Tehachapi Turban

The bell over the door jingled, bringing Harpreet’s head up from his textbook. He watched the skinny white guy enter the convenience store and make a hard right past the magazine rack. Narrowing his eyes, Harpreet slipped off the stool to stand closer to the cash register.

Harpreet had come from India five months ago and wore the Sikh turban as an article of his faith. So commonplace in Patiala, Punjab, this five meters of cloth now marked him in Tehachapi, California; Harpreet felt vulnerable and exposed in the 3 AM QuickStop, even though it was his own domain. For courage, he touched the kirpan hidden in his clothes, its six-inch blade a reminder of Sikh freedom of spirit.

Tehachapi, once a railroad town at the top of the Bakersfield grade, was now a freeway town, and caught drifters like leaves blown against a fence. Forty trains a day crawled slowly on the grade, passed at speed by highway traffic through the same mountain pass. For trains and freeway travelers there was no reason to stay in Tehachapi and every reason to pass through. But for over a century, Tehachapi had been an eddy in the transportation network where unwanted humanity gathered, swirled and moved on again.

The October wind blew outside and rattled the door. Harpreet shivered--the wind was the worst part of this place. A dry, lonely wind so different than the winds of home, the watered fields of Punjab. This is home now, he reminded himself, and you are lucky to be here. He straightened to his full height and firmly held his attention on the transient lurking in the back of the well-lit store, hearing the skinny guy’s shuffling step over the hum of the refrigerators.

Harpreet’s uncle had brought him to the United States; Harpreet knew his responsibility--make the most of this opportunity, and bring honor to the family through hard work and study. His uncle, resigned to a life in the confines of the store, had great hopes for Harpreet in the U.S. "God Bless America,' his uncle said many times.

At first, much of America had seemed familiar, as if he had been here once already - cable TV in Patiala had introduced him to American ways. But Los Angeles television news made America seem a dangerous place, and since the attacks of September eleventh, Tehachapi seemed even more so. And then the shooting of a Sikh shopkeeper in Phoenix. His uncle had told him, "People do not understand. They confuse Sikhs with Muslims. It is the turban." Could Tehachapi, the lonely town on the edge of the desert, be like Phoenix?

His uncle had taped the American flag from the newspaper in the window, and added a box of flag decals to the items crowding the counter by the register. The flag did not stir emotion in Harpreet, but he sold many and understood it’s importance. Like all the Sikh community, he deplored the attacks, they were clearly wrong - the work of madmen. Self-defense was part of Sikhism and America should defend itself; the flag was a sign of solidarity in common cause.

During the day Harpreet looked through windows crowded with beer advertisements at the skinny guy and his pals in the park across the street; they spent their time drinking, squabbling amongst themselves, and begging passersby for money. When the riffraff staggered into the QuickStop, Harpreet sold them alcohol and snacks, keeping his face expressionless and his eye sharp.

At this time of night, the street beyond the gasoline pumps was pitch black, but Harpreet knew the drinkers were out there. Homeless, where did they have to go? They all looked the same, sunburned close-cropped heads, red stubbled faces, and green tattoos that crawled from under their filthy tank tops, as if bred on the filth of their unwashed bodies.

The skinny guy dawdled down the aisles, picking up and putting down a bag of Chee-tos, an Abba-Zabba candy bar, and a muffin. Harpreet coldly tracked his path, to let him know he was being watched. Already today this one had tried to beg free food; for such a person, it was only a small step from begging to theft.

Stealing outraged Harpreet. He had known thieves in Patiala. Thieves were as ubiquitous as dust, blown around the world on winds of poverty and ignorance.

Never, however, had he known thieves as bold as these, as if they had a right, as if a turban and a dark skin made Harpreet an enemy. The skinny guy and his transient companions thought him a fool, but he knew their intent. The skinny guy wandered to the counter and stood before him with arrogance, staring with red-rimmed eyes.

"Hey Ali, what can I get for forty-seven cents?"

"For forty-seven cents, you can get nachos."

The skinny guy sneered, as if white skin and a bad smell gave him the right to withhold respect. Harpreet held his gaze. The wind rattled the door to the blackness outside.

Earlier that day, Harpreet had corrected him, "Sir, my name is Harpreet, not Ali. What’s your name, may I ask?" By the skinny guy’s reaction, Harpreet knew immediately he had got it wrong; no amount of TV could make him American, he said things in an odd way that even a street person could mock.

“May I ask?” the skinny guy had mocked Harpreet, mimicking his accent. “No, you may not ask, Ali.”

His uncle had cautioned him not to be provoked, "With troublesome persons, speak only as you must to do business." Harpreet let it go, although his warrior spirit had wished to do otherwise.

Throughout the day and night, the skinny guy had brought his insolence into the store, his inebriation increasing with each visit. Harpreet saw dislike turn to hate in the skinny guy’s red eyes.

"I guess I don’t want nachos," smirked the skinny guy and sauntered back to the cold case, Harpreet following his progress like radar. The skinny guy returned to the counter with a single tall can of beer.

"How much is this?"

"Old English sixteen ounce is fifty-three cents, plus tax."

"Ali, old pal, what if you pay the tax on this one?"

"Sure, if you put back the candy bar."

"What candy bar?"

"The Abba-Zabba in your pocket."

The skinny guy stared at Harpreet, then spewed obscenities. His spittle flecked Harpreet's face and he shifted uncomfortably, keeping his hands below the counter.

"...fucking raghead terrorist!" screamed the skinny guy. He threw a handful of change at Harpreet and slammed out the door into the night.

Harpreet stared after him, his heart racing. He fumbled up the coins from the floor, made the difference from the take-a-penny cup on the counter, and rang up the beer.

Such ignorance. Sikhs had nothing to do with it. Harpreet opened his book, and found he could not focus on the text. The skinny guy or his friends would be back. Harpreet called the police.

He watched trash blow across the parking lot and disappear into the darkness until a Tehachapi police cruiser arrived. Officer Mahoney entered the store, her hair pulled into a tight blonde bun above her blue police jacket.

"Evening, Harpreet. What’s the problem?"

"One of the transients from the park has been making trouble all day," said Harpreet. "He was just here, stole a candy bar and screamed at me. It’s way uncool. He’s drunker and worse each time he comes in, blaming me for terrorism. He might get violent."

"What does he look like?"

"Skinny, white, dirty tank top, tattoos."

Harpreet had sold Officer Mahoney many cups of coffee in the middle of the night. They had talked, having no one else to talk to. Officer Mahoney had noticed Harpreet’s books and asked about his studies; Officer Mahoney had a college degree. Harpreet had concealed his surprise at learning this - America was sometimes different in ways he had not imagined and he did not want to give offense.

Five minutes later, Officer Mahoney came back in the store, holding the skinny guy by the arm. The skinny guy seemed weak, and Officer Mahoney lifted him up like a loose-limbed doll, wrinkling her nose at his smell.

"Is this him?"

"Yes."

"Why are you hassling me? His kind are the terrorists." The skinny guy broke down, blubbering. "All those people killed in New York."

"This is Tehachapi," said Officer Mahoney. "All right. You get a nice warm bed tonight." Officer Mahoney pulled the skinny guy towards the door.

"Wait," said Harpreet. Officer Mahoney and the skinny guy looked at him. "What happened in New York was a terrible crime. I did not have anything to do with it. Do not blame me."

The skinny guy looked at him bleary-eyed. "Whatever, Ali."

Officer Mahoney jerked the skinny guy’s arm. "His name is Harpreet. He’s a good guy. Say his name."

"Harpreet." The skinny guy spat out the word as if it tasted bad. "Threepeat." He cackled wildly.

"Christ," said Officer Mahoney and pulled the skinny guy, still giggling, to the door. The skinny guy stumbled against the door, jingling the bell.

"See you tomorrow," said Harpreet, wondering to whom he spoke.

##

The next day, when Harpreet arrived at the store after classes, the skinny guy was washing the plate glass windows. Harpreet’s eyes widened and he entered the QuickStop in a hurry to find Kuldeep. His uncle was stocking soda.

"Uncle, why is he here?" asked Harpreet.

"Call me Kuldeep. It is the American way, and you know, I am not really your uncle." His merry eyes peered at Harpreet from a nest of wrinkles, and a smile escaped his gray full beard.

Kuldeep was actually more than uncle to Harpreet, he was his lifeline to Sikhism, to home. Kuldeep had made sure Harpreet was part of the Sikh community; this was part of his agreement to take the young man. Even so, Harpreet needed an answer and did not move, his silence demanding one.

Kuldeep straightened slowly, his hand at his back and they both looked to the front window. The skinny guy brushed soapy water with great vigor on the other side of the glass animated like one of the Saturday morning cartoons Harpreet liked to watch. "He is not going away," said Kuldeep.

Harpreet, with the conviction of the young in contradiction to their elders, argued, "He will be gone tomorrow, like the rest."

"Perhaps, but I am staying," sighed Kuldeep. "You are son of my grandfather’s brother and my responsibility but you will not be here always. I will. Tehachapi is a small place and I need friends."

"He is not a friend." They watched the skinny guy pull a squeegee down the glass. "Look how poor a job he does."

"Here," his uncle thrust a newspaper at Harpreet, "Go out and help him." From the expression on his uncle’s face, Harpreet knew he must obey. He walked with reluctance out the door.

"Threepeat, how’s it going?" The skinny guy was cheerful, as if last night had not happened. His sneer had changed into an obsequious smile but his odor was the same. Harpreet was thankful for the breeze.

"My uncle says I must help you." Harpreet began to wipe the glass with newsprint. "My name is Harpreet."

"OK, Harpreet, I’m Jimmy," he said agreeably.

They worked in silence until the windows were done. Harpreet, with three additional inches added by his turban, towered over the short, slight Jimmy. Harpreet made sure the upper corners of the windows were clean and streak-free.

Then they were done. "Your uncle is all right," said Jimmy, "Hey dude, I’m sorry about last night."

"Give me the squeegee and bucket. Go in and get paid." Harpreet gathered up the cleaning supplies. "One question; Will you get drunk again with your wages?"

"You bet." Jimmy grinned.

"And when you are drunk will you call me ‘raghead’ and ‘terrorist’?"

"I guess not." Jimmy’s smile vanished. He looked like a little boy caught with his hand in a jar of candies and Harpreet realized Jimmy was not much older than he.

Still, he was no friend. Harpreet glared at him, then walked back to the janitor’s closet.

In the day’s that followed, Harpreet wondered what had gotten into Kuldeep. After the windows he had given Jimmy the job of cleaning the bathrooms. While Harpreet was happy not to have the task, what was the point of it? Still, Jimmy came every day to clean and while he continued to drink in the park with the other drifters, his bristling anger seemed directed elsewhere. Jimmy’s nighttime visits changed; after a purchase, he would chat, ignoring Harpreet’s signals that he was more interested in studying than conversation. Harpreet suspected Jimmy had abandoned scholarship long ago.

One night, after Harpreet had bagged his six-pack of beer Jimmy asked, "So you wear the turban all the time?"

"Yes. It is part of our religion." What would be the point of explaining more? And Jimmy was obviously sucking up, his interest as transparent as it was thin.

What seemed to impress Jimmy the most was learning that Kuldeep’s grandfather, Kuldeep Parminder Singh, had come to Tehachapi with the railroad a hundred years before. The elder Parminder had established a store that sold Asian goods to the Chinese railway laborers; his son had sold American supplies to settlers and now Kuldeep sold gasoline and snacks to travelers.

"I never," Jimmy marveled, "and here all this time I thought you just got off the boat."

"I just got off the boat, but Kuldeep was born here. He is the last of his line. It is a sadness to him."

"Is that why you’re here?" Jimmy did not seem as stupid as he looked. Harpreet began to wonder how much he wanted to share. True, Jimmy had started bathing, but Harpreet still did not trust him. For whatever reason, Kuldeep liked Jimmy, so Harpreet knew he must be polite.

"My family decided that I should come to America."

Indeed, his mother had declared, "With all the television you watch, your mind is half in America."

"The half not already seduced by Bollywood," added his father, a holder of the Mahavir Chakra military award.

Harpreet had welcomed the chance to study in America - California! - and arrived to find Tehachapi greatly different than the Hollywood he had imagined. On their first trip to the Los Angeles temple he had nagged Kuldeep to drive down Hollywood Boulevard only to find that after he had seen the handprints in the Grauman’s sidewalk the reality of the street was like the reality of the street in Patiala. The tour at Universal Studios they had taken on another trip was much more aligned with his expectations.

He and Kuldeep were the only Sikhs in Tehachapi and although Kuldeep had been kind, if firm and set in his ways, he and the large Sikh community in greater Los Angeles were no substitute for parents and siblings at home in Patiala.

"I miss my family," said Harpreet as he stood at the register.

"You’re lucky to have family," said Jimmy, a sad wistfulness in his voice.

Harpreet shut his textbook. "Tell me about your family, Jimmy."

"My family." Jimmy spoke carelessly with a tone that did not match the sad meaning of his words. "Got none. Turned eighteen and got kicked out of my last foster home. They ain’t looking for me to come back, now that I got no state check stapled to my butt."

"Wow, what a bummer. So how come you are in Tehachapi?"

"Here in the garden spot of the high desert? Because it was the road or skid row and the road got me here."

"I’m sorry." Harpreet stood awkward on his side of the counter, feeling a space of three feet, two cultures, and one yawning gap of luck between he and Jimmy.

"Don’t worry about it," said Jimmy, then as if to change the topic, said, "Hey, you talk, like, good English."

"I’ve been talking English all my life. I have the accent."

"That don’t matter." He paused. "I’m sorry I called you a, well, you know, names."

Jimmy seemed sincere, so Harpreet blurted, "So I’m not a terrorist, good to know." He flipped open the text, "I’m a student." Jimmy raised the six pack of beer, "And I’m a professional outdoorsman." He grinned and swaggered out the door.

Jimmy did his work every day. When Harpreet rotated stock he gave Jimmy the unsold outdated sandwiches and didn’t tell Kuldeep. But if Jimmy wanted to buy alcohol, Harpreet made him pay, tax and all. Perhaps he and Jimmy both had problems, but they were different problems and he would not contribute to Jimmy’s. Nor to his own as Kuldeep had a deep and precise knowledge of store inventory.

##

In December, as the wind blew cold up the pass and spun the blades on the windmills marching over the hills, Harpreet answered the cell phone Kuldeep bought for him and found himself talking to a nurse at the Tehachapi Hospital.

"Your uncle has been injured. You need to come to the hospital right away." The nurse would tell him nothing more than that. Worry gnawing at his mind, Harpreet drove Kuldeep’s 10-year-old small pickup truck to the hospital.

When he arrived, he found Kuldeep lying on a bed, his head swathed in bandages. Harpreet was shocked - seeing Kuldeep injured was one thing, but seeing him without a turban was incredible, a sign of extreme circumstances, almost of death.

"Harpreet!" Kuldeep cried out, tears in his eyes.

"Uncle! What happened?" asked Harpreet, grasping Kuldeep’s hand like a lifeline.

"I will tell you and then you must bring me a turban from home. They will not let me go and my turban was stolen."

"Stolen?" Harpreet stiffened. To steal a turban was a great disrespect. A Sikh’s turban was his self, and Harpreet had never seen Kuldeep without his. "Tell me."

"I was robbed. Someone I have not seen before. He attacked me in the store, left me lying for dead and took the till. Jimmy found me behind the counter, only my under-turban on my head."

"Did Jimmy do... "

"No, do not think it. Jimmy saved me. He called the ambulance."

A nurse came in and explained Kuldeep’s injuries - a concussion, a gash on his head and a broken wrist - were of such severity that the hospital required he stay for observation.

Kuldeep lay on the white sheet, breathing in small pants with his eyes closed. Harpreet closed the green curtain around the bed, then unwound his red turban.

"This will do until I can bring one of yours from home, uncle."

Harpreet’s long hair fell to his shoulders, and he gathered it up with the khanga wooden comb.

"Harpreet! You must have a turban," said Kuldeep as Harpreet tenderly wrapped his turban on Kuldeep’s head. It felt awkward, for Harpreet was used to doing his own, and his habits did not help when putting a turban on someone else.

"I am going home directly to get another. In the meantime, no one else will notice. I will be another longhair," he joked. Wrapped over Kuldeep’s bandages, the turban was lopsided and not nearly as neat as normal, but Kuldeep’s mind seemed eased.

"I will be fine. Go get a turban. And take care of the store!"

"Don’t worry, I’ll take care of it."

After a stop at home for another turban, Harpreet arrived at the store to found Jimmy waiting in the parking lot, wearing the old coat Kuldeep had given him. Jimmy leapt up and ran to the Truck, the two-sizes-too-large coat flapping about him like a small tent.

"I know who did it." Jimmy was so excited he was hopping from one foot to the other.

"Who?" Harpreet’s heart burst aflame with the desire to avenge Kuldeep. Kuldeep who was kind, worked the store tirelessly, who humbly kept his faith and his dignity. Someone who did not deserve this. He jumped from the cab and towered over Jimmy.

"I was drinking a forty in the park and this dude showed up. He had some cloth, bragged he put a hit on the raghead storekeeper. His words."

"When?"

"Just now."

Harpreet grabbed Jimmy’s shirt and lifted him in the air.

"You didn’t try to stop him?" Harpreet was outraged and shook Jimmy like a pit bull.

"Take it easy," said Jimmy and pushed back. Harpreet let go of Jimmy’s shirt. Jimmy went on, "Okay. He was a wrong guy, but big. I’m a little guy. I was waiting for you." True, Jimmy weighed nothing.

Harpreet was breathing hard. "Tell me what you know."

"I watched him hop the next freight out, westbound, not 15 minutes ago. Let’s go get him."

The idea electrified Harpreet, and appealed to every instinct of tradition, imagination and youth. That the notion contradicted his religious training and Kuldeep’s advice did not seem to matter. Harpreet leapt into the truck and backed out of the parking space.

"Get in," he yelled to Jimmy, "you need to identify him."

"I’m down with that, Rambo!" Jimmy ran around the truck and climbed in, barely closing the door before Harpreet bumped over the curb. Harpreet could smell the beer on Jimmy’s breath as he sped down the onramp.

Once on Highway 58 Harpreet accelerated. Kuldeep did not like to drive fast and his instruction to Harpreet were clear and repeated -- "Safe driving, always," although Harpreet, when alone in the truck, took the opportunity to push the truck faster. Harpreet passed the other traffic, swerving from lane to lane on the freeway that swept down the canyon.

"Shit," said Jimmy, "Don’t kill us, okay?" He fumbled on the seatbelt.

Harpreet tossed the cell phone into Jimmy’s lap. "Call 911. Tell them we’re going to the Loop."

The Loop was a place on the rail line where, to maintain an even 2% grade, the railway had laid tracks in a half-mile circle over themselves; the engine of a long train could pass under its own cars at the end of the train. It would be a good place to find a slow train and they had to beat the train there.

While Jimmy fumbled with the cell phone, Harpreet hung on to the steering wheel. What was he doing? he thought. Somehow he was on this wild ride to an uncertain end; he had never acted like this before, it was as if a spell had overcome him. You are doing it for good purpose, he reminded himself. His father would want him to act courageously. Harpreet knew he did not have a clue as to what they would do once they got to the Loop.

Jimmy spluttered on the phone, slurring his words. He tried to explain to the 911 operator who he was and where he was going. The words coming from his mouth did not make sense to Harpreet; he could only imagine how they sounded to the operator. Finally, Jimmy cursed and put down the cell phone. "Damn. They don’t understand jack-shit." Harpreet jerked the steering wheel to the left to avoid a slow-moving semi-trailer truck. He saw the train ahead, moving deliberate and slow on the downhill grade. The train had two red and black engines in front, and another in the middle and many cars. He sped up; the sight of the train put his doubts aside.

"Call the police station. Ask for Officer Mahoney."

"Like I know the number for the po-leece," said Jimmy. The number was written by the cash register at the QuickStop, but Harpreet realized he couldn’t remember it either.

"Okay, just dial 0, ask the operator to connect to the Tehachapi police."

Jimmy got through. "Here, you talk," he said, pushing the cell phone to Harpreet like a hot potato. Luckily, the highway was empty. Harpreet kept glancing at the train as he talked He was still too far away to see anything on it as he passed it while talking on the phone.

"Officer Mahoney, this is Harpreet. From the QuickStop... Yes, thank you for your concern." He had caught up with the train and now he was passing it. "Kuldeep seems to be mending. We are chasing his attacker... Who? Myself and Jimmy who works at the store." Harpreet was exhilarated; this was just like calling into Central for backup. "Jimmy saw him. The criminal is on a train going to Bakersfield. I am driving to the Loop to, to identify him... Yes, we can identify him... No I won’t do anything else -- we will wait. Thank you." They were nearly past the train now.

On the hillsides enclosing the narrow valley, lines of windmills spun their long blades. At Keene, Harpreet tore off the highway and U-turned onto the road that led back the way they came, towards the Loop.

The Loop circled a small hill, brown from the long summer, still waiting for the winter rains. A number of cars were parked next to the tunnel where the tracks went over themselves. Well known among railfans, The Tehachapi Loop was an oddity of railroad construction that drew people from around the world.

Harpreet tore up the road and skidded to a stop near the other cars. A group of men, some holding cameras, stood near the tracks and looked over at the truck’s dusty arrival. As Harpreet jumped out of the truck the train from Tehachapi had already passed over the tunnel and was halfway through the Loop.

"Quick. If we see him we must jump on and catch him," Harpreet yelled to Jimmy, his promise to Officer Mahoney forgotten. He would catch his uncle’s attacker, and avenge the insult. Harpreet and Jimmy ran to the side of the track. The first diesel engine blew its airhorn and approached the tunnel, the rotating headlight in its stubby nose bright even in the sunlight. An older man wearing a black jacket and sunglasses came up to Harpreet. His baseball cap had ‘FBI’ stitched on it.

"Did you say you mean to hop on the train?"

"There is criminal on the train." Harpreet spoke with excitement, waving at the oncoming train. "He attacked my uncle. We must stop him."

"I can’t let you do that." The man flipped open his wallet to show his badge. "FBI."

Harpreet stared at him, why would he not help? The engines blew past, their noise causing Harpreet to shout. "You must help us." The other men stood in a group watching them, unfriendly looks on their faces.

"Step away from the tracks, sir."

"No, we must not let him get away."

"Step away, now." The FBI man appeared angry. He put away his wallet and held handcuffs in his hands.

Harpreet’s head swung from the FBI man to the cars now clicking slowly by. The wind of their passage blew past his face. An open boxcar towards the end of the train passed over the tunnel. A man stood in its door, looking down at the trackside group eighty feet below.

"It’s him!" yelled Jimmy and pointed. Harpreet stared at the man in the open boxcar door. The man stared back and stuck his middle finger in the air.

"Fourth car from the end," shouted Jimmy.

"Get ready, Jimmy," said Harpreet.

"You’re both under arrest. Put your hands behind your back."

"What?" Harpreet could not believe what he was hearing. The criminal was in sight and the FBI was blind. The turban, as Kuldeep had said. He complied and felt the cold steel snap on his wrists.

"I ain’t done nothing," said Jimmy.

As Harpreet watched helplessly in handcuffs, The train passed by like his hopes. Now he was in trouble with the police, he had never been in trouble before.

His emotions churned. The police were his friends, it was wrong to arrest him, it didn’t happen like this in the movies. He protested, "No, you don’t understand. You must stop him."

"Not my job," said the FBI man. "I’m here to protect this target from attack and you don’t look like you come from around here."

"Are you kidding?" yelled Jimmy over the train noise, "He’s from Tehachapi."

"Yeah, and you’re from Beverly Hills," said the FBI man.

The train finished moving past. The man in the boxcar was not there when it moved by. The train clattered away and the silence of the windswept December valley came over the group.

Officer Mahoney arrived in her Tehachapi police cruiser. She drew the FBI man out of earshot of Harpreet and Jimmy, who stood forlorn on the gravel of the tracks. One of the railfans pointed his camera at them and took their picture.

"Fuck you," Jimmy shouted at them, "Haven’t you ever seen a turban before?" Harpreet agreed but his thoughts turned to what would happen now. He held his head high.

Officer Mahoney walked over to Harpreet and Jimmy with the FBI man. "I vouched for you boys," she said, "Since Kuldeep was robbed today, Agent Rawlings is willing to let it go."

Agent Rawlings began to take off the handcuffs. "I guess the trains are safe from the likes of you."

Officer Mahoney’s mouth twitched, then she looked seriously at Harpreet, "Hopping freights is not such a good idea. People get hurt that way."

Harpreet opened his mouth, thought better of it and shut it. "Thanks," he said, rubbing his wrists.

Officer Mahoney turned to Jimmy. "How come I keep running into you?"

"Just lucky, I guess," said Jimmy, his élan returning with his freedom.

Officer Mahoney snorted and shook her head. "You saw a guy who looked like the guy who robbed Kuldeep?"

Harpreet and Jimmy spoke simultaneously, "Jimmy saw him...", "It was the dude with the cloth..."

"Wait, wait." She turned to Agent Rawlings. "What did you see?"

He shrugged. "There was a guy in a boxcar. He was gone when the car went by."

"We can radio ahead," she said, and brought out her notebook. "What’s his description?"

Jimmy described the man, the turban cloth, and which box car he was in. Officer Mahoney went to her cruiser, used her radio and came back.

"OK, they’ll stop the train ahead and look for him."

"Thank you," said Harpreet.

"Go home, Harpreet." She looked at Jimmy. "You come with me, to ID the suspect."

Harpreet was minding the store when Officer Mahoney came in with Jimmy. He had not yet decided how to describe the events to Kuldeep. It seemed better to wait until he knew if they caught the attacker.

"We found nobody on the train. Sorry, Harpreet. My best to Kuldeep." Officer Mahoney left the store and pulled away in her cruiser. Jimmy stood awkwardly by the door.

"I’ll be seein’ ya, Threepeat."

"Harpreet."

"It’s not a bad thing, ya know."

"Better to use right names, I think."

"Yeah, all right. Anyway, I’m leavin’ town. Sorta been encouraged to. Damn. If we’d just busted that asshole."

"I’m sorry to see you go." Saying this surprised Harpreet, but it was true. "Kuldeep will miss you also. Where will you go?"

"It’s getting’ cold. Santa Barbara’s warmer. Maybe San Diego. Wherever."

"Wait," said Harpreet. He put sandwiches, yogurt, a big bag of M&M’s, and a couple Slim-Jims into a bag. From behind the counter he added a half-pint of whisky from a bottom shelf. "For the trip."

"Thanks. Harpreet."

Jimmy went out, the door jingled. Harpreet rang up the whisky from his own pocket. When he looked up, Jimmy had crossed the street, blown with the wind in the direction of the railroad tracks.

© 2004 Clem Henriksen