Choo-Choo Barnwell steered the Cadillac into the chilly Pennsylvania night. No headlights behind him. None in front of him on the two-lane mountain highway. The only visible illumination came from a swath of stars that stretched across the black heavens. For whatever reason, he thought about his name. Choo-Choo. Something tagged on him when he was a kid after he bragged about how he had stowed a ride on a boxcar that went halfway across the country before they discovered him. Forty-four and still Choo-Choo. Not much longer, he hoped.

He peered over at his cargo on the passenger’s side of the front seat. All was still quiet. He tried keeping his mind on the road, on the job at hand; tried concentrating for just a few more hours. One quick job, one quick payoff. He had been promised a half million for the job, cash on the spot at the time of delivery. If he was greedy he would have thought about doing this sort of thing more often, but all he wanted to do now was to collectmoney, clear up some old debts, open himself a respectable business and assume his given name, Walter, Walter Barnwell. It wasn’t spectacular, but it was functional enough, a regular adult name. He didn’t have many goals in life; never saw much good in them. But for some reason, now, he felt that if he did nothing else, he could at least jettison his nickname and regain his rightful Christian name so that, as a fifty-year-old man, they weren’t still calling him Choo-Choo. That, he thought, would be the least he could do for himself—grow up.

He kept seeing the figure—$500,000—running across the forefront of his mind. He felt fortunate to have found something valuable enough to bring in that kind of money without dealing in drugs. Choo-Choo considered himself pretty much a small time crook. He could have made more from drugs, except that the people in it scared the hell out of him. They were crazy. They’d kill you even if they liked you. But this job seemed harmless enough. There was no physical injury to anyone and he had done his work at random, so there was little chance of tracking him down. It was hours now since the metropolis had disappeared from his rear view mirror. If anyone had been tracking him, he would have seen an indication of it a long time ago.

By now he was several hundred miles into the state. He passed his first landmark, a run-down antique store on the right side of the road that was very much in the middle of nowhere. The mileage was about right, and the shop’s exterior featured the front end of a 1957 Chevy protruding from the right wall, as though the car had tried to drive through the store and almost made it. Time to start looking for the signpost to his final destination. His instructions said that precisely two-point-three miles beyond the antique shop he would see a brown sign with white lettering that said “Mountain Trail Scenic Overlook,” followed by a driveway leading into a small parking lot fronted by a stone wall. He could feel his ears popping as he began to ascend another hill. His prize package began stirring, as well, but Choo-Choo Barnwell kept an eye on his odometer. As each tenth of a mile clicked off, it became more and more difficult to keep the butterflies in his stomach under control. This had all been too easy, especially for a half million dollars. What if these people just decided to shoot him on the spot? That’s what most anyone he would deal with for this kind of money would do. What if they were worried that, armed with information about what had taken place this night, he’d be bugging them for blackmail whenever he needed the cash? How were they to know he wasn’t interested in any other such endeavors, that all he wanted to do was take his money and straighten out his life?

The steep grade now leveled off and his brights soon picked up the sign he was looking for. As per his instructions, he pulled into the gravel driveway, then shut off his main headlamps, leaving on only his parking lights. He steered the Cadillac forward a few feet, then turned right and parked, pulling the nose of the car up to the stone wall. The place was pitch black and, from the best he could tell, empty. He chewed on a nail as he waited. For a split second he considered bolting from the scene, but his prize package had begun to cry. Now he certainly had no alternative but to stay put. Most places, a screaming kid could make you pretty conspicuous. “There, there,” he said in as parental a tone as possible, “in just a few minutes, you’ll be home.”

He opened his window halfway and listened for the sound of another car coming along, but as he looked into the darkness, it suddenly became evident the car he was waiting for was already here. He could see a light at what was probably the far end of the parking lot. A dome light from a car’s interior. He wasn’t sure, but he thought he saw two figures, one of whom was getting out. Choo-Choo Barnwell breathed deeply, braced himself, then got out and waited. He left his own interior lights burning. In a moment, the figure was upon him, a man much taller than he, especially upright in a fine looking overcoat, looking almost aristocratic. He was going to say something—he didn’t know what- but the man looked past him, leaned over and peered into the Cadillac, fixing his gaze on the crying bundle on the front seat. Although the man’s features took on an eerie appearance in the limited lighting, Choo-Choo thought he had seen the face before. although at the moment he couldn’t remember where.

Unsure of what was supposed to happen next, Choo-Choo found himself frozen in place. Without a word, the man left him, returned to his car and came back a moment later with a worn looking paper shopping bag that could just as easily have been the evening’s trash. The man shoved it into Choo-Chao’s arms, circled the back of the Cadillac, opened the passenger’s side door, lifted out the crying bundle and disappeared back into the night. Still frozen, still waiting for something unspeakable to happen to him, Choo-Choo stood there while the dome light across the parking lot went on again, then off. An engine gunned to life and, as though it had never been there, the other car was gone.

He wanted to count his money, but he was too spooked to stay there. He slid into the Cadillac and left his interior light on briefly while he peered into the bag, then folded the crumpled top back over as it had been and began his long drive back to the city, where, finally, he told himself, he intended to get on with his life.

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