Free Hot Springs by Stephen Hunter Page A

a blue suit with a fedora pulled low over his eyes and the look of command and experience to him. Ben smelled cop, and a split second later that little flare of rage fired off in his mind.
    “Goddamn her!” he exploded, his face white with fury, his temples pulsating, and he began to stride manfully toward his woman.
    They spent the morning examining gambling joints from the hundreds in the town, from the smallest, dingiest sports books in the Negro areas out Malvern to some of the more prosaic slot halls on the west side out Ouachita to the elaborate Taj Mahals of Central Avenue. Any one of them could be the Central Book, but how would they know? None of the eight or so they eyeballed, entered, dropped a few bucks’ worth of quarters into, seemed remarkable in any way. Then they stopped at a Greek’s and had a couple of hamburgers and coffee.
    “Is this what cops do?” asked Earl. “They just drive around and look at stuff?”
    “Pretty much,” said D. A., taking a bite. “But when the shit happens, it happens fast. Just like in the war.”
    “Okay, Mr. Parker. I believe you.”
    “Earl, before this is all over, you’ll look back on these early days with some nostalgia. This is about as good as it gets.”
    Earl nodded, and went back to his burger.
    Finally, D. A. went off, dropped a nickel and made a call. He came back with a smile on his wrinkled, tanned prime of a face.
    “This snitch I got at the Arlington, one of the bellboys, he says Bugsy and the babe are moving out today and the boys are going upstairs to get their luggage and load it up for them. Let’s go to the hotel and see if we can’t pick ‘em up.”
    Earl threw down his cup of coffee, left some change at the counter and the two of them went out and got in the Ford.
    When they got to the Arlington and parked above it on Central, with the grand entrance in easy view, it didn’t take long to pick up the caravan. The limo, which looked like it was thirty feet long, led the way out of the hotel’s grand entrance. It was followed by a pickup, full of luggage and black men. And behind that, a third car, a Dodge, where six of Owney’s minor gunmen and gofers—they were all from a hillbilly family called Grumley—sat dully, pretending to provide security.
    From a few car lengths back, Earl and D. A. followed, taking it nice and easy, and kept contact as the folks in the big limo talked on and on. Earl could see that Bugsy and Owney did most of the chatting. The woman just looked out the window, her features frozen in place. The cavalcade made its way through the heavy traffic up Central, and a traffic cop overrode the light to let it pass, while D. A. and Earl cooled their heels behind the red. By the time they got to the station, the black men had the luggage off the truck and loaded onto a couple of hand carts and were hauling it toward the big yellow train.
    “Is that the Atchison, Topeka and the Santa Fe?” asked Earl, as D. A. pulled into a space on Market Street.
    “No, Earl, that is not. That is the Missouri-Pacific 4:15 for St. Louis, the first step on the trip back to L. A. Now let’s get out and mosey over there and see what there is to see. Probably nothing, but for now I am sick of casing books in Niggertown.”
    “I roger that,” said Earl.
    The two split up, and drifted through the gathering crowd as the time of departure approached. Earl lit a cigarette, found a pillar to lean against far down the platform and commenced to smoke and watch. In time, he spotted the two gangsters talking animatedly near the station house, each smoking a gigantic cigar. The two fellows seemed to be having a good enough time. Other than that, nothing much was happening, though more and more people were boarding the train and the conductors seemed a little more frenzied. He glanced at his Hamilton, saw that it was just about 4:00 P. M. The all-aboard would come very soon. His leg hurt a little, as did his left wrist. He flexed his left hand, opening