the wall, including one of Jesus ascending into heaven, another of the Last Supper, and yet another of Jesus breaking loaves.

It was not until he climbed the narrow stairs to the bedroom that he found the boxes of books. The owner's reading practice had been insatiable and eclectic. There were novels, religious books, travel books, and three boxes of biographies. One box contained Bertrand Russell's
Religion and Science,
another Faulkner's
The Unvanquished
and Hemingway's
For Whom the Bell Tolls.

He'd found that people's reading lives could be as unpredictable as their sex lives. You just never could know what went on behind closed doors.

Hook made his selections and paid the bill on the way out. Now, he'd have to tote the books all the way back, but he didn't care. They were great copies. Had he the money and the time, he would spend his days doing nothing else. There would be no rare books left in the world that he didn't own. But he knew, even as he hoisted the box, that there would never be enough. He would always want more.

*   *   *

That evening Hook checked the board and found a short haul heading for Kingman. The engineer agreed to give him a slow at West's Salvage, so Hook rode in the caboose, which turned out to have a broken window. He plugged it with a grease rag to stop the cold draft and then he stretched out on the bench. The train clacked along as steady as a heartbeat.

After going through his finds one last time, he lit a cigarette and thought about the last few days. There were more questions now than when he began. Why hadn't the army placed military police at the tunnel from the beginning? It only made sense to use trained personnel. What could that note have meant in the lieutenant's briefcase: secure all points. And what was Sergeant Erikson doing with all that cash stashed under his bunk? And what about the flashlight? And, the most puzzling of all, why did the lieutenant tell him the guards were from the motor pool when Severe claimed they were from Civil Engineers?

He rolled over and closed his eyes. He liked the lieutenant, liked her a lot, but he'd learned long ago that when things didn't add up, there was either an error in process or in the facts. Maybe it was time he double-checked the facts.

 

20

T
HE ENGINEER BLEW
a slow for West's Salvage Yard, and Hook took measure of the speed before swinging down off the grab iron. Reaching up, he snatched his box off the bottom step and gave a wave to the engineer, who responded with a short blast of his whistle.

Hook lit a cigarette and struck out across the yard. Scrap stepped out of the office and motioned him over. One of his overalls' straps had twisted over his shoulder, and he had a cup of coffee in his hand.

Scrap tossed out his coffee dregs. He opened his tobacco pouch and smelled it.

“About that dog,” he said.

“You accusing my dog again, Scrap?”

“That chicken coop looks like someone had a pillow fight in it, Hook.”

“Could be a raccoon. Could be a bo. Could be mass suicide for all I know.”

Scrap lit his pipe, and a cloud of smoke drifted off.

“Could be that dog, too,” he said.

“I'll let that go, Scrap, seeing as how you're uncommonly attached to those chickens, and it's probably affecting your reasoning.”

Hook could see Mixer coming across the yard, his belly swinging to and fro like a hammock.

“And another thing,” Hook said. “Pepe says he's been pulling generators. Now, I'm not one to criticize entrepreneurship, but even you ought see the lack of promise in such an enterprise as making electricity with car generators.”

Scrap relit his pipe again and pushed his hat back. “I'm not one to rush to judgment on such matters, particularly where there's a great deal of money hanging in the balance.

“So, I've set up a small-scale experiment. If that works, I'll move on to a full-blown operation. I intend to be in on the ground floor. Course, being the man I am, I'll not be saying I told you so when the money starts rolling in.”

Hook rubbed at the base of his neck.

“Well, before you start up your power plant, you suppose you could give me a little information?”

“That depends,” Scrap said.

“On what?”

“On whether you're wanting my generator plans or not.”

“Well, I'm not.”

“Then what kind of information do you want?”

“Does your copper car carry a number?”

“Yes, it does.”

“Do you think you could give it to me?”

“Depends.”

“On what?”

“On what you're going to do with it?”

“I'm going to try to find your copper thieves, Scrap. You got a problem with that?”

“Hardly none at all,” he said.

“Well?” Hook said.

“The number is SF-48032. I've had that same copper car three years now. West's Salvage cars are towed to Williams. When there's enough for making up a train, they haul them on over to the smelter and deadhead the empties back.”

Mixer waddled up and flopped down on Hook's feet.

“I got one other request, Scrap.”

“This is the only clean shirt I got, Hook.”

“I need to borrow the jeep. You put in a new transmission yet?”

“Yes, I did.”

Hook took out his handkerchief and dabbed at his face. The sun beat down hot as an engine boiler, and it wasn't ten o'clock yet.

“It has a reverse, doesn't it?”

“Why do you think I changed it out?”

“So it's in working order?”

“Course it is, so long as you don't need high gear.”