The Stingray Shuffle полностью

Spider bounced around in the aisle, throwing left hooks in the air.

“I know what you’re thinking — ‘Just because he only has one arm, I’ll bet he can’t play the banjo!’”

“Who said anything about a banjo?” asked Preston.

“Okay, well maybe I can’t play the banjo, but I can still kick your ass!…”

One of the passengers pointed with a pencil at Spider’s right arm tucked behind his back. “Now that’s acting!”

“Hic,” said Preston. “Dammit, now you gave me the hiccups… hic…”

“Breathe in a paper bag,” said Andy.

“Drink water upside down,” said Dee Dee.

“Pull your earlobes and swallow,” said Spider.

“Boo!” said Steppenwolf.

Hic.

“I can cure hiccups,” offered Serge.

“Who are you?”

“Just a passenger. But I’ve studied this phenomenon for years, purely on an avocational basis, of course. All the cures you’ve mentioned are simply power of suggestion. The actual mechanics have nothing to do with it. It’s what you believe. So, Preston, do you want to get rid of your hiccups?”

“It’s worth — hic — a try.”

“Okay, focus on my voice. I want you to relax. Your muscles are getting loose. That’s better…”

“Hic.”

“Don’t worry about that last hiccup. The sound was a mile away. There will be a few more, but they don’t concern you. Each hiccup is one less until they end. Picture each hiccup being typed on a piece of paper as it comes out of your mouth, then mentally wad up the sheet and throw it away…”

When Preston was completely relaxed, Serge leaned forward and whispered in his ear. Then he sat back and clapped his hands sharply, startling Preston.

“Hic… I still have the hic hiccups.”

“Not for long,” Serge said with a grin.

In the back of the car, Eugene Tibbs finished his dessert and got up to head back to the sleeping compartment. This was the moment Serge had been waiting for — getting Tibbs alone, away from the herd.

“Good luck with those hiccups,” said Serge, standing and heading down the aisle after Tibbs.

“Everybody, look!” a passenger yelled in the middle of the car. They all turned to the window on the west side of the train.

“Unbelievable!”

Mild pandemonium as a crowd jammed the center of the car for a better view of the spectacle, blocking the aisle and Serge’s only path to Tibbs. Fifty disposable cameras pointed out the window.

“What a mystery train!”

Zigzag and Ivan slowly but surely gained on the train. They had ditched their Charger in Ocala, even though Ivan told Zigzag his plan would never work. Now it was looking like they just might pull it off.

“There she is!” yelled Ivan, spotting a train emerging from around a distant bend in a palm hammock.

“Giddy-up!” yelled Zigzag, snapping his reins.

“How’d you know Ocala raises some of the fastest thoroughbreds in the country?” asked Ivan.

“Made a killing on one in the Derby.”

It was a beautiful picture, the two horses — a brown-and-white filly and a pure black stallion — striding majestically, hooves thundering across the hot Florida scrubland, gaining on The Silver Stingray.

“They shoot horse thieves, don’t they?”

“Not anymore,” said Zigzag. “Come on, we’re nearly there.”

More passengers rushed to the middle windows of the dining car, pouring in from the sleeper and coach, lifting children up and pointing.

“Have to admit, this was a great idea,” said Ivan.

“The beauty of it is stealth,” said Zigzag. “There’s no way in the world anyone will detect our approach.”

The horses finally caught The Silver Stingray, and Ivan and Zigzag put the crop to their steeds. They gradually moved up the side of the train toward the break between the dining car and the first sleeper, passing a giant window filled with faces stacked three high, taking pictures and filming home videos.

Zigzag was in front. He reached with his left hand for the railing, two feet away, closing slowly. “Almost there.” One foot, six inches. “Alllllllll-most…Got it!” He grabbed the rail firmly and leaped from the horse to the tiny platform, the filly peeling off to the side and stopping. Ivan came up next. Zigzag reached out. “Give me your hand!”

Ivan strained, their fingertips inches apart. Zigzag saw the Russian’s eyes grow large. “What is it?”

Several passengers looked sideways out the window and pointed ahead in horror.

“Tunnel!”

“Grab my hand!” said Zigzag.

“I can’t!”

“You have to!”

Ivan whipped the reins a last time. Their fingertips touched, then parted, then touched again. Zigzag snatched Ivan’s hand and jerked him out of the saddle. The stallion hit the brakes. They were in the tunnel.

Zigzag felt around in the dark. He unhooked an emergency entrance in the side of the connector between the cars, and they climbed through.

“Now if we can just slip inside without anyone noticing,” said Ivan.

The tunnel still provided cover of darkness as they opened the back door of the dining car and quietly crept inside. They came out of the tunnel, light again. A carful of people was staring at them. Cheering erupted.

“This is definitely the best mystery train I’ve ever been on!”