The Christmas Train by David Baldacci Page B

related in some way to the Duke and the Dauphin, the shysters of Huckleberry Finn infamy. As far as Tom knew, unlike the genteel highway robbers in Twain’s masterpiece, Little Bob had never been ridden out of town on a rail tarred and feathered. Yet the defrauded citizens could have indeed done such a thing and God probably wouldn’t have even blinked. In fact, He might have sent a miracle or two their way as compensation for such a good deed.
    Yet Tom had to admire the man’s tenacity. During their investigation, Tom had even ended up giving Little Bob his last twenty bucks and he wasn’t even Baptist. It was a moment of insane weakness that Tom still felt shame for. However, to Eleanor’s credit, she’d gotten Tom’s twenty back, the only person living or dead ever known to have retrieved money from Reverend Bob without recourse to the courts. Their resulting exposé of the charlatan hit the national newswire, made their reputations, and also stopped the Reverend’s little con game.
    “How have you been?” Eleanor asked coolly.
    “I’ve been working. Mostly here in the States the last year,” Tom managed to say.
    “I know. I read the piece on Duncan Phyfe furniture you did for Architectural Journal . It’s the first article on antique furniture that made me laugh. It was good.”
    Vastly encouraged by that, Tom said, “Well, between you and me, I didn’t know Duncan Phyfe from Duncan Hines when I pitched that story, but I crammed like hell, got the gig, and blew the money on something. You know me.”
    “Yes, I know you.” She didn’t even crack a smile, although Max chuckled. Tom’s gut tightened, and his throat dried up as those big emerald eyes bored into him with nothing whatsoever inviting in them. Tom felt cement shoes forming around his ankles. The sensation of imminent doom was somehow of solace to him, as though the end would be quick and relatively painless.
    He found his voice. “So you’re a screenwriter?”
    Max said, “She’s one of Hollywood’s best-kept secrets. She specializes in script doctoring. You know, where a script has real problems and you need a miracle on a short fuse? Eleanor comes in and whips it into shape, like magic. She’s pulled my butt out of the fire on a bunch of occasions when the A-list writer I paid millions to fumbled the ball. My last five films she basically rewrote all the scripts. I finally talked her into doing her own original screenplay.”
    “I’m not surprised—she was always a terrific writer.” Again, there was no response to this compliment. The cement was now inching up Tom’s calves.
    “So what’s up, Max?” Eleanor said with a slight nod of her head in Tom’s direction. She obviously didn’t want a trip down memory lane; she wanted to bring this all—meaning him—to a hasty close.
    “I had this brilliant idea.” Max explained his “brilliant idea” to Eleanor, while Tom stood there wondering whether he should throw himself through one of the windows and under the wheels of the Cap. It couldn’t be clearer that Eleanor wasn’t at all pleased with the percolations of the director’s genius.
    Yet she said, “Let me think about it, Max.”
    “Absolutely. Hey, I tell you what, later, we can have a drink. Somebody told me they drink on this train.”
    “They do,” Tom said. Then he added jokingly, “In fact, the whole train is a bar.” He looked at Eleanor, but she was simply staring off. Tom’s arms were now immobile.
    “Done, then. Drinks around, what, eight?” said Max.
    “They serve dinner here too. I have reservations at seven?” Tom looked at Eleanor again, as though trying to will her to say she’d join him.
    “I had a late lunch in D. C.,” she said. “I’m skipping dinner.”
    Max said, “Yeah, dinner’s not good for me either, Tom. I’ve got a few calls to make.”
    “Well, don’t starve yourself.” Ironically, it was at this point that the cement seemed to arrive at his mouth.
    “Not to worry: