Maiden Lane. Michael Januska
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of them?
“But Pelton —” started the engineer, pointing his thumb up the track.
“Don’t stop until we get to the station,” the voice repeated.
Just as Barney was preparing to heave another of the booze-laden suitcases toward the haystack, the train lurched forward and he staggered back, almost falling over with it.
Mouse obviously couldn’t see it, but the farmer’s face fell. He shouted something toward the baggage car that the bootleggers couldn’t hear and then ran back to his pickup. He told his boys plain and simple that the deal had gone south, but not to worry, he had an idea. He suspected that his suppliers either got cold feet or just needed a little help with the personnel on the train. He told his eldest boy to hide what landed in the haystack, and his youngest boy to accompany him. The farmer threw his truck into gear, mashed the pedal, and beat a path over to 9th Concession, where he dropped down and hung a right onto Middle Road. “It’ll take us out of the way a bit, but then we’ll shoot back up 8th and head them off.”
Barney and Mouse looked at each other. What happened? Were there Mounties on board? Mouse stayed put and kept watch on what was left of the shipment while Barney went to investigate. The big man reached outside around the still-open baggage car door for the ladder to the roof. He wasn’t fast but he was surprisingly agile; as a kid he was always the one elected to climb the tree to retrieve a kite. What he hadn’t bargained for was tonight’s near-blizzard conditions.
Everyone in the car heard the noise on the roof. The third man in black rose from his seat and walked to the front of the car. The fourth man followed, exchanging his position at the back door for one at the front. The third then made his way outside and onto the roof. The train wasn’t moving so fast yet, but the snow was blowing like mad and it was bitter cold. Also, ice was building up on the rungs that ran along the top of the car. The bootlegger didn’t see the man in black until he was practically face to face with him. At first he thought his eyes were playing tricks on him. Who the hell else would be crawling on all fours on the roof of a moving train in a snowstorm?
Even this close, the figure had to shout in order to be heard. “Where are you going?”
“I need to use the john.”
“Where are you going?” the figure repeated.
“You wanna punch my ticket?” said the bootlegger, cracking wise again.
“Yes.” The man in black pulled a Webley out of a holster inside his coat and used it to blow a hole clean through Barney’s head. The bootlegger tumbled off the roof of the car and landed in a snowdrift, limbs outstretched and looking like a big, ugly snow angel. The man in black replaced his Webley, turned back the way he came, and re-entered the passenger car, walking past the fourth, who was still guarding the front door. There was a new face in the crowd: a conductor was across in the aisle seat. The old man was sweating bullets, fiddling with the hem of his jacket but staring straight ahead, not making eye contact with the shadowy man as he entered and sat down. The train was picking up speed again, travelling faster now than it had been before its unscheduled stop. The fourth man proceeded up the aisle and left the car at the rear.
When he reached the still-open baggage car, he found Mouse positioned near the door, sitting on one of the remaining suitcases of rye and frantically waving his lantern at the farmer’s speeding pickup truck. Mouse caught the figure out of the corner of his eye.
“Shit — you a cop?”
“No.”
“You with the railway?”
“No.”
“Then who are you?”
Back in the engine cab, the first man in black checked his watch while the second noticed a vehicle tearing up the service road, heading in the same direction and gaining speed.
The farmer made a sharp left down the next concession and stopped right on the level crossing. He put his brake on and flashed his headlamps. His boy, unconvinced that the train would stop in time, bailed out of the truck and started running home. The farmer cursed him and his mother and then sat back and lit his pipe. He was determined to get the rest of that rye. There were folks in roadhouses all along St. Clair’s shores counting on him. His reputation was at stake. And then of course there was the money; he would make a tidy sum that would at least partly make up for that lousy corn crop last year. He puffed away on his pipe and thought for all his trouble that he should hold back some of his payment.
“I’ll teach those fuckers.”
The train was racing now and, what with no news about what was going on, the passengers were becoming a little uneasy, and not just in the car hosting the dark figures. A few looked to the conductor, but he was busy twisting his hat in his hands. Minutes later they were shaken by a sudden impact, but the train kept barrelling down the track. Debris flew past the windows in the first passenger car. It looked like automobile parts flying past. The locomotive had thoroughly demolished the pickup. The farmer managed to jump out in time.
The train breezed through Pelton Junction, normally the last stop before the city limits. Toward the end of the long stretch broken by only one county road, they passed the Kenilworth and Devonshire racetracks and the roundhouse. Soon there were lights in the distance and a glow in the night sky, indicating downtown Windsor and Detroit. The train was charging right into the city now. The lit surroundings were giving passengers a more accurate sense of just how fast they were travelling, and tension mounted. People were gripping their armrests, purses, and bags tighter. A few of the older women muttered prayers while the men remained quiet. They were bracing themselves for the worst.
Back in the baggage car, the fourth man in black had become bored with Mouse and hurled him through a wooden fence they were passing. A few suitcases of liquor followed. The figure then made its way back to the passenger car and took a seat next to the third. The first and second figures reappeared, made their way up the aisle and took seats across from their partners, completing the dark quartet. The rest of the car remained silent. All that could be heard was the rhythm of the rails.
The train finally began to slow and the four checked their watches: 9:12 p.m. The engineer started fiddling with the gauges and his assistant began applying the brakes, something he normally didn’t have to do this soon and so aggressively.
They were entering the rail yard. A signalman in the first tower rang his contact at the station and told him to get everyone off the platform. Something was clearly wrong.
Both the engineers had their hands on the brake now. The assistant had his foot against the wall of the furnace for leverage. Their ears were filled with the head-splitting, stomach-churning sound of steel on steel. The engine cab was vibrating, almost shaking. The engineer noticed his assistant’s eyes were closed; sweat streamed down and mixed with the soot on his face, black tears running down his cheek and off his chin. His teeth were clenched, the engineer could tell.
The train finally stopped, the first car about thirty yards beyond the platform. It was 9:14 p.m.
Passengers, shaken and stirred and white as snow, disembarked slowly. Many took a deep breath of the cold, crisp air as soon as they got outside. It cut the motion sickness. Red caps helped the women passengers climb down off the train and through the snow toward the platform.
“Watch that last step, miss.”
“Thanks a bunch,” said Vera Maude, a little wobbly. She was adjusting her hat and coat when she stopped and shuddered.
“Something wrong, miss?”
“No,” she said, “just got a sudden chill.”
“It’s this cold snap we’re having. People getting chilled right to the bone.”
“Yeah? Say, can you call me a cab?”
The four dark shadows stepped off on the other side of the train, boarded a freight elevator that dropped them below track level, resurfaced at the end of a tunnel on the Wellington side, and disappeared into the night.