The Christmas Train Part 3

"What had happened, a little mixup in the sleepers?"

"Oh, I bet Hubby wished that. See, thing was, the naked dude was caught in the act with his little mistress whom he'd paid to travel in her very own sleeper compartment two doors down from where he and the missus were staying. I guess he was into thrills or something. Hubby thought he slipped the little woman a sleeping pill so that he could go have himself some joy time with little miss whoopee, but the wife, she knew something was up, didn't actually swallow the pill, followed her man and nailed them both."

"What happened?"

"The mistress got off at the next stop. And the last I saw of lover boy, he and his chewed-up b.u.t.t got off at Chicago."

As Tyrone was talking and working, a chain necklace slipped out of his shirt. Tom noted the object attached to it.

"Where'd you get the Purple Heart?" he asked.

"Persian Gulf," Tyrone said, tucking the chain back in his shirt. "Army. Caught a leg full of shrapnel when a round hit our Bradley."

"I covered that war. The fighting was more intense than the reports showed back home."

"Well, it was intense enough for me."

"So I take it you like working here?"

"Hey, it's a job, but it's fun too. I got me my little entertainment routine that I'm always working on, adding, subtracting. I have fun with the pa.s.sengers, and the kids, especially. Man, there's something about trains and kids, they just go together, you know what I mean?" He kept talking as he worked. "I'm on three days and then get four off. That's how it works for the service crew on the long-distance trains. On the really long-route trains, like the Chief and the Zephyr, you work six and then get eight days off. Sounds like a lot of downtime, and it is, but six days going up and back, up and back, it gets to you after a while. You need time just to recover. Because when you're on this train, you're basically on call the whole time. Goes with the territory, but I like it. The crew is a team, we all pitch in, cover each other's back, like a family."

"Think you'll stay on the Cap?"

"Don't know. What I'm really thinking about is moving up the ladder to where the real money is."

"Where's that? In management?"

Tyrone laughed. "Management? Get serious. The cash is in being a redcap. Them dudes make tip money like they're printing it."

"I want a drink and I want it now!"

They both turned and stared at the speaker. It was a man dressed in a three-piece pinstripe suit who didn't look happy about one thing in his life right now.

Tyrone rolled his eyes. "How you doing, Mr. Merryweather?"

"I'm not doing good at all, and I want that drink. Scotch and soda on the rocks. Right now."

"I'm not open yet, sir, if you could come back-"

Merryweather stepped forward. "This gentleman has a beer that I'm a.s.suming came from you. Now, if you refuse to open the bar for me, a paying customer, then" - he glanced at Tyrone's nametag - "then Tyrone Tyrone, I suggest you start looking for other work because once I get off this train you'll be unemployed." Merryweather checked his fancy watch. "I'm waiting, Tyrone."

"Sure, coming right up, no problem."

Tyrone mixed the drink and handed it to the man. Merryweather sipped it. "More scotch - you people never put enough of the liquor in. What, are you stealing it for yourself?"

"Hey," said Tom, "why don't you lighten up?"

Merryweather turned toward him. "Do you happen to know who I am?"

"Yeah, you're a jerk and obviously very proud of it."

Merryweather smiled so tightly it looked as though his cheek b.a.l.l.s might pop through his skin.

"Tell him who I am, Tyrone. You know, don't you?"

"Look, I'm putting a bunch of scotch in your drink. Why don't we just call it a truce?"

"I'm Gordon Merryweather. And I'm the king of the cla.s.s-action lawsuit. p.i.s.s me off, and I'll see you in court, and I'll walk away with everything you have - although, from the looks of you, you clearly don't have much."

Tom stepped forward, his fists balled.

"Oh, I hope you do," said Merryweather. "Then I get to put you in jail too."

Tyrone stepped between them.

"Hey," said Tyrone, "everything is so cool, it's like it's snowing right inside the train. Let's all walk away now. Hey, it's Christmas, right. You going home for Christmas, right Mr. Merryweather, to see the wife and kids? Bet you're bringing them lots of presents."

"I'm divorced. My children are spoiled brats unworthy of either my affection or my largesse."

With that, Gordon Merryweather walked off, sipping his scotch. About halfway down the corridor they heard him laughing.

Tom looked at Tyrone. "I'm surprised he didn't say 'Bah, humbug.'"

Tyrone shook his head. "You don't want to mess with that man. He'll tie you up in court for years. His picture is right in the dictionary, beside the word nightmare nightmare."

"No offense, but why is the 'king of the cla.s.s-action lawsuit' taking the train? He probably can afford his own jet."

"From what I've heard, the oh-so-tough Mr. Merryweather is afraid to fly. I wish he'd just buy his own train and stay off mine."

"Well, thanks for stopping me from knocking that scotch down his throat. I actually have plans for my life that don't include prison."

Tyrone smiled. "No problem. Any time."

Tom could tell Tyrone was really hustling to get things ready, so he decided to wrap things up. "And thanks for the info and the beer."

"Come on back after dinner. I serve some hard stuff."

"Hard stuff, now that's always been my kind of drink."

chapter seven.

Tom went back to his compartment and looked out the window; it was already dark at five-fifteen. They'd just cleared Harper's Ferry, West Virginia, a place immortalized when John Brown made his famous raid on the federal armory there prior to the Civil War's commencing, and went to the gallows as his price for being in the history books.

At c.u.mberland, Maryland, the Cap would be going through the Graham Tunnel, which ran about a third of a mile in length. According to Tom's train brochure, both the entrance and exit to the tunnel were in West Virginia. Yet due to the mysteries of geography and the happenstance of surveyors etching state lines, Tom supposed, the tunnel itself was actually in Maryland. The Cap would also be navigating the famous c.u.mberland Gap, the same natural breach frontiersmen had used to get through the wall of the Appalachian Mountains on their way to the Plains and the Pacific. But for that hole in the rock, America might still be a motley strip of thirteen very oppressed English colonies.

After c.u.mberland, the train would next encounter Lover's Leap. Here, legend had it, an Indian princess forbidden by her father to marry the American soldier she loved threw herself off in despair. The anguished chief then supposedly threw himself over too. Tom didn't think he'd be sharing that tale with Steve and Julie. They were nervous enough.

Deciding it was finally time to hunt down the film people, Tom pa.s.sed between cars in the opposite direction of the dining room and found himself in the other sleeping-room section. By now he'd adjusted his balance to the gentle rocking and swaying of the train, and he was proud to note that he took a tumble only once out of three clear opportunities to do so. He slowed his pace. Deluxe units were marked with letters, while the economy compartments were numbered. He was sure that Hollywood types would only travel first cla.s.s, especially famous or infamous ones. He drifted toward this section, hoping one of the movie folks would come out of hiding and he could strike up a conversation, perhaps get a part in a blockbuster for a million bucks and become merrily infamous himself.

He moved to the first compartment. There the curtain was pulled tightly across the opening and he could see nothing, although he heard someone moving around inside. As he went to the next compartment he could see that the curtain was pulled back a bit. He stopped, checked the corridor, and then took a quick peek. The room had been outfitted as an office. There was a laptop computer set up, what looked to be a printer, a power strip complete with surge protector, and a tall young man, with a flattop haircut and wearing a dark turtleneck, pacing in the small s.p.a.ce. As he turned, Tom could see that he was wearing a phone headset with his cell phone riding in a belt clip.

This couldn't be the famous director, could it? This guy didn't seem like the director type - not that Tom knew what that type was, exactly. Then he had to be either a star or a writer. Tom's money was on his being a writer. He had a computer and a printer, after all. And he seemed like the young, hip scriveners probably much in demand out there. As everyone knew, people over thirty were ceremoniously stripped of their cool gene and given a bad haircut and a pair of sensible shoes in return.

Tom went to the next compartment. He was about to take a look when a man slid the door open and almost collided with him.

"Sorry," he said. Tom glanced at the unlighted cigarette in the man's hand. "I was just told I can't smoke in my compartment," he explained.

Tom quickly ran his gaze over the fellow, a longtime reporter's habit. He was medium height, early sixties and slim, but with the beginnings of a small paunch. He had thick silver hair, a healthy California Christmas tan, and was dressed very expensively in black slacks, white silk shirt, tweed jacket, and, on his feet, Bruno Maglis. To Tom he just reeked of casual, frolicking millions.

"They have a smoking lounge on the lower level," Tom advised.

"Well, I guess that's where I'm headed then. Tried a hundred times to kick this habit. Did the patch, even hypnosis. Nothing."

"I was a two-packer a day, but now I limit myself to the occasional cigar."

He looked interested. "How'd you manage it?"

"Well, my life sort of depended on it."

"I hear you. Who wants to die of lung cancer?"

"No, that's not what I mean. I used to be a news correspondent overseas. I was in a convoy of journalists that was attacked by guerrillas. One of the cars in front of us was. .h.i.t. Our guards told us to remain calm. Then a truck in front of us exploded. The guards told us to keep calm, stay put. Then a mortar round hit right next to us, and the guards told us one more time to keep calm. Right before they jumped out and ran."

"My G.o.d, what happened?"

"Well, they obviously had us in range, and we weren't waiting for the next shot to find us. We all jumped out and ran for the mountains. A guy from Reuters, about fifty and a heavy smoker, didn't make it. He dropped to the ground, probably due to a heart attack."

"Did you stop and help?"

"I would have, but I was carrying somebody at the time - twisted ankle, the person couldn't run. I was hauling up that mountain, my heart and lungs near to bursting; it seemed like every smoke I'd ever had was coming back to haunt me. But we made it to a friendly camp, barely."

"And the other guy?"

"I hope the heart attack killed him before the guerrillas reached him; they weren't known for their compa.s.sion. I haven't touched a cigarette since." Tom added, "I wouldn't recommend that method for everyone, of course. It could have some serious side effects."

"I guess so. Wow, what a story. War correspondent, huh?"

"Not anymore. The most dangerous things I report on these days are how to construct his and her closets in a way that allows the husband actually to live, and the harrowing pitfalls of home barbecuing."

The man laughed and put out his hand. "That's good. That's funny. I'm Max Powers, by the way."

Tom thought he had recognized him, and when the man said his name it all clicked. He was was a very famous director, regularly in the top ten of the most powerful people in Hollywood. Though he was known more for his enormous box-office successes, he'd also done some work that had pleased the critics, been nominated several times for Academy awards, and had taken home the grand prize a few years ago. a very famous director, regularly in the top ten of the most powerful people in Hollywood. Though he was known more for his enormous box-office successes, he'd also done some work that had pleased the critics, been nominated several times for Academy awards, and had taken home the grand prize a few years ago.

"Tom Langdon. I've seen a lot of your movies, Mr. Powers. You really know how to tell a story. And I'll take that over the highbrow stuff the critics always tout."

"Thanks. That's all I try to do, tell a story. And it's Max." He slipped the unlighted cigarette into his shirt pocket and looked around. "Well, we're trying to cobble a story together about this mode of transportation."

"Because there's something about a train?"

"You got that right. Cars? Forget it! Crazy drivers, jammed interstate highways, eating fast food till you drop? No thanks. Planes are impersonal and nerve-racking. Now, I don't like to fly, but in my business you have to. I was coming back on a flight once from Cannes, and we hit some really bad turbulence and I went into the lavatory and lighted up, because I was so nervous. Well, the smoke alarm went off, and when we landed they took me to jail. Jail! All for smoking one unfiltered menthol. Cost me thirty grand in legal fees, and I still had to do community service."

He calmed. "But trains, that's something else. I'm a native Californian, and my old man was a conductor on the Santa Fe pa.s.senger line back in the days when trains were really the cla.s.sy way to travel. He'd arrange it so I could ride up with the engineer. Let me tell you, there's no greater feeling in the world. Ever since, I've known there's a story to be told about riding the rails, and not like the stuff that's already been done. And now I'm finally doing something about it."

Tom told him about the story he was writing and some of his impressions of train travel. "It's not getting from A to B. It's not the beginning or the destination that counts. It's the ride in between. That's the whole show," he said. "If you only take the time to see it. This train is alive with things that should be seen and heard. It's a living, breathing something - you just have to want to learn its rhythm." Tom wondered where this was all coming from, but there it was. Maybe the Cap was growing on him.

Max gripped Tom's arm excitedly. "You understand exactly what I'm trying to get at here." He suddenly smacked his forehead. "I just had an unbelievable brainwave. This is always happening to me, Tom, all the time. Look, you're a writer, seen stuff all over the world, and you're on this train trying to take the pulse of America over the holidays."

"Right, so?" Tom said cautiously. He had no idea where this was going, but Max Powers seemed to be floating in the clutches of his brainwave.

"So, you and my writer should team up - I mean, for this trip, for the research part. Swap notes, stories you've heard, brainstorming, stuff like that. And I'm not talking for free. I'll pay you, believe me."

"But I'm already working on a story."

"That's the sheer beauty of it. You write your story, fine. But the same stuff you're doing for your story can help my writer put the film plot together. It's perfect. Two bangs for one. Get it?"

Tom nodded. However, he wasn't really looking forward to working with the ten-year-old with the headset. Tom was neither very young nor very hip, and if the guy called him "dude" just once or perhaps blurted out "Ciao!" instead of simply "goodbye," it might get ugly.

To Tom's surprise, Max led him right past the compartment with the headset-wearing hipster and went to the first compartment and rapped on the gla.s.s.

"You decent? It's Max."

The door slid open, and in that instant Tom felt every bit of breath leave his body. He could no longer even hear the hum, hush, siss-boom-bah of the mighty Cap as Eleanor Carter stared back at him.

chapter eight.

Max said, "Eleanor Carter, Tom Langdon. Tom, Eleanor."

Neither Tom nor Eleanor uttered a word. They just stared at each other for so long that Max finally said, "Um, do you two know each other?"

"It was years ago," Eleanor said quickly.

She was even more lovely now than the last time Tom had seen her, and that bar had been set pretty high. She was tall and still slender, and hadn't cut her auburn hair short as so many women closing in on forty do. It was still shoulder-length and s.e.xy. Her face, well, there were a few more lines there, yet they possessed an attractiveness - a statement that the owner had actually lived lived - that smooth, unblemished skin could never match. And the big green eyes still packed a wallop and made Tom want to find a chair to sit in before he fell over. She was wearing gray wool slacks, stylish black, low-heeled shoes, and a white sweater with the collar of a blue shirt sticking out. - that smooth, unblemished skin could never match. And the big green eyes still packed a wallop and made Tom want to find a chair to sit in before he fell over. She was wearing gray wool slacks, stylish black, low-heeled shoes, and a white sweater with the collar of a blue shirt sticking out.