Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 100, Nos. 4 & 5. Whole Nos. 603 & 604, October 1992

Making Change by Deane Jordan

The January wind skated across Casco Bay, skidded around Peak’s Island, then slammed into the rail yard girdling the bottom of Promenade Hill.

I hunched against the gusts. My hands felt numb and smooth. My feet were stumps. Whichever side I leaned into the blast was stripped of heat. With a bare hand, I shoved the shack door open.

Caspar was kneeling on the dirt floor, stuffing shreds of newspaper into the coffee-can stove.

“Should’ve rode a damn freight to Florida,” I chattered, still chilled but at least out of the wind.

“You could catch the eleven-fifteen,” he said flatly.

“No thanks. Portland’s cold enough. I don’t need a ride to Quebec.”

Caspar barely nodded. He was an unconcerned man, a thief twice my age who would steal your soul if he could — before or after you were dead. But with a hundred pounds more than him on my frame and a foot of height, I was safe. I met him in Montana, under a washed-out bridge two summers ago. He was quick and resourceful, an aging angler, often outside of the law. We weren’t friends or partners. But we wandered together because we knew what to expect from the other. Caspar would pick a pocket when we were close to starving and I’d protect him when back-road fights got rough.

I squatted next to the flaming can. About an inch of air around the tin was warm. The smoke filled the shack. At least my hands wouldn’t freeze, if my lungs didn’t clog with soot.

“Coffee?” asked Caspar, gesturing like a shivering butler.

“But of course,” I mocked, “fourteen lumps, please.” Caspar, with an almost graceful sweep of his hand, reached into the arch of his left sneaker. In the light of the smoldering newspaper I watched him pull out a one-dollar bill.

“Apparently, I was luckier than you,” he said, waving the George in the air. He was right. I had come back empty-handed after searching phone booths and garbage cans.

“Where’d you get it?”

“Let’s just say the owner won’t miss it, until he comes back to his car.”

I stared at the buck and thought of what a dollar could buy. A cup of coffee or a cheap hamburger, a two- or three-minute sit in a warm taxi, maybe two long cups of coffee in a warm cafe, like the all-night cafe a few blocks from the rails. I could see Caspar’s mind was ahead of me.

“I’ll drink,” he said, “you sit.”

“You’ve got a deal. I could use some real heat.” I stood up and bowed slightly after rubbing my cold-dry hands: “After you.”

Caspar led the way across the moonlit rails, the crushed bedding rock complaining under our feet. We slipped into the leafless brush at the bottom of the hill. Above us was a veterans cemetery and a small park with a gun from the battleship Maine, a war steamer deep-sixed in Havana’s harbor a century ago. We curved around the belly of Promenade Hill. The path was foot-smooth, clear of snow, with an occasional icy ledge for a wall.

I was thinking about the warm cafe and how maybe I could still hitch a lift to Florida, when I bumped into the back of Caspar. He was staring at something off the path. After a second or two he pushed his way through the branches, gesturing for me to follow. Within a few feet of the trail I could see what he saw. A skinny old bum, frozen stiff, white with frost. Caspar bent down next to the body.

“Stripping a bum is bad luck,” I warned.

Caspar ignored me and patted him down.

“Our lucky day,” he said, reaching into one pocket and pulling out a handful of change. While I stepped back, Caspar rummaged some more. The right wrist carried a watch, an old wind-up with a leather strap. Caspar unbuckled it and slipped it into his jacket. Another pocket produced what looked like a cracked, faded driver’s license, most of it washed out, including the photo. Caspar pocketed the old ID. Finished with the clothes, he eyed the old man’s well-shod feet, then looked at my ventilated shoes.

“They’ll fit you, and they’re in better condition.”

“I don’t want ’em. That’s borrowing bad luck.”

“Don’t be superstitious. You could lose your feet this winter.”

I knew he was right, and my feet were damned cold. I tugged the shoes off the old man’s frozen toes and tried them on. They felt like they fit, but I didn’t know, my feet were too numb to tell. Maybe after sitting in the cafe I’d know for sure. I tightened the laces and stood up. Caspar was back on the path again, the dead man’s single winter luxury, a scarf, wrapped around his neck.

“Shouldn’t we tell the police?” I asked, as I trailed behind him. “He could have been killed.”

“You want them to think you did it?” Caspar snapped. “Don’t you know dead men tell no tales?” Caspar looked over his shoulder at me. My face must have carried a lot of doubt. “And the dead don’t come back to haunt you,” he added as he turned back to the trail.

I shut up. We came out of the brush, in the tent of a streetlight, less than a block from the cafe. Caspar pulled up his jacket sleeve and strapped the watch to his wrist.

“What time is it?” he asked, as if I would know. I humped my shoulders. In the lamplight I could see the hands of the watch said it was close to midnight, though I didn’t think it was that late. The 11:15 hadn’t rolled through yet.

“Just wind it, then set it in the cafe,” I said, not too interested. Caspar nodded and the delicate ratcheting of the stem and spring mingled with our footsteps as we shuffled towards the cafe.

Caspar led the way in. Never had heat felt so good. It pampered my stubbly face, licked my hands, seeped through the holes in my jacket and bathed my feet. I looked around. There were no surprised eyebrows at the sight of us, no thwing of dropping fork or thunk of spoon — a rail-side cafe accustomed to bums.

“Got to order something, fellahs,” said a pasty guy in a stained apron behind the counter.

“Two large coffees,” replied Caspar, surprising me. Easy to be generous with a dead man’s money.

“Cream and sugar in mine,” I said, wanting to get the most for the coin.

“Make mine super hot and black,” ordered Caspar.

The coffees slid across the counter. I warmed my hand on the mug. Caspar glanced at the wall clock. It was only a few minutes after nine. He set the watch and followed the sweep of the second hand for maybe a minute.

“Good as new,” he pronounced, turning his attention to the coffee. While we sat someone put a meal’s worth of change in the jukebox and punched up a lot of songs. One was about the wreck of the ship the something-or-other Fitzgerald, about sinking on a cold winter’s night in a frigid wind. As it played, I happened to glance at Caspar’s new watch. It said 11:56. I tapped him on the arm and pointed to the watch.

“Damn,” he said, under his breath, like a man who’d discovered his bank account was skinnier than he thought. He set it again. It was almost 9:30. We nursed the coffees for another few songs, then sat for a while after that. My feet had warmed up and the shoes were beginning to pinch a little. When the clock said ten, I watched Caspar carefully count out the money. One dollar, a dime, a nickel, and three pennies. A dollar and eighteen cents’ worth of heat and coffee. We got up without leaving a tip. I was about to open the door when the sweaty guy with a stained apron spoke up.

“Hey guys, you owe me some more money.” Caspar wrinkled his face as he turned. He was usually careful about such things.

“I counted out a dollar eighteen,” he said.

“Yeah, but the change is Canadian. Ain’t worth as much.”

Caspar and I wandered over and looked. The dollar was okay but change that should have carried the likes of Roosevelt, Jefferson, and Lincoln was showing Queen Elizabeth.

“I’ve got no problem with Canadian money,” said the beef with the apron, “but it ain’t worth as much. You owe me a dime more.” Casper quickly reached into his jacket. The change was American. He handed over a dime then slipped the rest back into his pocket.

“Thanks.”

Caspar nodded and we braced for the cold. Once outside, Caspar reached into his jacket again. The change that came out was Canadian. I was pondering it all when Caspar peered at the watch. It said 11:57. Suddenly his eyes grew colder than the night. He shoved his hand in his pocket, pulled out the ID and studied it.

I was craning for a look when without a word, Caspar began running towards where we had left the dead bum. I tried to keep up with him but the shoes pinched too much. I slowed to a hobbling walk as he disappeared into the brush. When I finally got back to the body, Caspar was gone. But lying on the dead man’s chest was everything Caspar had taken: a small pile of change — American — the watch, scarf, and faded ID.

I picked it all up, kept the still-warm small shoes on, and worked my way back to the shack. Empty. The coffee can was snowball cold. I roamed the rail yard looking for Caspar. While I searched I began to worry about the body and the police. Caspar could have set it all up after finding him. Maybe the old guy had some cash on him and Caspar wanted to travel rather than divvy up. Maybe he’d tell the police I had something to do with the bum being dead just so he could stay warm for the night, maybe even get a free meal. That would be like Caspar. He was probably getting me into trouble, and the best thing for me to do was catch the next train south — but I didn’t want any problems following me.

I began to backtrack until I got to the path into the brush. I found the body and hiked it onto my shoulder, carrying it like a fat plank. Shoving the branches aside, I worked my way to the edge of the tangle and stood the body up. I leaned it against my back and waited, waited while the wind iced my skin and the dead bum stared at the stars.

Just about the time my feet were starting to freeze again, I heard the Quebec-bound train rumble into the rail yard. It had to slow for the diamond where the rails crisscross, cutting through each other. As I watched, the dark hulk curved through the yard, then slowly began to pick up speed again. That’s when I saw Caspar, his moon-pale face searching the tracks for me. He was hiding behind an empty caboose.

Running beside the train, he jumped through the open door of the first empty boxcar. I knew right then our traveling days were over. I could tell by the way he quickly looked around that he was anxious to get out of there, anxious enough to hop a northbound train in January. While I watched him disappear aboard, I saw my opportunity.

As the open door approached, I cradled the hard body in my arms, estimated the speed of the train, then quickly took three long steps, tossing the bum almost into Caspar’s lap. I spun and ducked into the brush still seeing the horror on Caspar’s face as the body bounced towards him. I didn’t look back.

When I got to the streetlight, I checked the change in my pocket. American. Enough for two cups of coffee, maybe a cup and doughnut. I looked at the watch. It said 11:58. I reset it to about 11:17 and headed for the cafe.

I ordered a coffee, then a refill as I sponged up the heat and listened to the jukebox. Caspar, and any of his schemes, was heading northward with company unless he kicked the body out on Casco Bay bridge. I finished the coffee. It was his problem, not mine. I was heading south.

As warm as crisp toast, I slapped some change on the counter, wrapped the scarf around my neck and headed for the door. I knew a tin-can stove that would keep me alive until the 4:00 A.M. came through. Then it was south to Boston, maybe farther if I was lucky and caught an east-coast freight. I could be in Atlanta or Miami in a week or so. I was almost out the door when the apron behind the counter stopped me.

“C’mon, guy, you gave me Canadian again.” He had to be wrong. I walked back and looked. Just like before. Where I had dropped American change now sat Canadian coin. That’s when I felt the knot that must have tied Caspar’s stomach. Slowly, I looked at the watch. It said 11:59. The scarf felt tight around my neck. Shaking, I reached for the ID in my pocket and glanced at it.

I ran from the cafe, leaving the door open behind me. Ignoring my complaining feet, I smashed through the underbrush and began running up the tracks. I knew why Caspar ran, why he had hopped the 11:15, why he left the stuff piled on the body. Ahead of me was the bridge over Casco Bay. I searched the tracks for the body as I ran, my eyes watering in the cold, my lungs icing. It had to be between here and the bridge. He must have shoved it out right after I threw it on. I had to find the body. I’d even jump in the bay for it. Because in my pocket there was a watch ticking to midnight and a not-so-faded ID with my face on it.