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Andrew Vachss: Two Trains Running

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Andrew Vachss Two Trains Running

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Electrifying, compelling, and, ultimately, terrifying, Two Trains Running is a galvanizing evocation of that moment in our history when the violent forces that would determine America's future were just beginning to roil below the surface. Once a devastated mill town, by 1959 Locke City has established itself as a thriving center of vice tourism. The city is controlled by boss Royal Beaumont, who took it by force many years ago and has held it against all comers since. Now his domain is being threatened by an invading crime syndicate. But in a town where crime and politics are virtually indivisible, there are other players awaiting their turn onstage. Emmett Till's lynching has inflamed a nascent black revolutionary movement. A neo-Nazi organization is preparing for race war. Juvenile gangs are locked in a death struggle over useless pieces of "turf." And some shadowy group is supplying them all with weapons. With an IRA unit and a Mafia family also vying for local supremacy, it's no surprise that the whole town is under FBI surveillance. But that agency is being watched, too. Beaumont ups the ante by importing a hired killer, Walter Dett, a master tactician whose trademark is wholesale destruction. But there are a number of wild cards in this game, including Jimmy Procter, an investigative reporter whose tools include stealth, favor-trading, and blackmail, and Sherman Layne, the one clean Locke City cop, whose informants range from an obsessed "watcher" who patrols the edge of the forest where cars park for only one reason, to the madam of the country's most expensive bordello. But Layne is guarding a secret of his own, one that could destroy more than his career. Even the most innocent are drawn into the ultimate-stakes game, like Tussy, the beautiful waitress whose mystically deep connection with Walker Dett might inadvertently ignite the whole combustible mix. In a stunning departure from his usual territory, Andrew Vachss gives us a masterful novel that is also an epic story of postwar America. Not since Dashiell Hammett's Red Harvest has there been as searing a portrait of corruption in a small town. This is Vachss's most ambitious, innovative, and explosive work yet.

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The driver shrugged, to show that decision was out of his hands.

“You know how the garage works?” the black man asked.

“I leave my car with you. You give me another one to use. When I’m done, I call you, and we trade back.”

“Uh-huh. And Whisper, he told you, it costs a grand, right?”

“Five hundred is what he said.”

“Price of everything’s going up,” the black man said. “That’s the way it is, everywhere you go.”

“Whisper said that, too.”

“Prices going up?”

“No. That you’d try and hold me up for more. He under-estimated you-he was guessing an extra C-note.”

A flash of white scythed across the black man’s face. It might have been a smile. “You know what I mean, I say I been listening to the drums?”

“Grapevine.”

“Right. People know you coming, man. They don’t know your name, don’t know your face. And I guess you don’t want them to know your car, either.”

The driver shrugged again.

“Sure,” the black man said. “So what that means is, I got extra expenses.”

The driver watched, silently.

“You ain’t holding up your end,” the black man said, the thin slash of white back in his mouth.

“The money’s-”

“Of the conversation, man. This is what men do, they got a dispute. They talk about it, right?”

“We don’t have a dispute.”

“Sure, we do. I don’t mean we enemies or nothing like that. Just trying to get you… involved, see?”

“In what?”

“In my problem, man. What I been telling you.”

“Your ‘extra expenses.’ ”

“Now you paying attention. I don’t know you. Don’t want to know you. But I know what you here for. So I got to figure at least some possibility I may never get that phone call from you, understand where I’m going?”

“That you won’t get your car back.”

“That’s right! Now you getting with the program. I got a real nice… rental for you. You can drive a stick, right?”

“Yes,” the driver said. He took out his pack of cigarettes, held it toward the black man.

“No thanks, man. Appreciate it, though. Anyway, what I got for you is a sweet little ’49 Ford. But it’s not running no flathead-got a ’54 Lincoln mill with a lot of work into it. All heavy-duty: brakes, shocks, clutch, everything. Floor shift, Zephyr gears. Some wild-ass kid built it for drag racing. It don’t have a lot of top end, but it’ll walk away from any cop car in this town. Get you good and gone, you need to.”

“Sounds fine.”

“She is fine, man. What I’m telling you, she don’t come back, I’m out a lot of coin, see what I’m saying?”

“No. No, I don’t. I see you coming out ahead. My car’s worth a lot more than some kid’s hotrod.”

“Yours is newer, sure. But that don’t-”

“Mine’s running a punched-out Caribbean engine,” the driver interrupted. “Dual quads, headers, triple-core radiator, cutouts for the pipes. The whole chassis has been redone, and it’s got a belly pan, too. You could drive it through a cornfield at thirty and it wouldn’t get stuck. Got a second gas tank in the trunk: extra twenty-five gallons. Steel plate behind the back seat-”

“Damn!”

“There’s more. Go look for yourself, you don’t believe me. Cost you seven, eight grand, minimum, to build anything like it.”

The black man’s eyes narrowed. The pistol in his hand moved slightly. “Must make you worried, then. Leaving a valuable ride like that with a stranger. I mean, what if you called and I never came?”

“I’m not worried,” the driver said. “Whisper vouched for you.”

“Man can always be wrong.”

“Whisper told you about me,” the driver said. It wasn’t a question.

The black man nodded.

“Well, he wasn’t wrong about that,” the driver said.


1959 September 28 Monday 23:39


Only Sammy, Lymon, and Harley remained behind after the others had been dismissed, their chairs drawn up close to Beaumont’s desk. The men spoke in low, but not guarded, tones.

“We already lost one man,” Beaumont said. “Hacker never came back with the casino collection. It’s been over three weeks, and nobody’s heard from him.”

“That was a lot of money,” the broad-faced man said.

“Meaning what, Sammy?” Beaumont asked, swiveling his imposing head in the speaker’s direction.

“Everybody knows Hacker’s route,” Sammy said, unruffled. “It’s no secret. All our collectors work alone. We never have anyone riding shotgun. Everybody knows that, too.”

“You’re saying-what?-we don’t have any proof that it was Dioguardi?”

“I’m saying, it could have been Dioguardi, sending a message, sure,” Sammy said. “But it could have been a hijacker, too, Roy. A freelancer, I mean. We got no shortage of those coming through here. Most of them, they’ve got enough sense to come to our town to spend the money they made off their jobs, not to pull one… but every deck always has at least one joker in it.”

“Can’t say it wasn’t,” Beaumont mused. “But Hacker was always a ready man. He wouldn’t go easy… not unless he went willingly. And, you know, if you’re going to take down something big, like an armored car, say, the best way is to have an inside man.”

“Hacker wouldn’t steal from us,” the redheaded man put in, sure-voiced.

“I don’t think so, either, Lymon,” Beaumont agreed. “It was a good piece of change, all right, but not enough to live on for the rest of your life, if you had to stay hidden. When the cops came out here, they said nothing in his house had been touched. There’s things a man wouldn’t leave behind if he had time to plan his run.”

“Hacker would know that, too,” Sammy said, cautiously.

“He would,” Beaumont said, nodding his head. “But you know what else the cops found when they went to his place? They found that hound of his, Ranger. Dog didn’t even have food laid out for him.”

“That does it for me,” Sammy said, in a tone of finality. “Hacker loved that old dog. He expected to come home that night. Yeah.”

“So what’s our first-?” Harley asked, as a woman entered the room from the door behind Beaumont. She was of medium height, but looked shorter because of her stocky frame-an impression enhanced by her low-heeled shoes and boxy beige jacket worn over a plain white blouse. Her hair was the color of tarnished brass, worn short, with moderate bangs over her high forehead. She had Beaumont’s iron eyes, but long lashes and artfully arched eyebrows banked their fire.

At her entrance, the assembled men all rose to their feet and started for the exit.

“Lymon, you mind hanging around a few minutes?” Beaumont said.

By way of response, Lymon sat down.


1959 September 28 Monday 23:52


As if by prior assent, the two men walked across the clearing to the waiting Packard. The driver reached into the trunk, removed a pair of suitcases, stood them on the ground.

“Watch this,” he said, quietly. He lifted the heavy pad of felt that lined the floor of the trunk, revealing a flush-mounted keyhole.

“Now watch me,” the driver said, emphasizing the last word. He reached-slowly-toward his belt, carefully removed the tongue of the belt buckle, extracted a metal rod with a single notch at one end, and held it up for the other man’s inspection. He inserted the rod into the keyhole and turned his wrist-a shallow compartment was revealed. Filling the compartment edge-to-edge was a black, hard-shelled attaché case.

The driver removed the case, added it to the luggage on the ground, closed the compartment, pulled the felt back into place, and closed the trunk.

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