Another human being, I thought. That’s all I need here. Funny how that’s a real commodity these days, no matter where you go.
It was still the middle of the afternoon. Not exactly prime time for the men who worked in this yard to be coming out to their vehicles. Eventually, I did see two men walking across the street to the parking lot, but I didn’t get the right vibe from them. They both looked unhappy, like maybe they’d both just gotten fired. So I let them go without a word. About a half hour later, I saw another man. He looked a little happier, so I figured he was worth a shot.
“Hey, hold up,” I said as I got out of the truck. “Can I ask you a quick question?”
“Who are you?” He didn’t stop moving.
“I just want to ask you a question. I’m a private investigator.”
That usually gets people interested, at least, but this guy put it into a higher gear and practically jumped into his car. He sped off without so much as another glance in my direction.
“Now that,” I said to myself, “is a man who’s expecting to be served with a summons any day now. Either that, or I’m a lot scarier than I think.”
I got back in my truck and sat there for another hour. I had the windows rolled down and there was a nice breeze, but it was still my own version of hell, just sitting there and not accomplishing anything. Finally, I saw a car pull into the lot. A man got out. He didn’t look particularly unfriendly. As he was about to walk across the street, I got out to intercept him.
“Hey there,” I said. “Sorry to bother you. Can I ask you something?”
“I’m in a hurry here.”
“Just one quick question?”
“Sorry, pal.”
“I’m a private investigator,” I said, deciding it was time to pull out all the stops if I didn’t want to spend the rest of the day sitting here. “And I’ve got fifty bucks right here if you’ll answer one question.”
That stopped him dead. He turned around.
“What’s this about, pal?”
I stepped closer to him. I opened my wallet and took out a fresh fifty-dollar bill.
“One question,” I said, “and then I’ll let you go.”
He looked at the fifty. I could tell he didn’t mind the sight of it.
“I’m told that certain people hitch a ride on freight trains here,” I said. “I think they call it ‘catching out,’ right?”
“That’s right.”
A good sign, that he recognized the term.
“Any chance you know where I could find these people?”
“Anyone in particular?”
“Well, I’m looking for one person, but I’d settle for anybody who could tell me if a message got sent down the line recently.”
He nodded his head, then sneaked a look at the front entrance to the yard.
“You know, catching a ride is trespassing,” he said, “and helping anyone catch a ride is grounds for getting your ass fired.”
“Sounds like that’s none of my business,” I said. “None of Mr. Grant’s business, either.”
He looked a little confused about that one, until he looked at the face on the bill.
“Well, I may be able to put you in contact with someone,” he said. “If you give me a little while.”
“How long’s a little while?”
“There’s a train going out at nine thirty tonight. I’m guessing you might be able to talk to a couple of guys who just might be hitching a ride.”
“That’s a long time to wait.”
“That’s their train,” he said. “This isn’t Amtrak, in case you didn’t notice.”
“I appreciate the help,” I said, giving him the bill. “Where do I meet these guys?”
“Be back here in the lot at nine. I’ll set it up.”
“I’ll be here.”
“Oh,” he said, “and you might want to bring some more of those fifties.”
I grabbed something to eat. I sat in my truck and read the paper. I found a bar and watched the first two innings of the Tigers game. When I looked at my watch for the five hundredth time, I figured it was finally time to head back to the rail yard.
The sun was down. It was a cool night, almost cold. I knew it was probably below freezing up in Paradise. A good night to be sitting by the fireplace at the Glasgow. So of course here I was, waiting to meet a couple of vagrants in River Rouge.
I pulled into the lot. I sat there and waited for a while. The lights were on in the yard, and I could see a long train coming through. It didn’t stop. Not the train these guys were waiting for, I thought. It was only eight thirty.
At eight forty-five, I saw my new friend walking across the street to the lot. He looked both ways on the street and then came over to my truck. I rolled down my window.
“Evening, pal,” he said. “You got another fifty for me?”
“I thought I already paid you.”
“You paid me for the front end of the deal. I made the contact and arranged the meet. Now I need the back end.”
“That doesn’t sound like two ends of anything,” I said, but I was already pulling out my wallet. I wasn’t about to see the whole day go down the drain over another fifty bucks.
“You go down this street,” he said as he pocketed the bill. “Toward the southern end of the yard. There’s a street there called Emiline. On your right, you’ll see a boarded-up house. The guys hang out there until it’s time to jump the fence and get on board.”
“How do I know you’re not just sending me down a dead end and pocketing a hundred dollars?”
“You don’t,” he said. “Have a good night.”
He left me and walked back across the road. I shook my head and started up the truck. When I pulled out and hit my lights, he gave me a little wave over his shoulder.
I drove down the street, parallel to the fence line. I found Emiline Street about a quarter mile down. There was a boarded-up house on the corner, just as advertised. I pulled up in front and turned off the truck. I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to do next. Eventually, I got out and wandered around to the backyard of the house. I knew I was just over the Detroit line, but here was yet another house that had once held a family, with kids playing in the yard and a dad going off to work every day. The job disappeared and then so did the family. They couldn’t sell this house, because it’s one of a million other houses for sale. So now it’s just a boarded-up wreck.
I heard a scraping noise. Then I realized one of the boards was moving. Two men emerged from the house and came toward me. As they got closer I could smell cigarettes and cheap liquor, sweat, and maybe a few other things that they probably wouldn’t be bottling as perfume anytime soon. They were both wearing dark clothing, the better to blend into the darkness, I’m sure. One had his hair tied in a ponytail. The other’s was wrapped up in a bandanna.
“You the guy with the fifties?” one of them said.
“Apparently I am.”
“Let’s see ’em.”
I let out a long breath as I took out my poor wallet again. I didn’t even bother asking if they’d be willing to split one bill.
“I’ve got a hundred right here,” I said, “but first tell me what you know.”
“Guy said you’re looking for a message that got sent down the line. Maybe we heard something.”
“When did you hear it?”
“Two nights ago.”
I worked that out in my mind. Two nights ago was the night Darryl King took his aunt’s car and disappeared. So far, it was checking out.
“What was the message?” I said.
The two of them looked at each other. “It’s gonna sound a little fuzzy,” the one said. Apparently he’d been elected to do all of the talking.
“I’m all ears,” I said.
“The message was ‘Meet me in the breadbox. At midnight.’”