what happened, then?”
“That I can’t say.” He stood and pointed at the bottle. “Was that Pezullo’s?”
Kip nodded reluctantly. “He always had some squirreled away somewhere. I didn’t want to say anything before, but I guess it can’t hurt Joe now. He looked at Rule G as sort of … voluntary.”
“Rule G?” Old Red asked.
It was El Numero Uno who offered the answer.
“The railroad’s regulation against drinking on the job. Get caught breaking it, and you’re blacklisted for life.” The tramp lowered his
head, as if contemplating the tragedy that is man. “Barbaric. Fortunately, in my line of ‘work,’ drinking on the job is practically mandatory.”
My brother cocked an eyebrow at him. “ Were you drunk when Pezullo went through the door?”
“Sadly, no. I was sober for every ghastly second of it.”
“So did you see anything that might tell us what happened to the man?”
“No. Suddenly, he was just … there. Or at least part of him was.” It was hard to tell, what with the rocking of the train and the ropes wrapped around El Numero Uno, but it looked like a shudder passed through the ’bo’s body. “There was no warning. Not even a scream.”
“‘Not even a scream’ … ,” Old Red repeated slowly, as if trying to wrap his tongue around some strange foreign lingo.
“Joe was probably too pie-eyed to know what was happenin’ to him,” Kip said, carrying his tray of merchandise to a large strongbox next to the desk. He unlocked the chest and stashed his wares inside. “Well … I’d better turn in. I have to be up early to start hawkin’ the mornin’ papers.” He tipped his cap to me and Old Red as he headed for the door. “Night, gents.”
We offered our own good-nights—even El Numero Uno—as Kip left the car.
“Tough on the kid, losin’ a pal like that,” I said.
Gustav walked over to the coffins.
“Death’s always tough on somebody.” He knelt and stroked the top of one casket, then the other. “Funny … it’s ‘the great equalizer,’ the preachers say. Yet even now I can tell rich from poor.” He gave the darker of the two coffins a rap with his knuckles. “Brass fittin’s on mahogany for the gentleman.” He tapped the other coffin, and the wood gave off a surprisingly low thunk . “Rope handles on pine for the pauper.”
He eased himself onto the sturdier of the two coffins, using it like a bench just as Lockhart had. Any other time, I might’ve reminded him to show respect for the dead. But my brother was so pale gray and
hollow-eyed, a casket actually seemed like a pretty natural place for him to rest himself.
“You know, it’s a wonder you ain’t ended up like our friends here,” he said to our prisoner. “I mean, good God—ridin’ under train cars. That ain’t something a ‘committed coward’ is gonna try.”
“One doesn’t become King of the Hoboes without some capacity for daring,” El Numero Uno said grandly, doing his best to puff out his chest. Then he deflated, chuckling at himself. “Of course, I prefer to ride the blinds. Any sane man does.”
“‘The blinds’?” I asked.
The hobo nodded, looking pleased to be passing on the lore of his realm. “A section between cars where there’s no door. Between the express car and the tender, say, or the baggage car and the express car. There’s no way anyone on the train can spot you. But you’re totally exposed to anyone who’s not on the train. Fall asleep, and you’ll wake up at the next station with a bull’s billy club breaking over your head.”
“Do bums ever try to sneak inside trains?”
Gustav’s question hit El Numero Uno like a slap to the face.
“Well, I can’t speak for bums,” he huffed. “Or boomers or yeggs, for that matter. I, sir, am a hobo.”
“I apologize for my brother’s ignorance,” I said, trying to look appalled even though I had no idea what elevated the noble hobo above any other vagrant. “What he should have said was,
“That I can’t say.” He stood and pointed at the bottle. “Was that Pezullo’s?”
Kip nodded reluctantly. “He always had some squirreled away somewhere. I didn’t want to say anything before, but I guess it can’t hurt Joe now. He looked at Rule G as sort of … voluntary.”
“Rule G?” Old Red asked.
It was El Numero Uno who offered the answer.
“The railroad’s regulation against drinking on the job. Get caught breaking it, and you’re blacklisted for life.” The tramp lowered his
head, as if contemplating the tragedy that is man. “Barbaric. Fortunately, in my line of ‘work,’ drinking on the job is practically mandatory.”
My brother cocked an eyebrow at him. “ Were you drunk when Pezullo went through the door?”
“Sadly, no. I was sober for every ghastly second of it.”
“So did you see anything that might tell us what happened to the man?”
“No. Suddenly, he was just … there. Or at least part of him was.” It was hard to tell, what with the rocking of the train and the ropes wrapped around El Numero Uno, but it looked like a shudder passed through the ’bo’s body. “There was no warning. Not even a scream.”
“‘Not even a scream’ … ,” Old Red repeated slowly, as if trying to wrap his tongue around some strange foreign lingo.
“Joe was probably too pie-eyed to know what was happenin’ to him,” Kip said, carrying his tray of merchandise to a large strongbox next to the desk. He unlocked the chest and stashed his wares inside. “Well … I’d better turn in. I have to be up early to start hawkin’ the mornin’ papers.” He tipped his cap to me and Old Red as he headed for the door. “Night, gents.”
We offered our own good-nights—even El Numero Uno—as Kip left the car.
“Tough on the kid, losin’ a pal like that,” I said.
Gustav walked over to the coffins.
“Death’s always tough on somebody.” He knelt and stroked the top of one casket, then the other. “Funny … it’s ‘the great equalizer,’ the preachers say. Yet even now I can tell rich from poor.” He gave the darker of the two coffins a rap with his knuckles. “Brass fittin’s on mahogany for the gentleman.” He tapped the other coffin, and the wood gave off a surprisingly low thunk . “Rope handles on pine for the pauper.”
He eased himself onto the sturdier of the two coffins, using it like a bench just as Lockhart had. Any other time, I might’ve reminded him to show respect for the dead. But my brother was so pale gray and
hollow-eyed, a casket actually seemed like a pretty natural place for him to rest himself.
“You know, it’s a wonder you ain’t ended up like our friends here,” he said to our prisoner. “I mean, good God—ridin’ under train cars. That ain’t something a ‘committed coward’ is gonna try.”
“One doesn’t become King of the Hoboes without some capacity for daring,” El Numero Uno said grandly, doing his best to puff out his chest. Then he deflated, chuckling at himself. “Of course, I prefer to ride the blinds. Any sane man does.”
“‘The blinds’?” I asked.
The hobo nodded, looking pleased to be passing on the lore of his realm. “A section between cars where there’s no door. Between the express car and the tender, say, or the baggage car and the express car. There’s no way anyone on the train can spot you. But you’re totally exposed to anyone who’s not on the train. Fall asleep, and you’ll wake up at the next station with a bull’s billy club breaking over your head.”
“Do bums ever try to sneak inside trains?”
Gustav’s question hit El Numero Uno like a slap to the face.
“Well, I can’t speak for bums,” he huffed. “Or boomers or yeggs, for that matter. I, sir, am a hobo.”
“I apologize for my brother’s ignorance,” I said, trying to look appalled even though I had no idea what elevated the noble hobo above any other vagrant. “What he should have said was,
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