Flying Crows (21 page)

“I went for a long, long time without seeing one person in the building. I heard a watchman go through every morning and again in the early evening, but I was always able to stay out of his sight. I kept moving my things around from the offices—all of them empty—on lower floors and my other places. There were several rooms with huge fans that had been used to blow the smoke from the trains up and out of the station. I was always looking for a better place than my little room. But finally I had to go back there because it was the only space that stayed pretty warm in winter and fairly cool in summer. Strange, isn't it? Why would the condiments and spices room be the best place in the whole Union Station for me to stay comfortable?

“Also, animals started getting in the station. I heard them and saw signs of them in the daylight. I was never sure what they were. I had read so many books by then about wild creatures coming into homes and buildings that I'm afraid I let my imagination scare me. I guess the only things that came in were mice, rats, squirrels, and stray dogs and cats. But sometimes late at night I believed I saw big monsters with green tails and ragged teeth—things like that. I got to a point where I only left my room when I had to. Going to the bathroom was the worst part. All the real ones in the station—I'll bet there were fifteen of them by the time you counted those for offices—had been closed or shut down. So that meant I had to go outside to do everything, and I had to do it at night so nobody would see me. I am not proud of what containers and methods I used to dispose of my waste. But I had no choice.”

Carlucci fell silent.

Randy saw that the old man was breathing hard.

“I've worn you out,” he said. “I'm sorry.”

“I've worn
myself
out,” said Carlucci, taking some deep breaths. “I'm talking for myself as much as I am for you. Josh said he told his Centralia story from a stage at Somerset for himself too. I never heard him tell it, but he said it was his cure for going to sleep.”

Again, Randy chose to say nothing about Centralia.

They sat in silence for at least two or three minutes.

“Josh was my best friend. Have you had a lot of best friends?”

“Yes . . . sure. Well, maybe not what you'd call a lot.” Randy remembered Willie Rogerson in high school. He was his best friend then. In college, there was Johnny Semple. Right now? Well, not anybody at the department who he'd call a
best
friend. There had been partners when he was on patrol he thought of as best friends. The best of the best, of course, was Mack Gardner. They had come into the department together as cadets and gone up through the ranks side by side until Mack moved slightly ahead, having made captain last year. Technically, he was now Randy's supervisor. That had cooled things off. There had been a time when they went fishing together down in the Ozarks, took their kids to Chiefs and Royals games, exchanged secrets and fears. . . .

“Josh was the only one I ever had in my life—you know, a real best friend. And I was only with him for three weeks. Yeah, it wasn't very long from the time I got to Somerset until he left on the Crow to go back that night from Union Station. I guess it proves time doesn't have much to do with best friends.”

At first, what the old man said sent a blast of unbearable sadness through Randy. But, then, the more he thought about it, he decided maybe having a real best friend for three weeks wasn't so bad. Some people probably went through the whole of life without ever having one for even a day. He knew some cops like that.

“Josh couldn't still be alive, could he?” Carlucci asked Randy. “Are you good at mathematics?”

My aunt Mary doesn't think so, Randy almost said.

“I know he couldn't be,” Carlucci continued. “I wonder where they buried him?”

“I'll find out for you, Mr. Carlucci.” The words came out of Randy's mouth automatically. Only after speaking them did Randy wonder how he would find that out. And why? Why would he go to any trouble for this old man?

Carlucci was no longer rocking. Neither was Randy.

Within a few minutes, Carlucci's breathing got weaker, and as it did so, his eyes closed. Soon, he was once again in a real sleep.

On his way out, Randy asked the woman at the table, “Why is the old man so weak? He seems to be worse now than when I found him.”

“He was terribly malnourished when he came and he doesn't eat much, but that's not really it, of course. Between his condition and the medicine, it's inevitable that he'd be declining—and rather fast.”

“What medicine?”

“Well, first he's on a couple of the new miracle medications designed to keep him mentally stable.”

“There's nothing unstable about his mental condition that I can see. He just entertained me with a full report of his life and times. It seems to me his mental condition actually seems stronger and healthier
—more
stable.”

The woman waved him off. “The doctors interviewed him, got his case history. He's a mental patient, a sufferer of traumatic shock syndrome— something like that. He's being treated for that with medication. Why do you cops care about this guy anyhow?”

Randy raised his eyebrows and did not answer.

“That's nothing compared to the heart thing, of course,” said the woman, as if she was telling Randy something he already knew.

“What heart thing?”

“He's got degenerative heart disease. He's fading, failing. I assumed you knew.”

Randy felt his temper rising. “Why isn't he in a hospital being treated?”

“There is no treatment except a transplant. And I don't think a mentally deficient man his age is ever going to get one. What do you think, Lieutenant? Where would he be on your priority waiting list for a new heart?”

At the
top,
you idiot! he screamed—silently.

XIX

JOSH AND
BIRDIE

UNION STATION

1933

Josh awoke to a few moments of disoriented panic. It was only after he took in a full whiff of cinnamon and other spicy smells that he remembered exactly where he was and what was happening.

There was Birdie on the cot, his eyes still closed, his breathing peaceful.

How long had they been sleeping? How much time had gone by? Was it still morning, or had afternoon or nighttime come?

How much longer before The Flying Crow departed Union Station for Somerset and points south?

The sight of Birdie brought back Will Mitchell's idea about Birdie's not being a real lunatic. Josh knew better. Will was wrong about that. But Josh thought Will was definitely right about one thing. Maybe I, Josh, should be in charge of the Somerset lunatic asylum.

He would have laughed out loud at his own joke, but he didn't want to wake Birdie. Not yet. Will's comments aside, there was no telling how long it had been since the kid had had a natural sleep like this.

Josh had fallen asleep himself shortly after he returned to the cozy closed warmth of the tiny condiments and spices room. He dozed off while sitting in the chair, watching Birdie in tranquil slumber.

Josh was not a routine creative dreamer, not somebody who woke up remembering and being prepared to talk about something new or special—nightmarish or pleasurable—he had just dreamt. He went to sleep every night reciting his ritual about Centralia, and every morning when he woke up it was still Centralia that was on his conscious mind.

“I slept.” Birdie was awake. He spoke the words calmly, softly, but in a tone of routine acceptance.
Of course, I slept.
He sat up and set his feet on the floor. “Your doctor friend really did do it, Josh,” Birdie said. “He's a genius and so are you, for calling him to come over here. You should be running Somerset.”

Josh remembered the word
groundswell
from a book he had read on the early history of Missouri. There had been a groundswell of support for making Jefferson City the state capital. Here now was a groundswell of support for putting a lunatic in charge of a lunatic asylum.

“You have saved my life, Josh.”

Josh handed Will's dollar to Birdie.

“Let's go someplace, Josh,” Birdie said. “Yeah, yeah. Let's get on a train and go as far as it will take us. We can jump on one the way we did on The Flying Crow. Maybe one of the Santa Fes to California. We can keep flying as straight as the crow flies.”

Josh shook his head. “I have to go back to Somerset. Will gave me some money for the train, so I can go legal.” He stood up. “Let's find out what time it is and when the train goes and buy me a ticket.”

“I don't get it,” Birdie said. “You're as sane . . . as cured . . . as I am. You can be free too.”

“I can't ever be free,” said Josh, moving to the door in a way that said there would be no more talk about the subject. “After you, sir,” he said to Birdie.

Like Will, they followed the Harvey Girl's instructions for leaving the storeroom area, emerging at the top of some stairs into the noise and commotion of the main waiting room near Track 1 on the east side.

Birdie carefully covered up his face as much as possible again with the hat and collar. He also left Sister Hilda's kerchief tied around his neck. Josh didn't think it was a sign of craziness anymore. By now, there really might be cops looking for two Somerset escapees. He looked up at the big hanging clock between the waiting room and the grand lobby. It was fifteen minutes after four o'clock! It was hard to believe they had been down in that storeroom sleeping for so long.

“Pretty Boy Floyd spotted again!”

Somebody was yelling above the crowd's sound, which suddenly disappeared. This was big news. People were listening.

“Seen by cops in Toledo!”

It was a newspaper boy, coming from the newsstand in the grand lobby, holding a paper in one hand, more under his other arm.

“Hunt for Union Station killers continues!”

Several people rushed over and lined up to buy a paper. One of the first customers was Birdie, his head and face down. He got 95 cents in change back for his dollar bill.

He rushed back to Josh with a copy of the
Kansas City Post
and they looked at the front page together, standing by a wall in the waiting room.

The letters in the headline across the top were so large they took up a fourth of the page: PRETTY BOY SEEN! Underneath, in smaller type, it said: LANDLADY FINGERS KILLER FROM PHOTO.

The story said Floyd and Adam Righetti, his partner in crime and in the Kansas City massacre, had been on the run, many times barely eluding capture. Their trail had been picked up in Toledo, Ohio, where they had been living with two identified women. J. Edgar Hoover, the director of the federal government's Office of Investigation, said his top agent, Melvin Purvis, was in hot pursuit and vowed that Floyd would be taken “dead or alive.” The Kansas City police chief was quoted as saying the search for possible Floyd-Righetti confederates “in and around Kansas City” was also continuing “at an unprecedented speed and intensity.”

There were large prison-type mug shots of Pretty Boy Floyd and Adam Righetti in the center of the page.

“I have to get out of here,” Birdie said, rather too loudly, it seemed to Josh. A redness had flashed into Birdie's face. Josh was happy to see that nobody around noticed anything. This was a train station. The people here weren't paying attention to much more than their own business. There were trains to meet or catch, baggage to check, meals to eat, cigarettes and magazines to buy, shoes to have shined.

Josh told Birdie to go on.

“You sure you won't go with me—fly away with me somewhere?” Birdie said.

“I can't do that, Birdie.”

Birdie said he'd at least wait until Josh bought a ticket for The Flying Crow to Somerset. He kept his back to the people in the waiting room and motioned forcefully for Josh to go. “Go get your ticket!”

There were too many ticket windows, each marked with the name or symbol of a railroad or specific train or the type of ticket available—unreserved coach, reserved coach, sleeping car, today's trains only. It was very confusing. Josh looked for the Kansas City Southern. There were several windows for the Santa Fe and its trains. There was the Alton. Chicago Great Western. Frisco. Wabash. Three or four windows for the Missouri Pacific. Milwaukee Road. Katy. Union Pacific—five windows. Burlington. Rock Island. Finally, there was the Kansas City Southern. Its single window had over it a foot-wide flying crow emblem that was identical to the electric sign on the rear of the train this morning.

There were five or six people already waiting, and as Josh went to the end of the line, something most unexpected happened. He was overcome by a paralyzing feeling of dread, and it got worse the closer he got to his turn to buy a ticket.

“If you want to catch the Crow you'll have to get a move on,” said the agent, the second Josh arrived at the window. He was in his late forties, wearing a white shirt, black tie, and red vest.

Josh couldn't speak. He heard what the agent had said and knew there were people in line behind him, wanting also, no doubt, to go on The Flying Crow.

His brain was aching. He really had to return to Somerset. Staying with Birdie didn't make sense. Birdie himself didn't make sense. That snap treatment Will had done certainly went fast and easy.
Too
easy? Was he an insincere lunatic? Why did that newspaper upset him so? There was no other place for Josh to go.
There was no other place to go!
After all these years, he doubted if he had any kin. Even if he did, it was unlikely they would claim him. And even if they did, the asylum and sheriff people would find him and his life would be over.

“A ticket to Somerset, please,” he said to the ticket agent. The aching was over. He had no choice.

“One way or round-trip?” The agent was clearly exasperated, but he was allowing it to show only in his face, not his words.

“One way.”

In less than a minute, Josh had his ticket and change—the fare was $1.10. The agent told him to proceed to Track 3, where the train was due to leave in ten minutes, and barked “Next!” to the customer behind Josh.

Birdie was right where Josh had left him. He seemed to be mumbling things about the Union Station massacre that Josh couldn't hear well enough to understand.

“Have a great life, Birdie,” Josh said.

Birdie broke into tears and grabbed Josh in a tight embrace. “I don't think I can but I'll try . . . I'll try,” he said.

Josh knew Birdie's tears were real.

Suddenly Josh wanted to cry himself. He was worried again about Birdie, about leaving him here by himself. But Will Mitchell had promised the kid would be fine. Will Mitchell could be trusted. Thank God for Will Mitchell. Birdie would be OK. Yes, he would be fine.

Josh really did have to go. He had a flying crow to catch.