Follow Me Down

by Gordon MacKinney

  The Enquirer’s Sunday magazine, a pint-sized glossy called Cavalcade, was the only color insert besides the funnies. The cover before me displayed the best shot of my subway straightaways. Rings of blue and purple from my flash alternated from the near periphery to the shrinking distance and vanished into a black rectangle. Within that sat the perfect headline: Buried Treasure? I flipped to the article and continued my manic survey. My photo of the staircase at Rookwood Station anchored the center spread, encircled by smaller images.

  Off to the side, a callout box recounted the ghastly story of nine-year-old Emily Langford and the fear-fueled decision to seal the underground.

  I scanned coverage of the subway’s origins, the recent deadly collapse, Drax’s proposal to fill in the tunnels from above, and the emergence of opposition from “a citizens’ group calling itself Save Our Subway.”

  I chortled and looked up. The store clerk stared back.

  “I’ll be damned. A female sheep is called a ewe.” I slapped coins on the counter, tucked the newspaper under my arm, and pushed through the door.

  . . . . .

  By late morning, I was back in the darkroom fulfilling my promise to Alfred and glad to be the only employee in the building. No one around to puzzle over the unusual eight-by-tens hanging up to dry.

  The photos of the test measurements appeared to have worked, the laser dots and markers clearly visible.

  While wiping up the countertops, I heard the main entrance buzzer. Odd. I snaked through the maze of junctions and corridors and edged one eye around a wall to peer across the reception area. A slender young woman at the door shielded her eyes and peered in for signs of life. A nervous bride perhaps, hoping for an early peek at her proofs.

  But when I unlocked and swung open the door, two well-dressed men stepped into view. A wave of cold raised the hairs on my arms.

  First to appear was Tony Drax. When our eyes met, he twitched as if zapped by static electricity. Maybe flattening his face had left a memorable impression.

  My breath caught in my throat when I saw the third visitor. Rudolph Drax. Tony’s father and the company’s supreme commandant. More powerful than Walther, the fading patriarch, and far more powerful than Tony, the dubious heir apparent.

  Behind them in the parking lot, exhaust swirled from a black four-door limo. I spotted the driver in outline, but any other occupants hid behind tinted windows.

  Tony regained his composure. “This is Lucas Tremaine, the guy who cold-cocked me.”

  “I understand that,” Rudolph said, even-keeled, “but let’s focus on the matter at hand.” Like Tony, he wore a white dress shirt, no jacket, and dark tie. But unlike Tony, who rolled his sleeves, Rudolph secured his at the wrist with gold and onyx cufflinks. Either they’d dressed for church or captains of industry didn’t get Sundays off.

  “Tony deserved worse,” I said. Speaking restored a bit of strength and focus. “He made an extremely offensive remark about a close friend.”

  Rudolph neither inquired further nor offered a defense. “I don’t believe we’ve ever met face-to-face.” He extended his hand. “I’m Rudolph Drax.” His gray-fringed black hair was TV-ready, his self-assurance bolted in place.

  I flashed open palms like twin stop signs. “Better not—darkroom chemicals.” Shaking a Drax hand would violate a personal oath. “We’ve met in the past, through our lawyers.” Rudolph registered no reaction. “What’s this all about?”

  While Tony fidgeted, Rudolph presented a flyweight smile. “Sorry to drop by unannounced. We tried phoning, but no answer.”

  “I’ve been here for hours,” I said. “No ringing phones.”

  Rudolph raised his eyebrows at the woman but said nothing.

  “I’ll make sure we have the right number on file, Mr. Drax,” the woman said, contrite.

  “Please meet Miss Nolan,” Rudolph said to me, “my new assistant.” He emphasized the word new as if offering an excuse.

  “Rachel Nolan,” the woman said with a perfunctory smile while clutching an oversized leather notebook to her chest. She was beautiful, with hesitant dark eyes and chestnut shoulder-length hair parted on one side. Considering the statuesque receptionist at the headquarters building, perhaps CoverGirl features were a checkbox item on the company’s job application. I felt the urge to offer employment advice: anywhere but Drax.

  Rudolph took charge. “I thought we might talk for a few minutes. You disagree with us on multiple fronts, which is understandable—our projects are often controversial. But we believe in open communications. Might even narrow our differences.”

  I stared back, incredulous. I wanted to pluck the gold pen from his shirt pocket and plunge it into his neck, and a genial conversation wasn’t going to change that. “Sure, let’s talk.” My tongue felt oversized in my mouth.

  “May we come in briefly?” Rudolph asked.

  I dismissed a small impulse of caution. With Tony uneasy in my presence, Miss Nolan unsure in her new job, and Rudolph playing the peacemaker, the threesome seemed harmless. I held open the door and gestured toward the waiting area.

  “I understand you’re in graduate school,” Rudolph said as he selected a chair around a table stacked with Popular Photography, Brides and Harper’s Bazaar magazines.

  “Architecture.”

  “I see.” Rudolph sat next to Tony along one wall. “When do you expect to graduate?” I sat with my back against the opposite wall. Perched upright between us like a referee, Miss Nolan folded one slender leg across the other and readied pencil and notepad. Why so official?

  “Don’t know yet,” I replied. “Tuition is expensive and money’s tight.”

  Rudolph chuckled. “More like your boss is tightfisted. But then, aren’t they all?”

  Perhaps anti-Semitism ran in the family. “You mean all bosses?”

  Rudolph evaded with a little smile.

  “What do you want?” I asked, tired of the song and dance.

  Rudolph’s eyes met mine without waver, his face relaxed. “Your father died tragically on one of our job sites. Our condolences, of course.”

  I said nothing. He’d spoken as if commenting on election results. Your dad lost the vote—tough break for your side.

  “There was a legal action that didn’t go your way, and that left you unsatisfied.” Translation: you tried to sue but lost. Slick-talking son of a bitch. True to form, he peered at the tabletop as if pondering. “I might feel the same way if I were in your shoes.”

  Tony weaseled into the conversation. “He and Reuben Klein broke into the train station.”

  “Ah yes,” Rudolph said. “You disagree with our plans to repurpose the Union Terminal. Well, you’re not alone. Preservation versus modernization is a tough debate.”

  Again, I said nothing.

  “You butted heads with my son here over some photographs.” No, I punched him to erase a decade of condescension from his face. “And there’s another item.” Rudolph signaled Miss Nolan. She reached into her notebook, withdrew a copy of the Sunday Cavalcade and placed it on the table between us. “You disagree with us about the future of the subway.”

  I picked up the insert and flipped to the subway article. “Yeah, we subscribe. Amazing photos. How do you think they got in?”

  Tony snorted. Rudolph smiled and said, “Yes, how did you get in?”

  I raised my eyebrows. “Me? You’re kidding.”

  Rudolph leaned forward, placed his elbows on his knees and peered into my face. “Open communication is pointless without honesty, so let’s not play games. You’re a photographer with a passion for off-limits places—”

  “You flatter me, but ci
ties as old as Cincinnati attract people with—a passion for off-limits places.” I vowed to not look away. “That abandoned subway is irresistible, one of only two in the country, and the only one welded closed.” I tossed the insert on the table. “I’d love to take credit, but you’re barking up the wrong tree.”

  Rudolph shook his head slowly and smiled to himself. “We also know your boss is involved.”

  I feigned disbelief. “Tricia Blumenfeld?” Rudolph was thinking Alfred, but I wouldn’t play along.

  “As you know, Alfred Blumenfeld and his colleague started chasing ghosts in the subway thirty years ago. Then, when the reporter skipped town… well, you’d think Blumenfeld would’ve given up. Obviously he hasn’t.” He theatrically considered for a moment. “What’s he hoping to find down there?”

  What reporter? “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Rudolph crossed his legs and stared at me for a moment before saying, “I’ve done too much talking. Your turn.”

  Elbows on armrests, Tony observed behind steepled fingers.

  More silence passed. I studied Rudolph’s face, his mouth with the corners slightly upturned, placid eyes, brows elevated with interest. The innocence of a choirboy.

  But I knew what they were serving on a platter. Alfred’s generation called it bunkum. Dad called it baloney. I called it bullshit. Tony Drax had ordered an excavator operator to take a terrible risk, and he would never act without orders from above. That meant the mastermind behind manslaughter, if not murder, was shooting the breeze with me on a Sunday afternoon. But why the silky speech? Did he really believe I would rat out Alfred and reveal the access portal?

  Then the answer stared at me with big brown eyes. Rudolph’s performance was aimed at Miss Nolan, her attention as sharp as the pencil scratching her notepad. She was a record-keeper. If anyone ever wanted a play-by-play account of our meeting, she would testify.

  Well, two could play that game. The next sixty seconds would be etched in Rachel Nolan’s memory, if not her notepad.

  “Okay, my turn.” I leaned in. “I’ll direct this question to you, Tony.” He lowered his hands, as if suddenly self-conscious of his protective posture. “Why are people saying you intentionally sent Delbert Turkel to his death?”

  Tony’s throat produced a sound, neither word nor complete syllable. Then his gaze jumped to his father.

  Rudolph bristled. “How dare you accuse my son—”

  “Then I’ll ask you, Mr. Drax. What under this city is so worth hiding that you’re willing to kill one of your own workers?”

  But the older Drax was no stranger to hard-nosed questioning. “Please wait in the car,” he calmly ordered Rachel Nolan. Flustered, the woman scooped up her materials and hurried to the door.

  I raised my voice after her. “People say your employer gets people killed to get what they want. Write that on your steno pad.”

  Rudolph rose from his chair and approached me. Tony followed. By the door, Rachel Nolan glanced back, her expression fearful. She slipped outside.

  I knew I’d gone too far, but I’d face the consequences on my feet, man-to-man, eye-to-eye. I stood.

  Big mistake.

  Rudolph’s punch landed dead center below the A-frame formed by my rib cage. My guts felt cleaved into left and right hemispheres. I buckled at the waist. My diaphragm seized into a ball and every teaspoon of air vacated my lungs. I tipped over and hit the linoleum hard, curling fetally in hopes my respiratory system would jumpstart itself. It didn’t. I worked my mouth like a fish, no air moving.

  I looked up sideways through watering eyes. Peering down, Rudolph wore the smile he kept handy for television appearances, groundbreakings, and closed-door meetings with corrupt politicians. “That’ll shut you up long enough to listen.”

  “Fuck you,” I said, the words forming on my lips but producing no more sound than a faint gag.

  Rudolph tugged at the creases of his trousers and squatted close enough I could see the microscopic weave of his worsted wool suit fabric. “Construction is a dangerous business,” he said. “Accidents happen. Your dad suffered a tragic accident.” He turned his head toward Tony. “Who’s the dead Gypsy?”

  “Turkel.”

  “Yeah, Turkel.” Elbows on knees, Rudolph brought his hands together. “Turkel suffered a tragic accident.” A pause. “Now, are you listening?”

  I stared back.

  “I don’t know what you’re doing in that subway, but keep it up and you could suffer a tragic accident. And that kike of yours—I don’t know his name—”

  “Klein,” Tony said.

  “That’s him.” Rudolph said. “Klein could suffer a tragic accident, and so could the Chinaman from the gymnasium.” He tapped a knuckle on my forehead. “Your brain should be recognizing a pattern by now.”

  The front door thumped and swung open with a whoosh of air. The room appeared to shrink by half as Hard Ass and Gorilla filled the reception area. Hard Ass carried a black police-style nightstick with its distinctive perpendicular handle. He eyed me like a triple-decker sandwich and snickered under his breath.

  “Mr. Daley.” Rudolph peered down at me. “We came here for a business meeting, but this man attempted a second assault on my son. Fortunately, I was able to incapacitate him. Please deal with him in a manner befitting his indiscretions.”

  Hard Ass lifted his eyebrows with a silent question. Rudolph answered with a directive nod.

  Hard Ass took a step closer and drew back his club.

  CHAPTER 16

  Tricia gave me the usual stare, as if I violated air she planned on breathing someday. I was stretched out on the sofa in the employee lounge. My head throbbed like I wore a skull tourniquet. “What happened?” I asked.

  Sitting on the edge of the couch, Tricia began a crooked smile, suspecting a joke. She wore jeans and a casual button-down blouse. “I already told you.” Her smile faded. She squinted. “If you’re shitting me—”

  “Why are you here on your day off?”

  “I already told you that too.” Her forehead creased with worry.

  “How long have I been here?”

  Tricia sighed, reached out, and pressed a thumb to my scalp, like testing a melon for ripeness. “That chick was right. You might have a concussion.”

  “What chick?”

  “I already told—”

  I made a stop sign with my hand. “I’m sorry. I forgot what you said.” I winced from pain and begged with one open eye. “But I’ll remember this time, so please repeat.”

  She crossed her arms. “Quick, okay? I wasn’t planning on babysitting today.”

  I nodded. Nodding hurt.

  “Some woman found you on the floor by the front door. Your head was bleeding. She helped you walk back here.”

  “I walked?”

  “And talked too. You gave her my number. She called me and I drove over. Who did this?”

  “Drax people.”

  “That explains it. The woman said she worked for Drax but wouldn’t tell me her name.”

  I shook my head. Shaking hurt too. Obviously, Miss Nolan suffered a pang of conscience and drove back to make sure I was still alive. “Of course she wouldn’t give her name. She’s worried about the Gestapo kicking in her door in the middle of the night. Was she good looking?”

  Tricia blinked deliberately. “You’re not her type.”

  “Because she’s beautiful?”

  “Because she’s smart. She’d hate having to talk slowly all the time.”

  I felt a moment of relief. Maybe Tricia’s normal verbal abuse meant my injuries w
eren’t so serious. But the iffy memory concerned me. “Her name’s Rachel Nolan. Why didn’t she take me to the hospital?”

  Tricia huffed with exasperation. “Because the cops might be waiting for you there.”

  I bolted upright. Pain spurted behind my eyes. “What?”

  “You attacked Tony again, and Drax is pressing additional charges. That’s what she said.”

  I squeezed my head between my hands, hoping to redirect the pressure. It didn’t help. “Now wait. She saw me attack Tony? Or she heard I attacked Tony? Big difference.”

  Tricia thought about it. “I’m not sure.”

  I felt around my forehead but avoided ground zero. “How bad is it?”

  Tricia scrutinized, her lips parted slightly. “You’re sporting a goose egg about as big as… a goose egg. I got the bleeding to stop, iced it, and closed an inch-and-a-half wound with strapping tape. And the whole time, you were talking to me.”

  I shook off a wave of exhaustion. “Did I say anything embarrassing?”

  “Of course you did, which is why I figured you were okay.” She brought her face closer to mine, her focal point somewhere around my hairline. I breathed in her earthy sweet fragrance as it rose from the V of her blouse. “You’ll need about four stitches.”

  “How do you know that, Doc?”

  She leaned back and met my eyes with double-dare-ya defiance. “I’ve learned a bit about fight wounds.”

  I set aside that juicy tidbit for later and focused on immediate business. “Help me get around?”

  Tricia rolled her eyes. “I’m not your nurse.” But she eased me to standing anyway. I teetered. She hugged my upper body and I laid my arm across her shoulders. Together we staggered and bounced off the walls through the narrow corridors. We entered the room Smith used for his calculations, his war room.

  The marked-up photos and poster paper on the desktop and walls appeared undisturbed. I sighed my relief. “They never came in here.”

  Next, the darkroom.