Comfort Station by Donald E. Westlake

Author:Donald E. Westlake [Westlake, Donald]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-1-4804-2898-0
Publisher: MysteriousPress.com/Open Road
Published: 2013-05-08T16:21:00+00:00

2:00 P.M.

IT HAD BEEN A long hard day for Fred Dingbat, but he didn’t really mind: that was a part of the price one paid—and willingly, gladly—for the right to be at the center of things, here at the heart of the civilized world, operating the flagship of the metropolitan transit system, the mighty 42nd Street Crosstown bus. He had seen much these last eight hours, Fred had, much that he would remember and reflect on for long in the hours and days ahead, but for now his responsibility was nearing its end. Three minutes to two, he was told by his wristwatch: he was making his last westbound run, and would soon be relieved by the two-to-ten man, Seward Looby, a friend of Fred’s for years, ever since that time in Korea when …

But no. That was in the past, let the past bury the past, there was to be no more thinking of the past from now on.

Nearing the Twelfth Avenue terminus of his route, Fred peered through the forty-four-inch-by-ninety-inch windshield of his omnibus and saw waiting on the sidewalk there the familiar figure in bus-driver gray, his cap at a jaunty angle, a pipe clenched at a jaunty angle in his teeth, his head cocked at a jaunty angle as he waited for the bus to arrive.

But wait just a minute! A pipe clenched at a jaunty angle in his teeth? But Seward Looby didn’t smoke! That figure waiting there, so familiar, dressed in the familiar bus-driver gray, cap at a jaunty angle, head cocked at a jaunty angle, could not be—because of the pipe clenched at a jaunty angle in his teeth—Seward Looby after all, but must be someone else.

A forebodal feeling fell flat on Fred.

And now, the distance rapidly closing between the large bus and the waiting individual, Fred could see that in truth it was not Seward Looby but was the man known to both Fred and Seward Looby—and so many others—as Supervisor Cracky. What was Supervisor Cracky doing here, instead of Su? Fred’s forebode increased.

The bus reached the intersection and pulled to a stop at the curb. Fred opened the doors and the last passengers—a wino trying to forget and an angry couple from Fair Haven, Vermont, off to the auto pound to reclaim their towed-away Studebaker—stepped down to the sidewalk and left Fred without a thought. Such is the general public.

Supervisor Cracky swung aboard with the litheness that belied his age. Few, looking at him, realized that Supervisor Cracky was one hundred seventy-four years old. At times, when Fred realized just how much past Supervisor Cracky must be oppressed by, he shook his head in wonder that the Grand Old Man, as the guys at the bus garage appelled him, managed to go on at all, much less to be the unending source of inspiration and encouragement that he was to all the men beneath him in the chain of command.

Looking at Supervisor Cracky now, Fred saw that beneath the jaunty exterior of the other’s façade Supervisor Cracky was in fact troubled.

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