Andrew Vachss: Two Trains Running

“Yeah. I guess. But… I don’t know, boss.”

“I do,” Dioguardi said, confidently. “Beaumont’s a big fish in a little pond. And he knows, if we wanted to, we could put enough men together to pave him over like a fucking parking lot. He’s just trying to survive. He can’t blast us out, so he makes a deal for us to leave peaceful. And he can’t keep us out, so he makes another deal, so we stay away. You see what I’m saying?”

“Yeah. I’m just not so-”

“You’ll see, Carmine. A couple of years from now, we’ll be making more money out of this burg than we ever could’ve by taking it over.”

1959 October 09 Friday 17:40

The beige Plymouth pulled to the curb. The driver exited, and started walking. When he spotted the stolen Dodge, he changed course, so that he was approaching it from the front.

“That’s Jody!” Harley said. He reached his hand out the side window and waved a signal.

The driver climbed in behind Dett and Harley. He reached into his jacket, extracted an envelope, and handed it to Dett.

“You remembered,” Harley said, approvingly, noting the driver’s gloved hand.

“I remember everything,” the driver said. His voice was high and thin, but as steady as his hands. “When you get out, I’ll be right behind you. Whichever way you go, front or back, I’ll be there.”

“We don’t need a getaway man,” Harley said. “This car we’re in, it can’t be traced.”

“Then leave it where it is,” the driver said. “They won’t be able to trace the one I’ve got, either. And if something goes wrong, they’ll never catch it. I’ll get you to the switch car in the garage, and then I’ll take off. Let the cops chase me, they think they have a chance.”

“We can handle it,” Harley said.

“I’m in,” the driver said, gripping the back of the front seat with both hands. “If you don’t want me to drive you, I’ll be the crash car.”

The men in the front seat were silent, staring out the windshield.

“I’m bound to do it,” the driver said. “I got to be in on this.”

“Why?” Dett asked, coldly.

“He’s Jody Hacker,” Harley explained. “It was his brother Dioguardi’s men killed.”

“My big brother,” the driver said. “I know some people say he just run off, with the money. They don’t say it to me, but I know they say it, some of them. Mr. Beaumont, he never thought that of my brother, never. He told me my time would come. And this here is it.”

“You drive,” Dett said.

1959 October 09 Friday 17:53

The dark blue Cadillac sedan turned the corner, picked up by three pairs of eyes.

“Going around back,” Harley said. “They’ll have to circle the block first.”

The driver was already out the back door.

“He’ll be there?” Dett asked.

“Jody? Bet your life.”

“Let’s go, then,” Dett said. “Drive over and park as close to the front of the joint as you can, and we’ll walk from there.”

Harley started the car. “I can’t see any empty space,” he said, anxiously.

“Double-park,” Dett told him.

Harley pulled up so they were partially blocking two other cars at the curb. He looked over at Dett. “Okay?”

“Yeah,” Dett said. He reached into the satchel on the floor between his legs and threw a switch. “We’ve got five minutes.”

The two men got out of the stolen car and walked to the corner. Harley carried a gym bag. Dett’s gloved hands were empty. They turned the corner and started down the alley just as the Cadillac backed into the space always kept vacant for it. Dett’s left hand went into his outside coat pocket, his right reached under his arm. He stepped into his private tunnel, and the world shifted to slow-motion.

The driver of the Cadillac got out, and reached for the handle to the back door. Dett drew his.45 with his left hand and shot him in the spine.

Harley raced toward the rear door of the restaurant.

Dett wrenched open the back door of the Cadillac and emptied both barrels of his sawed-off shotgun into the two men seated there. The explosion was deafening in the enclosed space.

Harley threw the restaurant door open and tossed the gym bag inside.

Dioguardi moaned. Dett shot him in the forehead with his.45. Harley was down on one knee, a pistol in his hand, covering the rear of the restaurant. Dett emptied his.45 into the two men in the back seat, shoved it back into his pocket, and holstered the shotgun, pulling his second pistol loose with his right hand.

Harley held his position, down on one knee, scanning the area, pistol up and ready.

Dett reached toward the blood-and-flesh omelet of what had been Dioguardi’s torso. Not the suit jacket-this was on him before he got hit. His left hand quickly probed the lining of the dead man’s cashmere overcoat… Clean! Dett slipped the letter carefully into the inside pocket, then refolded the overcoat so it lay flat on the seat.

The Plymouth roared up, skidding the last few feet on the brakes. Harley jumped to his feet and ran toward the open rear door. Dett fired three more times as he backed toward the Plymouth. The second he was inside, Jody Hacker stomped the throttle.

As the Plymouth careened around the corner of the alley, the stolen car parked in front of the restaurant exploded.

1959 October 09 Friday 18:28

“Nobody saw a thing, right, Chet?”

“It’s not what you’re thinking, Sherman,” the jowly cop said. “Nobody inside could have seen any of this,” gesturing at the fleshy carnage inside the Cadillac. “The kitchen’s a blast zone. Two dead, body parts all over the place. Looks like the place was bombed. Then you got that car that blew up right in front, too. Nobody was even thinking about back here in the alley.”

“This one got to pull his piece,” Sherman Layne said, pointing to the body next to Dioguardi, “but he never got off a shot. And Sally D., he wasn’t even carrying.”

“Had to be Beaumont,” the jowly cop said. “He’s the only one around here with this kind of muscle. I always thought he was going to get payback for Hacker. That’s how those hillbillies are.”

“Uh-huh,” Sherman Layne grunted. He said nothing about the envelope he had taken from the inside pocket of Dioguardi’s cashmere coat.

“It was a gang hit, all right,” the jowly cop said, in a voice of respect. “A real massacre. Like they used to have in the old days. You think we should go out and talk to Beaumont?”

“Not just yet,” Sherman said. “He’ll have a cast-iron alibi, anyway. There’s something I want to check out first.”

1959 October 09 Friday 18:49

“Mr. Dett? He checked out this morning,” Carl told the big detective. “Earlier than we expected.”

“Did he leave a forwarding address?”

“Let me see… Yes, it’s right here: Star Route 2, Rogersville, Oregon.”

Same as his driver’s license, Sherman thought to himself. And probably just as real. “Have you rented his room yet?”

“Yes, sir. To a Mr.-”

“Never mind,” the big detective said. “I’m sure you give the rooms a thorough cleaning every time a guest checks out. Before you rent them again, I mean?”

“Well, certainly, Detective. This is the Claremont, after all.”

As the two men spoke, another man entered the lobby. A drab, anonymous man, with a prominent harelip-repair scar. He took in the scene at a glance, turned on his heel, and went back out.

1959 October 09 Friday 19:11

“That Buick was returned a couple of days ago,” the car-rental clerk told Sherman Layne.

“Mind if I take a look at it?”

“Soon as it comes back, Detective.”

“Somebody rented it?”

“Half an hour after the guy who had it dropped it off. It was so early, we got two days on it for one. Pretty lucky, huh?”