The Night Train: A Novelette (The Strange Files of Modesty Brown Book 1) (8 page)

She
slips out the door, and slides back into the booth in the Club Car. Bill is
cleaning his eternal glasses behind the bar. She waves away the offer of a Sidecar,
and he brings her a milkshake instead. When it arrives Modesty is sitting in
front of the closed typewriter case. The one with the bullet hole.

"Busted?"
Bill asks.

"Completely,”
she answers. “Injured in the line of duty.”

Bill
sits down across from her. The place is empty but for the two of them.

"Look,
Sidecar, it's no problem. You're going into the City, right?"

She
nods.

"I've
got just the guy who can fix this. Here." He takes her hand, and a pen
from his pocket and scribbles:

L.
EDGAR DEMAIN. 3 ¼ DERLETH STREET

"Thanks,"
she says. “I seem to be getting a lot of names and addresses tonight.”

"Well,"
he taps the table between them. "Drink up that milkshake, doll.”

"Thanks,
Bill. Really."

"Don't
mention it, doll." He reaches his hand out to shake hers, and as she takes
his hand in hers the cuff of his coat slides up, just a hair, and once again
she sees the tattoo of a keyhole.

“Just
one more thing, Bill, then I’m out of your hair forever.”

“Oh,
don’t break my heart, Sidecar. What do you need?”

“Did
you ever get your hands on that paper Pinky sent for?”

Outside the sky is starting to change, a
dull orange glow tinging the dark edges of the night. Smoke and fog roll past,
and the trees are sparser and sparser replaced by low buildings, then higher
ones, tall slender teetering tenements, laundry flapping on the line.
Smokestacks and traffic and a long dark tunnel that seems to go on forever and
ever, but then the train comes out the other side, it is no longer night, but
not quite yet day. That kind of blue hour, the kind only bakers and folks on a
bender ever see.

And
Modesty Brown, the remains of her milkshake beside her, rolls a sheet of paper
into her machine and begins to type.

Evelyn Archer is the secret identity of a library clerk living
somewhere in New England. (But she'll never tell.)  She smokes black
cigarettes and tells outrageous lies. Her lipstick is red enough to stop a
Barcelona bull in his tracks.

Feel like beating gums?
Shoot her a line at:
[email protected]
 

Look for File #2: THE HOTEL REGINA, coming winter 2016!