The Black Train

“And again, Mr. Collier, I’m so sorry about my silly drunken daughter bein’ a thorn in your side last night —”

“Don’t mention it. I was a little drunk myself, if you want to know the truth.”

“So what’cha lookin’ for in town? Anything in particular?”

She stepped aside as he descended; Collier’s eyes groaned against her plush body. “Actually, the bookstore. Is that on the main street?”

“Yes, sir, right on the corner. Number One Street and Penelope. It’s a fine little shop.”

Something nagged at him—besides her blaring curves. “Oh, and I wanted to ask you something. Do you allow guests to bring pets to the inn?”

Her eyes seemed to dim. “Pets, well, no. But of course if you’re thinkin’ of bringing a pet on some future visit, I’m sure I could make—”

“No, no, that’s not what I mean. It’s just that—” Suddenly he felt foolish bringing it up. “I thought I saw a dog last night.”

“A dog? In the inn? There aren’t any here, I can assure you. And we don’t own any pets personally.”

What a mistake. I was seeing things because I was drunk and stressed out from her psycho daughter. “I’m sorry, I guess my head wasn’t on straight last night. Let me just say that the beer at Cusher’s was so good, I drank a few too many.”

She tried to laugh. “Well, we want ya to have a good time, Mr. Collier.” She paused and pinched her chin. “There is a stray dog ’cos these parts that some folks see. What kind’a dog was it you thought ya saw?”

“I don’t even know. A mutt, I guess, about the size of a bulldog. Kind of a muddy brown.”

Did she throw off a moment of fluster? “Well, if some stray got in here, we’ll have it out of here a mite fast. Lottie leaves the back door open sometimes. Honestly that silly girl runs me ragged, but you have a nice time in town, Mr. Collier.”

“Thanks. See you later.”

Collier went out the big front doors. Did her reaction strike him as odd, or was it just more overflow? There’s no dog. I’m the one who’s overreacting. He let the winding road out front take him down the hill, into warm sunlight.

After a hundred yards, he felt better; something more positive began to supplant last night’s foolishness. He’d brought one of his boilerplate permission forms because he’d already decided that Cusher’s Civil War Lager would be the final entry in his book. He’d found what he’d been looking for, and the brightest sideline was the brewer herself. She’s so cool, he thought in a daze. “Dominique…” The name rolled off his tongue. He’d already assured himself that his professional motives were intact. I’d give the beer a five-star rating even if the brewer were ugly. Still, he couldn’t wait to see Dominique…

Downtown, the lunch crowd was out, filling the picture-postcard streets with smiles and shining eyes. Money first, he reminded himself. He didn’t have much cash on him, and right there on the corner stood a bank. FECORY SAVINGS AND TRUST. Odd name, he thought, but who cared? There was an ATM.

Several people stood in line before him. Collier waited idly, looking down the rest of Penelope Street. When he turned, he noticed a mounted bronze plaque bolted to the front of the building.

THIS BUILDING WAS CONSTRUCTED ON THE ORIGINAL SITE OF THE FIRST BANK OF GAST, AND NAMED FOR THE TOWN’S PAYMASTER, WINDOM FECORY. IN 1865, UNION SOLDIERS CONFISCATED THE BANK OF MILLIONS IN GOLD THAT HAD BEEN HIDDEN BENEATH THE FLOOR, THEN BURNED THE BUILDING TO THE GROUND TO RETRIEVE ITS NAILS FROM THE ASHES.

Interesting, Collier thought, but now the only thing on his mind was Dominique. I’ll have lunch there today, and give her the release form. “And I’d really like to talk to you some more, too, Mr. Collier,” he remembered her saying. Collier was so distracted by the thought of her, he didn’t even take note of the tube-topped/cutoff-jeaned Paris Hilton look-alike who was now bent over the ATM tapping in her PIN. Collier’s resurgent lust, in other words, was thwarted by thoughts of someone else.

“Oh, hey there, Mr. Collier—”

Collier looked up, surprised to see Jiff standing right before him in line. “Hi, Jiff. Didn’t even see you there. Guess I’m preoccupied or something.”

“Hard not to be on a beautiful day like we got.” Jiff stood lackadaisically in his work boots, scuffed jeans, and clinging T-shirt. “Out for a stroll?”

“Yeah, but I saw the bank here and thought I’d grab some cash first.”

“I just stopped by to deposit a check real quick, and then it’s back to work.” He’d pronounced “deposit” as “deposert.” “And thanks again for last night. I had me a lot of fun.”

“Me, too. We’ll do it again before I head back to L.A.”

Jiff grinned ruefully, arms crossed. “Ma told me ’bout your little problem last night with Lottie. She can be a right pain in the ass, she can.”

You’re telling me? “It was no big deal. She’s a good kid.”

“Yeah, but it’s too bad she’s the way she is. Don’t fit in proper with everyone else, not bein’ able to talk and all, and a’course that goofy grin.”

“Hopefully she’ll come out of her shell someday.”

Jiff waved a hand. “Naw, that’d just get her into more trouble. She’s best just doin’ her work ’cos the house’n stayin’ put.”

The poor girl’s doomed in that house of bumpkins…But by now, Collier noticed the lithe blonde at the ATM, and several other men in line were eyeballing her, too. But when Collier looked to Jiff…

The man didn’t seem to be aware of her.

Just like last night at the bar, Collier remembered. Then, very quickly, he noticed the top of the check in his hand.

JOSEPHAWITZ-GEORGE SUTE, the name at the top read. The local author, he thought. Collier hoped to be running into him today. He noticed that the check was made out for thirty dollars. Side work, Collier recalled. Jiff had already mentioned that he was also a local handyman.

The blonde left; then Jiff stepped up and deposited his check. “Guess you’ll be stoppin’ by Cusher’s for lunch, huh?”

“As a matter of fact I am. I’m going to write up the lager in my book and I need Dominique to sign a release form.”

Jiff grinned over his shoulder and winked. “It’s a mighty fine beer, but you know, Mr. Collier, my mom makes her own spiced ale on occasion. I’m sure she’s still got plenty in the fruit cellar, and I’m double-sure she’d love for you ta try some.”

He’s trying to fix me up with his sixty-five-year-old mother again. Collier squirmed for a response. “Oh, really? That’s interesting. I enjoy homemade ales.” But, sixty-five years old or not, he still remembered that body of hers, in the peephole—Man…—then the odd notion that Mrs. Butler herself had drilled that hole…“You’re welcome to join me for lunch,” he added, if only to blot out the image of the plush, large-nippled breasts all glimmering in lather.

“Aw, thanks much, Mr. Collier, but I still got some fix-it jobs around town ’fore I head back to the house.” He flashed a final grin. “But you have a fine day.”

“You, too, Jiff.”

Jiff strode off, whistling like a cliche. Collier took money out of the machine and continued into town.

A quick look into Cusher’s showed him a full house and full bar. Shit. I’ve got to get a seat at the bar, otherwise I won’t get to talk to her…The lunch crowd looked heavy everywhere, so he decided to kill some time roving in and out of some knickknack shops, tourist crannies, and the Gast Civil War Museum. On the corner, then, he noticed the bookstore. Might as well go in now and see if I can run down J.G. Sute…

A bell jingled when he pushed through the door. It was a small, tidy shop, with more tourist buttons, shirts,