Saint Oswald by Jay Bonansinga (motivational novels .txt) 📕

set in its vinyl pouch, his Kevlar vest, and a little leather sap that he found buried in the back of his glove box.

About the size of a pear, the hard leather surface worn down to a dull shine, the sap is weighted with a piece of pig-iron. The thing is just about the only way Oswald knows to put somebody’s lights out quickly and cleanly. Knocking people out is tricky business, and if you’re not careful you can seriously hurt them, but a sap applied to the back corner of the skull, just above the jugular, will drop a person like a pregnant girlfriend.

“Fuck it,” Oswald murmurs, getting dressed, pulling on his boxer shorts.

He puts the flak vest on over his girdle, a denim jacket over the vest. He straps the pistol to his ankle and stuffs the rest of the items into his duffle. He looks at his watch: 7:49 p.m. Not long now. One more save and it’s over, and he’s free, and he can disappear. He hears a noise and whirls around but finds that the room is empty.

He’s been hearing noises all day. Voices. Shadows. He doesn’t care anymore.

“Fuck it.”

He finishes dressing, and he turns out the lights, and he heads downstairs to check out.

34.

Oswald makes it to the station with plenty of time to buy a round-trip ticket and then relax for a few minutes before departure, completely unaware that he’s being watched. After making his purchase at the lobby ticket counter, he checks the video monitors on the mezzanine level and is pleased to see that the 9:01 is on time and boarding in twenty minutes on Track Seventeen.

He visits the men’s room across from the boarding gate, and relieves himself, oblivious to the fact that he’s being followed by more than one party. He checks his reflection in the mirror. Hair pulled back in a ponytail, black denim jacket buttoned up to the neck, he looks fairly presentable, despite the bald patch on his scalp still bristling with fresh sutures, or his sunken, bloodshot eyes: just some poor blue-collar schmo with a work-related injury, or some hapless mope returning from a round of shock treatments at the Cook County Mental Hospital.

In the mirror, Oswald notices the ghost of the Ho-Chunk elder behind him, observing balefully from the shadows. “I know, I know,” Oswald murmurs, looking down into the sink. “I’m an insult to the tribe, I’m a dick, I’m a fool, and I’m going to hell…”

Dalessandro and the Ferri kid arrive at the station at about twenty minutes to nine and head directly to the boarding level. Just inside the baggage staging area, Dalessandro yanks the boy into a deserted, shadowy alcove behind the claim counter and slams him against the wall.

“Hey!” The Ferri kid blinks at the pain and the shock. “Easy, dude.”

“Don’t call me dude,” the big man growls at him. “And don’t call me cucumber. And shut your dick hole. And try to pay attention because I’m only going over this once. You got that? Are you listening? Please respond.”

“What?”

Dalessandro grabs the kid by the neck of the hoodie and squeezes. “Please respond!”

“Okay! I mean—yes, I’m listening.”

“Good.” Dalessandro lets go of the sweatshirt. “You’re dying of cancer, and you’re gonna ride with this engineer, Charlie, to Michigan City. Watch and learn. Learn how to operate this fucking train. All right?”

“All right, all right.”

“Now this next part is important, so blow the wax outta your ears and listen. The hit team’s gonna be waiting at the Michigan City station. At that point, we’re gonna clear the train of all civilians. Tell ’em we gotta service the engine or something. Tell ’em they can stretch their legs. One of the Morelli brothers will take care of Charlie the engineer. You understand?”

The kid nods furiously. “Clear the train. Right. What about the Indian?”

Dalessandro frowns. “Who?”

“The Indian. Big Chief. Don’t we want him stayin’ on the train?”

“He’ll stay. Believe me. He thinks Felson’s going down, he’ll stay on board. He’ll think it’s all part of Felson getting set-up.”

“What about Forty-Five?”

Dalessandro sighs. “Would you please stop asking stupid questions? He’s gonna pretend to be asleep. Okay? Let me worry about Felson.”

The kid nods.

Dalessandro pokes the kid’s pectoral. “Do not fuck this up, Sunny Jim, or you will suffer the torments of the fucked. Your dad thinks you can handle it. I think you’re a born mook. But your dad has that Vito Corleone problem—a soft spot for his kin and shit. So be it.”

The kid looks at the floor. “I can handle it.”

Dalessandro pokes him, gets his attention. “Michigan City’s fifty minutes away. Learn how to run the train by then, or I will reem you a new earhole, I will skull-fuck you with a metal dildo, I will unscrew your head and shit down your fucking neck.”

“Got it,” the kid mutters softly. “New earhole, metal dildo... shit down my neck.”

“Go on. Your boyfriend Charlie’s waiting.”

Dalessandro watches the dimwit turn and shuffle morosely away, vanishing through the grimy entrance to the loading platform.

At 8:44 p.m., Oswald emerges from the men’s room and follows an elderly woman with a cane and nylon backpack around her scrawny shoulders through the massive marble archway into the cavernous, tomb-like boarding area. The place is fairly deserted—most of the commuters long gone by that point—and the high stone walls echo with last-minute announcements.

Oswald follows the old lady along the cement platform, past idling, steaming hulks of train cars lined up for their morning routes. The air smells of hot oil and burning metal, and Oswald keeps his eyes peeled for any sign of Freddie “Forty-Five” Felson or the hitter assigned to nail him. Oswald wonders if the old lady is a shooter.

The Kalamazoo “Night Owl” is waiting for them in a fog bank of vapor on the last track.

The Night Owl is a Superliner, one of Amtrak’s flagship trains, and it rises up impressively as they approach. Two levels of windows glow