To Ruggs, the tiny train station at Glencoe looked like something out of a fairy tale. The gingerbread-shaped building sat at the far edge of a wide lawn behind a tall green hedge. The station sported a shingled roof, poking up at odd, misshapen angles, the farthest a tall peak with a weathervane. Instead of an open, inviting entrance, the station’s front appeared dark, cold, sinister. It reminded Ruggs of a witch’s cabin.
He parked the Caddy around the corner, out of sight, but close enough for him to have eyes on who came and went into the station. After a moment, two people exited the train and came through the station, and one person, lugging a small suitcase, ran inside, breathless, obviously late for his train. Ruggs checked his watch and announced the time.
“Eleven thirty-six,” he said.
“Check,” Babe said, standing next to the Caddy’s open trunk, making sure his watch was in sync.
“You’re in motion,” Ruggs said. “I’m on the move.”
“Copy that,” Babe said, stepping back, running his hands down both sides of his new outfit.
He exhaled and eased the trunk lid shut.
It closed neatly, clicking in place.
It would be unseemly to slam down a luxury car’s trunk.
He walked past the Caddy and headed into the station.
At 11:45 p.m., Mosby, the conductor, shouted his final “All aboard,” the train whistle screeched, and the mixed freight train bound for the U.S. steamed out of Glencoe station. In the dining car, Madeline and Alfred rested against the vinyl back of their booth. Madeline checked her watch. She seemed antsy.
“The train on time?” Alfred asked, noticing her looking at her watch. Madeline absently circled two fingers around her wrist.
“Yes. I think so.” She looked at the door to the dining car. “Should I ring for the conductor again?”
“Give him a few minutes.”
“You’re right. We just left the station. Guess I’m tired.”
Madeline dropped her head onto Alfred’s shoulder and nuzzled her chin into his substantial neck. Her sudden move threw him off, but then he caught a deep whiff of her perfume. The scent nearly knocked him over. He closed his eyes and took it in. Strong. Exotic. Sexy.
Madeline, he thought. Don’t even know her last name.
Nobody had ever made him feel quite this way. Nobody. It felt intoxicating. And—strange. He opened his eyes and studied Madeline’s face. He peered at the sharp lines of her face, her thin, vulnerable neck, her blond hair flying all over, bunched up and brushing his cheek. She had her eyes closed now, too, and a soft, purring sound slipped out of her slightly open mouth. She looked so peaceful. So perfect. He wondered—
Too perfect?
“Here we go. Two glasses of champagne.”
The conductor.
Striding into the dining car, his voice cheery.
A tall, wiry Black man.
Moving with power and purpose and grace, like a dancer.
Or a fighter.
Not Mosby.
Babe.
Babe’s crisp conductor’s uniform swished as he came toward them, carrying the champagne flutes aloft on a tray. He wore white gloves and had his conductor’s cap cocked forward, covering most of his face.
“Dom Perignon. The best.”
He brought two fingers to his lips and kissed them. He smiled and placed one of the flutes in front of Madeline, the other next to Alfred’s thick right hand, which he’d balled into a fist. Between the two flutes sat the twenty-dollar bill Madeline had put on the table more than an hour ago.
“May I punch your tickets, please?” Babe said.
“Of course,” Madeline said, fishing her ticket out of her purse.
Alfred grunted. He pulled his crumpled ticket out of his jacket pocket. He held on to it while he stared at the conductor.
“You do this at every stop?”
“Yes, sir. Rule of the railroad.”
Alfred grunted again and slowly handed over his ticket. Babe punched both tickets and handed them back. He pressed the empty tray against his chest and took two steps back. “Let me know if you need anything else.”
“Don’t forget your payment,” Madeline said, fanning a long finger over the twenty.
“Thank you. I’ll get your change.”
“No need. It’s all for you.”
Babe bowed and swept up the bill. “Much obliged. Enjoy the champagne.”
He backed up again.
That’s when he noticed Alfred’s eyes were boring into him like high beams. Alfred shifted his position, the vinyl of the booth crinkling as he moved. Then Alfred leaned forward, as if preparing to launch himself out of the booth.
Babe dropped his hand inside his conductor’s jacket, steadied his fingers an inch away from Pearl, his barber’s blade.
Alfred grunted.
Babe grinned.
“If you need anything else—”
He backed up another two steps, his eyes locked on Alfred.
Alfred shifted again. Babe knew that Alfred sensed trouble or at least had something on his mind.
Babe turned, his gloved hand reaching for the dining car door.
“Hey. Conductor.”
Alfred’s voice cut through the dining car.
“Boy.”
Babe flinched.
He spun around, moving his hand deeper inside his jacket, resting his fingers on his barber’s blade.
“You forgot something,” Alfred said.
Babe froze.
“The Band-Aid,” Alfred said. “Where’s the Band-Aid I asked you for?”
Band-Aid.
Babe had no idea what he meant.
Then Babe realized—
He’s talking about the other conductor. Mosby. Short, fat, and sixty, and he can’t tell us apart. So fucking predictable.
“My mistake,” Babe said. “Slipped my mind. I’ll bring it right to you.”
“Not for me,” Alfred said, gazing at Madeline. “For my friend.”
“Yes, sir.”
Babe turned again, put his shoulder into the door, and left the dining car.
“These people are so stupid,” Alfred said.
“I don’t really need it, thanks to you,” Madeline said.
Alfred grunted. He reached for his champagne.
“A toast,” he said.
“Indeed,” Madeline said. “To us.”
“Yeah.”
“And to the future.”
Madeline extended her pinkie and took a dainty sip of the champagne. “Oh, my. That is delicious. So elegant.”
“Chug,” Alfred said, with a goofy grin.
“I don’t think we should chug Dom Perignon,” Madeline said.
“You’re right,” Alfred said. Then, mimicking Madeline, he stuck out his pinkie finger and guzzled the champagne in one gulp.
Madeline laughed, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, and took another dainty sip.
Ten minutes later, Babe returned with an assortment of Band-Aids and the bottle of Dom Perignon.
“Another glass?” he said.
Madeline giggled. “I’m feeling a little tipsy.”
“On one glass of bubbly?” Alfred said. “Lightweight.”
“I know. Okay, sure, one more glass.”
Babe tucked one arm behind his back and filled the champagne flutes.
“I got this one,” Alfred said, reaching for his wallet.
“It’s on me,” Babe said.
Alfred glowered.
“For forgetting the Band-Aid,” Babe said.
“Thank you,” Madeline said. “Very kind of you.”
“Leave the bottle,” Alfred said.
“Yes, sir.”
Babe placed the nearly empty champagne bottle on the table and left the dining car.
“Another toast,” Madeline said, raising her glass to Alfred.
He snorted and raised his glass.
“To friends on a train,” she said, clinking his glass.
“Yeah,” Alfred said.
As she sipped, she rested her hand on his thigh.
He coughed.
Madeline tilted her head toward him and smiled her secret smile.
Twenty minutes later, in the middle of a story Madeline was telling Alfred about her childhood and her horny cousin who chased her around the woodshed when she was twelve, Alfred felt queasy, and then nauseous, and then drowsy.
“I’m really tired,” he said.
“It’s one in the morning,” Madeline said without looking at her watch.
Alfred yawned, an earsplitting howl causing Madeline to shudder. He shook his thick neck and shoulders and yawned again. Madeline poked her hand under the table and began tracing her fingers along Alfred’s thigh.
“You know, Alfie, I have a sleeper car.”
“Alfred. Call me Alfred.”
“Would you like me to tuck you in? Then we can take it from there.”
Alfred yawned a third time. His eyes started to close. Alfred forced them open and looked at Madeline. She smiled.
“Yeah,” Alfred said. “Tuck me.”
He started to stand. Madeline scooted out of the booth. Alfred made it to his feet, took a step, teetered, and gripped the side of the table to steady himself.
“Dizzy,” he said.
“Now who’s the lightweight?” Madeline said.
Alfred sniffed, swiped at his nose, took another couple of steps, and wrapped his arms around his midsection.
“I don’t feel so good.”
Madeline put an arm around his shoulders. “Lean on me. It’s not far.”
“Fuckin’ room’s spinning.”
“You can make it, Alfred. One step at a time. You’re okay.”
“Gonna puke.”
“I got you,” Madeline said, but this time her voice seemed huskier, harsher, impatient. She sounded like a working woman coming to the end of her shift.
Guided by Madeline, Alfred staggered and lurched out of the dining car, somehow making it to the first compartment in the sleeper car where he collapsed, unconscious, onto a lower bed. The bed had been made up for the night by the conductor—Babe—who looked over Madeline’s shoulder as she pulled the covers up to Alfred’s chin. She placed an envelope on his chest, addressed to Alfred in her own florid cursive handwriting, and stepped out of the compartment. Alfred stirred and opened his mouth. His lips fluttered and he began snoring like a racehorse with a sinus condition.
“Sweet dreams, Alfred,” Babe said.
He closed the door.