Chapter One:
It was raining hard that night, and
as I looked out on the streets below, the streetlamps cast an eerie glow over
everything. I watched closely as a battered Nash pulled up. It coughed to a halt.
I took the last drag from my cigarette and crushed it out in the overflowing
ashtray. I saw her get out, look around and dart across the street. I sensed
trouble. I opened the bottom drawer of my desk, the sound of worn Cherry wood
making that unmistakable sliding noise as I tugged open the sticky old drawer,
and pulled the half bottle of scotch from it.
It wasn't my favorite brand, but times had been tough and it was what I
had. An old Colt .45 laid next to the
bottle, with shiny spots where the bluing was worn down to the metal. Then came
the knock on the door.
She came in and I instantly realized my senses had been right. This was trouble
standing before me, shaking off the rain. I offered her a drink, but she said
no, in a sultry, but troubled voice.
Her voice sounded like a hairbrush stuck in the drain pipes of my
eighth-floor walkup. She said her name was Kissmy Caboose, and her sons
Trainfinder22 and Terry_C had been missing for weeks. My little voice kept
telling me there was more to this than meets the eye......
Chapter Two:
.....As I lit another cigarette, she began her story. She and her two sons had
moved to LA from the midwest following the death of her first husband in
Missouri. He had been tragically crushed to death by a pile of restraining
orders from various railroads. She had worked as a dancer in a gentleman's club
until she met her new husband Vic, a leading architect with rumored attachments
to the notorious Borracho Hill mob. That alone was reason enough to stay as far
away from this case as I could. Her sons had been working with Vic on a
construction project in Santa Monica, some crazy road project that had some
powerful support from back east. Then they disappeared. I asked if she had been
to the police, but she said they were no help. I told her I wasn't interested,
I had enough problems of my own right now. Ms. Caboose said she'd double my
rate, and though I could have used the money, I needed the trouble even less.
She left as quickly and quietly as she arrived; the sound of her old Nash
drowned out by the rain. As I sat there in the dark, I realized I needed a cup
of joe. So I grabbed my trusty .45 from the desk drawer, and locked up for the
night. The rain picked up as I stepped out into the street... raining cats and Doggys
so to speak, but the Depot Coffee Shop and Diner was only a couple of blocks
away, on the other side of the tracks.
After stopping, looking and listening, I crossed the tracks and walked in to
the diner. Mookie was behind the counter as usual talking to her brother Carl.
She gave me a wave as I entered and shook off the night. As I sat down to the
cup of mud Mookie poured me, two of LA's finest sat down on either side of me.
Detective Sergeants LC and MC. Two old school types that had gotten there the
hard way. LC crushed a butt in the ashtray and said, "We need to
talk."
Chapter 3:
It was still raining as we stepped outside the diner. An old Alco stood idling
on the nearby tracks. Randy and Ed, on the night trick, had stopped to fill up
a thermos and grab a quick bite. Their night was halfway done, little did I
know that mine was just beginning.
As we went around the corner, MC suddenly grabbed my arm and gave me a quick
shot to the stomach. As I fell to my knees, LC grabbed my piece from my jacket
and pointed it at me. He stood me back up. “Possession of a concealed firearm,
hmmm.”
“I got a permit for that,” I gasped.
“Cinderdick, you’re out of your league here,” LC snarled. “Your client is going
to get you in something you can’t get out of.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said. MC responded with another
shot to the stomach.
LC stood me up against the wall. “ A friendly piece of advice here. Those boys
are nothing but trouble…they’ve got a past you don’t want any part of…..theft of
service, trespassing, reckless endangerment, bandwidth abuse……and the list goes
on.”
“What’s it to you then?” I asked, anticipating another hit from MC, but LC
waved him off.
“Mr VSmith is a good friend of Mayor Bergstrom and Chief Yuhas, how he got messed
up with that Kissmy Caboose broad ain’t my affair but it ain’t gonna be any of
yours either. I don’t think we need to discuss it any further. Saavy?”
“Yeah,” I said.
LC removed the clip from my gun, jacked the slide and handed it back to me. As
they walked away, he turned and said, “ Cinderdick, my advice to you is to drop
this broad and go back to peeping in windows and looking for lost dogs. Let
this go. You don’t want the trouble.” He turned to MC and said, “Let’s get
outta here.”
As they walked to the their car, I stood in the rain and trying to decide what
to do. My inner voice said to let it go, but I just couldn’t.
Randy and Ed came out of the diner, headed back to their switcher, collars
flipped up against the rain.
“You okay buddy?” Randy asked.
“Yeah, I’m fine. Just fine.”
Chapter 4..........
I needed an drink, and some information. The rain refused to let up as I walked
a couple of blocks to a bar where I knew I could get both.
Rick's was the place to go if you didn't want to be seen. Funny he owned a bar,
but didn't touch the stuff. Something in his past, but then again, we all have
a past. As I walked in, Andrew was playing a Cole Porter tune on the piano and
Rick was behind the bar reading the paper. Andrew was a deaf, dumb and blind
kid, but he sure could play a mean piano. He was Canadian, but had run off and
joined every dammed fool adventure that came along, until he got hurt setting
landmines in the Russo-Finnish War in '39.
"CInder" Rick called over, "What can I get you?"
"The usual." I replied.
He brought over the scotch and glass.
"What can you tell me about Vic Smith and a broad named
Kissmy Caboose?" I asked.
"That you don't want anything to do with either." He replied.
"VIc is a powerful man, one of the top Doggys in LA. He rubs elbows with
Chief Yuhas, Mayor Bergstrom and Councilwoman Kube. Nothing gets done in this
town without his hand in it. I heard he was in with the Borracho Hill boys.
Back in Prohibition, he was running booze for them up from Tiajuana in boxes of
Saltillo tiles using that little narrow gauge railroad he owns. Right around
when the Mutt was......... He's kept out of the public eye the past few years.
I hear he is into big on the level projects, but I can tell you he's still in
with the Borracho Boys."
"Like what?" I asked, as took a long drag off a Lucky Strike and
sipped my scotch.
"He's backing Walt Disney in some plan to build a big park down in
Anaheim, complete with a castle and railroad, and he's involved in the freeway
project to Santa Monica."
"Hmmm... interesting... tell me
about the lady." I said.
"She's no lady, that's for sure." Rick replied. "I know she came
with her boys from Missouri after her first husband, some anti-railroad kook
died. She worked at that joint down by the Union Station.... the Goat I think
it's called… yeah the Green Goat. You know, the place owned by that Zardoz guy
from Chicago. Strange guy, always stays
behind a curtain. Anyway, she danced there for awhile using the name Anna Nicole,
until she shacked up with Smith"
"That's a pair...the widow stripper and the millionaire architect.... He
could have any woman in LA... why her?" I asked.
"Smith has two vices as far as I know," Rick replied. "Sleazy
women and narrow gauge railroads. He looks on both as projects... I guess she's
his My Fair Lady. He took her and the boys in, cleaned 'em up and set ‘em
straight. Even got the boys working for him."
"Thanks Rick." I finished my drink and tossed some money on the bar.
I put on my coat and stepped back into the rain. I needed to think. Smith, Kissmy
Caboose, the Borracho's, Disney and the Mutt. How did this all tie
together....well it is a small world...after all.
Chapter 5..........
As I drove up to the Smith place in the hills above the city, I started to
think about my old partner, Walt, the Locomutt. He and I had been partners back
in the Post Office before the war. We worked our way up together from walking
mail routes to Postal Inspector. We cracked a lot of cases together back in those
days and spent a lot of hours in Railway Post Offices, which is how he got his
nickname. We had been working a lead, possibly linking the Borracho crime
family to a smuggling racket, using the US Mail to send booze and kitty porn up
from Mexico. One day, Walt called me and said he had a lead in La Habra, and to
meet him there. He didn’t make it. His car was T-boned by a mayonnaise tanker.
The driver was never found, but that smell, hot mayonnaise in the sun….I
haven’t been able to eat it since. I hit the bottle pretty heavy after that,
and ended up losing my post office shield. I lost touch with his wife, but
heard she moved to an Indian reservation in Arizona or New Mexico and started a
casino or something. It seemed like a lifetime ago.
The Smith place at 22 Twain was a palace more than a house. Swimming pool,
tennis courts and a lawn that was bigger than some eastern states. He sure
liked his perks and his privacy too. A hired thug met me as I walked up the
driveway. He must have been 6’ 8” or so.
“May I help you?” He asked gruffly, in a voice that suggested he hardly meant
it.
“I’m here to see Kissmy Caboose. I believe she’s expecting me.” I replied as I
tried to slip by. He grabbed the back of my jacket and started to pull me back.
“Listen buddy,” he started, but was cut off by a man’s voice from the side of
the house.
“Tree! Let him go!” The man said. I hadn’t seen him before, but in an instant I
knew it was Smith. He was a handsome man, dressed in a silk smoking jacket and
perfectly pressed pants, holding a tall gin and tonic in one hand and a cigar
in the other. Looking every bit the playboy millionaire. “Please allow me to
apologize for Tree. He’s a bit protective. Come, let’s have a drink.”
The Tree let me go, but with a look that told me to mind myself or the next
encounter wouldn’t be so friendly. I straightened my jacket as Smith led me
around the side of the house and on to a large patio. There was a slight breeze
and the fragrant smell of flowers filled the air.
“What can I offer you Mr. Cinderdick?” he asked. “A bit early for scotch, Gin
or a Cuba Libre perhaps?”
“Nothing, thank you.” I replied, though my body was telling me otherwise.
“I’m sorry that my wife has brought you out here for nothing,” He said. “I just
spoke with the boys this morning and they are fine. They have been doing some
business for me in South America and have been out of contact with their mother
for a while. Communications sometimes are not very reliable down there you
know.” He added.
“What kind of business, if I may?” I asked, my curiosity piqued.
“Recycling…Mr. Cinderdick, the wave of the future!” Smith exclaimed. The
puzzled look I gave him confirmed my lack of understanding. “Okay let me put it
this way. LA is the fastest growing area in the US. Soon with the Santa Monica
Freeway, people will be flocking here to live in the suburbs and drive to work
in minutes on a modern fast highway. Those people will be generating garbage
faster than we can haul it away …and before long LA’s garbage will be going to
San Diego. But if we can reuse it… the steel, the aluminum, even the
plastics….think of it, Mr. Cinderdick!”
Thinking about it was starting to make my head hurt. “So Trainfinder and his
brother are collecting cans?” I asked.
“Yes, bags of them and taking them to South America, where a company is melting
them down. But I see the concept seems a bit foreign to you. Anyway, I must
apologize for my wife’s foolishness, but sometimes she get a bit excited about
things and flies off the handle. I can assure that the boys are alive and well
and doing just fine” He handed me a check…..five hundred dollars. “I hope this
covers your troubles and expenses, and I again apologize for the
misunderstanding. Now if you will excuse me, I have a meeting to attend to shortly.
Tree will show you to your car. Good day, Mr. Cinderdick.”
I walked back to the car with Tree following closely behind. He said nothing,
but he didn’t have to….his eyes were burning holes in my back. Recycling...he
was right what a bunch of garbage. That's was about the lamest story I'd ever
heard. But it was also all I was going to get.
As I drove away from 22 Twain, I reached in the glove compartment to grab my
pack of Lucky’s. There was a note tucked in the foil.
“MEET ME AT UNION STATION TONIGHT AT 8. KISS”
Chapter six……….
I had a few hours to kill before I had to meet Kissmy Caboose at Union Station.
More than anything else, I needed to sort my thoughts, so I headed back to the
cheap rat trap apartment that served as home. Home… this place and I had fewer
good ties than a Guilford mainline. I laid down for awhile and tried to sleep,
but the event of the past day were swirling in my head like scenes from a bad
movie… it was all a jumble…adding up like Enron accounting. So I got up, lit a
Lucky and looked out the window…. and there they were. Detective Sergeants LC
and MC sitting in a unmarked standard issue police sedan across the street.
Nothing blends into a neighborhood more than two suits sitting in a black car
with a radio antenna on the roof, drinking coffee in the afternoon. I needed
this like I needed more calls asking me if I’m happy with my long distance
carrier.
I backed away from the window and crushed out my cigarette. I quickly dug
through the pile of clothes on the couch in corner and surprisingly found two
things… a semi-clean shirt to wear, and a passed out Canadian guy with a
nametag that said Kevin on it. If I didn’t know better, I’d say it kind of
smelled like he had recently tangled with a skunk. I got dressed and left a
note for Kevin to lock up on his way out. Like I said, these apartments are
cheap.
I headed down the fire escape at the back of the building. The alley was clear
and I gave these guys the slip fast. I fired up the car and took a few turns to
make sure I wasn’t being followed, then headed towards Union Station. …off like
a prom dress with Velcro straps. I didn't get far before I stopped as Ed and
Randy’s old Alco passed in the street in front of me. We exchanged a friendly
wave as they pushed four more of those white FEMA boxcars into a warehouse. One
of these nights at the diner I'm going to have to ask them about how they take
care of those cars. I swear those flanges rubbing on the sides of the rails
sound like muffled screams.
I got to Union Station a little after seven. I wanted to case the place to see
if I was being set up, but everything appeared to be on the up and up. Seems
like fewer and fewer folks are traveling by rails these days. I sure do like
flying those TWA Super Connies but nothing beats the train for comfort. The
City of Los Angeles was getting ready to pull out, so there was a furious
bustle of activity as the porters were loading the last bags and passengers
into the right cars. The conductor called “all aboard” one last time, and as
the train started to move, he gracefully stepped aboard and leaned out the
door.
From behind me, I heard a familiar voice “You look like you wish you were on
that train.”
I turned to face her….”Lady, I’m probably going to wish I was”
Chapter Seven……..
“Have you eaten?” Kissmy asked, in a muted, sultry voice.
“I know a place we can go.” I replied.
We walked out of Union Station and into the night. Last night’s rain made the
air thick and heavy. The moisture in the air created little halos around the
street lamps that reminded me of that weird light Locomutt and I saw while
working the RPO that night near Roswell. My mind drifted back to a better time,
when Walt and I were hot on the trail of some illegal mass mailers trying to
short the bulk rate….Then it started again....Walt lying there........that
acrid smell of hot mayonnaise in the sun.........and that strange Belgian guy
dipping his french fries in it......
“I’ll drive.” She said bringing me back to the here and now. “My car’s just
around the corner.”
We got in her old Nash and started the engine. It coughed and sputtered like a
forty-something year old man trying to keep up with a girl’s soccer team at
practice. “I’d think with all your dough, your husband would give you something
a little better to drive.” I offered up, as a seat cushion spring was trying to
begin an un-natural relationship with me.
“Vic is down in Beverly Hills tonight at dinner with Bing Crosby and Beverly
Sills. He took the Lincoln, so that left me with the Nash. I really don’t mind
too much, I think the Lincoln’s an older person’s car. Don’t you? I still like
to think I’m young.” She replied as we drove off.
We drove in silence. The way she drove, I understood why Vic didn't get her a
new car. She certainly didn't need the distraction of conversation. She drove
with one hand on her ear. I asked her why and she said Vic had told her that
one day we'd all have phones in our cars, so she needed to start practicing to
drive that way now. Phones in cars... that'll be the day...just like Smith and
his what did he call it...recycling.....thing.
As we headed towards Long Beach, the flames from the refinery stacks danced
across the horizon, like a line of Irish dancers on a stage, the humidity accenting the eerie glow that
covered the area. A black zebra striped Santa Fe Geep was working the
refineries as we drove past, the tank cars forming a giant snake. Like a giant
anaconda silently moving towards some unsuspecting prey, the train moved slowly
into the loading area.
“Right here.” I said pointing to a little restaurant a few blocks from the
water.
“What’s this place?” She asked pulling the car into the half empty lot.
“Nora’s,” I replied. “It’s no Brown Derby, but it beats a sharp stick in the
eye. And besides, I think we could a little privacy”
What a pair I thought to myself.... a broken down ex-postal inspector turned
private eye and the widow of a former forum foamer flamer turned stripper
turned millionaire socialite ....It just doesn't get any stranger than this...
but I've been wrong before...
Chapter Eight……..
“You’ve gotta lotta nerve coming here!” Nora spat at me as we walked in.
“It’s not what you think… she’s a client.” I gave her firmly, then feigning a
more pleasant tone, “Now may I have the booth in the back corner” then a pause
”…please”
Nora grabbed two menus and led us to the back corner booth. The light was low,
and soft music was playing in the background. The back booth allowed me to see
the front door and anyone that might approach. Nora placed the menus on the
table and asked if we wanted a drink. I went for a martini, extra dry, Kissmy
ordered a Manhattan.
“Old girlfriend?” Kissmy asked.
“Ex-wife.” I replied. “We shacked up when I was working the RPOs, before I got
my postal inspector shield. We were young and the railroad life was hard, she
tried to hang on as long as she could, but eventually she had to let go. She’s
young. Too young to give up. She’ll find the strength and give it another go
again in time. Now let’s talk about you. I don’t want to take this case, and
apparently I’m not the only one. Your husband’s got friends…. powerful friends
that want me to stay away from you and this case. So you need to come clean and
tell me why I need to help you. When I spoke with your husband this morning he
said he’d just spoken to your boys...they were in South America working for him
on some tin can project.”
“He’s lying.” She replied as Nora arrived with our drinks. She paused for a
minute while we ordered our meal. Nora’s demeanor as she took our order
reminded me of Sister Mary Theresa back in school, listening to the latest
no-homework excuse. Once she left, Kissmy continued. “It’s all a lie.”
“I thought that recycling story was garbage,” I replied.
“No, that part is true. He really is trying to do something like that. I don’t
understand it but he has the boys out collecting cans. But it’s not in South
America. I think it’s in Mexico down by someplace called Enchilada. It’s where
his little railroad used to go. The Borracho or something. It was a tiny little
train. Terry_C and Trainfinder would take truckloads of cans down there. They
were even talking about rebuilding the train line, over some old bike trail.
South America...no....I haven't heard from them in three weeks or so and that's
just not like them. At a minimum they pop in once a week, babbling about
politics and trains and such”
"What do you mean?" I asked savoring my martini.
"I don't know. His eminence this, domain that, hobos becoming kings,
manifestos....nonsense like that."
“And the part about Mexico, you mean Ensenada?” I asked as Nora arrived with
our meals.
“The surfboard place?” Nora chimed in. “That’s Encinitas.”
“No the place in Mexico, south of Rosarito,” Kissmy responded.
“ENSENADA,” I proclaimed.
“Whatever.” Kissmy said as she started to eat.
Nora leaned over and whispered in my ear. “Did you hit a skunk?” Then left with
a self-satisfied grin on her face.
I watched as Kissmy ate. She attacked her steak like a hobo on fresh road kill.
I grabbed my fork and knife as started to dig in myself…but stopped. My sirloin
had a thin layer of ……Mayonnaise on it….
“NOOOORRRRA!”
Chapter Nine……
We finished dinner without talking too much more. Nora came back to the table a
graciously wiped the mayonnaise off my steak with her apron. We said our good
byes and I paid the bill. Once we were headed back to Union Station, I decided
to tempt fate and have her talk while driving.
“So tell me about Vic’s association with the Borracho family. Rumor has it he’s
got ties with them or at least used to. “
“I really don’t know what you mean. The Borracho, that was the little railroad
he had.” She replied. But her expression betrayed her.
“If you want me to help you , you gotta level with me, sister. You know what I
mean, the mob, the Borracho Boys or whatever they’re called this chapter. I
know he used to run booze up from Tijuana, using his trains. Folks like that
don’t just shake hands and walk away when it’s done. They’re like Pandrol
clips, they’ll give a little but won’t let loose. What’s the deal?”
Silence. She continued a little further, but the pressure was getting to her.
She pulled over to the side of the road, bringing the Nash to a stop on the
muddy gravel. The Santa Fe Geep we saw earlier passed by with a little GE 44
tonner in tow. It was dark, but it looked like the GE’s engine might have
caught fire earlier.
She was sobbing now and biting her lip. “Vic was laundering money for them.
They needed someone like him to make the money clean, through investments and
stuff. The freeway, the amusement park, the can stuff. I know he had my sons
involved with it too…and that Mr. Cinderdick is why I want you to get to the
bottom of this.” She stopped for a moment and cried some more. The light from
the refineries reflected off her tears like little mars lights. “They would
meet at the Green Goat by the station. That’s how I met Vic in the first place.
One thing’s for sure, they’ll kill us both if they find out we know. ”
I gave her my handkerchief and told her to clean herself up. I began to rub my
brow, then it occurred to me…….my shirt really did smell like skunk. When she
was done, we sat there for a little while and I tried to collect my thoughts,
but she kept sniffling and sobbing and I didn’t mean to be callous but it was
starting to get to me. “I thought you were done crying?” I asked.
“I am." she replied.
“Then stop sniffling.”
“It’s not me. The train crew over there is doing brake checks.”
“Oh......Sorry.”
We drove back in silence. Which was good. She pulled up to where I had parked
my car and we got out. “So are you going to find my sons Mr. Cinderdick?” she
asked.
“I going to try” I replied. “I thin…….”
“Cinderdick! I warned you to steer clear of this!” I recognized the
voice….Detective Sergeant LC. He and his partner MC stepped out of the shadows.
“I warned you, but you just wouldn’t listen.”
MC stepped past me and grabbed Kissmy by the arm, raising her sleeve in doing
so just enough to expose a red heart tattoo with “mom” on it. “Kissmy Caboose,
you are under arrest for the murder of Victor Smith. Take her away!”
Two uniforms appeared out of no where and stuffed her in to a squad car. “Call Oliver
Wann… He’s my attorney!” she said just before they closed the door. Tears were
running down her face as they drove off.
“I suppose you can account for your whereabouts today, Cinderdick?” LC asked
accusingly.
“Yeah… got witnesses too.” I shot back, thinking to myself… except one’s dead,
one’s going to jail and one may or may not be in a coma on my couch.
“I warned you Cinderdick. I warned you. I advise you to stay in town in case we
got some questions to ask you.”
“Yeah… you warned me all right.” But I had no intention of staying in town… or
in the country. I think it might be time for a little trip south of the border.
Chapter 10…….
Mexico. I hadn’t been to Tijuana in years… not since Walt’s bachelor party. The
first southbound San Diegan wouldn’t be until the morning, which was good,
because I had some things to take care of. So I headed back to the office to
get in touch with Kissmy's attorney. When I got there, the door had been kicked
in and the office ransacked. This always happens to me whenever a case starts
with a client arriving at night in the rain. If I recall, that’s one of the
main reasons I chose to set up shop in LA.
I picked the phone up off the floor and got the operator on the line to get the
number…Mikado exchange, number 482, but she said but she’d connect me this
time. Oliver Bernard Wann, Esq’s answering service picked up. I told them it
was urgent and they said they’d get him the message pronto. As I left the
office, I put a note on the super’s door asking him to have the door
fixed…..just add it to the rent.
I went back to the apartment, expecting to see the same there. But to my
surprise the door was still locked….and the Canadian guy was still there. This
time I checked for a pulse. Still alive. I gathered up my laundry, tossed it in
a bag and went down to Naut Mi’s All Night Laundry and Acupuncture Clinic. I
walked in and dropped the bag on the counter. The little oriental guy put down
what he was reading, looked up at me and said “I do not understand this… newsstand
on corner get Trains magazine before I do and I have two lear subscription!” ...I
just shrugged my shoulders.
“You Naut Mi?” I asked.
“Of course, onry you can be you and onry me can be me” Then he started laughing
hysterically.
“Great,” I said. “I need laundry done and the only place open in LA is run by a
train loving Chinese comedian.”
“Not Chinese,” he said composing himself. “Talbanese…BIG difference.”
“Look, can I pick this up in a couple of hours?” I asked, my frustration
beginning to show.
“You come back ... two hour.”
I left the laundry and headed down to Central Booking downtown. I needed to see
what was going on with my client before I left. When I arrived, it was busy... Drunks,
hookers, sailors on leave, rogue sycophants and a hobo or two…the usual. I
asked the Sergeant at the desk where Kissmy Caboose was being held. He looked
at his log, then told me she was in the holding tank on the women’s side. I
wouldn’t be able to talk to her alone, but at least I could see her. She smiled
and waved when she saw me. One of the guards came up and a yelled “Caboose, you
got a phone call!” Kissmy got up and followed the guard out to the hallway and
over to the phone on the wall. She held her hand over the phone, so I couldn’t
tell what she was saying or who she was saying it to. I was hoping that it was
Wann. It was, just before hanging up the phone, I could hear her say “I’ll see
you in an hour. Help me O. B. Wann, you’re my only hope.” As she was led back
in she tapped the top of her wrist and then held up one finger. I nodded..1
hour. I waved goodbye to her and headed out. I had a train to catch.
I was almost out of the lockup, when I heard “Cinderdick!” from behind. This
particular voice was becoming way too familiar.
“Detective Sergeant, how are you? Beat anyone I know up tonight?” I asked
sarcastically.
“Not yet, but I still have half a shift to go.” LC retorted. “Here looking for
new clients?”
“Don’t quit your day job LC. Okay what’s the scoop on Vic Smith?” I asked.
“Your client whacked him on the back of the head and tied him to the rails of
his 1” scale garden railroad and repeatedly ran him over until he looked like
one of Mookie specials down at the diner”
“You think she did that?” I asked.
“I think she had 10 million reasons in cash alone, not to mention quite a bit
of choice real estate in Compton. Maybe she had some help. By the way, where
were you today? I understand you paid the deceased gentleman a visit this
morning” LC replied.
“He had all of his original parts when I left him. Ask his trusty bodyguard
Tree. The rest of the day I was with my Canadian friend…but you should already
know that, since you were tailing me.”
“That, buddy is the only reason why you’re not in there with her right now.”
As I turned to leave, LC added, “Tree’s gone. We can’t find him. Looks like
your client’s out of friends”
On the way back to the apartment, I stopped to pickup my laundry. “Light on
time, Mistle Cindeldick. Just rike Pennservania Lailroad. Standard Raundry of
the Wold.”
I have no idea what he said.
Chapter 11……..
The San Diegan left right on time. It was a beautiful morning along Santa Fe’s
coast line. As we passed through Camp Pendelton, I watched the Marines
practicing their trade. Must have been some exercise going down, as they had
ships and tanks everywhere. After the stop in Oceanside, the train seemed
almost empty. The horse racing season had just started, and many of the
passengers were headed to Del Mar to play the ponies. We pulled in to the Santa
Fe station downtown. Across the bay I could see North Island Naval Air Station,
with several carriers at the piers.
Since I had arrived thirty years too early to take the trolley, it looked like
a bus trip down to Tijuana and on from there or maybe a boat down to Rosarito.
One of the porters directed me to a stand just outside the station. He told me
to check there first, they specialized in travel to Mexico.
“Jaimeshhferrocarrilesyaeroplanos,” the sign said. “First Class Travel
Accomodations to Tijuana and beyond”. The guy behind the counter was feeding
bits of bean burrito to his dog……like’s to live dangerously I thought to
myself. “May I help you senor?” he asked.
“I need to get down to Ensenada. Can you help me out?” I asked.
“Si, senor. You can take the bus to Tijuana, then down to Rosarito and
Ensenada, or there’s a boat captain I know who can take you straight down to
Ensenada.” He replied.
“Any trains?” I asked.
“Si, but you have to go through San Ysidro and then down…It could take a day or
two. If the Borracho line was still running it would be much shorter…and the
drinks were free too. The bus will take most of the day. The boat would be
faster. The captain and first mate are top notch. Normally they only do tours
but today they are taking a rich couple, a movie star and a couple of others to
Ensenada for the day. It will be leaving in three hours.
“I’ll take the boat.” I said.
I had a few hours to burn before we left. The boat was leaving from the ferry
landing right across from the station, so I didn’t have far to go anyway. So I
grabbed a sandwich and cup of coffee, and sat down with the paper. Page two had
a nice byline about Vic Smith’s untimely demise. He had been a popular guy in
San Diego, particularly with the sailors. His little railroad would run down to
Tijuana serving free drinks to the passengers…and probably some of the crew
members too given their safety record.
Three men approached where I was sitting. The one in the middle looked like
he’d had a rough night. “Cinderdick, I thought that was you..” One of them
called. It was a bail bondsman I knew from LA, Joe Koh.
“Hey, Joe. What brings you down here?,” I asked.
“ Me an’ Matt… have you met my son Matt?
Matt this is Cinderdick.” We shook hands. “Me an’ Matt had to run down
to Tijuana to pick this guy up. Tried to skip on us. Finally found him face
down in a cathouse. We’re headed back on the next train. You workin’ or
playin?”
“Working. A missing persons… you know the drill. Care to sit down, have a cup
of joe?
“Thanks, but we’re gonna be boarding here in a minute and we want to make sure
we get a good seat. Might be awhile here before our friend sees daylight
again.” Joe said.
Matt asked eyeing my plate, “ Mind if I have one of your fries?”
“Help yourself son” I said.
As Matt leaned over to grab one, the jumper saw an opportunity and made a break
for it, knocking over tables, chairs and customers in the process.
“Tiroch! Get Him Matt!” yelled Joe as
they took off after him. Then he turned and said “Cinderdick… stay safe!” as he
ran out the door.
Tiroch didn’t get real far. He got about four steps past the curb before he
became a hood ornament on one of those new GM busses that San Diego bought to
replace the trolleys. Real shame…he would have made it ten more feet five years
ago. Oh well. It was about time to head to the pier.
Ensenada was waiting for me.
Chapter 12……..
The
boat ride to Ensenada was uneventful. The passengers pretty much all
kept to themselves. There was a rich older couple and another lady
that had airs about her. She seemed vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t
place it. The other passenger was a cutie. A real down
home, girl next door type from the mid-west. We arrived in Ensenada
and tied up at the pier. The passengers all got off to do some
sightseeing in town, what little of it there was. As I walked down
the pier, a man in his late thirties probably came down the pier towards the
boat. The captain called him “professor” or something. He
must have been going to make the return trip to San Dog with
them. Professor….there didn’t seem to be a whole lot to teach or
learn in this sleepy little town. In my experience, the best place
I’ve found to learn anything was a bar, so I ducked into a local
cantina, Murphy’s Irish Pub.
Murphy’s was small and dark. A few customers sat at the tables but
the bar itself was empty. As I sat down, Murphy I presume... the
only guy in the bar with red hair came over. “What’ll it be?” he
asked.
“Scotch,” I replied.
“Only Irish whiskey here.” He said.
“Okay, Irish whiskey then.” As he poured I looked at the
photos the adorned the bar. Scenes from old Ireland, group photos of
men with guns and flags and one picture of a smiling blue locomotive.
“So how does an Irish guy named Murphy end up in this sleepy little town?” I
asked, taking a sip.
“My father came here in ’21. He was caught on the wrong side of the
line and the wrong side of the law. The Brits put a fairly hefty
price on his head, so he decided it was time to move to warmer climes before he
lost his.” Murphy replied. “Mexico used to be quite the haven for
lost revolutionary souls back then.”
“So what exactly did he do to earn the bounty on him?” I asked as I lit a Lucky. My
curiosity peaked.
“Well, he and his brother blew up a railway roundhouse, destroying a little
tank engine and two troublesome trucks. Anyway, my mother is a
Mexican national, so this is my home now. Call me Ed by the
way. So what brings you down here? You don’t seem to be
the typical tourist or fisherman we normally get.”
“I’m looking for a couple of fellas that might have been through here, Terry_C
and Trainfinder22. You heard of the them?” I asked, taking another
drag.
“Oh yeah,” He replied. “Those two boys are nothing but
trouble. I’ve had to toss them outta here time and
again. They’re not welcome here anymore.” Apparently this
subject put the ire in his Irish.
“Would you know where they stay around here?”
“No… not here. They only stop here in passing. They go
out to the old tannery about thirty miles to the east. The one that
the old Borracho line used to serve.” Then he added, “Come to think
of it, I haven’t seen them in a few weeks.”
“Is there a way I can get out there?” I asked, sensing a challenge coming
on.
“My brother-in-law over there is the town’s cab driver.” He said pointing to a
boy who couldn’t have been over 19. “Adriano, aqui,
aqui.” He said motioning to the boy.
‘He’s your brother-in-law?” I asked surprised. “He’s awful young
looking.”
“He’s a good kid. Married my wife’s baby sister a few months ago.
She had a flat tire, he helped her fix it and it went from
there. That boy can fix anything with duct tape.” The boy
walked over to the bar. “Adriano, can you take Senor...”
“Cinderdick”
“Can you take senor Cinderdick out to the old tannery?”
“Si… no problemo.”
I paid Ed and thanked him for the information. Adriano and I walked
out into the street where his truck was parked. A beat up old Dodge
power wagon, that had apparently at one
time been a Lehigh Valley Railroad work truck. As I looked out to
the water I could see the boat I came in on headed out to sea. The
wind had picked up and clouds were rolling in, really getting rough. The
tiny ship was really getting tossed. Looks like they were in for a
rough ride back.
As I tossed my bag in the bag of the truck, Adriano said, “I can take you
eenywhere in Adriano’s speedster.”
And that’s just what I was afraid of….
Chapter 13………..
Adriano and I left Ensenada and headed east. The road was unpaved and full of
holes and the going pretty rough. Pretty rough… I had no idea a man’s kidneys
had so much room to move inside. I have a pretty good idea now what a martini
feels like as it’s shaken. But at least I knew I was on the right road. Empty
cans and bottles littered the roadside…Terry and TF had been this way.
We arrived at the old tannery and pulled into the middle of a big dirt lot.
Large piles of cans and bottles, apparently sorted by type and color stood out
in the sun. The tannery buildings themselves were old, weather beaten wood and
metal warehouse type buildings that appeared to have been abandoned for some
time. I told Adriano to stay with the truck and keep his eyes out for trouble.
I walked around, and there had been signs of recent activity. Tire tracks and
footprints went all over. As I approached one of the warehouses I noticed
something strange. The tops of the rails on the railroad tracks were shiny from
recent use and were much too wide to be a little narrow gauge railway…these
were standard gauge tracks. I followed the tracks to the largest of the
building where they went inside. There were no windows on the doors that
enclosed the tracks, so I walked around trying all the doors, until I found one
that wasn’t locked. Once inside I couldn’t believe what I saw. All sorts of
heavy machinery, overhead cranes and tools. On one track stood the strangest
locomotive I had seen. It was a diesel, but not like the little Geeps or sleek
E units that hauled the San Diegan. This was bigger and sat on six axles. It
was boxy and a low nose at the front. It was painted white and red with a
….Russian Star on it…I found a table with a some blue prints on
it….Electromotive Division SD/SDL-39….Soviet Duty 3900 Horsepower Six Axle
Locomotive….What the heck I thought …that’s the equivalent of three or four
Geeps.
At the other end of the building stood a huge steam locomotive. One of those
big Norfolk and Western types with a lot of drivers. It had no smokestack and a
ton of extra pipes. There was an enormous metal box with “AEC” painted on it
and large metal pipes running from it to the locomotive. Sitting next to it was
one of those white FEMA box cars I had seen in LA.
Suddenly, I heard voices at the other end of the building. I quietly skirted
along the edges, keeping low and out of sight, making my way to where I
entered. I didn’t know what was going on here, but there was much more to it
that recycling. As I got closer to the door, it became apparent that my escape
route was blocked. I ducked down behind some boxes and waited.
Two men slowly walked by and spoke in what sounded like Australian accents.
“That’s a shame about Mr. Smith.” One said
“I know what you mean,” said the other. “But you know Koz, Mr. Harrier must
have had his reasons. Hey give me a hand with this.”
I tried to get a better look at what was going on, but I didn’t see the battery
powered monkey with the brass cymbals on the top of the box, until it was too
late. It sprung to life and began noisily clapping like a two year old who’s
discovered a cabinet of pots and pans.
“Hey. What the bloody hell is going on?” Yelled the one called Koz. He saw me
make for the door and shouted, “Stop him Peter!”
I got out the door, but not real far. Adriano was standing in front of me
pointing a tommy gun. “That’s far enough Mr. Cinderdick.” He said in perfect
English.
There was a sharp pain at the back of my head.
And the lights went out.
Chapter 14………
I awoke in a hospital room. The room was a pale yellow, like a sun faded CNW
locomotive. My head was throbbing and I couldn’t seem to move my arms. I could
hear voices outside the room. The door opened and two men in white doctors
coats stepped in and grabbed the chart from the end of my bed.
“I appreciate you coming all this way Dr. Hemphill.” One of the men said to the
other.
“So what is the history on this guy?” Dr. Hemphill asked.
“He was found in a boxcar, unconscious. Suffering from mild hypothermia and
carbon monoxide poisoning from a small fire of Styrofoam cups he apparently set
to keep warm. He’s been in and out of consciousness, but hasn’t been lucid.
He’s still listed as a John Doe, but we’ve been able to establish several
personalities that seem to come and go. He has called himself Trainfinder,
Terry, Kissmycaboose and cinderdick. Probably a few others too, but those are
the documented ones. He has not been responding to the normal clinical
medications, and continues in periods of paranoia and delusional ravings…….”
The End.