Raildogs

  Usually, the last guy would either collapse in fear, or take the gang-beating, which always ended up being the worst. Or he would get pissed, even though the odds were against him and come out fighting.

  This kid was a fighter.

  He waited for the Raildog to come closer. When his opponent was in range he struck out with a power punch to the head. Albert laughed at his man for getting hit, but knew the kid would pay.

  The Raildog rushed in hard this time, leading with his shoulder and colliding with the kid. He wrapped him up, raised him off the floor, and slammed the kid down again on his back. His victim yelled out in pain as the gangster pinned him. Now in a dominant position, he started punching down into the kid’s face, he didn’t stop until the others finally pulled him off.

  Albert was used to the adrenaline surge from the action, but his crew was younger and he could tell they were still fired up. He looked at his wristwatch, they were halfway to Hinkle, so it was time.

  He slid the boxcar door open. Fresh air rushed in and sunlight glared through the opening, Albert waited a second for his eyes to adjust before turning, “It’s time to say goodbye boys.”

  He motioned to Mickey. “Get it done.”

  There was a quick scramble as the crew collared the desperate kids and dragged them to the doorway. Kicking and screaming they were thrown off the rapidly moving train at long enough intervals that they landed well apart. Mickey watched out the door as the last one tumbled down a small cliff.

  To Albert it looked like another good run was brewing. Ten a.m., they’d just left Spokane and still had a ways to go before hitting Salt Lake, already they had cash in their pockets and a bit of stuff to puff on. He reached into his bag and pulled out a bottle of bourbon, spun the cap off, and took a nice long swig.

  Turning towards his men he lifted the bottle up in salute before passing it to the right. “Raildogs rule!”

  *****

  Reno, Nevada

  The old guy manning the front desk recognized the tall muscular kid. He’d been there before.

  David Perez didn’t care if he stood out. It didn’t matter that he looked out of place dressed in black, a battered duffle bag slung over his shoulder. He deliberately kept his long dark hair tucked behind his ears to emphasize the piercings on his face.

  He never concerned himself much about what other people thought about his look, he’d given up on that a long time ago. He had enough going on with his own shit to bother with others.

  “Going in to see my mom,” he said.

  “You’ll have to sign this here book first young man.”

  David went through the motions of scribbling something down. This was stupid. He hated rules for this and rules for that. Dropping the pen on the open book, he didn’t look back at the clerk, as he headed down the corridor. He knew where she was.

  “Visiting is only till three mister…” the clerk trailed off as he squinted to read the scribble in the book.

  “Yeah, yeah.” David waved his hand without looking back. More friggin’ rules.

  She was waiting with the door open when he got there. She always was. He’d seen her sitting in the window, watching him as he walked up to the building.

  “Hi Mom.”

  She reached her arms around him, as big as he was, and tried to squeeze him, “I’m so glad you could visit. Come and sit with me.”

  It was awkward and they sat quietly for a bit taking each other in. She seemed to still be in good shape, healthy, and as usual, a little nervous with him there.

  He could tell she was always taken back by his growth. He was twenty-five and seemed to still be growing. Of course his father had been just as big.

  David knew his visits were important to her and that it went without saying that she was wondering if he had gotten anywhere. He hadn’t, but he was almost ready. He’d let her know when it was time, until then he was just happy to see she was okay.

  “You’re still sitting in your room alone mom.” He wanted her to get out and socialize, visit with the others in the home. In his head it was like she was living in a jail cell.

  “I’m okay David,” she looked over at him. “I still hope to get out of here. These people around here are sick. They scare me.”

  He couldn’t help feeling sorry for her. She’d had so much going for her and then her world had come crashing down. The fact she’d been doing everything for him when it had all happened put a strain on his shoulders. It was a weight that felt heavier every year. He knew that was why he kept coming to visit, and would until he fixed everything.

  He let her fuss over him and he worried for her, reminding her to eat properly and get her sleep. He didn’t know what else to say.

  David didn’t notice the desk clerk watching him as he walked down the long driveway. He pulled out his small leather bound journal from his duffle bag, flipping through the pages as he walked from the building. What was the date? He had to figure out where he was headed next.

  *****

  Colton, California

  Bill Dewton used to be a good cop. Until his daughter Cindy left with a friend for a simple weekend in Long Beach, just a couple hours west on the coast and never came back. Then everything in his life went to hell.

  The other girl made it back, although she was in pretty rough shape. Bill had been given permission to interview her right away. When it became clear to him that the two girls had planned to ride the freight trains east to New York he’d been floored.

  The Long Beach story was a lie.

  All autumn and into the winter he and his wife argued. Every time he demanded to know, “Why didn’t you know she was going to do this?” She’d turn it around on him. “What did you do to make her leave?”

  The insinuation was that he worked her and pushed her too hard. Christ, he’d only wanted his little girl to succeed.

  Bill had heard it before, but still wasn’t ready when their marriage broke down. He should have known – loosing kids could do that. He didn’t know where his wife was now, didn’t care. They should have pulled together in the crisis, should have depended on each other, supported each other. He’d always blame his wife for copping out.

  He stared out the window briefly, burning to be out on the streets, working a case. But those days were over. He was lucky to still have a job. His boss had put him on a desk. His way of showing loyalty for time served. Now Bill did research for the bullpen and worked his daughter’s case on the side.

  He didn’t get far over the winter, but as spring came the feeling was like he was finally getting ahead. He’d made arrangements to do another interview with Cindy’s friend the next week. He felt leaving the other girl alone over the winter had been respectful under the circumstances. She had been awfully drained and mangled the last time he’d seen her.

  What he had been able to do was put feelers out with other departments and set up some alerts in the computer system in case anyone else came across anything to do with freight trains and missing people. With all his free time, he spent hours on the computers after each shift searching police files on unidentified bodies, checking prison files and anything else he could think of to locate her, alive or dead.

  Around eleven he finally left the precinct, hitting the gym on the way home. The place was simple, free weights and benches. None of those new machines. He was in pretty good shape for a middle-aged guy, once you overlooked the shiny dome. The smell of sweat built up in the windowless basement and hung there. At this hour the place was almost empty, except for the hardcore, and they kept to themselves, deep in their workouts.

  As usual, with too much time to fill, he was thinking about freight trains. All winter it had been the same.

  Now he worked out, pushing hard, because he’d made up his mind. He was going to have to retrace her steps. That meant riding the tracks himself. He could take the summer off. God knew no one around here would mind, he was deadweight anyways.

  He sat down at the bench press. Get on the
tracks and then what? Shit, what else could he do? He leaned into the weights, pushing, straining. Find something, anything, that was what. Sitting here wasn’t getting him anywhere.

  Bill finished his workout and headed for the showers. Tomorrow. Tomorrow he would put in the paperwork to get the time off.

  He stepped out of the gym into the warm southern night. He felt better for some reason.

  Chapter 3

  Wyoming

  By the time night had settled in Danny and Bart were well into their adventure. The initial rush of sneaking onto a moving train was long gone, but the small buzz from the beer still hung in.

  Once the dark set in it had become hard to recognize anything. Bart was pretty sure they were already in Wyoming. Small towns flew past before they even had a chance to get a good look.

  “Shit man. This metal grating is hard to sit on.” Bart re-adjusted his flattened butt on the hard platform for the hundredth time. The realization that they were going to be riding the rest of the night like this was setting in.

  Danny was busy tending to a small propane camping stove. He kept one hand on the base of the stove, pinning it to the grating, the other hand holding the handle of the pot. “Hang on bud. This hot soup will make all the difference.”

  With the pot crammed between them, they tried their best to keep the wind out, sheltering it between their bodies and the wall of the car.

  Still cold, bundled in his extra coats, Danny cupped his hands around the pot. Holding it close, he felt the warmth of the container through his fingers, the steam rising up to warm his face.

  Bart didn’t want the heat outside, he wanted it in his friggin’ body. He alternated between blowing cool air over the cup he had been handed, and taking short sips that burned his mouth. He just couldn’t wait for it to cool down. He didn’t need a reminder of why he was getting out of Montana.

  “Christ, I can’t wait to get some Florida sunshine.”

  Finally warmer, Bart watched Danny putting the stove back into his suitcase. Who the hell travels around with a camping stove? The curly haired kid looked like the typical geek. At first he hadn’t wanted anything to do with him, but loners attract, or something like that.

  He really only had his mother these days, and he normally stayed pretty close to their little house on the other side of the tracks near the trailer park.

  He knew Danny had a nice home in the newer section of town. The kid’s old man was a big shot or something. It was only after they had talked a few times that Bart realized how much they both seemed to be unwanted by the other kids.

  One time he asked Danny about hanging with other kids. He’d been only slightly shocked by the answer.

  “I don’t need nobody,” the kid said. “They don’t like me because I don’t follow their crowd around like a fucking puppy.”

  Bart knew it was true, but the shy looking kid had put it perfectly. He didn’t follow anyone around either. He made his own tracks. Now they were leaving the shitheads behind, all of them.

  He stood again to stretch his legs and eased towards the side for a look forward up the track. Something caught his attention. There seemed to be a light off in the distance, but as the train moved slowly up and down with the terrain it blinked in and out.

  “Danny, check out the lights up there.”

  Danny leaned out around him. Sure enough, the lights meant they were nearing a city. That had to mean they were almost through Wyoming.

  “Here we come Cheyenne.”

  *****

  Ft. Worth, Texas

  Devon and Rashad were waiting for the train to pull out of Fort Worth. They’d moved from the small landing at the end of a refrigerated car to a large half-filled boxcar. If you’re travelling for long periods, getting inside was the way to go. Devon wasn’t cold but he appreciated the room to spread out and sleep without worrying about falling off on a corner or while bouncing over a series of rough tracks.

  They were near the border with Oklahoma. The plan was to hook up with the boss tomorrow around noon. Then the partying could begin. The train jerked once, then twice, and the freight cars slammed against each other as the whole thing started to roll forward.

  It was looking like a quiet overnight trip when Devon caught sight of a guy running towards the train from beside a nearby building. The idiot was leaving it late, the train was already rolling at a good clip. “Rasman,” he raised his voice. “Get up, we got company.”

  Rashad jumped up from the corner where he had been sleeping, looking around franticly. Finally he noticed Devon at the door, and realized they were moving. He quickly joined his partner.

  “Let’s get him in here.” Devon wanted the guy. “Hey buddy over here.”

  The Raildog waved his hands to get the guy’s attention. He tried to look concerned, getting down on one knee to reach his hand out beside the moving car.

  He knew it was now or never. The guy would slow purposely if he felt danger – if he didn’t want to get on with the two of them – but he would pick up speed and commit if he wasn’t suspicious of the offer to help.

  The guy bore down and leaned his head forward. He pumped his legs faster, swinging his arms hard as he ran. His packsack bounced from side to side, threatening to throw off his balance, but he was gaining on the boxcar. He reached his arm out as he ran beside the accelerating train.

  Devon leaned out further, knowing he could reach the guy. There was a second where both their arms grasped at mid-air and then their hands locked and they gripped hard. The guy used the Raildog for leverage, swinging his legs through the air and up into the car.

  Devon pinned him to stop his momentum, and held the guy with his legs inside the car and his body hanging over the edge as the train came up to full speed. The guy was suddenly heaving with panic. Devon eased off and pulled himself up off the floor, bringing the guy up with him. “Hey, you okay there buddy?”

  “I’m cool. Thanks for the lift.”

  Devon looked him over. He was twenty-years-old at the most, built pretty solid, but short, no more than five-foot seven. No problem there, that was for sure. The Raildog backed up, giving the kid space, then slid the door almost closed leaving a gap to provide a bit of light.

  “Where you going?” Always the first question.

  “North to Chicago, got a sexy woman up there,” the kid smiled.

  Devon laughed. Not much chance you’ll be seeing her. He looked at his partner and nodded once. He waited for his partner to nod back, then he turned his attention to the new rider as Rashad eased around behind the target. “Okay boy, you want the good news or bad.”

  The change in Devon’s tone had the kid immediately on alert. He watched for that moment when realization set in. Fear spread across the kid’s face and the simple things became hard, like just swallowing or maintaining eye contact.

  “I’m not sure. Have we got a problem?”

  Devon watched as the kid searched for a source of newfound courage. The guy was scared shitless, but he was showing a tough face and flexing his shoulders. He had good street instincts.

  “Well that depends on how you take the news,” the Raildog paused. “The good news is that if you got money then you’ll be able to pay for this ride, which satisfies me. The bad news is that my buddy Rashad here is going to beat you one way or the other. He just don’t care about the money.”

  It was a study of people and the things they did. Devon was amazed that whenever he mentioned a sure beating the money always appeared faster. He expected them to see it differently. He was still waiting for the one who said, “If I’m getting beat anyways no sense giving up the cash.” But sure enough, the kid pulled his wallet out and started forking everything he had into the gangster’s waiting hand.

  Looking down Devon wasn’t pleased or pissed, a hundred and fifty bucks was better than nothing. He felt suddenly tired, it had been a crazy few days and there were more to come. Turning his back on the kid, he walked past Rashad looking for somewher
e to sit down. His normally impassive friend’s small smile didn’t hide the intensity in his eyes. Devon could see his anticipation and knew he didn’t want any part of this next scene.

  Rashad got closer to the kid and started speaking in a low voice. Devon couldn’t make the words out, but his partner slapped the kid up-side the head a few times and kept talking. He watched as the big guy started to herd the kid backwards, around the corner of the skids. Thank god.

  Sounds of a struggle and a few echoing slaps came from the dark corner. Then a sound like a punch connecting. More whispering, then quiet. Devon didn’t venture forward and no one came out of the corner until the train slowed going through the rail yard in Texarkana.

  Rashad appeared pulling the kid by the back of his jacket. He headed straight to the door and squeezed the kid out through the opening. The kid never even struggled, and Devon pictured him cartwheeling as he hit the gravel.

  He watched as his buddy came over to sit on the next skid. No words were exchanged. Their friendship meant he was expected to mind his own business. The two men swayed slightly as the train lumbered off towards Oklahoma in the dead of night.

  *****

  Salt Lake City, Utah

  The old train yard was over two miles long. Mostly it was sidings running side-by-side, full of heavy traffic. A couple lines ran alongside the loading dock attached to a run down stone building that still stood as a reminder of days past. At one time goods were loaded from these decayed and crumbling docks.

  Since these days most of the cargo came from overseas in shipping containers, loading docks were rotting across America. Cliffy used this building as a meeting place.

  At forty-five, Cliff knew he looked a lot older, shit, he felt it too. He also felt the respect from the others, he knew he deserved it. He nodded to a couple of the boys as he headed towards the building. The Raildogs were his idea. His creation. Fuck, he had the central U.S. in the palm of his hand. He wasn’t kidding earlier when he’d been thinking that he’d come a long way.

  Each of the five bosses had a tattoo numbered one to five on the inside of their right wrist. They each had a section of line, with at least twenty soldiers working their piece of the rail at any given time. In the beginning the five of them had ridden the lines from one end of the country to the other, working together, taking whatever they wanted.