Finally, Cris ended up with three sheets: one for manifest trains, with many different types of cars and products, all headed to the same destination; one for unit trains carrying just one type of cargo; and one for passenger trains. He spread them out and started studying them.
"Okay, according to the slip we found in the bottom of the boat, the next place they said they would go is Grandview, on the Kansas City Southern Line. Grandview is up in Colorado, just across the Continental Divide. So if Buddy is right and this slip we found is bullshit, then we got three choices. Either they took this grain unit train to Sheriland, Louisiana, or they went south on this eight-o'clock manifest train to New Orleans. It left forty minutes after the train they arrived on hit the yard. They woulda just had time to catch itThe third choice is this 'varnish' leaving for Portsmouth, at six P. M., in which case maybe they're still here."
"This what?" Stacy asked.
"Varnish. It's an old-time rail term for a passenger train. But for Kincaid, riding varnish is both good and bad. It's good because it's fast and won't get sided, but it's hard to catch out on a passenger train. They don't pull many cars, so they don't slow much on a grade. They're also damned uncomfortable. You have to ride the 'blind'-that's a flexible piece of metal between the coaches, on either side of the coupling unit. Since there are almost forty men and women with Kincaid, I doubt they'll be 'blinding.' " He hesitated for a minute as a wave of nausea hit him, followed by such trembling weakness in his arms and legs that he had to sit down. "I need something to eat," he finally said. "I feel shitty."
"I saw a McDonald's on the way into town," Stacy said.
"Jesus, a McDonald's?" Buddy grumbled, "Let's just skip eating and go right to the Maalox."
"Gee, Buddy, I'm so sorry. Why don't ya gimme your cellphone and I'll make us reservations at Spago," Stacy cracked.
The air conditioner was broken, so they sat outside McDonald's on the deck under the colorful umbrellas. While sweat collected under their arms and ran in rivulets from their hairlines, they started breakfast.
Cris took two bites of his Chicken McNugget, excused himself, then went into the men's room and threw up. "Shit," he said to himself as he splashed water on his face and looked up at his scary reflection in the mirror. His eyes seemed to have receded deeper into his face. His cheekbones jutted. Then his stomach rolled, churned, and erupted. He spewed a mouthful of bile into the sink that was the color and consistency of 3-In-One Oil. "Fuck," he whispered softly. He gulped two handfuls of tap water, then returned to the table.
Sugar Shack Jungle was all the way down by the tributary that fed Eagle Lake on the northwest side of Fort Worth. The jungle was nestled into the elbow of the river and took up over three acres. It was out of sight of but near the SP track heading out of Fort Worth. Nearby was a two-mile stretch of track that had a two-percent grade and slowed most hundred-car freights to less than five miles an hour, making them easy to hop. Sugar Shack Jungle contained hundreds of hobos squatting in every imaginable kind of dwelling. It was the final parking place for half a dozen rusting cars that now served as upscale housing for the families that owned them. A graveyard of old tires and oil drums performed every imaginable task, from tire-swings for children to fire-pits and structural supports. The "houses," like the residents who lived there, were the unwanted refuse of a steel-and-glass world that had no further use for them. Old wood cartons and scrounged or stolen lumber made up house sidings; corrugated tin created patches of shade; old, sagging chairs and three-legged tables leaned precariously on makeshift supports like wounded veterans. What really defined the place was the eyes of the people. As Cris led Stacy and Buddy into the camp, the eyes of the inhabitants tracked them like enemy radar… eyes vacant of emotion, like licked stones or holes bored in an empty box.
"I feel like the last piece of cake at a Weight Watchers party," Stacy said softly, as they stood on the edge of the camp and felt the silent, angry appraisals.
"Grab a seat over there," Cris said. "Don't look at anyone directly, or lock eyes. Just watch the river." He left them and moved across the jungle, walking slowly, looking at the makeshift houses. He didn't belong here anymore, and the unfriendly stares were like silent curses, unmistakable in their hostility. Had Cris entered this camp a few weeks ago as Lucky, a long-haired, dirty man with garbage-bagged feet, he would not have merited a second glance. In his expensive loafers, new clothes, and recent dental work, he was now a class enemy, a representative of a world that first mandated their failure and then engineered their exile.
He had just about decided his quest was hopeless when he saw the old hobo poet Steam Train Jack. He was flat on his back near the river, looking like a pile of discarded clothes from the Goodwill. His snow-white beard and huge girth made him hard to mistake. He had an old, river-soaked neckerchief across his forehead cooling his eyes. Cris moved over and sat near him. He could tell the old man knew he was there, but Jack didn't move or take the kerchief off his face.
44 41 was walkin' down the street with my bundle on my back/ When I saw a 'bo I used ta know/His name was Steam Train Jack,' " Cris recited. The poem had been written by the old man beside him.
Steam Train didn't move, didn't twitch. He just lay there. 4'Since I wrote that damn poem/I sure as hell should know him," Jack finally said. He took the damp cloth off his eyes and looked over at Cris. Then he propped up his enormous girth on one elbow and looked a second time.
Recollection dawned. 44Lucky?" Steam Train asked, as he sat straight up, but in so doing, he gained only a couple more feet of altitude. Steam Train was oddly proportioned, with short legs and torso but unusually long arms. He had simian dimensions. 44Lucky! Shit, that is you, ain't it? What happened, man? This can't be true/ I can't believe it's really you/Yer lookin' thin as jungle pot stew," he rhymed.
"It's a long story," Lucky said.
Then Steam Train reached out and pounded Cris on the shoulder. "From the look of them tails/You ain't on the rails?"
"I'm retired from high-iron drifting. Stopped drinkin' too," he added, and watched Steam Train smile his approval.
Steam Train Jack was what they called a boxcar barnacle. He was a legend on the rails. He'd been riding boxcars since the early forties, and he almost never uttered a sentence that wasn't in rhyme.
Steam Train strained to pull his prodigious girth up to his feet. "Shit," he said, groaning. "Harder and harder ta git up an' go/ Got more pains than a stained-glass window." Standing, he was only slightly taller than sitting. He weighed over 250 pounds, and seemed a gravelly-voiced cross between Jabba the Hut and Santa Claus. He mopped his red face with the damp cloth. "So, if y'stopped ridin' trains and y'don't drink no more/What brings ya here ta my jungle door?"
"I'm looking for Fannon Kincaid. I was wondering if anybody's seen him and his F. T. R. A. bunch around. I know he was headed this way. I need to find out which train he caught out on."
Steam Train shook his head. "He's a Texas tomcat with an ass fulla buckshot. Kincaid's the devil, let him be, son/He'll kill in a heartbeat, without no reason."
"I don't care about his reason. 'Cause vengeance is my reason. It's my reason and my higher power," he said, more to himself than to the old man standing before him. Steam Train looked off toward the river where Buddy and Stacy were sitting, trying hard not to engage the cold-eyed stares around them.
"You wait over there, I'll go ask about/I heard he was around/ But he mighta catched out." Steam Train moved off, waddling on sore feet, then began to talk to people who were seated in leaning chairs in front of makeshift houses.