The Hanging of Samuel Ash (8 page)

In the end, Hook figured he'd escaped with only minor damage to his otherwise spotless reputation. All had worked out except for one small detail: Officer Joe had towed the road-rail, and they wouldn't release it until someone paid the ten-dollar tow fee.

Hook considered calling Eddie but hadn't yet informed him of the accident. Anyway, Eddie had enough responsibilities without having to deal with every small detail of an investigation.

“Thanks for the coffee,” Hook said to Clyde.

Clyde shut his lunch box and kicked his feet up on the desk.

“Why is it you had to come back so soon, Mr. Runyon?” he asked.

“It's Hook to you, Clyde. That goddang road-rail broke down on me and had to be towed.”

Clyde lit a cigarette, blew a smoke ring, and watched it wobble across the room.

“Damn good job it didn't break down on line,” he said. “I heard a Flagstaff track foreman tried to beat a highwheeler to the Hackberry spur with his road-rail over to Shattuck.”

“He didn't make it?” Hook asked.

“Oh, he made it, just not in one piece. They did find his silver-plated belt buckle and a set of false teeth.”

Hook sucked at the hot coffee. “I don't remember hearing that. Guess I must have been on vacation.”

“So, what's wrong with your road-rail, Hook?”

“It's not altogether clear. But the wrecker service wants ten bucks to release her. Seeing as how my cash is in Clovis, I'm stuck in Carlsbad talking to you.”

“That's a real shame, but ain't that a company expense?”

“Which is why it would be a secured transaction if a man got an interim loan. Thing is, there's paperwork to be done and then a wait. You know how long it takes these bastards to do anything. Maybe you'd spot me the ten so I could get on with my business?”

“Aw, hell,” he said. “I'd sure do one of those interim things for you, but then I couldn't buy milk for the babies.”

Hook poured a shot of sugar into his coffee to tame it down and stirred it with his little finger.

“I didn't realize you were married, Clyde.”

“Who's married?” he said, grinning.

“I wouldn't ask but for the circumstances I find myself in,” Hook said.

“Ten bucks is a pretty good bite out of a man's check,” he said. “And I've been figuring to buy a new pair of boots come payday.”

“It takes a generous man to give up a new pair of boots for a friend, and it's not my way to mention the fact that I didn't report that breach of security with the baggage room, even though it could put my job at risk for not doing so. But then I've always said that friendship shouldn't come with a price. I'd do the same thing again this very minute, even though it could well cost me my job. You can't see your way clear, don't you worry about it. I'll figure something out.”

“Well, hell,” he said, reaching for his billfold. “I guess I can get by for another two weeks without them boots, seeing as how there's company money behind the loan.”

Hook took the money and slipped it in his pocket. “Clyde, my boy, I predict a bright future for you in the railroad business.”

*   *   *

Hook handed the tow truck operator the ten bucks and pointed out the road-rail, which had been parked near the fence.

“What the hell kind of vehicle is that, anyway?” he asked. “I seen August grasshoppers looked prettier than that thing.”

“It's a road-rail,” Hook said. “She goes either way, so to speak.”

The truck driver said, “I heard of them.”

“Well, she comes in handy in a pinch,” Hook said.

“If I was you, I wouldn't be driving her until them brakes are fixed.”

“Low on fluid?” Hook asked.

“Oh, she's low alright and likely to stay that way.”

“What do you mean?”

“The brake line squirts like a humpback whale.”

“Cut?”

“Worn through, I'd say. Why, you got enemies around here?”

“Officer Joe's been out of sorts lately.”

“Yeah,” he said, searching for his Beech-Nut. “Officer Joe pouts up every time someone runs over his patrol car.” He opened the package, smelled the contents, and loaded his jaw. “I got an extra brake line back there. Can put her on for three bucks. Won't take that long.”

“Thanks, anyway,” Hook said. “But I don't have that far to go.”

“Here's the keys,” he said, reaching into his pocket. “You might want to scratch Officer Joe off your hit list, though. He's got a reputation for getting even.”

Hook pulled off and eased his way through town. At the rail crossing on the outskirts, he coasted to a stop and studied the tire tracks where Officer Joe had launched up the embankment.

The drive back on the road promised to be a long haul, but he had little choice. Stirring up more attention getting a clearance order didn't strike him as the prudent thing to do at the moment.

*   *   *

Popeye leaned against the door and watched Hook come up the Clovis depot steps.

“What the hell you parking that thing on the sidewalk for, Hook?”

“'Cause I like it on the sidewalk,” Hook said, rubbing his back. “You got a problem with that?”

“No, no,” Popeye said. “I guess the sidewalk's as good a place as any for parking a road-rail.

“Where the hell you been, Hook? That dang dog's got the whole place in a stir. He chased a woman's poodle right through the Harvey House dining room the other day. The damn thing ran into the ladies' room and wouldn't come out. They had to cover its head with a blanket and carry it out the back door.”

Hook took off his shoe and worked out a rock that had embedded itself in a hole.

“He probably figured it to be a rabbit,” Hook said. “Mixer's a born hunter.”

“A
white
rabbit?”

“There're white rabbits known to exist,” Hook said.

“Yeah, in Alaska,” Popeye said. “And I don't think they wear pink ribbons in their hair, either.”

“Anyway, that dog don't belong to me,” Hook said. “So I'm not responsible for what he does or doesn't do.”

“He don't belong to you?”

“No, he doesn't, strictly speaking. He just showed up one day, and I haven't been able to run him off. Kind of like an operator I know.”

“Then maybe I'll just shoot him next time he sprays up the baggage.”

“Go ahead,” he said. “But make damn sure he's dead because Mixer doesn't make a distinction between white rabbits and old depot operators.”

“It's sure good to have security back in town looking out for my well-being,” Popeye said. “I can't tell you how much safer I feel.”

“It's all in the job,” Hook said. “By the way, you haven't seen that Junior Monroe around, have you?”

Popeye pushed his cap to the side. “No, I ain't. He probably took off, and if he's smart, he won't look back.”

Hook tossed the piece of rock away.

“How about spotting me a sawbuck until payday, Popeye?”

“Hell, Hook, I loaned you money last month.”

“I'm running a little short,” he said. “Just to get me over the hump.”

“Last time I had to wait two weeks to get my money.”

“I had a lot on my mind, Popeye.”

“Right after that, Ted Burnham saw you buying old books at the rummage sale.”

“That's a black lie, Popeye. I was just looking 'em over.”

“Well, I don't have ten, but here's a five if you promise to spare me the details.”

“Thanks, Popeye. Now, if you're finished disparaging me and my dog, I need to use the company phone.”

*   *   *

Hook dialed Topeka. A man answered.

“Personnel.”

“This is Hook Runyon, railroad security. I need to check on a Samuel Ash. He might have been one of our employees.”

“Company employment records are not available to just everyone,” the man said.

“Eddie Preston, the divisional supervisor, has cleared it,” Hook said.

“Please hold,” he said.

While Hook waited, he watched Popeye work the office. No better operator in the country existed, though he'd never admit it to Popeye.

“Sir?”

“Yes.”

“Samuel Ash was recently hired as a temporary by the Clovis signal department.”

“A temporary?”

“That's correct.”

“You mean a scab?”

“I mean a temporary,” he said. “Is there anything else?”

“No,” Hook said. “Nothing else.”

*   *   *

Determined to wash away two days' worth of jailhouse grime, Hook showered in the sleeping-room quarters before returning to the caboose. Too weary to put his prosthesis back on, he carried it under his other arm. When he stepped out the door, the callboy, just coming in to wake the next crew, stepped back and looked at the prosthesis dangling from under Hook's arm.

“Jesus,” he said. “What happened to your arm?”

Hook looked down at the prosthesis. “Be careful what you play with in the shower, boy. You never know what might fall off.”

Mixer greeted Hook from the steps of the caboose, his rear swinging to and fro.

Hook knelt and pulled his ears. “No more chasing white rabbits with pink ribbons, you understand?”

Hook fixed himself a whiskey and water and took to his bunk to read a little from the Hemingway. Mixer crawled underneath the bunk and fell fast asleep.

Twenty pages in, Hook doubled his pillow and rolled onto his side. He'd seen in the paper where the local library had scheduled a book sale for 9:00 Saturday morning, an annual event designed to move old editions off the shelves to make way for new ones.

Given the fact that security rarely gave a man a break and given that he'd worked more than his share of overtime hunting pickpockets, Hook figured the company owed him some time off.

Though he had two pretty good copies of
The Hound of the Baskervilles,
they were both 1927 London reprints. What he needed to fill out his collection was a 1902 American first edition.

Most librarians, possessing small interest in the collectibility of books, had been known to put some valuable stuff on the bargain table. Though ex-library books were not the most collectible, having often been abused by the public, sometimes the rarity of the book offset the disappointment of coffee stains and folded corners.

*   *   *

The next morning Hook took breakfast in the Harvey House. Not only could he put the bill on his tab, but he could partake in a meal of the highest caliber. Harvey Houses adorned nearly every depot on the line and held fast to a reputation for cleanliness and fine dining. Some said Fred Harvey had an eye so keen that he could pick gnat shit out of black pepper and would fire an employee for a single smudge on the water glass. But one thing sure, even in the remotest corners of the desert, a man could experience a Harvey meal that came in second to none in the country.

Hook pulled up to a table set with Irish linen, silver utensils, and Mimbreño china. A Harvey girl, dressed in a fitted uniform, took his order. She smelled of soap, and when she leaned in to fill his glass, he could feel the heat of her arm against him.

He ordered from memory, and his breakfast arrived in minutes: dippy eggs poached in milk, sourdough pancakes served with warm Vermont maple, a slab of hickory-smoked Kentucky ham, buttered biscuits, and a crystal saucer burgeoning with Oregon raspberry preserves.

“Coffee?” she asked, flashing a smile. Hook nodded and waited as she filled his cup with a steaming rich brew. She held up a crystal creamer. Hook nodded again, and she poured a dollop of fresh cream into his cup. He sipped at his coffee and listened to the rustle of her skirt as she made her way back to the kitchen.

When he'd finished breakfast, he retrieved an old briefcase from under his bunk. After admonishing Mixer to stay on his best behavior, he headed on foot for the Clovis library.

By the time he arrived, a passel of women and a few old graybeards had already lined up for the bargains. Some of the women carried large purses or shopping bags to fill with books. One of the men had a cardboard box on the floor, which he advanced now and again with the toe of his shoe.

A large oak table, groaning with discarded books, had been placed in the middle of the room. All books, good or bad, carried the same ten-cent price.

Hook questioned whether he should be spending his money on books, given that he now owed his next paycheck to the judge and half the railroad operators in the country.

But after careful thought, he concluded that giving up his money for rare books constituted a selfless act, a sacrifice that might well save some of America's finest literature from the trash heap.

When the sale opened, everyone crowded in. Books disappeared in quantities, dragged to the counter by satisfied patrons who would read away the summer at bargain prices.

Hook picked up a first-edition Sherwood Anderson, and
Exiles, A Play,
by James Joyce. He spotted a first edition of
Cabbages and Kings,
by O. Henry, under a stack of magazines. But the
Baskervilles,
the one book he wanted most, could not be found.

He filled out the remainder of his purchases with reading copies of whatever struck his fancy, and by then the stack had dwindled to a few ragged pulps and a random assortment of encyclopedias.

Hook placed his purchases on the floor next to the overstuffed chair by the newspaper rack and sat down for a rest.

At what point the thought came to him, he couldn't be sure. In fact, it might not have been a thought at all, at least not a conscious thought, but a feeling, a drawing by some force from outside of himself.

He rose and worked his way into the stacks, and there it sat on the shelf with its crimson cover. He pulled it down and took it back to his chair to peruse.