The Hanging of Samuel Ash (2 page)

Hook leaned into the window of the cage. “Listen, brass pounder, I'm the yard dog out of Clovis. Maybe I'll just come around there and kick your ass to prove it.”

The operator stepped back. “You better move on, mister, or I'll call the cops.”

Hook took a deep breath. A yard dog's authority didn't hold much water with local cops, and he had enough trouble going already. He walked to the door and turned.

“When's the next milk run to Clovis?” he asked.

“Three o'clock,” he said. “But I wouldn't be thinking of hopping her if I was you. Bums don't get far on this line. Anyway, that engineer's a ballast scorcher, and he don't slow for boes or no one else.”

Outside, Hook checked his watch. He hated to admit it, but the son of a bitch had a point. A rail dick ought know better than to get his pockets picked. He figured that dame in pink had set him up, and he fell for it. While he mumbled apologies, she could have lifted his boxer shorts, and he'd never have known it.

He peeked through the depot window and could see the operator talking on the phone. Hook didn't believe in revenge, being above it morally, but he figured to get even with that bastard someday.

Having bummed the rails in another life, he knew how to hop a freighter with the best of them. If that's what it took to get home, then that's what he'd do. In the meantime, he'd find some shade and wait it out.

As he turned to leave, a patrol car with two uniform cops in it pulled up next to him.

The driver stuck his head out the window. “Hey you,” he said.

Hook paused. “Me?”

“That's right. You.”

“What do you want?” Hook asked.

The cop on the passenger's side got out and walked around the car.

“Want you to put your hands on the hood,” he said.

Hook held up his prosthesis. “I only have one.”

“Hey, chief,” he said, kicking Hook's feet apart. “We got us a smart-ass here.”

The other cop got out.

Going through Hook's pockets, he said, “Threatening a railroad operator can get you into serious trouble around here. But being a smart-ass can get you hurt.”

“I'm the Santa Fe railroad bull,” Hook said.

“A one-armed cinder dick? Now there's a rarity. Let's see your badge.”

“Hey, chief,” the other cop said, holding Hook's weapon up by the barrel. “He's packing, too.”

“I lost the badge,” Hook said.

“Say what?” the chief said.

“I lost it.”

He pulled at his chin. “You lost your badge, did you?”

“That's right.”

“Well, let's see your driver's license then.”

Hook shrugged. “It's in the billfold with my badge.”

The chief twisted his mouth to the side. “You've had a run of bad luck, haven't you? Cuff him up, Joe. We'll run him in for vagrancy and carrying.”

Officer Joe slipped cuffs from his belt and paused. “But he's only got one arm, chief.”

“Then cuff him to your own damned self, Joe.”

“He could kill a man with that hook, chief.”

“Put your gun on him then.”

“But what if he tries to run?”

“Jesus, Joe, then shoot him,” he said.

 

2

 

H
OOK SAT IN
the cell studying the beetle that climbed up the wall. Just as it reached its destination, it tumbled to the floor, flipped itself over, and started up again.

He reached for a cigarette, remembering that Officer Joe had taken them before putting him in the cell. At least they hadn't brought the drunks in yet. That usually didn't happen until the bars had been open for a while.

Just as he stretched out on the bunk, with its layered odors, Officer Joe opened the cell door.

“Chief says you can make a call. One,” he said, holding up his finger.

“That's all I've been trying to do since I landed in this dump,” Hook said.

“Make it a good one,” he said. “A smart-ass can get thirty days in this hotel with no trouble at all.”

He led Hook to the office, where the chief sat behind his desk reading the funny papers. Hook's cigarettes lay on his desk.

“Mind if I have one of my smokes?”

The chief tossed them over to him. “Phone's there,” he said. “You got two minutes.”

“I'd like a little privacy,” Hook said.

“And I'd like a stripteaser cooking my breakfast,” the chief said.

Hook lit a cigarette and picked up the phone. He turned his back to the chief and dialed Eddie Preston.

“Security,” Eddie said.

“Eddie, Hook here.”

“Runyon,” he said. “Don't you ever check in?”

“Jesus, Eddie. That's what I'm doing.”

“I get this call from Clovis,” he said. “From the operator at the depot. He says there's a dog spraying up the baggage every time a train comes in. So I says, ‘What kind of dog is it?' And he says, ‘What the hell difference does that make?' And I says, ‘It don't make a goddang bit of difference, so just handle it your own damn self.' And he says, ‘I ain't altogether sure it's even a dog. It might be an African hyena, though I don't know what an African hyena would be doing in New Mexico.' So I says, ‘What the hell does an African hyena have to do with me?' And he says, ‘'Cause it's living under Hook Runyon's caboose, and he's one of your crack detectives, if I ain't mistaken.'”

“Look, Eddie, maybe we could talk about African hyenas some other time. I'm in a bit of a jam-up here, and I only have a couple minutes.”

“What kind of jam-up would you be in now, Runyon?”

“I lost my wallet and badge.”

“You lost them?”

“Not exactly lost. They were stolen.”

“Stolen? How the hell does someone steal a yard dog's badge and wallet?”

“Pickpockets.”

He could hear Eddie breathing on the other end. “For Christ's sake, Runyon, you're telling me pickpockets stole your wallet and badge while you were hunting pickpockets?”

“These bastards are good, Eddie. The best I've ever seen.”

“Where are you now?”

“Carlsbad jail.”

“They ain't likely to be in jail what with you on their trail, Runyon.”

“I'm the one who's in jail, Eddie. I need you to verify who I am.”

“You're the biggest idiot in New Mexico,” he said.

“Come on, Eddie. My time's about up here. Tell the chief who I am, and then call the operator at the depot so I can get the hell out of this place.”

“I'd let you sit until you grassed over, Runyon, if I didn't have urgent business that needed attending. Let me talk to him.”

“Thanks, Eddie.”

“And phone me the minute you get back to the depot.”

“Right,” Hook said, handing the phone to the chief. “It's Eddie Preston, division supervisor. He wants to talk to you.”

The chief took the phone. “Yeah,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “Pickpockets, you say? You're shitting me, right?

“Yeah, okay. You might want to pin a note to your boy's shirt,” he said, looking up at Hook. “I'll send him on his way. Wouldn't want to hold up a crime fighter like him, would I?”

The chief hung up the phone and rolled his shoulders. “Looks like you're free to go, Runyon.”

“I'll take my sidearm, if you don't mind,” Hook said.

The chief pulled open a drawer and handed it to him. “Don't let someone take it away from you and shoot you in the ass,” he said.

“And how about a ride back to the depot, chief?”

“Joe, give Clark Kent here a ride back to the depot, will you? He's in a rush to flush out some more pickpockets.”

*   *   *

Hook rode in the backseat of the patrol car in silence. Every once in a while, Officer Joe would look at him through the rearview mirror and shake his head.

When they'd pulled up to the depot, Officer Joe said, “Just give us a call if anyone takes your lunch money. It's a dangerous world out there.”

Hook got out and paused at Joe's window. “You might consider taking up a second job, Officer Joe, maybe security out to the drive-in theater or guarding the ticket gate for the high school football games.”

“What the hell you talking about?”

“Just something I overheard the chief say. I wouldn't worry about it if I was you.”

*   *   *

The operator looked up at Hook, folded his arms over his chest, and said, “How was I supposed to know?”

“'Cause I told you,” Hook said.

“You got to admit you don't look like no yard dog.”

“And you don't look like a moron. Now, do you think I could use that phone?”

“Sure,” he said, pushing it over to Hook.

Hook paused. “You mind?”

“I'll be out front. Jesus,” he said.

Hook dialed Eddie, who picked up on the second ring.

“Security,” he said.

“Eddie, this is Hook. I'm at the depot.”

“You know that siding north of Carlsbad, the one that goes to the potash mine?”

“More or less,” Hook said.

“The engineer on the short haul, while coming back from the mine about three this morning, said the wigwag signal had something hanging over it.”

“What was it?”

“How the hell do I know? That's why I'm telling you. Probably some Halloween prank.”

“This is June, Eddie.”

“The union's been stirring things up and down the line. Maybe they sabotaged the signal to get attention.”

Hook clenched his jaw. Union problems were even more disagreeable than hunting pickpockets, and he didn't like being caught between strikers and the company.

“How am I supposed to get out there, Eddie? It's in the middle of nowhere, you know.”

“Hang on, let me see if I can locate something.”

Hook rolled the operator's chair over and sat down. From there he could see the operator out front. Every once in a while, he would peek through the window to see if Hook had hung up yet.

“Runyon,” Eddie said.

“Yeah.”

“There's a road-rail over at the Artesia depot. The track crew won't be using it for a few weeks. Catch the next train over there and pick it up. Make damn sure you get clearance before pulling onto the line with that thing.”

Hook dropped his head. A road-rail, being a vehicle with hydraulic equipment for running both road and track, was neither fish nor fowl. Its claim to fame lay in the number of railroad employees it killed every year.

“Jesus, Eddie, can't you just get me a car?”

“I can get you a long vacation.”

“Alright, Eddie. How about sending me another badge?”

“It's coming out of your pay, Runyon. They don't give those things away.” He paused. “At least most people don't.”

“Alright, Eddie. I'll catch the next run.”

“By the way, Runyon, the department has taken on a new man, a crackerjack, a smart son of a bitch, dictator of his graduating class.”

“Valedictorian, Eddie.”

“Whatever. He's shy on experience, so I'm sending him to Clovis.”

“That's great, Eddie. Clovis could use a dictator. But what does it have to do with me?”

“I want you to show him the ropes.”

“I don't have time to deal with some kid, Eddie.”

“Did I ask? I don't remember asking, and don't be teaching him bad habits. Stay off the hooch. This kid is the goddamn future, and his old man is important. Oh, and call me soon as you get that wigwag thing cleared. The railroad don't stand for no one tampering with its signals.”

Hook hung up. He could hear the milk run in the distance. The operator stuck his head in the door.

“I got work to do, you know.”

“Radio a slow to that milk run,” Hook said. “Official business.”

*   *   *

Hook waited on the platform for the caboose to come downline. He set a pace, latched on to the grab iron, and swung up. So far, it had been one hell of a day. The way he figured it, things could only get better.

 

3

 

W
HEN THEY CAME
into Artesia, Hook swung down from the caboose and waited for the train to pull out. He made his way into the depot. The operator sat with his feet up on the desk and his hands behind his head.

“I'm the bull out of Clovis,” Hook said. “Division says there's a road-rail here that I can use for a couple weeks.”

“Gotta badge?” he asked, grinning.

“Operators got anything to do besides gossip?” Hook said.

“It's parked around back. I'd about as soon ride a mule myself.”

“I'm heading back to the potash switch. Is the line clear?”

Checking the board, he said, “There's a mail run out of Pecos coming through about three, and a westbound short haul on the potash spur due about midnight. After that, she's clear 'til morning.”

“I should have been an operator myself,” Hook said. “Sit around with my feet up while everybody else is working.”

“Someone's got to do the headwork around here,” he said.

“Division says there's signal trouble on that spur,” Hook said. “I figure kids covered up the wigwag lights. I'm going to check it out.”

“If I was you, I'd
road
that road-rail to the crossing just this side of the potash switch and get on the tracks there. Stay off that goddang line long as you can. A road-rail don't set off the signals, you know, and the odds of some drunk running you over is about fifty-fifty. On top of that, it's Friday the thirteenth. Then there's wildcat strikes brewing, too. Uncle John's been hiring up scabs, and tempers can run pretty high, you know.”

Hook nodded. “I could see it coming. The War Labor Board and the union bosses been sleeping in the same bed ever since the war started. The union guarantees no strikes, and the government guarantees no one can quit the union. Everybody else sleeps on the floor.”