Stuart Kaminsky - You Bet Your Life

Two cars down the old conductor stopped and pulled his blue cap firmly over his eyes to show he meant business. His face was filled with lines of grandfatherly wrath.

“Don’t know what you did or said, son, but she deserved it and more. Been shushing up the kids and making loud remarks ’bout people. Come on. I’ll buy you a beer and you can take the rest of the trip in those two empty seats over there where you can spread out some.”

His accent had come out soft and warm in spite of an aged rasp, and I decided that it could be a pleasant sound.

He was as good as his skinny word, and with a second beer in me I was almost asleep when we hit Jacksonville. Most of the lights were out in the car. It was about midnight. Out the window on the platform a couple of people were getting on. One was a skinny kid in an orange shirt who looked up at the windows. I thought his eyes rested on me. They were the glazed eyes of a drunk, a junk, a punk, or all three. I looked at him because he had no baggage and then I forgot him. The ten minute layover and the vibration of the train put me to sleep.

I dreamt I was working for Al Capone. There was a party, and my job was to watch the guests’ valuables and coats. They began piling coats and jewels on a bed in a small room. More and more guests came. My ex-wife Anne came with George Raft and acted as if she didn’t know me. So far it was pretty true to life. Then Koko the Clown also came to the party. Koko was a frequent star of my dream world. I was also sure we were in Cincinnati. I dream about Cincinnati a lot, though I’ve never been there. I’ve got an elaborate map of Cincinnati in my head from dreams.

I remember thinking that my dream was getting stupid, but the dream didn’t stop. Coats, fur, and cloth piled up. I was running out of room, and the mound of clothes was about to topple over and smother me. I panicked and reached for my gun to shoot at the pile, but Al Capone’s voice found me. “Is this the way you work for your friend Snorky?” he grunted. I reached out my hand and asked him to pull me out before I drowned in other people’s wealth. Instead he sent in the Marx Brothers, a plumber, a manicurist, and a couple of trays of food. I complained about my bad back, tried to think of good deeds. “Cuts no ice with me,” said Capone. “I’m a dying man. But you can have my scars.”

I told him I didn’t want his scars, that I had plenty of my own. He laughed, and I woke up with a stiff neck as the train pulled into Birmingham, Alabama, at 8:08 A.M. My mouth was dry. My face felt like a well-used toothbrush, and seated next to me at the window was the thin young man with the orange shirt who had gotten on in Jacksonville without a suitcase. He had his chin in his hand and his face away from me so I couldn’t see his eyes. All I could see was his washed out, thin yellow hair and a bristly neck. I said, “Good morning.” He said nothing. I tilted my seat back, closed my eyes and tried to think. I got nowhere, so I went to the washroom, shaved, brushed my teeth, and went to the dining car where I had two bowls of cereal-one Quaker Rice and the other Wheaties. When I got back to my seat, the young man hadn’t moved. Someone had either covered him with quick-drying lacquer, he was an Indian Yoga, or he was dead. I didn’t care which. By early evening my always unreliable back was bothering me from sitting too long, and I had worked out a brilliant plan-I would do what Capone had suggested. I would try to find Ralph Capone, Nitti, or Guzik. I’d use Al’s name and hope they’d help.

Satisfied with my mental effort, and feeling friendly, I asked the young guy if he was going to dinner. He hadn’t moved for lunch. He grunted something and didn’t move. I went to the dining car and was enjoying a Salisbury steak and carrots until we pulled to a stop in Indianapolis and I looked out the window. The young blond guy in the orange shirt was standing on the platform, which was fine with me. What wasn’t so fine was that he was holding my suitcase. I reached for my wallet to throw down a couple of dollars on the table but the wallet was gone. The waiter shouted “wait” but I didn’t wait. The young guy hadn’t seen me. He might still think I was sitting unsuspecting over a steak I couldn’t pay for. I jumped off the train with the steam of the engine drifting back to give me some cover.

I could tell it was cold, but I wasn’t paying attention. I was looking for someone. I spotted him walking fast down the platform. As I moved between people toward him I passed the dining car. The waiter was pounding on the window at me making enough noise so everyone on the platform looked, including the guy with my suitcase. He spotted me and broke into a run. He had at least twenty years and fifteen yards on me but he wasn’t in good shape and he was carrying a suitcase with a few heavy items including a.38 automatic. Bad back or no bad back, I caught up with him in thirty yards when he ran into a woman carrying a two year old.

The woman fell but held onto the kid, and I jumped, hitting the young guy at the waist. I was on his back, hammering his face against the concrete. The woman with the kid sat screaming at us, but I only hit the thief’s head once, and in spite of the blood I knew he had nothing worse than a broken nose. I turned him over, pulled my wallet from his jacket, and freed my suitcase from his hands.

I had some questions for him, and as I sat on his chest I knew he would answer. I wanted to know if I was a coincidence or someone had fingered me. And if so, who and why. But two things changed my mind. The City of Miami began to pull out, and about ten cars down on the platform a guy with a cop was hurrying toward us. I got up fast, carrying my bag and stuffing my wallet in my pocket. I stepped over the lady sitting on the ground. Her kid smiled at me and I smiled back. The smile got him. He cried. I made the train with a jump that wrenched my back.

I leaned painfully out to watch the cop stop at the battered punk and help him up. I didn’t think the thief would say much. He probably had a record, and he’d certainly have a lot of explaining if he tried to nail me. I fumbled for a pill in my suitcase and limped back to the dining car. There wasn’t any water on the table. I took the flower out of the glass and used the water to wash down the pain pill. It tasted green.

“Trying to steal my suitcase,” I explained to the waiter, pulling out a five and pushing it toward him. He pocketed the bill, asked if I was all right, and turned away.

I spent the rest of the trip in my seat minding my own business. We hit Chicago just at 10 P.M. The windows were frosted, and I could make out mounds of snow through the circle I rubbed clear with my sleeve. I put my suit jacket on even though it didn’t match my pants. If no one invited me to a presidential inauguration, I would be all right. I thanked the old conductor and followed a Negro in a heavy coat down the metal steps and into a blast of cold Chicago air. It was night, but the train depot was bright with lights showing swept-up piles of dirty snow. It was the first time I had seen snow this close. I’d seen it on mountains, but never close enough to touch. I didn’t stop to touch it. The cold cut me in half and kicked me in the back for good luck. Then it scratched at my teeth like a nail on glass. I pushed past people who were bundled to their eyes, prepared for the winter blast. Sprinting around a group of lunatic girls who were singing, I almost made it to a door that glowed warm, promising coffee. A hand grabbed my sleeve.

“Peters,” said a deep voice, confident as doom.

The guy holding me was craggy faced and about fifty. His nose was red, but I couldn’t tell if it was from the cold, alcohol, or both. He wore a coat and hat, but no scarf, and the coat wasn’t buttoned tight. He seemed to ignore the cold. His grip was tight and mean, but on his face was a soft, tolerant smile, like he had seen everything and I was no surprise. Another hand grabbed my free arm, and I turned to see who was attached to it. It was a burly young cop in a dark blue coat and cap. He wasn’t smiling. He looked unhappy, cold, and a little angry. I figured that the punk had tried to nail me in Indianapolis, and the call had come ahead.