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“No. What happened to Eyes?”
“I don’t know.”
“They said you were with him.”
“Yeah. So?”
“So what happened?”
Billy closed his eyes, and murmured, “One of these days, I’m going to get back to doing trains.”
“What do you mean, Billy?” Bell asked.
“There’s good money doing trains, you get the right freight. Good money. I used to be rich doing trains. Then they got my little girl, and all of a sudden I couldn’t do ’ em anymore.” He looked at Bell, the firelight making his eyes look as mad as the tone of his voice. “Got jobs once. You know that?”
“No, I didn’t know that, Billy. What sort of jobs?”
“Got jobs. Sceneshifter in a theater. Once I was a stableman. I even worked as a dummy boy.”
“What is a dummy boy?” Bell asked.
“Railroad signalman. Eleventh Avenue. I rode a horse ahead of the train. It’s the law in New York. You can’t run a train on Eleventh Avenue without a guy on a horse. Only time the law ever gave me a job. I didn’t stick it.”
He started coughing. Consumption, Bell thought. The man is dying.
“Are you hungry, Billy?”
“Naw. I don’t get hungry.”
“Try this.” Bell handed him a sandwich. Billy Collins sniffed, held it near his mouth, and said, “You a friend of Tommy?”
“What did Tommy do to Eyes?”
“Nothing. Told you. Tommy couldn’t do Eyes. Nobody could do Eyes. Except that old man.”
“Old man?”
“Hard old man.”
“You mean his father?”
“Father? Eyes didn’t have no father. The old man. He’s what got us. Got us good.”
“What old man?”
“On Clarkson.”
“Clarkson Street?” Bell asked. “Downtown?”
“The Umbria was sailing for Liverpool.”
The Cunard liner. One of the old ones. “When?”
“That night.”
“When Eyes disappeared?”
“When we was kids,” Billy answered dreamily. He lay back and gazed up at the frame for the viaduct.
