11:23 p.m., Monday 1 August, 1921
I sat alone at the Arkham train station guarding the latest shipment of hooch. The police were paid good money to conveniently skip this part of their patrol. The railroad bulls were also paid in kind. I just needed to wait for the truck, help them load and collect their pay. I had been through this dozens of times but it always made me nervous.
The revolver in my pocket felt heavier than it was. So did the knife in my belt. I didn’t want to have to use them, I was just trying to survive. I had been running whiskey for these guys for a few months now and the pay was good. That didn’t make me any less nervous.
From the corner of my eye I saw movement and whirled around a little faster than I had intended. Nothing. I could have sworn I saw something about waist height. I decided its best not to dwell on it. Partially out of the logic that it could have been a shadow. Partially out of fear that if I thought about it that it may return.
The night felt heavy. Passing through shadows felt like passing through water, like a physical thing. My “bad feelings” rarely ended up being nothing. My breathing and a gentle breeze were the only sounds. I remember thinking “Where the hell is Tommy?”
As if my thoughts conjured him, there was the sound of boots on gravel shuffling in the darkness.