Finders Keepers

Finders Keepers - Chapters 11-20

            Jason sought out Track 9. Each platform had a signpost with its corresponding number. Track 2 was directly ahead. Then Track 4, Track 6. Track 8. All even numbers. He checked his watch: 10:49:04.

            Jason followed another series of platforms. Track 1, Track 3. He smiled, knowing he was close. Track 5. Getting closer. Track 7. He smiled again. 10:51:32.

            And finally he came upon his destination, hallelujah. Track 9.

            Except that it was empty.

            "No fucking way." The arch of his back whimpered, struggling beneath the weight of his supplies. He ran to a conductor flipping through pages of a leather-bound pad. "Excuse me. Train to Rome? Did it leave?"

            "Moved," he said in English, without looking up from his pad.

            "Moved? You mean to a different track?"

            The conductor flipped a page. Flipped again. Flipped again.

            "To another track? Which track?" 10:53:11. T-minus three minutes.

            The conductor looked up. He had barbs in his eyes. "Don't know."

            "But where-?"

            "Don't know," the conductor repeated sternly, and then walked away.

            Oh, God. This isn't happening.

            Jason ran along the platforms until he came across an information booth. Two men were sitting on stools, reading the newspaper. "Excuse me. Look. Train to Rome. It was supposed to be on track nine, but it's not. Do you know which track? Do you know where it is?"

The first booth worker grumbled, and then stormed into the back room. Slam! The second winged his newspaper, creating a distinct barrier, preventing eye contact. Smoke floated up from behind the paper.

            Great. More cigarettes. Stinky French fuckers.

            "Sir! Train to Rome. It leaves in ...," Jason checked his watch, "... in less than three minutes. Train to Rome. Which track? Do you know which track?"

            The cigarette fucker wrinkled his paper defiantly. He turned his back to Jason.

            "Excuse me, sir. Please. Can you help me? Train to Rome ..."

            Jason fantasized about jumping over the counter and clubbing the cigarette fucker with a bacon-fat baguette until the right answer popped loose, but instead the clock in his head clanged away like an ancient gong, one second at a time.

            10:54:03 ... Clang!

            10:54:04 ... Clang!