He had cruised the old neighborhood he grew up in for some hours by the time he settled on Bohanan’s Pub to ask about a room. His granddaddy had drunk there, his white granddaddy that is. Back then Luther was the only black around; Little Luther the paperboy, back when they still had paperboys.

That is how he met Allen Wilkens. Allen had a big old house he lived in and had a room for Luther. The entire first floor of the house was devoted to Allen’s model train collection. The second floor was split into two two-room apartments that shared one kitchenette and one bathroom.

Allen stood in the hallway, with his long pale face and stringy blonde hair, and smiled slightly. “How about it Luther? Is this good, enough space for you?”

“Yes Sir, Allen. How much?”

“A hundred a week will do.”

“That’s good for me, Allen. Please understand that I get night sickness and might be vomiting or walking about sometime. I will not be loud though, and will never make a mess that I do not clean up straight away.”

Allen was unperturbed. “I don’t work, Luther, just sleep in between tinkering on the trains. I only go to the bar once a week really—lucky to run into you as I did. Having you will help me finance the next set. The SSI only gives me enough to keep going. Luckily the house is all paid but the taxes. My room is well insulated. I just hope you don’t get sick much for your own sake. That must be terrible. I’ve been blessed with good health.”

Luther smiled, He’s a good sort. I have maybe even found myself a friend.

Over the next weeks and months and into the next summer, Luther worked like a man born to it. Never late, never missing, never missed, always there for The Man!

By summer he missed Allen. Allen had not been around since midwinter, probably visiting his family down in Florida, Luther supposed. Luther had finally gotten another cell phone. Whenever he called Allen’s number the computer lady on the other end would say the number was not in service. This had him worried. It was just the beginning of summer. If Allen was not home by late June—for he always talked about running the trains on the Fourth of July—Luther would go to the police for sure.

Just now, it was a clear early summer morning and there was concrete to pour. So Luther watts put on his work clothes and brand new work boots and headed to the bus stop. He was always the first one at the yard. The El Camino had worked hard enough in his luck-fallen days, so he let her rest now, as he did his share, like back in the days of his youth, a fellow with jeans, flannel, cap, work boots and ever-handy gloves, able to accomplish whatever task The Man might set before him.