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

hand... sealing the fate of the Kalamazoo Superliner and the seventeen souls on board.

37.

Jimmy “the Cucumber” is hunched in the back seat of the Morellis’ Lincoln Navigator—which is idling in the darkness of a handicapped parking place about a hundred yards west of the Michigan City Amtrak station—when the first signs of the approaching train appear on the dark horizon. “Is that our bucket of bolts?” he says, reaching for the door handle.

“Looks like it,” mutters Jack Morelli, glancing at his watch in the front passenger seat.

Through the tinted window, the modest little station sits in the darkness to the east. A tree-lined boardwalk lit by gas lamps fronts a meager brick building, its windows glowing with cold, fluorescent light. The platform is deserted, the adjacent track stretching off into the night.

In the distance, a pin-prick of silver headlight is visible on the horizon.

“Showtime,” says the other Morelli brother, grabbing his hit kit.

Doors clunk open, and the three enforcers climb out of the SUV with all their heavy artillery tucked into duffel bags and hard-shell cases, their breath showing in wisps of vapor visible in the sodium light. To a casual observer, they might look like members of the Geek Squad, or a trio of information technology managers en route to some office complex somewhere, equipped with diagnostic tools.

“Goddamn thing is hauling ass,” Jilly Morelli comments as the trio crosses the platform.

They stride across the deserted boarding area, and they pause near a spindly fruit tree laden with tiny Christmas lights. Less than a quarter of a mile away, the Superliner’s headlamp blooms and grows at an alarming rate—the rising clatter of the train like a drum solo in some free-form jazz piece.

“Get ready,” Dalessandro orders, and from the sound of his voice it’s clear the man is in a zone. He wants zero margin of error. Nestled cozily in his duffel bag, which is slung over his shoulder, are twin Remington 8-gauge shotguns, their double-barrels shortened and vented, their stocks modified with pistol-grips.

“Shouldn’t they be slowin’ down a little?” Jack Morelli wonders aloud, gaping at the speed at which the train is approaching.

Jack Morelli has a matching pair of tricked-out nine-millimeter Glocks in his case, each one fully automatic and modified to accept Israeli army mags.

“Fucking thing is humpin’,” Jilly Morelli observes with a furrowed brow. He has a .44-caliber Charter Arms Peacemaker in his road case, decked out with a laser scope and three speed-loaders filled with liquid tip, metal-jacketed slugs commonly used to put down the larger woodland creatures such as Kodiak bears.

Dalessandro frowns. The brilliant magnesium-bright light is looming a couple of football fields away. “What the fuck is going on?”

“Look at this shit.” Jilly Morelli stands there agape in the darkness.

“They’re gonna stop.” Anger flares like a Roman candle in Dalessandro’s guts. “Don’t you worry about that.”

Jack Morelli is transfixed by the oncoming beast. “I don’t think so, Jimmy.”

The train roars toward them—a hundred yards away now, lighting up the night—and the jet-engine shriek fills the air and nearly drowns their voices.

“They better fucking stop!” Dalessandro watches, his eyes watering with rage, as the metal behemoth bellows closer and closer.

Jack Morelli stares. “The kid’s retarded, sure, but he’s not that retarded—!”

Jilly Morelli shakes his head. “I don’t know, Jacky! I think he might be that retarded!”

The train roars into the station with a screaming metallic howl and a corona of silver light. The blur of double-decker cars rushing past the three gunsels at 120 miles an hour whips up a slipstream of noxious air across the platform. The wind flaps the pant legs of all three mobsters as the train passes.

A moment later, the caboose plunges away into the night, the little red light like a taunt.

For one awkward, charged moment, the three gunmen stand thunderstruck on that lonely platform, watching the caboose recede into the darkness, a tiny dust-devil of trash whirling around their ankles on the tailwind. For several seconds, nobody talks.

Finally Jimmy “the Cucumber” Dalessandro mutters to himself, “This will not do.”

“Excuse me?” Jack Morelli blinks. “What did you say, Jimmy?”

Dalessandro starts walking back toward the Navigator, then he starts jogging. “This will not do!”

“Jimmy, wait up!” Jack Morelli grabs his brother by the arm and drags him after the big man. “Jimmy, where you going?! Hold up!”

“THIS WILL NOT DO!” Dalessandro rips open the driver’s side door and lurches behind the wheel.

He fires the Navigator’s engine, and he’s putting it into gear before the other two goombahs can even reach for their doors.

“Slow down, Jimmy, c’mon, we’ll get him, c’mon, slow down,” Jack Morelli is babbling as he throws his bag into the back and then fumbles with the rear door.

The rear tires squeal, throwing gravel, as the Morelli brothers both dive into the vehicle, barely making it on board before the Navigator thunders out of there, kicking up a cloud of dust and exhaust.

By the time Oswald manages to pry the shotgun out of the frozen, clenched hands of the unconscious Freddie Felson, and then stagger back over to Gerbil, who still sits flash-blind on the floor, the noise inside the dark, hurling passenger car is extraordinary—a rumbling, vibrating, rushing cacophony only heightened by the intermittent screams and moans of the traumatized passengers, most of whom are still hiding under their seats. Kneeling down by Gerbil, bracing himself against a seat pedestal, Oswald holds her blood-spotted face in his hands. “You sure you’re okay?”

The train jerks to one side, then violently keens back against the starboard rails.

Outside the windows, a fountain of sparks leaps up and then flickers through the car, reflecting off Gerbil’s proud, indignant face. “What do you care?”

“Don’t start with me right now, Gerbil, please,” Oswald says, glancing over his shoulder at the cracked glass of the fore-hatch. The pressure is threatening to tear the train apart. He looks back at Gerbil. “We don’t have time for this shit.” He stands up and braces himself against the headrest. “Everybody, listen