CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The detectives drove crosstown to the office. Guthrie took his Colt revolver from the desk drawer and slid it into a shoulder rig beneath a ragged field jacket from the secondhand store. When Vasquez came from the bathroom after changing into fatigues, he handed her a small holstered pistol. She paid him with a puzzled look.

“It’s just like the one you’re already carrying,” he said. “A Chief’s Special, forty caliber, except this one’s got blue bullets. They’re plastic. Next to the other one, this one won’t kick.”

“What’s it for?” she asked.

The little old man took a deep breath. “Sometimes you might want to give somebody a warning,” he said. “The plastic stings, might even draw some blood, but it ain’t doing permanent harm except maybe to an eye. You can use that pistol to hammer away, even in a crowd. Especially if I’m standing there. If something happens, I’ll tangle them up and try to keep you out of it, so you can get a clean shot.”

“The same way you did with Ralph Gaines,” she said.

“Sure, like that. Just don’t get too in love with the idea that you can weigh in with this particular argument. Weitz drew trouble for that a few times. Probably it’s a good thing you didn’t have this earlier.” He handed her an extra clip, already loaded. “Put your pistols in your jacket pockets for tonight, so they’ll be handy. Some of these underground types ain’t friendly. I don’t want you ending up like Stoop-O for not having a pistol out quick enough to back somebody off.”

Vasquez drove them up Eighth Avenue to Harlem. The night was already deep and dark by the time they parked and locked the old Ford on 151st Street. August heat still lingered on the street and reached out from the redbrick buildings to slap at them while they waited. Expectation transformed the abandoned lot. As a porch on the doorstep of unknown lands, the manhole oozed uneasiness the way a jack-o’-lantern spills flickering light.

A half hour before midnight, the Gaines brothers lurched from the alley across 151st Street and rushed the manhole like a badly organized tag team. Rodney went straight for the manhole. Ralph craned his head as he swung along, until he spotted Guthrie. He became a fast limper when he wanted to be somewhere. The little detective reassured him about the money, but he had the ill grace of a deprived addict. They all joined Rodney at the manhole. He peeled open the warped iron door to reveal steep stairs, and they went down into darkness. The hatch closed with a squeal and a clang.

Rusty stairs dropped twenty feet to a dirty brick tunnel running north and south. Guthrie and Vasquez lit it up with big halogen broad lights, saw that it shrank back into dark holes in both directions, then switched to smaller handheld lights. Rodney had a penlight, but he slipped it back into his pocket. Empty light sockets hung on the walls like eyeless watchers, spaced among conduit and piping. The Gaines brothers blended smoothly with the rough graffiti on the bricks, the scorch marks from campfires, and old bottles, cans, and bags littered beneath the piping at the bottom of the walls.

The tunnel was stand-up spacious and wide enough for the Gaines brothers to walk side by side. Rodney paused to fortify himself from a pint bottle of cheap vodka, then led them south as he fumbled it back into his pocket. The brothers shuffled along mostly side by side, but, like on the street above, Ralph would fall behind and then Rodney would pause to wait. In the bright, stabbing beams of the flashlights, they often looked like headless bodies, with the dark tunnel only present underfoot and in the puddles and swoops of light reaching ahead. Guthrie came along last. They walked south, passing dark openings that yawned silently and stank of still water, relieved by an occasional whiff of the distant river. Old repairs showed like dirty bandages on the piping along the walls, while the bricks changed colors like strippers doing sets, and alternated between running and English bond.

“We coulda come in closer?” Guthrie asked after a few hundred yards of darkness were behind them. His voice was quiet but seemed loud and sudden against the backdrop of silence under the city.

Ralph grunted assent. “Harder climb down, though.”

A stiff leg saved them a climb down a ladder, at the cost of a long detour in darkness. They walked south. Rodney turned left into the ninth clear-out, kicked a clutch of ringing bottles out of his way, and muttered something about rats and a beating. Sour beer and the smoke from a recent fire failed to mask the stench of the drain. A slope of rough and dirty steps allowed them to scramble down, then drop a handful of feet onto fine gravel that was moist with seepage. Their handheld lights illuminated the naked tails of rats, which scurried to put distance behind them before turning to glare with shining eyes. The drain ran downhill, angling away from the access tunnel, toward the Harlem River in the dark distance.

Up the slope, a ragged opening marred the rounded wall. The corners of jutting bricks emerged from the mortar like shattered teeth. The opening revealed a brick-walled room, roughened by the use of vandals and the passage of time. Trampled garbage carpeted the floor. A half-rotten piece of plywood leaned against the back wall. Rodney Gaines crossed the room, gripped one edge of the plywood, and tugged. With a squeal, it swung aside, revealing a dark opening.

The rotted plywood was only a faceplate on a spring-hinged door, braced neatly into the opening. Guthrie paused to admire it, while Ralph waited to close it behind them. The brickwork was pierced with lines as smooth as saw kerfs. Waiting beyond, an earthen tunnel smelled of damp and old metal. Ralph tugged the door in an over and down motion to secure the latch, needing two tries to close the puzzle box.

“The man is crazy smart,” Ralph Gaines whispered. “Like now, there was supposed to be people watching the door. They’ll catch it for going off without leaving nobody.”

“Crazy, all right,” Guthrie muttered.

“He just likes the dark,” Ralph said. “He don’t never come topside, they say. Anyway, when we come to the end of this tunnel, we gotta out the lights and holler. They’ll splash us with a searchlight, so they get first look. You just go toward the lights.”

The tunnel was nearly straight, beyond the necessity of veering around some large buried stones and one half pipe of brickwork that was tapered like a smokestack. Pick and shovel marks decorated the earthen walls, showing the slick glow of moisture in the beams of the handheld lights. The tunnel ended at another neatly pierced brick wall, with steps leading down. The space beyond sounded vast. Rodney’s shout fell into it, and Ralph waved for them to douse their lights.

Rodney Gaines led them down the narrow steps. A searchlight puddled him in brightness, then washed each of them in turn as they went down. The loophole in the brickwork led down into an ancient train tunnel. The rails were rough with rust. They trudged toward the light on crunchy gravel. Behind them, the tunnel shrank down to darkness, and the loophole hung on its side like a crow on a perch.

“Wasn’t nobody at the door,” Rodney called when they were nearer to the light.

Silence answered for a moment, then a disembodied voice said, “All right. Two of you I seen before; you can go along. You others, listen up before you go. This’s the laws down here. You use the toilets, that costs a dollar. You piss ’n shit anywhere else, you get a beating. You throw your trash in the cans, that costs a dollar. Throw trash anywhere else, you get a beating. You don’t tear nor mark anything up, or you get a beating. You worry anybody that’s peaceful about their business, you get a beating. You want to rent a place, you see the man. You don’t like the laws, turn round before you get a beating.” The litany was worn, but the voice held a lingering trace of venom that suggested any beatings would not be soon forgotten by their recipients.

The Gaines brothers made herky-jerky time up the tunnel. The lights snapped out. Guthrie and Vasquez turned on their flashlights, and the glow illuminated the vague shape of a broad box framed to the ceiling, with a catwalk running away from it. The watchers were invisible. A faint glow emerged from the distant end of the tunnel, and the quiet was grooved by a sound like splashing water. As they went closer, it assembled into voices, snatches of music, occasional shouts, and mechanical humming.

The tunnel flared open into a broad subterranean yard. Numerous lights made puddles in the darkness without banishing it. Coaches lined up on rail spurs, leaking lines of light from blacked-out windows or briefly opened doors. The vastness of the space was traced out by distant coaches and swinging arcs from flashlights as people moved around the yard. Dark spaces around the periphery suggested other tunnel entrances. The hum sounded like the working of machinery, with fits of stuttering when something drifted from alignment. The Gaines brothers crunched to a halt in the gravel.

“You’re here, man,” Rodney said. “This’s the carousel. Man, you’re on your own looking for that nutcase.”

Ralph shrugged apologetically but edged closer to Guthrie. The promised money held him like a leash. The little detective pulled a roll of bills and slipped it to him.

“Try not to get killed,” Guthrie said. “That shit you do can bust a heart.”

Rodney grinned. “If we’re lucky,” he whispered.

Guthrie and Vasquez let the Gaines brothers tag along out into the center of the yard. Ralph moved as if he had an important destination in mind. Guthrie looked around carefully, without moving more than turning a small circle in the gravel. The number of people and lights surprised him. He pointed out some watermarks on the bricks, and decided that the machinery sounds came from pumps. The air smelled dry and musty, with a whiff of oil and a lot of iron, but no exhaust.

An old man crunched up to them. He had no light. Once he came close, the crustiness of his unwashed clothes sharpened the air. His leer might’ve been intended as a friendly smile, but gaps in his teeth made the remainder resemble bared fangs.

“You’re new, huh?” he asked. “I can lead you along, for a few dollars. That’s all. An old man needs money to piss ever so often. And maybe drink a bit. I know the best cathouse here.…” His chatter paused when he peered at Vasquez. “That ain’t what brings you, huh? Cards? Drugs? Sport?”

Guthrie flashed a fifty in the beam of his light, then folded it into his fist as the old man reached. “Where’re the flops?”

“You aim to lay up? Trouble up under the sun, huh?” He licked his lips, almost hidden behind a gray mustache. “Them presidents will get you something right nice. If I go along, I can keep it all honest. I got friends here.” His hollow eyes darted over them with fresh intensity.

“What I need can be worth something to you—but only if I get it,” Guthrie said. “I need the flops that don’t cost nothing, because I’m looking for somebody who ain’t spending.”

“Who’s that?”

Guthrie took a quick step forward and gripped the old man’s collar. “Right now, you.” He tightened his grip with a twist. “Just so you don’t get an idea to run away. You don’t want to know my business and then tell it.”

“Let me go! I’m peaceful! I got friends!” the old man screeched. He twisted, wrestling at the little detective’s arm.

“Sure you do,” Guthrie said. He glanced at Vasquez. “Show this man what he’s won.”

She pulled a pistol and pointed. The old man fell quiet and stopped struggling. She slid the pistol back into her pocket.

“How big a piece of trash can I throw away for a dollar?” Guthrie asked in an amiable voice, then gave the old man a little shake to make the threat sink home. “Now maybe you got friends, old man, but you can have some friends named Ulysses Grant and Benjamin Franklin if I turn satisfied. You see how that’ll work?”

The old man nodded sullenly, and Guthrie continued. “I’m looking for a big gray-bearded drifter called Ghost Eddy. Usually he stays up top, but a little bit ago he moved underground. He might have a little money.”

“I know who you’re talking about,” the old man whined. “He lays up in the fueling station.” He squirmed. Guthrie let him go. “That big man is mean. I suppose you’re gonna get rid of him, huh? He’s hiding from something. There a reward?”

“Sure. Ulysses might have some extra cousins.”

The old man grumbled, but he was pleased. He encouraged them to follow, and walked into the darkness. The gloom was oppressive. The old man never stumbled, because his eyes were adjusted to dim light. Guthrie and Vasquez slid in the gravel, and caught their feet on ties or track when they crossed spurs. They had to study the ground with their lights, while the old guy had to pause to wait for them. He navigated among the coaches without entering the pools of light, avoiding the other people in the carousel as easily as a cat winds around furniture.

Most of the people they saw were grimy enough to pass for vagrants on the streets above. Some were hard-eyed, armed with sticks and attitude, while others were drunk and indifferent. Snatches of laughter and music drifted from coaches when doors opened and closed. The old man paused and made them turn off their handheld lights when a dozen men with bright lights marched from another train tunnel. They crunched purposefully across the gravel. Their bright clothes were undirtied by the darkness, and they soon disappeared into a coach.

On the far side of the train yard, the roof swooped down to form a succession of archways, further broken up by low dividing walls. Heavy wooden trestle tables still held gear and parts. Flaps of hanging cloth created tents beneath some tables; laundry lines stretched between posts; fires winked at odd moments through gaps in the dividers. Faces appeared and vanished before they could be recognized, and the old man kept moving.

Beyond the open bays were the dark doorways of ancient storerooms. The air was wet and greasy. The old man led them like a string of fireflies, and unseen people rustled in the darkness beyond their sight. The old man stopped and pointed to a long loading bay alongside a loop of spur track. The tracks were empty. Crisscrossed heavy timbers supported the decking of the bay. Quiet still held, but without the succession of faces, the loading bay seemed abandoned.

“He lays under there,” the old man whispered. “Likely watching right now.”

Guthrie folded a half dozen fifties together and handed them to Vasquez. “Give him that when I get something,” he said. “You stay put for a minute, old man, while I find if you’re lying to me.” He doused his light and walked slowly toward the wooden dock, not stopping until he was well outside the light from Vasquez’s flashlight.

“Eddy, are you drunk?” he called out. Silence came back. “You ain’t running from me, you know. You carried the ghosts with you. How many tours did you pull?”

Silence.

“How’d you keep from throwing up when you saw that little round-eye covered in blood? You swallowed enough vodka to forget?”

“Shut the fuck up, little man!” The drifter’s rough voice boomed from beneath the timbers. Vasquez handed the old man the money, and he turned and ran for the flops.

“Who killed her, Eddy? I want an answer,” Guthrie said.

Laughter floated out, and then quiet thickened the darkness. The scrapes of someone big shifting to his feet followed faintly. “I want some quiet. Don’t have me shut you up.”

“You gotta talk to me, Eddy. People need this. If I go away, somebody else’ll come instead.”

“If I wanted to talk about it, I would see a doc-tor.” The drifter’s rough voice had a sarcastic edge. “You’re not a doc-tor, are you? You gonna make me feel bet-ter?”

“I don’t need you better—unless that’s what you want? That’s why you’re making me chase you? First time in a while anybody’s given enough of a fuck to look for you? Feels good?”

“You little son of a bitch! Shut the fuck up!”

“I got all night. And the next, and so forth. You’re gonna be hearing from me. This ain’t gonna change until you talk.”

Low cursing beneath the dock accompanied some scraping. Guthrie pulled his big floodlight from the cargo pocket on his field jacket and snapped it on. The sudden glare caught movement among the heavy crisscrossed timbers. The little detective steadied his light and started jogging that way. Vasquez lit her big light and followed. The big halogen lamps were like miniature suns. Ghost Eddy hustled through the timbers beneath the dock like an anxious recruit rushing an obstacle course. He had a lead. Guthrie hurried to catch him.

The gray-bearded drifter burst from beneath the dock, then paused to hurl a bottle. The bottle sailed end over end, flickering in the lights. Guthrie dodged. Ghost Eddy sprinted again. The liquor bottle slashed gravel and rang like a chime on a rusty rail, but it didn’t break. Vasquez ran along the rail spur, trying to make up distance. Her light cut sudden arcs, but the little detective kept the drifter pinpointed.

Beyond the loading dock, an archway yawned with a dark throat. Ghost Eddy lumbered toward it, and Guthrie gained distance. The smaller man was quicker. Vasquez turned off the spur, stretching her legs like a hurdler. The drifter disappeared into the archway, with Guthrie a few dozen feet behind. The archway swallowed his light like a fire-eater and spit out the sound of boots slapping stone.

Vasquez rushed through the archway and swept her light around the room. Coal dust blackened the floor, with a few faint scuffs aiming like an arrow at the far wall. A wide pan on the floor was fed by a chute. Her light swept across the chute in time to see Guthrie’s legs disappearing as he climbed up the rusty shaft. She hurried to the base of the chute and shined her light into it. A moment of silence was followed by a soft curse from the little detective, then a booming clang, and finally rough laughter. Guthrie’s boots scraped on the rusty metal.

“You’re quick, little man. A regular round-eye Charlie.” Hard iron walls magnified his menace.

“You got good tricks for a fat man,” Guthrie rasped. “Cut and turn works.”

“I’ll kill you, you know,” the drifter wheezed.

“Don’t die on me, you fat bastard. When’s the last time you ate a salad?”

“Fuck you. Sound like my daughter—a girl.”

“’Cause I listen to ’em.”

“Smart fuck.”

“Don’t hang on to it, Eddy.”

“I got no help for you. Maybe it was you. It was a little fucker. Coulda been you. Now leave me the fuck alone!” The drifter’s rough shout boomed in the iron shaft.

“I know people you might like, Eddy,” Guthrie said conversationally. “They went back across the water.”

Silence followed for a long moment. Then softly: “Shut the fuck up, little man.”