John Boland - Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 54, No. 3, March 2009

I could hear someone running alongside the car we were riding. The train was just leaving the yard limits and was still moving slowly. But even at that speed it was dangerous to try to get aboard. Nevertheless, hands reached out, and the straggler was lifted up.

He wasn’t wearing a coat of any kind. I watched him crawl away into the shadows, just another unfortunate tramp who’d decided things were going to be unhealthy in that town for a while.

There was an empty corner in the car and I moved into it and leaned against the wall. And considered myself lucky. And safe. That thought reminded me I was getting hungry again, and it wasn’t long before I began to think more about finding a meal down the line than about where Orvil was. Whatever he had done, well, he’d made his own bed, and I guessed he’d have to lay in it.

The graycats were down to one, but in some ways I wasn’t exactly feeling like one anymore and I didn’t know how I felt about that, either.

Sometime later, about the time everyone in the car was settling down and trying to get comfortable enough to sleep, I was aware of someone moving to sit beside me.

“That you, Stanley?”

It was the fellow who had just been pulled aboard and it was Orvil’s voice.

“Shhh,” he said, barely loud enough to hear. “Was lookin’ for y’ — thought it was you I saw gettin’ on back there.”

I just looked at him, hardly believing what I was seeing.

“What the Sam Hill have you been up to?” I said.

He looked away into the darkness for a long moment.

“We were supposed to be the goats!” he finally said.

“What?”

“Couldn’t find Charlie, so I decided to have another try at Stark by myself. When I sneaked into his backyard, I could hear a big hullabaloo out in front. Then, when I heard one of ‘em shout somethin’ ‘bout seein’ a feller in a green plaid coat, that’s when it came to me... how easy it all was. I took off a-flyin’ through the backyards and ditched that coat down the hole of the first outhouse I came to.”

I gave him a hard stare even though I wanted to believe him. He glanced around to see if anyone was paying attention and reached under his shirt. A second later he pulled out the pistol and swung out the cylinder as he handed it to me.

“Count ‘em,” he said, barely loud enough for me to hear.

It was too dark to really see, but I let my finger explore the front of the cylinder until I had counted the nose of four bullets.

“Charlie musta’ seen us coming, all right!” I said.

“Buggers almost had me once. Then some feller shouts somethin’ and they all ran off in another direction. I been hidin’ out in the fields till just a little bit ago.”

We were both silent for a few moments.

“I went looking for you,” I said.

“You did? Why?”

“I figured what you were up to. I wanted to head you off, keep you out of trouble.” I told him about my adventures running through the backyards.

“Geez, Stanley, I’m sorry.”

Neither of us said more for at least a couple of miles while I contemplated the narrow escape of both of us. I looked at the pistol still in my hands and fumbled around until I had removed all four bullets. I glanced around to see if anyone was noticing me. They all seemed to be busy sleeping. I got up and moved carefully over to the big open door and tossed the bullets out into the trees that were whizzing by. A few seconds later the pistol followed. With any kind of luck, it would be caked with rust before anyone ran across it.

I came back and sat down. Orvil had been watching me.

“Whole thing was too easy,” he whispered.

“We should’ve seen it.”

Orvil nodded a “yes.”

“Had to be Charlie who did it,” I said.

“Had t’ be,” Orvil said.

“Who else?”

“Fact is, sounded for all the world like Charlie’s voice out front there, crowin’ about seein’ a feller in a green plaid coat.”

I quickly glanced at Orvil. He gave me a nod that was a silent “You bet.”

“It fits, all right.” I said. “Whoever did the deed, he’s there to make sure they’re lookin’ for a green plaid coat.”

“That’s the way I figured it.” Orvil leaned back and tried to get comfortable.

“Going to miss Arthur,” he said after a bit.

“I don’t feel like they ought to be calling us graycats anymore.”

Orvil gave me another of his “you bet” nods.

“You think we still have any business with that marshal?” I said.

“Nope.”

“Didn’t think so. Let’s not get sidetracked again.”

“Yeah, let’s not.”

The train clacked on for a while.

“Shucks... maybe Charlie’ll run into him sometime,” Orvil said.

At least, that’s what I think he said. I was half asleep by then. When I woke up enough to glance over at Orvil, he had leaned back and closed his eyes. A moment later, so did I.

There’s something about the sound of iron wheels clacking over rail joints that can put you to sleep if you listen to it long enough... and get used to it.

Especially if the rails are headed West.

Copyright © 2008 Douglas Grant Johnson

Author’s Note: In researching the hobos, I found that newbies in some regions of the country were called “gaycats.” The old hands called themselves “dingbats.” As time has completely altered the meanings of these two words, I struggled with being authentic versus what might be best and less distracting for readers. I decided to coin a word I thought worked just as well for the newbies. I didn’t have a need for an updated word for the old hands. I was surprised to learn — from good authority — that as many as twenty-five percent of the hobos in that period were as young as the boys in my story.

Andy lumbered out of the hot tub like an astronaut stepping onto the moon. Rubbing his thinning hair with a towel, he sat down in one of the loungers facing the Olympic pool.

“Nothing like the whirlpool after a good workout, right? I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Andy Belton.”

I introduced myself. We hadn’t met, but I knew him. He’d played pro football for ten years after college and had been in two Super Bowl games. After four years as a network color commentator, he’d married, according to my research, very well indeed. He’d picked up thirty or forty pounds since his playing days, and his fleshy body could use all the workouts that The Desert Palms Spa and Health Club could provide. Ice clinked as he poured himself a drink from a Thermos. Somehow I didn’t think it was lemonade.

“Hot enough for you?” he said.

“Arizona’s not that bad. Venezuela was worse; just as hot and wet to boot.” As I hoped, the mention of Venezuela roused his curiosity.

Now I started the tale. I let Andy tease out my experiences with the big oil companies in Mexico, Venezuela, and Chile. I told him a few funny stories and let slip that I was no longer employed by the majors.

“You’re retired then?” he asked.

“I work mainly for myself now,” I answered.

The mainly is the hook. I’m working the Oil Game. It’s a simple scam but reliable and one of the few long cons that don’t require a team. I don’t need a steerer or a talker, and I cool the mark myself.

He bit on the mainly. I admitted that four or five times a year, I scouted out some likely property, leased it, and formed a small group to drill for gas or oil.

“And that provides a comfortable living,” I concluded. Comfortable is the right word, low key but promising.

“So you hit pretty often?” he asked.

“Well, out of my last forty wells, thirty-one are producers, seven paid their way, and two were dry.”