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  “My share.” Joe agreed. “And you bet it was damn tricky, even on a good day.”

  “Why didn’t they ever improve it?”

  Joe swept out a gesturing hand.

  “Couldn’t. The whole thing was just the best of a bad situation. They only ever had so much room to work with off the mainline and that damn hillside undercut. A siding could only swing out in a tight downward curve that you can’t even see now, under all those weeds. Plus, being mostly shaded, the rails never got a chance to really dry out. So, they stayed damp and greasy.

  “How’d you play it?”

  “Going in wasn’t too bad. Gravity and brakes did the work. But coming out, you’d just hold your breath and crawl along with your head out the window and one hand on the sanders. And brother, if you ever broke loose - forget it. You’d have a better chance getting out of quicksand.

  “I knew guys who got stuck and tried five or six times to rock their way out; nearly burning through a railhead without even budging. They’d cut off some cars and maybe some more cars and finally get a helper engine that sometimes would get stuck as well, tying up the whole outside main, until finally getting free. And with wartime traffic of eighty-some trains passing through here a day, you can imagine what a mess that made.”

  “Ever happen to you?”

  Joe rapped his knuckles on the cab windowsill in oath.

  “Nope. Came close a few times. But, I was damn lucky.”

  Vint scrutinized the bounty of dead weeds.

  “Someone ought to cut all that dry stuff back, before it catches fire and burns the whole joint down.”

  “They’re bankrupt,” argued Joe. “No one cares. The money guys just want what they can get out of it. But, whenever things do get settled I will guarantee you one thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “If you can see way back in there you might still spot the tops of some covered hoppers. Behind them are a couple of tankers. All are loaded with chemicals that never got used or paid for when Rahl went belly-up. I know, because I put them there. And you can bet your bottom dollar, that when they do settle things, it’ll be us guys and this local, sent in to get ‘em back out.”

  A split-finger whistle sounded shrilly, bringing Vint about.

  “Spike’s giving us the high sign.”

  Joe reached for the locomotive’s controls, prepared to retrieve his brakeman.

  “Yeah. Let’s get out of here.”

  CHAPTER 7

  Joe’s Friday return to the receiving yard was formal notice of his ending workweek. He had the engine throttle cut back, its reverse lever notched down. Feeling a bunching of the gross tonnage following behind, he gently applied train line brake pressure to keep the cars stretched, easing any strain on their couplers as well as protecting the goods they carried.

  Vint had accordingly shut down his stoker and cranked in some blower to help ventilate the settling fire. Far behind, Ziggy was swinging off the distant caboose. In hand and ready for surrender was his freight manifest. Its contents would soon become the outbound worklist for Jim Graczyk’s late afternoon switcher crew.

  Joe’s engine came to rest as a hotshot run picked up speed on the opposite main. It was Train 57, beginning the start of its red ball, 500 mile nighttime race. A solid line of yellow belly refrigerated boxcars was in tow, one more of the time critical meat shipments leaving Chicago.

  Such premium runs promised daylight delivery within 250 miles and overnight consignments pledged for twice that far. So, Joe knew that its crew would be traveling balls-out in a matter of minutes. He and the outbound engineer exchanged courteous nods in passing, while Spike rose from his jump seat. Ready to disconnect their locomotive and its own train, Spike looked to Joe.

  “You ever miss it?”

  “What? The high speed stuff?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Nope. That was another lifetime.”

  The brakeman agreed.

  “Just what I say. Let the young bucks have all they want.”

  Joe made certain that the locomotive’s brakes were on, its throttle closed and locked. He set the reverse gear to neutral and opened the cylinder cocks, gathering up his lunch pail.

  Finishing his own post-trick chores, Vint purposely clear his throat.

  “Ah, say, Joebie. Some news came my way this morning.”

  Graczyk paused. “Oh?”

  “Uh-huh. An opening for me on a full time road crew, back home. Looks like I could be gone in another few weeks.”

  Joe yanked off his work glove and stuck out a proud hand.

  “Figured it couldn’t be too much longer. Congratulations.”

  Vint accepted the kind words a bit self-consciously.

  “Thanks. I didn’t want you to think I was an ingrate, by letting you hear it somewheres else. But, I just couldn’t think of a good time or way to tell you.”

  “Right now is fine,” said Joe. “You’ve been damn good at your job and I’ll brag that to anybody.”

  The engineer paused.

  “So, have you got some big celebration plans for the weekend?”

  “Just hang around, like usual. Spend some time at the track. Maybe stop by Eddie’s place for a few beers. Community center’s got a dance tomorrow night. Might drop in and check out the ladies.”

  “That still leaves Sunday,” said Joe. “What’re you doing for noontime chow?”

  “Grab something at Georgee’s diner, I guess.”

  Joe shook his head.

  “Can’t have that on a special occasion like this. Sarah’s planning to cook a batch of galumpke for Sunday dinner. I think she’d be pleased to help celebrate, if you felt like dropping by.”

  Vint perked up.

  “Homemade pigs-in-blankets? Heck yes, I’ll drop by! Any chance of her making that braided raisin bread?”

  Joe smiled.

  “I’d say so. Is twelve-thirty okay?”

  “I’ll be there.”

  “See you then.”

  Joe dismounted the engine and drew a slow breath of outside air. Even a tepid 80 degrees felt refreshing to the man after all his hours beside a coal fire. Before signing his power back in, he walked to the yard office for a chat with Boots.

  Just inside and right of its heavy storm door, Joe saw the new owner of Alex’s old office. A name of DELYNNE LEPLAK and wordy job title now laid claim to the honored, old window glass. Immediately beyond the new stenciling, sat an engineer and fireman from the Indiana district. Their faces drooping, the pair were obviously in the midst of some official reprimand.

  An old and familiar profile was also present, that of union rep, Stanley Dombeck. Known as Stosh in his old yard hand days, the grievance man had once been a tireless champion of hourly workers’ rights. His superb bargaining skills in the union local helped move him upward, from yard to subdivision, and now, the entire division, where he ruled supreme.

  But somewhere along the way Stosh’s emphasis transitioned. Spending increasing time in union-company meetings held off site, his work arena had changed from the home field advantage of gritty roundhouses and yard offices, to a more neutral and distracting territory of swank hotel conference rooms and their complimentary perks. Those who’d once been fierce adversaries slowly mutated into more of genteel associates.

  Stosh’s dress code too, evolved, becoming more like that of his opponents and less like his workmates. His scuffed, safety-toed boots and baggy cotton work clothes were traded for trim dress slacks and sport shirts. A flashy wristwatch and signet ring appeared, while his old nickname faded, making him Stan, not so much of a workingman’s champion as a company colleague.

  Joe touched eyes with him in passing and a hint of nostalgia lit Stan’s face. Just as quickly, though, it dimmed and he looked away, in support of the grim proceedings and the new red-haired office man
berating his captive crew.

  “You do know how to sand the flues of a boiler.”

  “Mister,” replied the accused fireman, “You could have shoveled the whole Twelfth Street Beach in that old sow and not made a difference in her smoke. Besides, we were stuck in a residential district by then. Sanding an engine there would’ve pumped even more crap in the air. And we just wanted to get the hell away.”

  The engineer raised a last-ditch defense.

  “Just where’d that junk coal come from? It was so oxidized it could’ve been pool table slate. You’d thought it was Judgment Day, with all the brimstone in the air. At times that smoke was pure yellah.”

  The new office man tightened his gaze.

  “We use what’s available. If a trade-off needs to be made in what’s routed from the company mines, top grade stoker coal goes first to our customers. This road also gets a tax break if it buys eastern hard-grade, instead of using its own, soft. And in this day and age, we need all the relief we can get. But, bottom line, it’s your job to run a clean stack in the city limits, no matter what fuel you have.”

  The fireman appealed directly to his union rep.

  “Aw, come on, Stosh. You know I’ve never had this happen before. That coal was so slack I had to hand-fire from the county line! And now, after breaking my back to bring her in on time, I get this?”

  Dombeck spoke chapter and verse, motioning in hard evidence, to sheets of paper atop the new manager’s desk.

  “Five residential complaints are required to get a crew reprimanded for excess smoke making. And here are seven. It’s all documented and nothing can be done to change that.”

  “Seventy demerits worth?”

  “That’s what’s being levied,” said the new office man. “And to the degree of disregard . . .”

  “Disregard!” Spat the engineer.

  The new office man stared hard as he repeated.

  “Yes, your disregard of correct procedure. Now, enough talk. It’s time to end this. The way I see it, you can make an official protest with downtown. But that might take a week or longer and you’d be off, suspended without pay, until then. On the other hand, sign this admission and if there’s no other trouble with you, you’ll work off the points in a year. Even more, you’ll stay on the job. Nothing personal, just business.”

  The pair of engine men shook their heads bitterly.

  “Oh, give us a damn pen, already.”

  Joe and Boots watched the crew trudge miserably from the building. Stosh followed. He hesitated, as though considering to walk over and talk. But, like so many other things in Joe’s world, those old times seemed to have moved on, as well. And dropping his gaze, so did Stosh.

  Joe questioned Boots in a low tone

  “Seventy brownies? You’d thought they stole the Crown jewels.”

  Boots puffed his lips.

  “It’s been like this ever since that new guy walked in here. He’s quite the bird.”

  A set of work boots clomped purposely loud, up the yard office steps, into the tower, and passed the makeshift courtroom. With the clamor came a boisterous Sunday Guzmán.

  “Hola José! How they hangin’ compadre’?”

  Sunday’s bawdiness drew a pointed glance from the new office man and Joe took the hint, answering in kind.

  “Fair and square! How’s your pair?”

  Sunday then hooked a thumb over his shoulder, at Joe’s simmering Mikado locomotive.

  “That Mike ready for a once-over?”

  “Yep,” said Joe. “I was headed down to sign her back in. You might have your boys give her a listen, though. Thought I heard a slight whistle starting in her right-side valve action. Something might be working its way off center.”

  “Any noise up the stack?”

  “Not yet. But still, didn’t quite feel up to snuff. I’d say it’s an eccentric, starting to slip.”

  An unfamiliar voice interrupted from down the hall.

  “So, seniority number 5728 is doctor of engines.”

  It was the new yard administrator, now outside of his office and brazenly interrupting the others.

  Joe regarded him.

  “Do I know you?”

  But Sunday stepped in, attesting for his friend before the new man could reply.

  “That’s just what Joe is, all right. The best damn engine doctor on this whole line. And if he says one needs checking, it’s good enough for me.”

  The young man spoke around Sunday.

  “Was the engine’s performance impaired in any way?”

  Joe repeated the word.

  “No, it wasn’t impaired - yet. But, I could tell . . .”

  He found himself cutoff in mid-sentence, ignored completely as the new man addressed Sunday.

  “Then have it fueled and turned for the night run to Cairo.”

  “We can still run a quick check of her linkage,” Sunday offered.

  “Coal and water only.” Dictated the other man. “You’ve got other things to tend.”

  DeLynne readdressed Joe.

  “I see that you turn in quite a few concern reports on machines that could keep them out of service on minor accounts.”

  The engineer felt his neck muscles tighten. He nudged up the brim of his work cap and set a hand atop a nearby power ledger in witness.

  “These books ask for my opinion on any locomotive I run. So, I write them down. You’re free to do whatever you want with that advice. And mister, today, I just might have a new suggestion on how you can use it.”

  Joe snatched up his gloves and left the office. Neither he, nor the new man said another word in parting. But they ever so slightly, did brush shoulders on his way passed.

  Sunday trailed along after Joe, waiting to speak until they were outside.

  “You just met our new, resident Hitler youth. The little know-it-all came up here with some big family connections, back home. Been hearing that he didn’t have many friends down there, either.”

  “Not hard to understand,” said Joe. “The uppity little jerk. Seventy brownies to that crew for a first-time round of smoke making? If it was washday and they ruined a whole neighborhood’s drying clothes I might understand. But just right out of the hat?”

  “He hands demerits out like party favors,” Sunday answered. “Been waiting to tangle with him, myself.”

  Joe smirked.

  “After today, you might need to get in line behind me.”

  The engineer rocked to a quick stop.

  “Say, as shop steward, shouldn’t you have been in, on that mess?”

  “Normally, yeah. But, word came down that it was to be all Dombeck’s show.”

  Joe considered it.

  “Is that so? Well, he did a real nice job - of hanging those two guys out to dry - I mean.”

  The pair watched a new Pontiac sedan drive away with the very man they discussed.

  “Looks like the old Stosh is gone for good.”

  “And that still hurts to see.”

  Their talk fell off for a few steps. Then Sunday nudged his friend with a more upbeat topic.

  “Hey, my Carmelita said to tell you that pretty soon she’ll be making up a batch of those homemade tamales you like so much. Said she’d trade you a pile of nice plump ones for a thick ring of that old-fashioned Polish blood sausage. Think you might still find the really good, old time stuff?”

  Joe put the office incident behind him.

  “Her corn-leaf-wrapped tamales?”

  “Sure. The only kind.”

  Joe gave his friend a calculated eye.

  “In trade, huh? Is that in trade to her or you?”

  Sunday bunched his lips and slumped.

  “Just what I thought,” said Joe. “Well, there’s a couple old school butchers who can still make the fennel
recipe. You tell Carmie that I’ll trade her some kiska.”

  Sunday tapped his friend’s muscled shoulder in parting.

  “Adios, hermano!”

  Joe continued toward the locker room. He encountered Boots a second time, as the man overtook him with a pile of fresh manifest sheets.

  “What’re you, a yard runner these days, too?”

  Boots sucked a quick breath.

  “Sure starting to feel like it. I did hear there’s going to be a job posting for a tower clerk. Know anyone who might be interested?”

  “Working for you?”

  “Maybe with. But nor for.”

  Joe stabbed his chin toward the yard office.

  “Who then, Mister Know-It-All? I wouldn’t send that joker my worst enemy.”

  Ahead, Joe spied Jim comparing switch lists for his upcoming night trick duties.

  “My kid been earning his keep?”

  “Sure has. He’s every inch the same hard worker Mike was.”

  Joe silently weighed the comparison

  “Well, you just keep him in line.”

  “Jimmy’s a good guy,” defended Boots. “He doesn’t need any watching.”

  Joe glanced over.

  “Heard anything new on the next round of fireman exams?”

  Boots nodded, feeling something of a snitch.

  “Okay, prodded Joe. “Do I need to ask when?”

  “Saturday morning, a week from tomorrow. Eight o’clock at the Hawthorne community center in Cicero.”

  “29th Place? By the Laramie Avenue Bridge?”

  “Yep.”

  The tower man dared to offer a reluctant opinion.

  “You know, Joe, if the kid just doesn’t . . .”

  Graczyk’s eyes shifted toward the uninvited sentiment and Boots stopped. He cocked his head in apology.

  “Not my business. Sorry.”

  With a last look toward Jim, Joe Graczyk started for the locker room.

  “See you Monday.”

  CHAPTER 8

  All freight cars were known as rolling stock. Specifically, there were five distinct categories. Most common were boxcars, either steel-sided, for housing general merchandise, or of varied wood construction; with ventilated slat types meant for livestock transport, or the solid, insulated walls of refrigerated reefers.