Andrew Vachss - Two Trains Running

“Yes, sir. Easiest thing in the-”

“It’s a long drive to Cleveland,” Dioguardi said. “But it could be done in a day, easy. You watch him close, hear?”

1959 October 07 Wednesday 20:17

“How come you won’t be needing that shack you asked me about before?” Beaumont asked.

“I changed the plan,” Dett told him. “After I sapped that one punk, and that didn’t work, I took out two of his other men. That got him on the phone. I offered him a bunch of options, but, bottom line, either he was going to pay, or more of his men were going to die.”

“You shook down Sal Dioguardi?” Beaumont said, grinning. “A one-man protection racket, huh?”

“He couldn’t know how many people were involved,” Dett said. “All he knew was a voice on the phone.”

“How did he even know you were the same one who-?”

“I mailed him that souvenir. From the first one.”

“So what was the shack supposed to be for?”

“I figured he’d make some deal, say he had work for me. He’d know I wouldn’t come into his place, so he’d promise to meet me wherever I said. That’s why I wanted it local, so he’d think it was someone from around here. Like I said, he couldn’t know how many people were involved at my end. So he’d send a whole bunch of his best men to storm the shack.”

“And then?”

Dett gestured pushing a plunger with both hands. “Boom,” he said.

“Christ,” Beaumont said, exchanging a quick glance with Cynthia. “What kind of ‘strategy’ is that?”

“The kind that would make him deal with me the next time he heard my voice on the phone.”

“I guess it damn well would. But… why do you think he paid you off, instead?”

“I don’t know,” Dett admitted. “It wasn’t what I expected. Probably he thinks he’s going to snatch me when I go to pick up the money.”

“But there’s no chance of that?”

“None.”

“Maybe he’s doing just what Shalare promised he would,” Cynthia said. “Backing off.”

“Maybe,” Beaumont said, musing. “But maybe he’s got something else he’s thinking about.”

“I don’t think he runs that tight an operation,” Dett said. “I could just hit him, be done with it.”

“That’s just it,” Beaumont told him. “I don’t think that would put an end to anything. When I first sent for you, I thought Dioguardi was our problem. And he still is a problem, unless, like Cynthia says, he moves off, like we’ve been promised.”

“By Shalare,” Dett said, quietly.

“Yeah,” Beaumont agreed. “So now it’s Shalare that’s the problem. I… think. It’s like we’re watching a puppet theater. All we can see is the puppets; we can’t see who’s pulling their strings.”

“What do you want?” Dett said.

“Huh? You know what we want. The reason we brought you in here-”

“You thought there was going to be a war,” Dett interrupted. “Now you’re not sure. If you can’t say what you want, I can’t get it done.”

“I’m paying you-”

“-to do something. Or get something done. That’s what I do. Then I move along. No trouble for you; no trouble for me. I’m not looking for a salary.”

Beaumont sipped at his drink. Cynthia got up and stirred the logs in the fireplace. Luther watched from the corner.

Dett lit a cigarette. He took a deep drag, then looked pointedly at the cigarette, as if to say the fuse was burning down on his patience.

“You’re supposed to be a master planner,” Beaumont broke the silence. “So plan me this: how can we get Ernest Hoffman to back us?”

“Who’s Ernest Hoffman?”

“Ernest Hoffman is the most powerful man in the whole state. I’ve been studying him for years. Probably know more about him than he knows about himself.”

“Tell me,” Dett said, settling back in his chair.

1959 October 07 Wednesday 21:54

“Where Preacher at? We supposed to go, man!”

“How many times I gotta say it?” a round-faced youth with a shaven skull said. “Preacher gonna meet us at the corner. He say he got a surprise for those motherfucking Hawks. One they never gonna forget.”

“It don’t seem right, Buddha,” another youth protested.

“You see this?” the round-faced youth said, getting to his feet, and pointing to an embroidered orange thunderbolt on the sleeve of his long black coat. “This says I’m the Warlord of the South Side Kings. Preacher called this meet, but I’m the one who set it up. And you know what? Me, I’m going down on the Golden Hawks if I got to do it by my motherfucking self.”

Buddha opened his coat, to display a heavy chain draped through his belt. From his pocket, he took a switchblade. As the others watched, he thumbed it into life.

“South Side! South Side Kings!” he chanted.

“South Side, do or die!” another youth picked up the cry.

“Walk with me,” Buddha commanded.

1959 October 07 Wednesday 21:56

“After tonight, everything changes,” Ace said. He held the pistol aloft, like a torch. “And this, this is what changes it.”

“What about the Gladiators?” Larry said, tapping a length of lead pipe into his open palm.

“We don’t need them,” Ace said, quietly. “But I hope they show. I want them all to see this.”

Hog took a final swig of blackberry wine, tossed the empty bottle onto the ratty couch, and stood up. “Hawks!” he shouted to the waiting gang. “Mighty, mighty Hawks! Tonight’s our night. Pick up your weapons, men. Time to roll.”

1959 October 07 Wednesday 22:03

“They’re moving,” Sunglasses said to Lacy. “Looks like… maybe twenty men. More than we thought.”

“Cut across Davenport, so we can come in from the side,” Lacy told the driver, from the back seat. “We’re not driving through nigger territory. Not tonight.”

1959 October 07 Wednesday 22:05

A battered silver truck with RELIABLE MOVERS stenciled in black letters on its sides slowed to a stop underneath a streetlight whose bulb had been shattered earlier that same evening. Inside the back of the truck, Rufus spoke urgently to Preacher.

“We got a ramp all ready, walk you down nice and easy. Four men going to go with you, right up to the lot, just to make sure you get there all right. But then it’s all you, young brother. Be the boss!”

“I’m ready,” Preacher said, grim-voiced.

“After tonight, nobody be calling you Preacher no more,” Rufus said. “You going to be the Magic Man. And people, they going to follow you, son. Understand?”

“Yes, sir!”

“All right. Now, remember what we went over. You just stay there when it’s done. Don’t even try and get up. Everyone else’s going to be running away, but we going to be running at you, get that stuff off, and bring you with us, just like we planned.”

“It’s hotter than a damn oven in all this,” Preacher said, sweat pouring down his face and into his voice.

1959 October 07 Wednesday 22:10

“Spread out!” Hog ordered the bunched-up Hawks. “Corner to corner. Don’t let any of them past the line, no matter what. Long as we keep them in front of us, we got control, no matter how many of them there are.”

“Here they come!” the acne-scarred boy hissed.

The Hawks moved to meet their enemies, shuffling forward in a ragged line. Some carried sawed-down baseball bats. Others had lengths of lead pipe, bicycle chains, tire irons, car antennas. One brandished a glass whip-a length of rope coated in white glue, rolled in broken glass, and allowed to harden. Two held zip guns. Every youth had a knife of some kind, from cane-cutters to switchblades.

1959 October 07 Wednesday 22:11

“There’s Preacher!” one of the Kings yelled.