Black Mask (Vol. 7, No. 5 — April 1950), British Edition

I finally managed to arrange myself directly across from Mug. I balanced my entire length on the two thin rods under me, winding my feet around them and with my arms and hands grabbing every top rod within reach. An octopus couldn’t have done a better job.

I heard a loud sssss’ing noise. I was about four inches from the side of the wheels. They began to turn slowly. I shifted my eyes and looked down at the ties below slipping away. I gripped my rods tightly, desparately. The ties began to blur. The wheels were like buzz saws.

I finally worked up enough courage to lift my head slightly and I turned it carefully to look at Mug. He was balanced easily on his rods. Only one hand gripped the pipes above him. The other held a little dried apple which he was eating contentedly.

“It’s... it’s — not — bad,” I said across to Mug. My voice sounded strangely too loud. The noise of the wheels sliced against my ears.

“It’s like I told your friend,” answered Mug. “It’s the only way to ride.” He hadn’t called the kid ‘my friend’ before.

I looked up quickly at my hands gripping the rods above me. The knuckles were strained white. My thick gold ring seemed too large for its finger.

“To bad about your friend,” continued Mug. “He did die of that lung trouble, didn’t he?”

“Sure,” I said. “I told you he did.” I looked over at Mug.

He was smiling again. His thick lips hung loose and his teeth were like pieces of shell stuck in red clay.

“Good,” he said. “For a while I thought you might have thought something else. Something unhealthy.” He laughed and then dropped the apple core from his hand. We both watched as it was carried a little ways by the wind, then mashed under the train wheels.

Mug reached across with his free hand and patted me on the shoulder. “Don’t hold on so tight, buddy,” he said. “You ain’t gonna get hurt.” He looked at me mockingly. I could feel my heart pounding louder than the clatter of the train. Slowly I let go with one hand from the rod above me.

“Good!” Mug laughed.

I held my free hand suspended a minute then laid it across my chest, breathing deeply.

Mug turned his body on the rail, still holding on with one hand, until he was now facing me entirely.

“That’s a nice ring you got there,” he said looking at my hand. “Gold, ain’t it?”

I nodded my head.

A train rushed past us on the opposite track in a rumbling steely racket. The first shock of the noise nearly threw me off my perch. I quickly gripped another rod with my free hand, staring panicky at the rushing road bed beneath me. Mug didn’t move. He was smiling and he kept looking at my hand and the ring.

The train passed and it was lighter again under the freight car. I let go with one hand again.

“Let’s see the ring, buddy,” said Mug. I can’t show him I’m scared, I thought to myself. He knows it, but I can’t admit it. I extended my arm toward him. I’ve got to tag on to him until we get off the train. It would be suicide to start a fight now.

Mug’s hand turned the ring around on my finger.

“You wanta sell it?” he asked.

For a moment I couldn’t answer. “Sure,” I said finally. My heart was beginning to pound again. “If you’ve got the right price.”

He still held on to the ring and my hand with his big hand. One push — one forceful push from him—

“Ten bucks,” I said.

Mug let go of my hand. My arm dropped a little ways and almost hit the rushing track ties. I grabbed the rod above me quickly.

Mug turned around on the rod again, until he was facing the bottom of the freight once more. With one hand he loosened his collar and pulled out a small tobacco pouch that was tied to a string around his neck. Still working with only one hand, he opened the bag and looking with his chin down on his chest, pulled out two bills.

He looked at the bills, closed the bag, and with the bag still on his chest outside his shirt, handed them to me.

“Ten bucks,” he said. “You got a sale.”

I looked at the top bill. Nothing unusual. Regulation. But in the space above the serial number was a word, a name. Peggy. My heart was beating too fast. The girl in the picture, the look in the kid’s eyes. They came flashing back to me with each fast turn of the train wheels.

The other bill was the same. I stuffed the bills into my pocket. I could feel my hand shaking. Mug was looking at me.

“It’s good money,” he said. He laughed.

I put out my hand and he reached to pull the ring off. I felt my mouth getting tight. With my other hand I gripped harder at the rod above me. Mug’s fingers brushed against mine.

Suddenly, quickly, I grabbed for the bag on his chest. I gripped it tight and yanked. It broke loose and I felt it in my fist. My hand was in my pocket now. The bag, in my pocket.

Mug was startled. His eyes blazed at me. The scar on his knotted cheek flamed. I saw him wet his lips, slowly.

“That was bad, buster,” he said slowly. “Very bad.”

My breath came back suddenly. “It was the kid’s money,” I said.

Mug smiled tauntingly. “It was the kid’s money. So what! I murdered him. So what!” He laughed. “You can’t do anything about it.”