Read Online Whiskey River by Loren D. Estleman - Free Book Online

I show the nigger the piece. He lets go and the guy just kind of slides into a pile on the floor. It was like his bones turned to piss.”
    “They was Pinkertons,” contributed Springfield. “Come to put me off the train. They tried to grab my hands.”
    “I can see right off here’s a nigger I can use if I don’t have to shoot him, so I had him come down out of the car. I got him to tell me his name, which I don’t know from Lenin’s, not being a fan of colored ball like Andy there, and I asked him if he wanted a job. He didn’t say no. Joey’s train’s coming in now, all the way from Atlantic City; I ain’t worked for him so long I figure I can trot Bass up to the platform and ask can I keep him. I gave him a hundred to get cleaned up and buy some duds without nothing living in them but him and told him to come see me at the Book-Cadillac. I figure I bought him for the C-note if he don’t show up, but he does, all decked out in yellow from hat to heels.” He shook his head. “You should’ve seen it.”
    You should’ve seen it. I would come to recognize that as Jack’s favorite phrase, a recurring declaration of his faith in the wonder of the world. I visited his grave recently in Hebrew Memorial Park and was disappointed to learn that no one had thought to inscribe it on his stone.
    “What happened to the Pinkertons?” I asked.
    Jack moved a shoulder. “I didn’t read about them in the paper so I guess they must’ve come around finally. Either that or some hoboes stripped their carcasses and dumped them off along the rails somewhere between here and wherever that freight was headed.” He raised his voice. “That’s the load. Let’s leave some room for passengers.”
    The lines broke up. Jack retired into the warehouse with the hard fat man, but not before I saw a thick packet of stiff new bills change hands.
    Moments later, Springfield, Andy Kramm, and I were back inside the Hudson, Kramm resting his arm on a crate with a red maple leaf stenciled on it on the seat between us. Jack climbed under the wheel, uncorked his thermos, and helped himself to a swig of chicken broth. This time he didn’t offer it to anyone else. He rammed the cork back in and reached inside his coat.
    “Here, Connie.” He stuck a Luger over the back of the seat with his hand wrapped around the barrel.
    I stared at the brown checked grip. The sharp oil smell nipped my nostrils. “What’s that for?”
    “You flip back the little dingus on the side and pull the trigger. It goes bam. Take it. I got another.”
    “Thanks. I’m just an observer.”
    Springfield, staring out the window, muttered something about pulling weight. Jack told him to shut up. He took the Luger in both hands and studied it. His face in the light from the loading dock was childlike. “I filed down the trigger sear and converted it to full auto,” he said. “You can empty a clip in two seconds.”
    “What’s the good of that?” I asked.
    “You don’t always get time to aim. The other one’s regular semi-auto for when you do. I only offered you this one because I don’t know what kind of a shot you are. Hell, suit yourself.” He put the pistol away and stamped the engine into life.
    I heard a clank and watched Andy Kramm remove a disassembled Thompson submachine gun, glistening black with walnut handgrips, from the toolbox where he’d rested his feet on the way over. He rattled the buttstock into place, wound tight the lever on the pie-tin clip, and clamped it to the action. Finally he drew back the breech and slammed a cartridge into the chamber.
    This was becoming real. I asked Jack if he thought guns would be necessary.
    “Only for shooting.” He let out the clutch. “Bon voyage, gents. We’re in the wrong country.”
    We followed a confusion of side streets to an imperfectly paved road that paralleled railroad tracks for six blocks and then degenerated into gravel as we left the city limits. After a hundred yards of that we swung