The Christmas Train by David Baldacci Read Free Book Online Page A
Authors: David Baldacci
want a drink and I want it now!”
They both turned and stared at the speaker. It was a man dressed in a three-piece pinstripe suit who didn’t look happy about one thing in his life right now.
Tyrone rolled his eyes. “How you doing, Mr. Merryweather?”
“I’m not doing good at all, and I want that drink. Scotch and soda on the rocks. Right now.”
“I’m not open yet, sir, if you could come back—”
Merryweather stepped forward. “This gentleman has a beer that I’m assuming came from you. Now, if you refuse to open the bar for me, a paying customer, then”—he glanced at Tyrone’s nametag—“then Tyrone , I suggest you start looking for other work because once I get off this train you’ll be unemployed.” Merryweather checked his fancy watch. “I’m waiting, Tyrone.”
“Sure, coming right up, no problem.”
Tyrone mixed the drink and handed it to the man. Merryweather sipped it. “More scotch—you people never put enough of the liquor in. What, are you stealing it for yourself?”
“Hey,” said Tom, “why don’t you lighten up?”
Merryweather turned toward him. “Do you happen to know who I am?”
“Yeah, you’re a jerk and obviously very proud of it.”
Merryweather smiled so tightly it looked as though his cheek balls might pop through his skin.
“Tell him who I am, Tyrone. You know, don’t you?”
“Look, I’m putting a bunch of scotch in your drink. Why don’t we just call it a truce?”
“I’m Gordon Merryweather. And I’m the king of the class-action lawsuit. Piss me off, and I’ll see you in court, and I’ll walk away with everything you have—although, from the looks of you, you clearly don’t have much.”
Tom stepped forward, his fists balled.
“Oh, I hope you do,” said Merryweather. “Then I get to put you in jail too.”
Tyrone stepped between them.
“Hey,” said Tyrone, “everything is so cool, it’s like it’s snowing right inside the train. Let’s all walk away now. Hey, it’s Christmas, right. You going home for Christmas, right Mr. Merryweather, to see the wife and kids? Bet you’re bringing them lots of presents.”
“I’m divorced. My children are spoiled brats unworthy of either my affection or my largesse.”
With that, Gordon Merryweather walked off, sipping his scotch. About halfway down the corridor they heard him laughing.
Tom looked at Tyrone. “I’m surprised he didn’t say ‘Bah, humbug.’”
Tyrone shook his head. “You don’t want to mess with that man. He’ll tie you up in court for years. His picture is right in the dictionary, beside the word nightmare .”
“No offense, but why is the ‘king of the class-action lawsuit’ taking the train? He probably can afford his own jet.”
“From what I’ve heard, the oh-so-tough Mr. Merryweather is afraid to fly. I wish he’d just buy his own train and stay off mine.”
“Well, thanks for stopping me from knocking that scotch down his throat. I actually have plans for my life that don’t include prison.”
Tyrone smiled. “No problem. Any time.”
Tom could tell Tyrone was really hustling to get things ready, so he decided to wrap things up. “And thanks for the info and the beer.”
“Come on back after dinner. I serve some hard stuff.”
“Hard stuff, now that’s always been my kind of drink.” chapter seven
Tom went back to his compartment and looked out the window; it was already dark at five-fifteen. They’d just cleared Harper’s Ferry, West Virginia, a place immortalized when John Brown made his famous raid on the federal armory there prior to the Civil War’s commencing, and went to the gallows as his price for being in the history books.
At Cumberland, Maryland, the Cap would be going through the Graham Tunnel, which ran about a third of a mile in length. According to Tom’s train brochure, both the entrance and exit to the tunnel were in West Virginia. Yet due to the mysteries of geography and the happenstance of surveyors
They both turned and stared at the speaker. It was a man dressed in a three-piece pinstripe suit who didn’t look happy about one thing in his life right now.
Tyrone rolled his eyes. “How you doing, Mr. Merryweather?”
“I’m not doing good at all, and I want that drink. Scotch and soda on the rocks. Right now.”
“I’m not open yet, sir, if you could come back—”
Merryweather stepped forward. “This gentleman has a beer that I’m assuming came from you. Now, if you refuse to open the bar for me, a paying customer, then”—he glanced at Tyrone’s nametag—“then Tyrone , I suggest you start looking for other work because once I get off this train you’ll be unemployed.” Merryweather checked his fancy watch. “I’m waiting, Tyrone.”
“Sure, coming right up, no problem.”
Tyrone mixed the drink and handed it to the man. Merryweather sipped it. “More scotch—you people never put enough of the liquor in. What, are you stealing it for yourself?”
“Hey,” said Tom, “why don’t you lighten up?”
Merryweather turned toward him. “Do you happen to know who I am?”
“Yeah, you’re a jerk and obviously very proud of it.”
Merryweather smiled so tightly it looked as though his cheek balls might pop through his skin.
“Tell him who I am, Tyrone. You know, don’t you?”
“Look, I’m putting a bunch of scotch in your drink. Why don’t we just call it a truce?”
“I’m Gordon Merryweather. And I’m the king of the class-action lawsuit. Piss me off, and I’ll see you in court, and I’ll walk away with everything you have—although, from the looks of you, you clearly don’t have much.”
Tom stepped forward, his fists balled.
“Oh, I hope you do,” said Merryweather. “Then I get to put you in jail too.”
Tyrone stepped between them.
“Hey,” said Tyrone, “everything is so cool, it’s like it’s snowing right inside the train. Let’s all walk away now. Hey, it’s Christmas, right. You going home for Christmas, right Mr. Merryweather, to see the wife and kids? Bet you’re bringing them lots of presents.”
“I’m divorced. My children are spoiled brats unworthy of either my affection or my largesse.”
With that, Gordon Merryweather walked off, sipping his scotch. About halfway down the corridor they heard him laughing.
Tom looked at Tyrone. “I’m surprised he didn’t say ‘Bah, humbug.’”
Tyrone shook his head. “You don’t want to mess with that man. He’ll tie you up in court for years. His picture is right in the dictionary, beside the word nightmare .”
“No offense, but why is the ‘king of the class-action lawsuit’ taking the train? He probably can afford his own jet.”
“From what I’ve heard, the oh-so-tough Mr. Merryweather is afraid to fly. I wish he’d just buy his own train and stay off mine.”
“Well, thanks for stopping me from knocking that scotch down his throat. I actually have plans for my life that don’t include prison.”
Tyrone smiled. “No problem. Any time.”
Tom could tell Tyrone was really hustling to get things ready, so he decided to wrap things up. “And thanks for the info and the beer.”
“Come on back after dinner. I serve some hard stuff.”
“Hard stuff, now that’s always been my kind of drink.” chapter seven
Tom went back to his compartment and looked out the window; it was already dark at five-fifteen. They’d just cleared Harper’s Ferry, West Virginia, a place immortalized when John Brown made his famous raid on the federal armory there prior to the Civil War’s commencing, and went to the gallows as his price for being in the history books.
At Cumberland, Maryland, the Cap would be going through the Graham Tunnel, which ran about a third of a mile in length. According to Tom’s train brochure, both the entrance and exit to the tunnel were in West Virginia. Yet due to the mysteries of geography and the happenstance of surveyors