Glenn Taylor - A Hanging at Cinder Bottom

Little Donnie nodded that he understood. These city boys needed close watch.

When he’d gone through the office and closed the door behind him, Rufus grabbed the halved paper from Munchy’s fat grip and threw it across the floor. “You keep your eyes here,” he said, motioning at the room behind him. He inquired on the barkeep’s absentia.

“Diarrhea,” Munchy said. “Back in five minutes.”

Rufus shook his head yet again and marveled at the ineptitude of his associates. “Tell him I took the shotgun,” he said.

When Rufus stepped lively through the lobby, Abe recognized the sound of his gait.

The front doors shut, and they crawled from the kneehole.

The seven o’clock train arrived eight minutes behind schedule. Trent held his drooped bouquet with both hands and licked his teeth to be sure no food remained. He watched a mother step on the platform stool with a squalling baby bucking in her arms. A young man jumped off behind her with his cardboard grip half-open, a faulty latch swinging loose. “ This is Keystone?” he said.

Trent had an uneasy feeling, and it wasn’t indigestion.

Tony had scooted into the overhang’s shadow once again. On account of his nerves, he’d earlier taken too much of a new powder, and now he was foggy. He’d forgotten the details of his role upon train’s arrival. He could remember neither his exit cue nor the whereabouts of his luggage.

An older gentleman stepped off the train with an umbrella hooked on his arm. He straightened his suspenders. He squinted and adjusted his spectacles. He had superior night vision when he wore them, and so it was that he spotted Baz, and in turn, Tony. “Tony Thumbs?” he called.

Trent’s ear perked on the nickname he’d not heard from any other. He turned to see the suspendered man approaching the darkened depot wall.

“What in the name of scratch are you doing here ?” the man said. He stepped within a yard of Tony, who backed away. “Thought you never left Baltimore.”

Tony could only swallow. It didn’t seem possible that an Old Drury patron would step off a train in southern West Virginia.

A seering heat rose from Trent’s middle. It climbed up his chest and into his neck, and though he was unsure of precisely how, he knew then that he had been conned.

The suspendered man kept on. “That monkey still alive?”

Tony backed into the armrest of a long pine bench. His knee gave and he pitched forward, catching himself with a hand. Baz had no recourse but to jump from his shoulder to the platform boards.

“You okay?” the suspendered man asked.

And then Trent was upon them. “Beatrice ain’t on this fucking train or any other!” he shouted, startling those close by. “Who are you?” He didn’t wait for an answer. Tony had barely straightened back up when Trent let go an overhand right. It landed flush on the old man’s mouth and put him down hard.

The war call that came from Baz then was enough to split the eardrum, a scream too high for the human to know. He sprung onto the thigh of Henry Trent and sunk deep his canines there.

The people on the platform were unable to comprehend what they saw.

The suspendered man had taken a knee at Tony’s side, and now he looked up. He saw the animal tear away a strip of Trent’s pant leg and a hank of flesh both. Blood flung from the points of the long yellow teeth.

Trent bared down and grabbed the monkey around the neck before he could bite again. He spun on his heels and flung Baz, and the little body shot forth in a line with considerable speed, and the sound of his head against the train’s sheet-steel side was loud as an anvil strike.

Henry Trent drew his Colt and made for Railroad Avenue. His stride was broken and slowed from the bite. He hollered, again and again, “It’s a setup! Put every man on the office!”

She’d walked with loose neck and turned ankles across the Alhambra’s main card room, winking at Munchy all the way. Two cardplayers took note but returned to their hands.

She lured him off the door in twelve seconds flat.

Goldie could play drunk with the best, and she’d come out of the floozy gate hard, putting her hand to his crotch and whispering in his ear, “I want a man inside me what’s got some beef on his bones.” She led him by the hand to the corner wall.

Now he had her pressed there, hidden behind the coat-hook partition, his breath a pinched wheeze. She shut her eyes against its foul stench.

Abe pulled his hat low. He walked across the card room unnoticed by all but one at the tables. The man was losing interest in losing hands and had begun to wonder at the stillness around him and at the woman who’d led off the fat man. He watched Abe go past. He did not know Abe, but found it strange that one so thin could be so swollen at the front. He watched Abe turn the knob and step inside the office of Mayor Trent without knocking.

Inside, Little Donnie had already opened the big safe doors. He stood open-mouthed before the high clean towers of money, and behind him, the other men did the same.

Without a word, Abe untucked his shirtfront and pulled out the six-stack of four-bushel grain bags. They commenced to filling.

Out in the main room, the curious, losing man stood from the poker table. The one who was shuffling said, “You cashing out?” He received no answer.

The man walked toward Trent’s office. He heard labored breathing from beyond the partition wall. “Hello?” he called.

Munchy quit his groping. He was motionless, his red face buried in the cleavage of the most beautiful woman in the world.

What Goldie had most feared was happening. She lifted her arm from the sweat-soaked back of his jacket and quietly reached for the pocket of the hanging dogskin coat.

The man stood by the bar and listened. He said, “If anybody wants to know, I believe I just seen a man walk unchecked into Mayor Trent’s fortress.”

Munchy knew without a doubt then that he’d been had. He straightened and put his hand to his belt holster. He’d pulled his gun and nearly drawn back the hammer when Goldie got her own pistol free of the fur-lined pocket. She fired twice.

The quiet afterward made everything slow. She hated that he looked her in the eyes when he dropped. To see such a thing up close was too much for Goldie.

Abe recognized the double report of his spur-trigger pistol. “Go!” he hollered, and threw open the door. They cinched their filled grain sacks and went, shoulder-toting the loads swift of foot. They left behind nothing but the locked metal case of a man known only as Phil.

Gun drawn, Abe stepped to the partition. Goldie was flat against the wall. She’d moved only to drop her weapon and put her hands to her mouth, and her face was drained of color. On the floor, Munchy tried to gather air, his wide mouth a useless bellows, his jaw hinging hard like a fresh-caught fish. Abe knew by the sound that both his lungs were collapsed. He told Goldie they had to run and they did.

He knocked down the curious losing man on the way.

Not one other stood from his poker table seat as the safe-robbers ran past in a line. As he went, Jim Fort hollered, “Tell em they shouldn’t a crossed Chicago Phil!”

Rose Cantu had piloted the Chambers to its place at the head of the line. Behind it were the twin Oldsmobile Runabouts, ready for the open road.

When the safe-robbers emerged from the side stage door, they spread into all three cars. They held the fat grain sacks like children on their laps. “Where’s Chesh?” Abe said to Rose, and she only shrugged and mashed the gas.