Taconite Cover (2)

An Excerpt From My Novel, TACONITE

His father had left him a deed to the the homestead and the surrounding 5,000 acres of wooded land in Minnesota which would be leased and the proceeds held at a bank in Duluth, the estate in New Orleans and a substantial amount of gold coins, which along with silver were the most common currency of the time. He packed the hefty sack of gold and other odds and ends into a travel pack, and rode two days to St. Cloud where he deposited the majority of his inheritance and caught a boat to St.louis, the Gateway to the West.

It was an era that required boys to be men, and Lucient was man-strong from years of cutting wood and trapping and hunting along side his father. He was a crack shot with a rifle or bow, and well educated in history, literature, and mathematics by his mother, who was from aristocratic stock back in Scotland before coming to America.

In the years that followed, he punched cows in the Wyoming territory, mined silver in Colorado, hauled freight along the Overland Trail, and rode shotgun on Wells Fargo stages until he landed in New Orleans working as a longshoreman on the Toulouse St. wharf. It was there that he learned to fight with skill. He’d been in more than a few scraps in the rough and tumble saloons of the west, but it was while working on the Mississippi that he befriended a sailor – Antoine Gasparilla from the Barbary Coast, who took a liking to him and trained him to fight with techniques from Ireland, Africa and the Far East. He also learned how to handle knives and could pin a Monarch butterfly to a tree at 20 yards. When it was time for Gasparilla to ship out, he told Lucient, “Never trust anyone, Robinuex. You never know who your enemies may be. Why, there might even come a day when you and I will have to face off!”





An excerpt from my memoir Faces Places and Pain 

Minneapolis 1982

Spring made me restless. Everything made me restless, but Spring was as good an excuse as any to leave town. I don’t know how we came to be together, but I was creeping the streets with a girl named Ann when I decided to go to California. She wanted to hitchhike with me and I definitely welcomed the company of a sexy, if not a little dim, street girl.

We were walking down the tracks behind the high-rises and slightly below the surface of the streets of downtown, making our way to the interstate when we ran into another traveler named Curly. He was a burly bearded biker without a hog and ready to pull out too.

“You guys ever done the freight trains before?” I saw the panting dog look he was giving her, everyone had that response. Whatever, she wasn’t mine. We told him we hadn’t and he said he would be glad to show us how to catch one out of town. Sure.

We followed him north for a mile or so to a spot where he said would be the best place to catch one moving slow. We stopped at a camp of three other guys who had a fire going at the base of an embankment near a bridge. The entire rail yard and the tracks going through town were about 50 feet below street level, all the better for those of us who wanted to stay off the radar of cops and citizens.

We introduced ourselves. They called me Soldier back then, and nobody asked me why. An older guy with a ball cap said his name was Jim Forney, I found out later that he had been a top rodeo star through the 70’s until the injuries caught up to him and brought him down.

Limpin’ Ed introduced himself and offered us some coffee. Ed had a short leg and was a lifelong freight train traveler and ranch hand in the winter.

And then there was Scarface Billy. I didn’t know it then, but he would become the Fagan to my Oliver Twist. His face was a roadmap to hell. His Romanesque nose had been broken at least a couple times. Older scars had receded into his cheeks and forehead as though he had been born with them. A few new ones were on the surface- crosshatched and red. One scar was vertical, running down across his eyebrow, upper and lower eyelids and a half-inch down unto his cheekbone giving him a Jonah Hex appearance. The eye was half closed and milky, and I wasn’t sure it was alive anymore. His almost perfect close-cropped combed hair was jet-black except for a shock of white where a scar travelled down from his scalp. His forearms were covered in old faded tattoos and the muscles beneath rolled like snakes under the skin. I wanted to be him.

I asked for a smoke and Billy handed me a pouch of Bugler rolling tobacco and some papers. I didn’t know how to roll a smoke, but I sat on my duffle bag and attempted to. It came out tapered like a joint and the old travelers all showed a look of amusement. Billy shook his head, grabbed the badly wrapped smoke from me, ripped it and dumped it back into the pouch and said,


He sprinkled tobacco evenly across the paper that he held deftly in one hand, cradled it along the middle and index fingers of both hands, and with his thumbs, slowly rolled it into a perfect cylinder leaving the just the gummed edge which he licked and rolled tight.

“That, Youngblood, is a cigarette. You wanna be a Tramp, you gotta roll like one. Take the makings and practice. You got time. We all got nothing but time.”

We waited for a train to go west on the number 6 track. I spent the time rolling and listening to these grizzled veterans of the road tell their stories. The afternoon wore on and we watched an eastbound go by into the yard and later a westbound on the number two track.

Limpin’ Ed nodded at the westbound and said, “That one’s going to Wilmar.”

Afternoon became night and I watched as Scarface Billy opened a baggy of coffee, poured a couple table spoons worth into a clean white sock and tied it off at the top. He set it carefully into a soup can of boiling water and let it steep. Coffee for one. He gave it to Ann and me and recooked the pouch in another can and took it himself.

Our westbound showed up at about two in the morning. We were all awake and ready when it rolled by at about five miles an hour and gaining speed. Billy grabbed his gear and jogged down the tracks east of us and found an open box. Ed told us to spread out and be ready when the box came by. I put Ann in front of me to make sure she got on. Each man reached out to grab the next one going by. Curly caught Ann’s hand, hoisted her up, and I reached out to the door handle of the box, flung my duffle up, and jogged a couple paces until I could vault my feet up. Billy caught my pant leg and I was in. He nodded approval when I stood up.

“You did that like a champ, Soldier. Like you were born to it.” Maybe I was. It felt like living. I had to travel to live, and I was on my way. Somewhere. Somewhere else.

We were traveling courtesy of Burlington Northern on what the others called a Hot Shot. A Hot Shot didn’t stop in every other town it went through but made a non-stop run to a particular town. This one was going to Minot, North Dakota and was supposed to be about a ten hour trip.

We rumbled and rolled and swayed and vibrated our way north and west, sometimes slowing through populated areas but never stopping. Nothing about an empty box car is soft. It was iron top to bottom and not designed for human transport. It was cold at night and dirty. Everyone slept across the car rather than end to end just in case the train stopped suddenly. If your head was near the end of the car when it hit the brakes you could break your neck. Ann and I slept and fucked as best we could, and Curly was never far from us. Ever. Always panting.

We drank White Port and Thunderbird and tepid water from milk jugs. Billy came out with a pack of Marlboros and I grinned as he shook one out for me. He had store-bought, but he made me learn how to roll. Crusty bastard.

We jumped off the box as it slowed down about a mile from the Minot yard. Riding was illegal and no-one wanted to get caught by the local railroad bull.

We made camp along the wall of an abandoned warehouse and one of the tramps came out with some hard bread and baloney. It was all anyone had, and it was shared evenly. Later, we caught another one and rumbled on to Havre, Montana and north to Whitefish. When we got there we were out of Marlboros, food and water, but Jim Forney had food stamps waiting for him at the local Human Services office. When he got them, we all split up and went to every store and convenience store that would take stamps. We each bought a pack of gum for a dime, and pocketed the ninety cents. We ended up with almost six dollars. Wine and tobacco money.

“You don’t spend money on food, Youngblood. That’s what stamps and dumpsters are for.”

We caught a Hot Shot for Spokane and when we arrived there it was night and I was passed out drunk. When they woke me up to jump off, Ann and Curly were gone. Together. Whatever. I’d been alone before.

Billy and I paired up to go dumpster diving. He showed me that once sandwiches spent their time limit under the heat lamp, McDonalds and Burger King threw them away still encased in their Styrofoam containers. Free warm clean food was waiting in the dumpsters. We made our way back with a booty of burgers, but Ed and Jim never did. We didn’t know why. It’s how things went on the road.

Scarface and I ate our fill and drank until we couldn’t anymore and rolled up in our sleeping bags and passed out. When I woke up, Billy was gone. On a rock next to the fire was a new pack of Bugler, a sack of Quarter Pounders and half a bottle of Mad Dog 20/20.


from my memoir Faces, Places and Pain

The Carny life had always been there for me when I needed it and I was counting on it when I walked onto the midway at the Texas State Fair in Dallas, lookin’ for a hole. I had combed my hair for the occasion after I blew in from hitchhiking down the interstate. I was sunburned, dehydrated, moving slow and carrying my life in a Korean War rucksack on my back. I was broke, and smoking a roll-yer-own, and the old school carnie’s that were working the joints, (the Marks called them games) sensed that I was one of them, that I was “with it, and didn’t even try to call me in.

The town help that the joint owners had put in the kiddie games like the Duck Pond and Ring a Bottle tried to call me in, but I wouldn’t give them my eyes. Some veterans would just catch me out of their peripheral vision and call me in out of habit and I would just say, “I’m with it.” and they would nod and call the next one in.

I was looking for any joint that I had worked in before. There were a half-dozen that I knew well and I looked until I spotted one; the Stop Sign Game – bounce a whiffle ball off a slanted stop sign into a basket below.

It was a center joint, (in the middle of the midway), and had two stations on each side. One of the holes was empty. I asked the guy at the other sign if that was an empty hole or was the person working it just on a break. He said it was open and told me where to find his boss.

I found Ray, the joint owner, under the office tent with a couple of other owners and the owner of the show. Ray was a big man, about 400 pounds, and when he spoke it came out like a wheeze.

“What do you feature?”

“I’m no high-powered agent. I do the Milk Cans, Bottle Up, Tubs, but I noticed you had a hole at the Stop Signs. I can fill that for you.”

“I’ll give you 15 points.” (15% of the daily gross in my apron). He grinned almost imperceptibly.


“25?! Fuck off. I don’t know you.”

“I’m good.”

“Yeah, how good? Who have you travelled with?”

The other guys at the table watched the verbal piing pong match with amusement. They’d seen it before. It never got old.

I named off six concessioners from Florida to Minnesota.

“Gary Thacker, huh. You were one of ‘Thacker’s Wackers’?”

“Yep. Worked his signs for a season. Strictly hanky pank build-up, a few strong moves but mostly finesse. I made 50 G’s that year at 25 points, so he made 150 large just from my apron alone.”

All of the other men’s eyebrows went up at that, but they held their tongue. This was Ray’s game to win or lose.

“Go jump in that hole. I’ll give you 20 points today. Show me something by the end of the night and tomorrow I’ll bump you up to 25…if you’re travelling with us after this spot.”

“I’ll travel. Got nowhere else to go.”

I walked back to the joint and told the ‘Head of the Store’, who was sitting on a gulf cart next to the canvas wall, what Ray and I discussed. The Store Head looked down the midway at Ray and waited for the big man’s nod. He got it.

He handed me an apron and I stepped over the shin rail, stowed my gear behind a bag of Harley Dogs, and tied my apron on. I bummed a store-bought cigarette from the kid working the hole next to me, lit it, turned around and started calling them in.

“One in wins!”

I was home.