A Chance Encounter on the Corn Belt Rocket

He stepped onto the train just as the last whistle mournfully blew, signaling the train pulling away from the station. Both the gray briefcase, containing his quarry, and the loaded Roscoe in his harness weighed on him. He could head to his compartment, but he needed a drink. He asked the conductor the way to the bar car, and reached it before the train fully pulled out of the station.

“Highball, and a side car.”

“Yes sir. Right away.”

The whiskey hit his lips when he saw her. A dame, her legs went all the way to Tuesday, strolled into the car. He pulled out a butt, and his zippo. She sat next to him, a Chesterfield between her fingers, blood red lipstick staining the filter.

“Got a light, stranger?”

He flipped the lid, and roughly spun the wheel. He held it up to her, watching her throat suck in air to draw on the cigarette, and then lit his own when she was finished.

“A man who knows his whiskey, and helpful to a damsel in distress. Hold me up, my knees are shaky.”

His voice remained low, “Ma’am I drink what I drink, and if a dame needs my help, she better be ready with the lettuce, if you know what I mean.”

She smiled, smoke curling out of the corner of her mouth, “I have been around, seen a few things myself. If we are gonna be friends, why don’t you tell me your name?”

He didn’t think she would know him, but normally that didn’t matter. The nylons tight on her knee, her nails painted red to match her lips, and the tight malachite colored dress that left less to the imagination than most would allow must have found a softness long forgotten in him, “They call me Jack, Jack Conkling.”

She leaned a little forward, “Well, Jack, Jack Conkling, the boys know me as Charlie. Charlie Rasmussen. What brings you to Des Moines?”

Jack noticed her green eyes, never looking away from him. “Business. Just business.”

Charlie sat back, “Business, you say. I wonder what kind of business brings a man like you from Chicago, to Des Moines.”

Jack took another drink from his highball, and remained silent.

She blew out a large breath of smoke, “The strong silent type. You have the look of a man who has killed other men. A dangerous man. My kind of guy.”

He wanted to say that it had been the Thursday past that he last killed a man. A dark alleyway, a deserted street outside and a hard rain covering up the sounds of a degenerate gambler running out of luck. “I fought in the war.”

She tapped the bar, and the bartender came over as fast as he could, “A french 75 for me, and another highball for my friend Jack.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“So, Jack, you fought in the war. Lots of guys did. Left a lot of us girls lonely back here in the States. You leave a girl behind?”

His thoughts raced to Margaret, and her letter that she found another lover to warm her bed. “No. Never been much of a ladies man.”

She stubbed out the remnants of the butt, pulled another from her purse, and leaned towards Jack to get a light. “I don’t believe you, Jack,” she slid closer on the stool, so her knee touched his, “I think that you have a reputation as a heart breaker.”

Jack thought of Maisel, her pleas for mercy falling deaf on his ears as he pulled back the hammer again and again. “I may have let a dame down once or twice, but I’ve always done what needed to be done.”

Charlie ashed her Chesterfield into the ashtray, “A real stand up guy then. I must have read you all wrong Jack. Can you forgive me?”

“You did nothing wrong, even bought me a drink.”

She put her hand on Jack’s knee, “Well, I figured I would shame you into buying me one, but that’s just one more disappointment in my life.”

A long drawn out whistle from the engine cut her short. “Listen, Charlie, you are a real dish. But I think its best if you scram. I’m not the type of guy that you should be hanging around.”

Charlie stood up, put her Chesterfield into the tray and placed her hand on Jack’s shoulder. “You might be right, but guys like you are just my thing. Finish your drink, and think about it. You want to get to know me a bit better, come to Compartment 14. Its all mine.” She planted a long smooch on his kisser, and swayed away, down the bar car. Jack watched her hips go back and forth until the door closed behind her.

He moved away from the bar, sat at a table and opened his briefcase. Work would get Charlie out of his mind. He lit another Lucky Strike, and pulled out the manila folder which had his target. Momo Giancana gave him this folder, and a stack of greenbacks to see it done. The Outfit always paid well. He said something about being cheated at cards, and that he couldn’t leave Chicago to handle this himself, so the nearly belly up Jack took the job without even looking at it.

The file read like a grocery list, the name Charles R., height 5’5”, brown hair, smokes like a chimney. He pulled the photo out, and nearly choked on the highball. It seems that he would be headed to Compartment 14.

*****

Jack checked the Roscoe just outside the door, making sure it was loaded and the action clear. He knocked.

“Who is it?”

“Jack Conkling.”

“One moment, I need to put something on.”

He waited a moment, and opened the door. She sat on the right hand side, a smooth black dress replacing the one from the bar.

“Like it?”

“It suits you indeed.”

“Well, are you going to come in or stand in the hall?” He stepped into the compartment, “Close the door behind you, this show isn’t for just anyone.”

Jack turned around, closing the door, and when he turned back, Charlie was leveling a Beretta at his chest. “Just my kind of guy.”

Jack held his hands up slightly, “Where did you get that?”

Charlie shifted in her seat a little, “A buddy of my husband sent it back, considering he couldn’t do it himself. Wanted me to have some protection that I could handle. Its plenty for me.”

Jack nodded. The M1935 was a good gun for a civilian. “When did you know?”

Charlie tilted her head, “I guess I knew when I came into the bar. And spotting the pistol inside your jacket as we talked was just the cherry. The Outfit doesn’t like to lose, but I thought I would have a little more time. And maybe I could convince you to forget the whole thing.”

Jack settled a little in his shoes, “Not much chance of that.”

She narrowed her left eye, a tear coming out of her right. “For what its worth, I’m sorry,” as her hand shook slightly.

“Just my luck. Well, no sense dragging this out,” his hand steady, ready for what needed to be done.

The train blew its whistle, a long cry into the dark night. Almost enough to cover up a single gunshot. Almost.