most a hijack…'
Curry had learned that 'hijacking' down here meant robbing a fellow 'bo while he was sleeping. He had also learned that life on the road included frequent irrational, violent outbursts over insults, real or imagined.
'Guys who been pickin' somewhere come in with a pocketful of cash, start flashing it around, pretty soon there's trouble. They get to drinking, then to fighting, and before long somebody's got a knife. A lot of people die in this ol' life, and nobody even keeps track of it. You're on your own here, son.'
It seemed death was commonplace in these parts.
'So the Butcher doesn't frighten you,' Curry said, 'any more than anything else around here does.'
'Not many are all that spooked by this spook. Long as a person ain't a fool and goes walking alone in the Run-like you was doing.'
'I just hopped off a freight,' Curry said.
'I think he kills faggots and whores,' said the third man, another gaunt individual, but a younger, not so well- shaven one. His eyes were bright, catching the reflection of the fire. 'I think a real man's got nothing to fear.'
'That one guy was a sailor, they say,' said the clean-shaven hobo.
The bright-eyed one laughed derisively and said, 'I never knew a sailor who didn't take it up the poop deck.'
'Gets lonely out at sea,' the old man said philosophically. Then he looked at Curry carefully, saying, 'Where you in from?'
'Down Florida way,' Curry said. 'Picking fruit.'
'Long as there's fruit, there'll be 'bos to harvest it.' The old man smiled; he didn't have all his teeth, and what he did have he wouldn't have forever. 'You ain't been on the road long, have you, son?'
'No,' Curry said, smiling a little. 'Does it show?'
'A mite.'
Curry knew it showed more than a 'mite,' though he didn't know what to do about it. These men had earned the road-weary look they carried: eyes bloodshot from the dirt and cinders of riding the rails; leather-dry, sun-brown faces; callused hands.
'You don't look like you been in Florida,' said the younger one. 'You're pale, like a baby's butt.' There was no suspicion in his voice. It seemed merely an observation. He took a small waxed-paper bundle out of his breast pocket; it contained a sack of Bull Durham, rolling papers, and a book of matches.
'The railroad dicks pulled me off a train in Georgia,' Curry said smoothly. He'd used this story at the other shantytown and was starting to believe it himself. 'Turned me over to the locals and they vagged me. I didn't see the sun in two weeks.'
'Cops get your grubstake?' the younger one asked, eyes narrowing.
'No,' Curry said, feeling a little wave of panic. Nobody had asked him that before.
'The cops didn't take your dough?' the old man said, astounded. 'What kind of cops was these?'
'Well,' Curry said, gesturing, improvising, 'I had a hundred bucks, and I didn't want to travel with it. So I mailed it to a girlfriend of mine in West Virginia. I seen her the other day and picked it up.'
'And she didn't spend it?' the young one asked, eyes widening, as he rolled his cigarette.
'She knew I'd beat the bejesus out of her if she did,' Curry said with a wicked smile, proud of himself for coming up with this line of malarkey on such short notice.
'Better be careful,' the old man said, gesturing with his corncob pipe. 'Moneys dangerous now, 'cause it's so short. You go flashing a roll around, round here, the jackrollers'll get ya, sure as I gotta take a shit.'
And with that, the old man got up and wandered off into the darkness to the designated spot, and Curry turned to the other two and said, 'Now, it seems to me a guy wandering off to take a piss or a dump or what have you, in the middle of the night like this, is asking for trouble.'
'From that Butcher, you mean?' the clean-shaven one asked. He laughed shortly and waved the notion off. 'Not tonight, anyway.'
'Why do you say that?'
'Got my reasons.'
'Such as?'
'Maybe I know who he is.'
'You know who the Butcher is?'
'Maybe.'
Curry tried not to let his anxiety show. 'There's a big cash reward, you know.'
'Not for the likes of me,' he said. He reached behind him and withdrew an unmarked bottle of clear fluid; rubbing alcohol, most likely. He swigged at it. Then he offered some to Curry and the young bright-eyed 'bo. Curry declined, but the other did not.
'That burns,' the bright-eyed one said, grinning, wiping off his mouth with the back of one hand.
'I live for it,' the clean-shaven one said. 'Army did it to me. You drink or you go bughouse.'
'Were you in the war?' Curry asked.
'Yes,' he said, taking his bottle back from the kid. 'They made a tramp outa me. Learned to live off what I could carry on my back. Learned I could live anywheres.'
Curry couldn't tell whether the man was spiteful or grateful, and he wasn't sure the man knew, either.
Soon the old guy came back and sat back down against his bedroll. A Rapid Transit train went screeching by, sparking up the night.
'Look at 'em,' the old man said, 'going to their fancy houses. Goin' nowhere!'
'I'd like to be going there,' said the bright-eyed one. 'I had a good job once.' He didn't say what it was.
'They got no independence,' said the old man, as if he felt sorry for the commuters heading out to ritzy Shaker Heights. 'They own too much. It comes to own them. When the stock market crashed, my life didn't change. Long as I keep moving, something will turn up-another flop, another ride, another handout, another cigarette butt, another odd job.'
The bright-eyed kid studied the old man, his expression sober-perhaps he was contemplating the life ahead of him.
The thought of one of his companions knowing the Butchers identity was gnawing at Curry.
So he said to the old man, 'This fella here says he knows who the Butcher is,' and he gestured to the clean- shaven war vet.
The old man shrugged, digging out more butts for his pipe. Not terribly interested.
'If you know who he is,' Curry said to the vet, 'why don't you call the cops or something?'
'The cops,' the vet said, 'work for the rich. Fuck 'em all, I say.'
'I seen the newspapers,' the old man said, getting his pipe going again, 'and the two corpses they put names to, neither of 'em is our people.'
'A faggot and a whore,' said the vet.
'But the other victims might be hobos,' Curry said. ''The fact that they weren't identified-'
'Look,' said the clean-shaven one forcefully. 'I know who the Butcher is, and he's moved on. I don't think we'll see him again.
That seemed to satisfy the others-except for Curry, who was stewing in his own frustration, not being able to follow up harder on the matter without blowing his cover.
'Think I'll sack out,' the bright-eyed kid said suddenly, and he headed for a nearby shack, then disappeared inside. The clean-shaven war vet got up after a while, too, lugging his bottle of rubbing alcohol.
That left only the old man. He smiled with patience and wisdom and bad teeth. He said, 'Be careful tonight, son.'
Curry smiled back at him. 'I thought you weren't worried about the Butcher.'
'I'm not. But watch yourself-there's thieves among us. Guys who are nice to your face, waiting till your back is to 'em.'
Curry nodded. 'Thanks.'
'I'd sleep out in the open.'
'Well, actually, I'd rather have a roof over my head.'
'Up to you,' the old man said, and began undoing his bedroll near the dwindling fire.
Curry found a small, vacant shack; you could stand in it, but then you can also stand in a closet, which this
