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Tradition.
Screw it.
They’re still in the yard near the Hoboken Terminal, and the sun’s been up for a while, and Orrin’s just sitting, idly watching the other trains and cars in the yard, some of the short-track engines moving lines of freight cars to where they need to be for later runs by other crews. They’ve both completed their walk-around of the freight cars, ensuring that all is in place and the brake lines are attached.
He says, “You got any plans for when we get to Albany?”
Miguel doesn’t hear him. He’s staring out the left side windshield.
Orrin is about to say something else when he spots something sticking out of Miguel’s heavy jean jacket.
It looks like the butt of a pistol.
What the hell?
Why’s Miguel carrying?
What’s he up to?
Then Miguel shifts, and Orrin sees that the object is only his cell phone.
Man,he thinks,why am I being so paranoid?
This is what he loves. This is what he was born for. Brian Lamott is looking forward to his retirement—now just two months and three days away—but he knows he’ll miss this feeling of satisfaction, of leaving a train yard and hauling tons of freight that keeps the country running. There was a time when truckers were supposedly the “cowboys of the highways,” the romantic last breed of rugged individuals feeding and fueling America, but Brian knows that’s all bullshit.
It’s train guys like him and his conductor, Alvi Dudin, who keep this country alive.
The cabin of his GE diesel electric is as familiar to Brian as his kitchen at night. He knows what every switch, lever, and dial does, and a quick glance at the gauges—even though they’re really computer screens—shows everything is normal. The main air reservoir in this locomotive is at 135 psi; the hard rubber brake pipes extending all the way back are holding at 90 psi; the speed is an even 55 miles per hour.
Perfect.
Everything on HV414-29 is running as smooth as it could. As they approach a crossing, Brianpushes the square yellow button for the train’s horn, giving it a quick four blasts. A couple of kids at the crossing wave at him, and he waves back. A few years ago, a cute young woman was holding hands with her boyfriend at a crossing; as Brian sped by, she let go of her boyfriend’s hand and gave him a wave.
Everyone loves trains.
They are south of Albany, passing through Glenmont, when Brian says, “Hey, Alvi.”
Alvi turns from his vantage point on the fireman’s chair. “What’s up?”
Brian says, “We’re going to be passing the northbound to Albany at a little past 11 a.m. Wanna moon them as they go by?”
Alvi shakes his head, smiling. “Nah. I don’t want to get into trouble.”
Chapter98
JEREMY WINDSORclutches the side of the door as Amy roars the Impala down Lefante Way in Bayonne, New Jersey, passing through what looks like an industrial dumping ground of junk, warehouses, and parked tractor trailers. As they quickly approach a small gatehouse of stone and wood, a man in a security officer’s uniform steps out and—
Amy lays on the horn, the man jumps back, and now they’re passing through an improved area: the road curves and sways, and up ahead is what looks to be the main building of the golf club—a two-story Victorian-style building with a lighthouse stuck to one end.
The cars parked here are Jaguars, Porsches, and Range Rovers. Amy brakes the Impala hard, shoves it in a parking space near the building, and throws the car into Park as privileged men and women golfers casually stroll by.
“I’m out of here,” she says. “You get your Brit ass across the river and try to stop Rashad. I’ll take care of the railway.”
“How?” Jeremy says, scooting into the driver’s seat.
Amy says, “By following your lead: relying on steel-hard friendships, always ready to do a mate a favor.”
“The time,” he says. “Eleven-oh-nine. I puzzled it out. Reverse it. It’s nine-eleven. Bastard.”
