Andrew Vachss - Two Trains Running

“This isn’t the only paper in the world,” Procter said. “And there’s magazines, too. More every day. I can-”

“You promise, you swear, that if what I hand over to you is genuine dynamite, and I have all the proof, you’ll get it published somewhere? So people can see it?”

“That’s what I live for,” Procter said. “And if you did as much checking up on me as you seem to have, you already know that.”

“I don’t have much time. There isn’t much time left. You’re my last hope. The next time I call, I’ll have everything for you.”

1959 October 09 Friday 00:01

“I need my car,” Dett said into the phone.

“Name a time,” a man’s voice replied. “You know what you got to bring, and where you got to bring it to.”

1959 October 09 Friday 14:02

A decorous dark-blue Cadillac sedan pulled up to the guardhouse. Seth emerged, empty-handed.

The Cadillac’s front window slid down. The driver said, “I’ve got Mr. Dioguardi in the back. He’s supposed to see-”

“You’re expected,” Seth said, half-saluting toward the back seat, noting the two men sitting there. “I’ll get someone to come and walk you over, just be a minute.”

Seth walked back into the guardhouse.

“Last time, he searched my car like I was bringing a bomb with me,” Dioguardi said to the man seated next to him.

“Things are different now, right, boss?”

“They are so far,” Dioguardi replied. “Hey, look. See that guy walking toward us? I remember him from the last time I was out here. He’s a retard.”

“Beaumont’s got retards working for him?”

“Why not?” Dioguardi shrugged. “They got to be at least as smart as a dog. And probably just as loyal.”

Seeing Luther approach, Seth stepped from the guardhouse and joined him alongside the Cadillac.

“Mr. Beaumont says you can all go in, if you want. Or just Mr. Dioguardi.”

“You guys stay with the car,” Dioguardi ordered.

“But, boss,” the man next to him said, “I don’t feel right letting you just walk in by yourself.”

“It’s the right play,” Dioguardi said, self-possessed. “If he brought me out here to hit me, he could do it just as easy with you in the room. That’s not Beaumont’s style. Only thing I’m worried about is maybe someone putting something in the car, so it’s better you stay with it.”

Dioguardi got out, took the cashmere topcoat the other man in the back seat handed over, and slipped into it.

“Lead on,” he said to Luther.

The slack-mouthed man walked off, Dioguardi in his wake.

“This isn’t where I went the last time,” Dioguardi said, as they approached the weathered wood outbuilding.

Luther opened the door without answering, and ushered Dioguardi inside.

“What is this, a garage?”

“Come on,” Luther told him.

Dioguardi entered the meeting room. Beaumont wheeled himself over to the door, offering his hand. Dioguardi grasped it firmly, eager to test his strength against the man everyone said had once been the best arm-wrestler in the whole county. But Beaumont’s grip wasn’t a challenge.

“Thanks for coming,” the man in the wheelchair said. “Sorry, we’re in the middle of remodeling the whole place…” His gesture took in the entire room. The sawhorse-supported desk was covered with a large sheet of white butcher paper, as were a side table and the broad wooden arms on three identical lounge chairs. “Take his coat, Luther.”

Dioguardi did not hesitate, shrugging out of his cashmere overcoat as casually as if he were in a nightclub. Wants to see if I’m packing, he thought, not realizing that Luther had already registered his lack of a weapon.

“We’re fixing the place up,” Beaumont said, as he wheeled himself behind the makeshift desk. “When it’s done, it’s going to be connected to the main house. Like an extension. Only it’s going to be just for me. My den, like. Will you have something to eat?” he said, pointing to the side table, heavily laden with a selection of cold cuts and breads. “Luther can make you any sandwich you want.”

“That’s a beautiful spread there,” Dioguardi said, taking a seat. “But I had an early supper before I came out. Wouldn’t mind a drink, though.”

“Name your poison.”

“I’m a scotch-rocks man.”

“Luther,” Beaumont said.

While Luther was preparing the drink, Dioguardi took out a cigarette. Luther stopped working on the drink and rushed over to Dioguardi’s chair, a lighter in his hand. Dioguardi waved him off. “I got it, pal,” he said.

Beaumont wheeled himself from behind the desk, until he was facing Dioguardi’s chair. “I’ll have one, too,” he said to Luther, resting his hands on the flat arms of his wheelchair, palms-down. Dioguardi unconsciously imitated the gesture.

“I appreciate you coming all the way out here,” Beaumont said, holding up his glass.

“Well, I admit, you got me curious,” Dioguardi said, again unconsciously imitating his host’s gesture. “I thought I was the one giving you the news. About me pulling up stakes. I meant that, by the way. Then you say ‘partners,’ and that kind of knocked me back on my pins. I thought you wanted this whole thing for yourself.”

“If you reach for too much, you sometimes end up with nothing.”

“I heard you were a blunt man, Beaumont.”

“Fair enough,” Beaumont said, smiling slightly. “I understand you made a deal with… some people. They want what I have… what I can do, anyway. And, me, I want you and me to stop warring over what’s mine in the first place.”

“Yeah. And so? I already said I was going to-”

“Oh, I think you’re going, all right. I believe you. What I’m worried about is you coming back.”

“I’m not-”

“Wait,” Beaumont said, holding up his hand in a “stop” gesture. “Just let me finish. The way I have it doped out is like this: I can do what the politicians call ‘deliver the district.’ Only I can deliver a lot more than that. In a lot bigger area than you might think. That’s what the people who came to you want from me. And they’ll get it. In exchange, I’m supposed to have this whole territory for myself. Like I used to have, before you started making your moves.”

Beaumont shifted position in his chair, paused for a second, then continued. “Okay, let’s say the election’s over. Before, I was gold. Now I’m a piece of Kleenex. They used me for what I was good for, and now they can throw me in the trash. If you decided to come back, they wouldn’t stand in your way.

“Now, I know what you’re going to say,” Beaumont said, holding up one finger in a “pause” gesture. “Why should you come back? It’d be over a year that you’d be gone, and you’d be starting from scratch. But I’m thinking there might be one good reason you’d come back to Locke City. A very good reason.”

“What would that be?” Dioguardi asked, his voice low and relaxed. He took a sip of his drink, every movement conveying that he was in no hurry.

“A good reason would be if we were partners,” Beaumont said. “The future for men like us, it isn’t in gang wars, it’s in… cooperation. You use only your own people in your business; I use only mine. That’s good in some ways. You know a man, you know his family, where he comes from, you can trust him, right? But it’s also a limitation. If we don’t learn to work together, we don’t get the chance to grow.”

“What kind of growth are you thinking of?” Dioguardi said, affecting mild interest.

“Drugs,” Beaumont said, leaning forward, gripping the arms of his wheelchair, his iron eyes locked on Dioguardi’s. “There’s a fortune to be made. In the big cities, people are already making it. Locke City’s like a… smaller example, that’s all. I’ve got the network in place here. Men on the street, friends on the force, judges, politicians-everything. But what I don’t have is product. It’s your people who control that. You can get a steady, safe supply into the country. I want you and me to go into business, Sal.”