Mordecai Brown by Edward Drobinski - HTML preview

Mordecai Brown

Page 60

“Come on, Brownie,” Evers called from the doorway. “You’ll miss your berth.”

Brown touched the brim of his cap and stepped inside.

The Twentieth Century Limited this was not. This was a regular overnight consist; narrow berths, coal dust drifting in through the open windows, to which Brownie had previously built an immunity which the others had not, and a dining car that smelled faintly of onions no matter what hour it was. Brown liked it. He liked the rhythm of the rails, the way the world outside became a blur of moonlit farms and telegraph poles.

He found his seat across from Steinfeldt, who was already asleep with his hat over his eyes. Chance was in the next car, arguing softly with the trainer about his wrist. Tinker and Schulte were playing some kind of card game that involved more insults than rules.

Brown sat quietly, hands folded; one whole, one mangled—and watched the countryside slide past.

A porter came by, a young man with a careful posture and a nervous smile. “Mr. Brown, sir,” he said, “there’s a gentleman in the rear car asking for you. Says he’s a newspaperman.”

Brown sighed. “They don’t sleep, do they?”