Doug turned his attention to the brakeman. “You see that Jeepster parked at the dorm?” The crew room and terminal were called “the dormatory” even though crews had been using off-site motels for rest stops for 15 years. “Looks like new. They haven’t made them for 20 years, and it looks brand new. Wonder who owns THAT.” Smitty was an old-car buff.
“That’s Allen’s, ain’t it?” Smitty asked.
“That thing yours, Allen?” Doug turned to him.
“Yeah, it’s mine.” A lie.
“That must have cost you.”
“Yeah, it did.” Another lie. It cost, but not Allen. Not money. It cost him time and inventiveness. It cost a dead man a lot of money. And now it’s costing him multiples in worry and hassle. The Wages of Sin.
“You still got Texas plates on it,” Smitty said. “If the Buffalo cops don’t get you, the state troopers will. You need to get them changed.”
“Yeah. I’m still got some problems with the title.”
And that, at least, was the truth. The title, with a forged signature on it, made out as a sale to Allen Richmond, resident of Aldine, Texas. Now trying to be retitled to Allen Richmond, resident of Cheektowaga, New York.
Jumping something there, aren’t you, young man? Take it back to Texas and have the title issued to you, and then we can see about re-titling it here.
Meantime, there’s the little matter of a new JOB, one he was unbelievably lucky to land. Time off work to un-snarl this mess...if he could even find a way to...would cost him that.
And in New York he couldn’t even drive it legally without insurance. Something ELSE he could scarcely think about – and now, as a newly-respectable new resident, couldn’t afford not to think about. For two months he’d been commuting the three miles from his rooming-house to the yard by bicycle – but rain and a “short call” had him driving the Jeepster in.
But, realistically, he’d probably have to either buy a junker locally or start taking a taxi in.
Around a curve, the “distance signal” to East Batavia came into view. “Approach,Medium” Allen announced.
“What are we doing?” Doug asked.
“Crossing over. Gonna hold at West Batavia.”
“Correct. What’s your speed gonna be?”
“Track 3, 25 mph by Timetable Special Instructions. By the signal, though, we’re legal to 30 mph through the plant.”
“Correct again. Bring it down to 25 by the time we hit the plant. Use your dynamic. Remember, we’re a TV train – LIGHT.” Trail-Van unit trains were a relatively-new concept. About half the weight per foot of a conventional freight train, TV trains were fast, light, and easy to pop off the rails with sudden brake applications.
That damned car.
“That’s Allen’s, ain’t it?” Smitty asked.
“That thing yours, Allen?” Doug turned to him.
“Yeah, it’s mine.” A lie.
“That must have cost you.”
“Yeah, it did.” Another lie. It cost, but not Allen. Not money. It cost him time and inventiveness. It cost a dead man a lot of money. And now it’s costing him multiples in worry and hassle. The Wages of Sin.
“You still got Texas plates on it,” Smitty said. “If the Buffalo cops don’t get you, the state troopers will. You need to get them changed.”
“Yeah. I’m still got some problems with the title.”
And that, at least, was the truth. The title, with a forged signature on it, made out as a sale to Allen Richmond, resident of Aldine, Texas. Now trying to be retitled to Allen Richmond, resident of Cheektowaga, New York.
Jumping something there, aren’t you, young man? Take it back to Texas and have the title issued to you, and then we can see about re-titling it here.
Meantime, there’s the little matter of a new JOB, one he was unbelievably lucky to land. Time off work to un-snarl this mess...if he could even find a way to...would cost him that.
And in New York he couldn’t even drive it legally without insurance. Something ELSE he could scarcely think about – and now, as a newly-respectable new resident, couldn’t afford not to think about. For two months he’d been commuting the three miles from his rooming-house to the yard by bicycle – but rain and a “short call” had him driving the Jeepster in.
But, realistically, he’d probably have to either buy a junker locally or start taking a taxi in.
Around a curve, the “distance signal” to East Batavia came into view. “Approach,Medium” Allen announced.
“What are we doing?” Doug asked.
“Crossing over. Gonna hold at West Batavia.”
“Correct. What’s your speed gonna be?”
“Track 3, 25 mph by Timetable Special Instructions. By the signal, though, we’re legal to 30 mph through the plant.”
“Correct again. Bring it down to 25 by the time we hit the plant. Use your dynamic. Remember, we’re a TV train – LIGHT.” Trail-Van unit trains were a relatively-new concept. About half the weight per foot of a conventional freight train, TV trains were fast, light, and easy to pop off the rails with sudden brake applications.
That damned car.