Bindlestiff (The Nameless Detective) by Bill Pronzini Read Free Book Online Page B

relaxed a little. He asked me, “What you want with this Bradford?”
    I told him the same thing I’d told the other tramps. Then I went over to where he sat and extended the clipping.
    He took it, but he didn’t look at it. “The ten bucks first,” he said.
    “Do I get straight answers?”
    “We hoboes, man, not grifters. You get what you pay for.”
    I let him have the money. He put it away in the pocket of his dirty gray shirt and then gave his attention to the photograph. “Which one’s Bradford?”
    “The one on the far left.”
    He studied the photo some more. When he was finished he passed it on to the white guy named Woody, who squinted at it myopically for about five seconds before he handed it to the third tramp.
    I said, “Well? Do any of you know him?”
    “Seen him around,” the black man said. “They call him ‘G-Man’—used to work for the gov’ment.”
    I nodded. “Do you know if he’s still here?”
    “No. Ain’t seen him since the reporters come around.”
    “He’s the one got in the hassle with the streamliner,” Woody said. He glanced at the other white guy. “You remember, Flint. Kid that come off the freight from Sacramento.”
    “Yeah,” Flint said. “Long-haired little bastard. I remember.”
    I said, “What are ‘streamliners’?”
    “Young dudes, mostly,” the black guy said, “not real tramps. They travel without a bedroll, only the clothes they got on they backs. Dopers, most of ‘em; this one was for sure. Runnin’ from something or somebody. Or just plain runnin’.”
    “And Bradford had some trouble with one?”
    “I seen it myself,” Woody said. “Just after them Frisco reporters left. This streamliner come off and tried to mooch some stew G-Man was cooking up.”
    “What happened?”
    “They had them a little push-and-shove. Then the streamliner, he pulled a knife. Couple of the other ‘boes run him off before he could do any cuttin’.”
    “Was that all there was to it?”
    “No,” Flint said. “Kid went over into the yards and come back a while later. I seen him.”
    “I seen him too,” Woody said. “So did G–Man. Three of us was there together. G–Man had him some Cadillac and he didn’t mind sharing it.”
    “‘Cadillac’?”
    Woody grinned; what teeth he had were decayed stumps. But it was the black guy who answered my question. “Bottle of Thunderbird,” he said. “Cadillac of tramp wine.”
    “Did anything happen when the streamliner showed up the second time?”
    “He didn’t know we seen him,” Flint said. “He was headin’ for the road with a signal lantern in one hand and a tool kit in the other. Swiped ’em from one of the sheds.”
    “Prob’ly on his way into town to try sellin’ the stuff for the price of dope,” the black tramp said. He shook his head. “Damn long-hairs give hoboes a bad name. Yard bulls hassle all of us because of ’em.”
    “Just what I says to G–Man,” Woody agreed. “And he says something ought to be done about it and by God, he was goin’ to. I told him why don’t he mind his own business, but he wouldn’t listen. Reckon he was still thinkin’ about the streamliner tryin’ to cut him with that knife.”
    “You mean he chased after the kid?”
    Woody wagged his head. “Nope. Says he’s goin’ to report what the long-hair done; tell the yardmaster or one of the bulls. He went off into the yards. Left the Cadillac with Flint and me. Nice fella, G–Man.”
    “What time was that?”
    “I dunno. Three o’clock, maybe.”
    “Did you see him again?”
    “Nope.”
    “How about the kid?”
    “Nope.”
    “Freight come through since then bound for Pasco?”
    “Yesterday morning,” Flint said.
    “So Bradford—G–Man—could have hopped it.”
    “Could have, but he didn’t. Me and Woody and Toledo was all over there when she pulled in; we seen the tramps that got aboard. G–Man wasn’t one of ’em.”
    “There been any other northbound freight?”
    “Nope,” the