The Hanging of Samuel Ash by Sheldon Russell Page B

a new cigar and rolled it between thumb and index finger next to his ear. He bit off the end and struck a match on his overalls’ button.
    â€œDid you get that greenhorn out of jail?” he asked between puffs of smoke.
    Hook said, “Didn’t know the B&B work bus from his ass and took her for a spin.”
    â€œToo dang much education,” Frenchy said. “Causes a man not to think his own thoughts.”
    Hook nodded. “Junior Monroe wears a bow tie, drinks hot tea, and fans his face every time someone stokes up a butt.”
    Frenchy turned and pushed the bill of his hat up. “The hell? He should have got twenty years hard labor, if you ask me.”
    Hook smiled and leaned back for a nap. “Bat the stack off her, Frenchy, and wake me when we get to Belen.”
    *   *   *
    Frenchy kicked the bottom of Hook’s shoe and pointed at the door.
    â€œBelen,” he said. “I’m taking her into the yards for a drink, and I’ll be picking up that old louse box after that. Be about an hour.”
    Hook rubbed the sleep from his face. “I’m headed for the Harvey House to eat. You want anything?”
    â€œI brought a nosebag,” he said. “The Harvey’s too ritzy for the likes of me.”
    *   *   *
    Hook searched out a table near the back of the restaurant and had just pulled up his chair when the waitress arrived. He ordered the blue plate special and a glass of milk.
    The dining area, nearly empty, smelled of baked pies and fresh-brewed coffee.
    A woman sat at a table near the front and dabbed her linen napkin against her mouth. For a moment, Hook thought he recognized her but decided that it must be the familiar remnants of old age that he recognized.
    He considered the possibility of hot apple pie topped with a slab of cheddar and had nearly caught the attention of the waitress, when the old lady stood, took up her purse, and made for the restroom.
    When she passed by Hook’s table, she glanced at him. Only then did he notice the white socks and realized that the purse looked exactly like the knitting bag the old lady had that day in the Amarillo depot.
    He started to get up but hesitated, not anxious for yet another public confrontation with an old lady. By then she had disappeared into the ladies’ room at the back.
    Minutes passed, and she didn’t come out. They brought his dinner, and he ate it. He ordered apple pie, and she still hadn’t come out. After finishing his pie, he drank another cup of coffee. Perhaps she’d recognized him, found a different exit, or perhaps she had simply decided to wait him out.
    He checked his watch. Frenchy would be coming soon. He paid his tab and then made his way to the restroom hallway. Pausing at the ladies’ door, he listened. After a second look down the hallway, he pushed the door open and went in.
    The lights were off, save for a single bulb over the sink, and he could see no one inside. He moved into the nearby stall and bent over for a look-see under them. From there, he spotted the old lady standing in the back stall, her white socks clearly visible.
    Hook flushed the toilet, waited a few seconds, and then opened the bathroom door as if to leave. Slipping back into the stall he waited, quieting his breath.
    First came the squeak of her stall door and then the shuffle of her feet as she made her way to the exit. When she opened it, Hook stepped out and grabbed her by the arm.
    She yelped and struggled to get loose. Hook clamped his hand over her mouth.
    â€œRailroad security,” he said. “Keep your voice down or we’re off to jail.”
    He slowly removed his hand.
    â€œRapist,” she said. “Murderer. I’ll scream.”
    He laid his hook against her cheek. “I twisted a man’s tongue right out of his head with this thing one time. I suggest you not scream.”
    â€œWhat do you want from me?” she