The Black Train by Edward Lee Page A

in Gast’s tinted eyes said that he did not appreciate the interruption.
    Penelope Gast stroked her fan a few times, which blew a few strands of golden hair upward. “Will Mr. Poltrock be joining us for lunch?”
    “Of course he will,” Gast answered before Poltrock could. “But we still have business to discuss, so—”
    “Of course, dear,” the woman said. “Have a fine day, Mr. Poltrock.”
    Poltrock gulped and nodded. “And you, too, ma’am.”
    The stunning beauty of the woman rocked Poltrock. He hoped he’d recovered well when he sat back down and said, “You have a wife of great culture and beauty, Mr. Gast. You must be very proud of her.”
    “I certainly am, Mr. Poltrock.”
    Poltrock didn’t think his erection had been noticeable. Good God, I hope not. He closed his eyes again for a moment…
    At once, his nostrils flared and his stomach clenched: the stench of stale urine seemed thick as fog. And then came the words:
    “She’s a whore of the first water. She smells of piss and reeks of weakness and gluttony. She’s fucked dozens of men behind my back, sometimes even slaves. One day, and you can mark my words, I’ll see her raped to the brink of death and then I will personally halve her detestable pussy with an ax.”
    Poltrock’s eyes shot open at the devilish talk, but when he looked around the den…
    Gast wasn’t there. Poltrock was alone.
    He shuddered in place. First those vile images and now this evil talk. Crazy, he thought. This is a crazy house…
    What’s happening to me?
    In his hand, he noticed that he was still holding the check.
    Gast’s fine leather shoes snapped back into the room over the hardwood floor. “My wife is quite a busybody, as I’m sure you noticed. Forgive the interruption to our important discourse.”
    Poltrock tried to shake cobwebs from him head. “I’m sorry, Mr. Gast, but I must be much more fatigued from my trip than I thought. I feel so distracted. I didn’t even see you leave the room.”
    “Your long journey from Raleigh, yes—certainly,” Gast remarked. “I escorted my wife to the kitchen; she insisted on showing me the funnel cakes she’d made. Oh, I know she didn’t really make them—she’s terrible in the kitchen—but I let her believe that I think she did. She’s quite worth the accommodation.”
    He wasn’t even in the room when I heard the voice…
    Poltrock was sweating. He was trying to order his thoughts. Somewhere, a dog was barking.
    “Work for me, Mr. Poltrock. You’ll be doing yourself and this great land of ours a proud service.”
    The job, the railroad, Poltrock finally remembered. A hundred miles of track per year, from here to Maxon… He looked at the impressive check still in his hand. “Mr. Gast, fifty dollars a month is indeed a handsome salary, especially with the economy so deflated from Northern taxes, but it’s just that—”
    “I apologize for not making myself clear in the first place,” Gast interrupted with a raised finger. “Not fifty dollars per month, Mr. Poltrock. Fifty dollars per week.” Poltrock stared at the man and his overwhelming offer, and as the words left his mouth to take the job, Poltrock could’ve sworn he smelled urine.

C HAPTER F OUR
I
    Collier couldn’t remember what happened in the dream, but he remembered what it smelled like:
    Urine.
    He wakened from the nap aggravated and dry-mouthed. Yes, it was the smell of urine that permeated his slumber, and as he leaned up, he thought he recalled other details, not sights, but sounds.
    A steady and nearly musical sound of metal striking metal. He thought of metal bars being clanged together, or hammers hitting steel. And something else, too…
    A whistle?
    Yeah. Like a whistle in a train yard.
    He rarely dreamed at all, but when he did it was typically of things he could see: people, places. Not sounds and smells.
    When he turned out of bed, he caught himself musing over, first, Lottie’s body, then Mrs. Butler’s.
    Damn it!
    A