Bushell’s curiosity finally got the better of him. When still another obviously satisfied soul went past him, he reached out to bar the fellow’s path, asking, “What do they have back there, friend, the hashish?”
“You ain’t far wrong, buddy. That’s the Pennsy club car, that is,” the man answered in tones of reverence better suited to discussions of St. Paul’s Cathedral. The high-proof fumes he breathed into Bushell’s face added their accent to his words.
After the stewards went clattering off with the last of the china and silverware, Bushell said to Sam and Kathleen, “Well, shall we see if that really is a proper oasis?”
“Why not?” Kathleen said. “It can’t be worse than the rest of the train, and it might be better.”
“Couldn’t have put it neater myself,” Samuel Stanley said as he got up from the table.
“Well, well,” Bushell murmured when they went into the club car, and then again: “Well, well.” The car was cool and dim and seemed quiet, maybe because of that - it rattled along over the rails no different from any other. But none of that was why Bushell had exclaimed.
“Will you look at the display behind the bar?” Stanley said softly. “I’ve seen fancy taverns that don’t stock half as many kinds of hooch. You want anything at all, you can get it here.”
“Amen,” Bushell said. “And catch the mirror behind the bottles - it makes it look as if there are twice as many.” He laughed. “Overkill.”
Four men got up from the bar. Bushell and his companions slid onto three of the stools they’d vacated. He ordered Jameson over ice, Kathleen a gin and tonic, and Samuel Stanley a pint of Molson’s ale. The bartender drew it from the tap with practiced perfection, stopping the flow so the top of the head reached the edge of the glass without a drop spilling over.
After he went off to serve another thirsty soul, Stanley said, “I know why the club car’s so fancy even when the rest of the train’s down at the heels.” Bushell raised a questioning eyebrow. His adjutant explained: “If you were going into the Pennsylvania coal country, wouldn’t you want someplace where you could try and forget it?”
“Many a truth spoken in jest,” Bushell said. He raised his glass. “To finding Joseph Kilbride and some answers, in whichever order we come across them.” They all drank. He savored the smoky taste of the Irish whiskey in his mouth and its warmth in his belly.
When Kathleen Flannery’s drink was done, she excused herself for a moment. Bushell ordered a second round from the bartender. When the new drinks came, he said, “Here’s another toast for you and me, Sam: here’s hoping we didn’t leave Doshoweh too bloody soon.”
Stanley sighed and nodded. “We left a lot behind, didn’t we? I’d like to know more about that printer Shikalimo turned up, I’d like to have found the room where the Sons were hiding The Two Georges, I’d like to have done a whole lot of things. But we can’t be in two or four places at once, and we don’t have a lot of time. We have to follow the trail that looks hottest and remember we have other people looking in other places.”
“The trail that looks hottest,” Bushell repeated. “Here’s one more toast stilclass="underline" here’s hoping it doesn’t look hottest because somebody set it up to look that way.” Without waiting for Stanley to follow suit, he poured the shot of Jameson down his throat and signaled the bartender for another.
“You still aren’t sure about - “ Stanley suddenly clammed up.
Kathleen Flannery slid back onto her stool. “The two of you are pretty quiet,” she said. “You must have been talking about me.”
Samuel Stanley swigged at his Molson’s to give himself an excuse not to deal with that one. “Men always talk about women when they aren’t there,” Bushell answered lazily. “It gives us the chance to - “
“ - To bend your elbow, it looks like,” Kathleen said, pointing to the empty glass the bartender hadn’t taken away.
“To squeeze a word in without getting interrupted, I was going to say,” Bushell finished.
“Were you?” Kathleen picked up her fresh drink, sipped, and peered at him from over the rim of the glass.
“If I wasn’t, you’ll never prove it now,” he said.
“So I won’t. Point to you, Colonel Bushell.” Kathleen Flannery could have said that in tones of Alaskan ice, as she’d spoken when Bushell gave her no choice about coming along with him and Sam Stanley. She didn’t - quite. He took that as progress, all the while wondering whether she was playing the same game as he or a different one altogether.
That was the question in more ways than one, especially when they were almost flirting like this. Is she a suspect? had nearly vanished from his mind, but it was still there. But he also wondered what else lay behind those green eyes. Does she feel anything for me? He couldn’t just ask. That would break the rules of the game. He’d have to find out.
He had that drink, and then another one, and then another. Samuel Stanley nursed his second ale. Bushell wondered if Sam was going to kick him in the ankle to try to get him to slow down. His adjutant had a good deal of mother hen in him. Stanley contented himself with looking worried. Since he looked worried a lot of the time, only Bushell noticed.
Kathleen Flannery finished three drinks. She was starting a fourth when the train pulled into Pittsburgh. Streetlamps and tongues of flame from factory chimneys made the sooty air outside seem thick, almost curdled. “I’ve been through here in the daytime,” Kathleen said. “It’s worse then; you can see the smoke curling and twisting through the valleys that lead down to the rivers.” She spoke slowly and carefully, pausing every couple of words to make sure they’d come out the way she wanted them.
“New Liverpool’s air isn’t all it should be,” Bushell said, “but it’s nothing like this.” His speech did not show that he had considerably more liquor on board than Kathleen. Some of the learned quacks said holding your whiskey well was a sign you were too fond of it. For one thing, Bushell already knew how fond of whiskey he was. For another, he wasn’t in the habit of listening to quacks no matter how learned they were.
The conductor came through the club car. “Liberty Street station!” he called. “All out for Pittsburgh!”
There was a general exodus. No matter how unpleasant a place the grimy industrial city was, a lot of capital resided here, and gold drew men as a lodestone draws iron.
“Liberty Street?” Bushell raised his glass once more. “Down with liberty - and its sons.” He and Stanley drank to that at once. Kathleen Flannery followed suit, a little more slowly. Did that mean she didn’t care for the toast, or just that she’d had enough to drink? Bushell rubbed at his mustache. How far to rely on her? If he guessed wrong on that - He drained his Jameson.
At some time in the past - whether ten years before or only six months, Bushell couldn’t tell - the Pennsylvania Railroad station in Pittsburgh had been painted white. Now it was a streaky, dingy grey, uglier than it would have been had it not tried defying the soft-coal smoke that made the town what it was.
The train lay over in Pittsburgh for most of an hour, loading and unloading passengers. Some of the people who came into the club car had the sleek and prosperous look of businessmen. More, though, were miners and factory hands heading back to their home towns after coming into the city for whatever they couldn’t get locally.