1
Night Train
A
tortuous evening of bowing and shuffling had gotten the best of Baltimore Floyd, just like a one-armed boxer's desire to climb back into the ring got him knocked out every time. Flashing that cheesy grin he hated had left the smooth tan-colored drifter with a mean streak thicker than train smoke. Smiling back at countless blank faces of discouragement while serving a host of ungrateful, highbrowtravelers in the last two dining cars on the TranscontinentalSteamer had him wishing for better days and easy money. In the winter of 1946, times were hard. That meant tips didn't come easily, and come to think of it, “please” or “thank you” didn't, either. Hearing the train's whistle blow when it crept slowly across the Missouri state line put an awkward expression on Baltimore's face, one that almost slighted his charmingly handsome good looks. Agreeing to sign on at the railroad company as a waiter for an endless collection of snooty voyagers, with nasty table manners and even worse dispositions toward the Negro help, was simply another in a string of poor decisions plaguing Baltimore, who was a professional baseball player hopeful mostly, and a man with troubles certainly.
He'd seen nothing but rotten luck during the past month. The worst of it had happened when the gambling debt he couldn't pay off came haunting around his rented room to collect at about three o'clock in the morning. Two pistol-toting“go-getters” is what Baltimore called the hired thugs who broke down the door at Madame Ambrose's boardinghouse,aiming to make him pay the devil his due or else send him straight to hell if he couldn't. It was a good thing the lady with the room directly across the hall from his didn't like sleeping alone, or he'd have been faced with meeting the devil firsthand that night. With three dollars in his pocket, every cent of it borrowed from the gracious neighbor lady, Baltimore had lit out of Harlem when the sun came up. He'd hitchhiked south, with a change of luck in mind and a bounty on his head.
Unfortunately, the change he'd hoped for was slow in coming, and his patience was wearing as thin as the sole on his broken-in leather work shoes. That awkward expression that welcomed Baltimore into Missouri melted into a labored grin when his best friend, Henry Taylor, a sturdy, brown-skinnedsack of muscle, popped into the flatware storage room, balancing two hot plates weighed down with porterhousesteaks, mashed potatoes, and green beans. Henry, just as tall as Baltimore and substantially brawnier, presented the dinner he'd undoubtedly lied to get his hands on or outright stole, while maintaining his professional, “on the time clock” persona. His black slacks held their creases, the starched white serving jacket was still buttoned up to the neck, and his plastic Cheshire cat grin, which the customers always expected,made a dazzling appearance.
“Dinner is served boss and not a moment too soon,” Henry announced, once the door was latched behind him.
“You ole rascal, I don't care what you had to do to come up with this meal fit for a king, but I hope your eyes was closed when you did it,” Baltimore teased, salivating over a dinner much too expensive for the likes of them. “I can't wait to get my hands onâ,” he started to say before hearing a light rap against the other side of the storage room door. “Here. Put the plates in the bread box, Henry,” whispered Baltimore, fearing another waiter wanted to share in their late-night treasure. Some of them were unscrupulous enough to make waves by reporting thefts to the crew supervisor if they didn't get a cut.
“Shut that cupboard door all the way so's they can't smell the taters,” Henry mouthed quietly as the light tapping grew into more insistent knocks.
When Henry opened the storage room door slowly, he was surprised to see a white face staring back at his. The man, who appeared to be nearing fifty, was fair-haired, with pale, blotchy skin. He was thinking something behind those steely blue eyes of his, Baltimore thought as he leaned his head over to see who was disturbing the first decent meal he'd had in a week. “Sorry, mistuh, but the dinner car's been closed for hours now,” uttered Henry, guessing that was what the man wanted. “We's just putting the dishes away.”
“Either one of you boys interested in making a few dollars,fetching ice and fresh drinking glasses for me and some sporting friends of mine?” the intruder asked, fashioning his remarks more in the manner of a request than a question.
“Naw, suh, I'm ... I'm really whooped,” offered Henry in a pleading tone.
“Hell, naw,” was Baltimore's answer. “We's retired for the evening, done been retired, and besides, you don't see no
boys
in here.” Venom was dripping from his lips after slaving deep into the evening only to incur some middle-aged white man getting between him and a four-dollar plate of food, with an off-the-cuff insult. “You best get on back to those sporting friends of yours,” Baltimore added when the man didn't seem too interested in budging.
Henry swallowed hard, like always, when Baltimore got it in his head to sass a white man to his face. He swallowed hard again when this particular white man brushed back his green gabardine jacket just enough to reveal a forty-four-caliberrevolver.
“Yeah. You'll do rather nicely,” answered the man in the doorway. He was leering at Baltimore now and threatening to take his bluff a step further if necessary. “Now then, I'd hate for us to have a misunderstanding. The head conductor might not like that, especially if he's awakened to terrible news.”
Baltimore squinted at the situation, which was brewing into a hot mess he'd have to clean up later. He was in deep because he'd already decided just that fast to lighten the train's load and teach the passenger a lesson about respect he would take to his grave. Considering that the train wasn't due to arrive at the Kansas City station until eight a.m., only a fool would have put his money on that particular white man's chances of breathing anywhere near 7:59. “Well, suh, if 'n you put it that way, I guess I'm your man ... uh, your boy,” Baltimore told him, flashing the manufactured beamingsmile he was accustomed to exhibiting when bringing customers their dinner bill. “Just let me grab a bite to eat, and I'll be along directly.”
“You'll come now,” growled the uninvited guest. “And button your clothes. You look a ruffled sight,” he added, gesturingat Baltimore's relaxed uniform. “I'll be right out here waiting.”
“And he'll be right out, suh, right out,” promised Henry, pulling the door closed. “Baltimo', what's gotten into you? That's a white man, and he's got six friends in that pistol, waiting to do whatever he tells 'em to.”
“He ain't gonna shoot nobody,” Baltimore reasoned as he fastened his serving jacket, huffing beneath his breath. “A stone killer does the doin' and don't waste time on the showin'. I'll be back tonight. You go on and have at my supper, too. Ain't no use in letting it get cold. Be too tough to chew then, anyway.”
Henry put his face very close to Baltimore's in order to get his undivided attention. “Ahh, man, I know that look in your eyes, and I hate it. You got trouble in mind, but you told me you was through with that sort of thing.”
Baltimore sighed as he eased a steak knife into the waistbandof his black work slacks and pulled the white jacket down over it. “Don't appear that sort of thing is through with me, though, does it? Think of me when you eat my share. It'll make me feel better knowing you did.”
Waiting impatiently in the aisle, the insistent passenger raised his eyes from the silver coin he'd been flipping over his knuckles when Baltimore came out of the tiny closet, holding a stack of glasses on a round tray. “Good. I was starting to get concerned about the two of you.” The man was fond of the joke he'd told, so he chuckled over it, but neither of the black men found it amusing in the least. Both of them saw a dead man pacing in the other direction, wearingan expensive suit and a brown felt hat, and playing an odd little game where the stakes were dreadfully high. It was a skins game, Baltimore's favorite. Killing the white man on their way to the smoking car crossed his mind, but he suspectedthere'd be money to be had at the end of the night, maybe a lot of it. Before he chased those demons away, he told them to come back later, when he'd have need for them.
“I'm going to say this only once, so pay attention,” the man grumbled. “When we get inside, I don't want you to speak, cough, or break wind. There are some very important people in there, and they won't stand for an uppity nigger interruptingtheir entertainment,” he warned Baltimore. “I'll give you ten bucks for your time, when I'm convinced you've earned it.” When Baltimore's gaze drifted toward the floor, the white man viewed it as a sign of weakened consent. He had no idea just how close he came to having his chest carved up like the porterhouse left behind in the flatware cabin. “Good,” he continued. “Don't make me sorry for this.”
“I'm already sorry,” Baltimore wanted to tell him but didn't. Instead, he played along to get along, but soon enough he found himself wishing for a seat at that poker table. As the night drew in, and the smoke from those fancy cigars rose higher, so did the piles of money. Baltimore had learned most of the gamblers were businessmen heading to Kansas City for an annual automobile convention. He'd also discoveredthat the man who'd coerced him into servitude went by the name of Darby Kent, and for all of his gun-toting rough talk, he was the sorriest poker player this side of the Mississippiand spitting out money like a busted vending machine. Darby often folded when he should have stayed in, and then he often contributed to someone else's wealth when everyonereading his facial expressions knew he had a losing hand. After three hours of fetching and frowning, Baltimore was really disgusted. The way he looked at it, Darby was shoveling over his money, the money Baltimore had planned on relieving him of after the fellows were finished matching wits.
“Darby, looks like a bad run of luck,” one of the other men suggested incorrectly. It was a run of overgrown stupidity.
“I'll say,” another of them quipped. “Gotta know when to say when.” After watching Darby toss back another shot of gin, he shook his head disapprovingly. “On the other hand, if you don't mind fattening my wallet, I won't, either.” That comment brought a wealth of laughter from other players sitting around the musty room, smelling of liquor, sweat, and stale tobacco.
“I'll agree that the cards haven't exactly fallen in my favor up 'til now,” Darby said as he grimaced. “Perhaps I could use a break.” He laid the cards on the table, next to a mountain of money Baltimore guessed had to be close to ten thousand dollars. “Come on, you,” Darby ordered his reluctant flunky, while motioning for Baltimore to collect his serving tray and an extra ice bucket.
Leaving all of that loot behind was like pulling teeth, but Baltimore forced himself to walk away. Had he not been confined to a moving train, there would have been a golden chance to stick up the card game and make a fast getaway. Unfortunately, there wasn't a hideout to dash off to afterwards,so the idea passed just as quickly as it had entered Baltimore's head. Baltimore fumed every step of the way he followed behind Darby, staggering and sullen. He was mad at himself for not going with his first mind to end their arrangement before Darby had all but opened his billfold and shook out a big stack of money for the better-suited players to divide amongst themselves.
When they reached a nearly depleted icebox inside the abandoned dinner car, Baltimore began filling one of the wooden buckets. Darby steadied his shoulder against the door frame to light up a cigar. He huffed and cussed that he should have been more conservative with his wagers.
“I'm beginning to think, maybe I've taken those other fellowstoo lightly,” Darby opined openly, as if Baltimore gave a damn what he thought. Tired and angrier now, Baltimore sought to put that silly notion to rest.
“Say, Darby, lemme ask you something,” Baltimore said, seemingly out of nowhere. He was facing the man while holding the bucket firmly at his side with his left hand, keepinghis right one free. “Do you always lose your ass after showing it? I mean, you have got to be the dumbest mark I've ever seen.” Baltimore watched Darby's eyes narrow disbelievinglyafter hearing a much cleaner diction roll off the black man's tongue. “See, the way I figure it, you resort to pattin' that pistol of yours when men like me don't step lively fast enough. I'll also bet the ten dollars you owe me that you're all bark and no bite. Ain't that right, suh?” Baltimoreadded, showing him how black men were skilled at adapting their speech to fit the occasion. When Darby stopped puffing on the stinky cigar poking out of his mouth, Baltimore smiled at him. “Ahh-ahh, not yet. I'll also bet you a nickel to a bottle of piss, if you go pulling that heater on me, you'll be dead before your body drops.”
Darby spat the cigar onto the floor as he reared back and went for the revolver. Baltimore slammed the heavy ice bucket against his gun, snatched him by the throat, and then punched the steak knife into Darby's gut so hard, the handle broke off. Darby's mouth flew open as he anguished in pain. Baltimore watched intently as the white man gasped for breath like a fish out of water and clutched at the opening in his stomach. When Darby fell onto his knees, pain shooting through his body, he began to whimper softly. Baltimore was quick to stuff a bar towel in his mouth to shut him up. “Uh-huh,I knew you were all bark,” Baltimore teased as he removedthe pistol from Darby's shoulder holster and began riffling through his pockets. “Let's see how much you still have, you sorry bastard. Seventy-two dollars?” he ranted. “I knew I should have stuck you sooner.” Suddenly, Baltimore heard someone coming, but there was nowhere to hide, so he raised the dying man's gun.