You Bet Your Life: A Toby Peters Mystery (Book Three) Read Free Page B

lines of grandfatherly wrath.
    “Don’t know what you did or said, son, but she deserved it and more. Been shushing up the kids and making loud remarks ’bout people. Come on. I’ll buy you a beer and you can take the rest of the trip in those two empty seats over there where you can spread out some.”
    His accent had come out soft and warm in spite of an aged rasp, and I decided that it could be a pleasant sound.
    He was as good as his skinny word, and with a second beer in me I was almost asleep when we hit Jacksonville. Most of the lights were out in the car. It was about midnight. Out the window on the platform a couple of people were getting on. One was a skinny kid in an orange shirt who looked up at the windows. I thought his eyes rested on me. They were the glazed eyes of a drunk, a junk, a punk, or all three. I looked at him because he had no baggage and then I forgot him. The ten minute layover and the vibration of the train put me to sleep.
    I dreamt I was working for Al Capone. There was a party, and my job was to watch the guests’ valuables and coats. They began piling coats and jewels on a bed in a small room. More and more guests came. My ex-wife Anne came with George Raft and acted as if she didn’t know me. So far it was pretty true to life. Then Koko the Clown also came to the party. Koko was a frequent star of my dream world. I was also sure we were in Cincinnati. I dream about Cincinnati a lot, though I’ve never been there. I’ve got an elaborate map of Cincinnati in my head from dreams.
    I remember thinking that my dream was getting stupid, but the dream didn’t stop. Coats, fur, and cloth piled up. I was running out of room, and the mound of clothes was about to topple over and smother me. I panicked and reached for my gun to shoot at the pile, but Al Capone’s voice found me. “Is this the way you work for your friend Snorky?” he grunted. I reached out my hand and asked him to pull me out before I drowned in other people’s wealth. Instead he sent in the Marx Brothers, a plumber, a manicurist, and a couple of trays of food. I complained about my bad back, tried to think of good deeds. “Cuts no ice with me,” said Capone. “I’m a dying man. But you can have my scars.”
    I told him I didn’t want his scars, that I had plenty of my own. He laughed, and I woke up with a stiff neck as the train pulled into Birmingham, Alabama, at 8:08 A.M. My mouth was dry. My face felt like a well-used toothbrush, and seated next to me at the window was the thin young man with the orange shirt who had gotten on in Jacksonville without a suitcase. He had his chin in his hand and his face away from me so I couldn’t see his eyes. All I could see was his washed out, thin yellow hair and a bristly neck. I said, “Good morning.” He said nothing. I tilted my seat back, closed my eyes and tried to think. I got nowhere, so I went to the washroom, shaved, brushed my teeth, and went to the dining car where I had two bowls of cereal—one Quaker Rice and the other Wheaties. When I got back to my seat, the young man hadn’t moved. Someone had either covered him with quick-drying lacquer, he was an Indian Yoga, or he was dead. I didn’t care which. By early evening my always unreliable back was bothering me from sitting too long, and I had worked out a brilliant plan—I would do what Capone had suggested. I would try to find Ralph Capone, Nitti, or Guzik. I’d use Al’s name and hope they’d help.
    Satisfied with my mental effort, and feeling friendly, I asked the young guy if he was going to dinner. He hadn’t moved for lunch. He grunted something and didn’t move. I went to the dining car and was enjoying a Salisbury steak and carrots until we pulled to a stop in Indianapolis and I looked out the window. The young blond guy in the orange shirt was standing on the platform, which was fine with me. What wasn’t so fine was that he was holding my suitcase. I reached for my wallet to throw down a