Bloody Horowitz

by Anthony Horowitz

  “This place is okay,” he announced. “And we can eat and drink whatever we want. TexChem will pick up the tab. After all, this is meant to be a celebration. I won the case! And tomorrow we can see the town. We can do some shopping. Macy’s. Saks Fifth Avenue. Let’s treat ourselves.” He snapped his fingers at a passing waiter. “Waiter! Can you bring me a cigar!”

  “I’m very sorry, sir,” the waiter said.

  “You don’t have cigars?”

  “Smoking is forbidden inside the hotel.”

  Herb’s face fell.

  MY DAD SUCKS, Madison texted, secretly, holding the phone under the table.

  The next day, at ten o’clock, they left the Wilmott for their first day of sightseeing, beginning with the Empire State Building. They hadn’t been there fifteen minutes when they decided it was too hot, too crowded and actually too tall. The weather was cloudy that day, and when they finally got out onto the observation deck on the eighty-sixth floor, there wasn’t actually that much to observe. Rockefeller Center also disappointed them. It was just another skyscraper. And what was the point of visiting Radio City, just across the road, without the Rockettes? They had lunch at a deli where all the customers were shouting and the servers were rude. In the afternoon they took each other’s photographs against the flashing neon signs in Times Square and then walked in Central Park until Tammy complained her feet were hurting (the expensive Jimmy Choo high heels had definitely been a mistake) and they went back to the hotel.

  The following day was Friday and in the morning they went to the Metropolitan Museum of Art, which they all agreed was too big and generally too full of art. In the afternoon they went shopping and bought new shoes, new shirts, new skirts and new socks . . . not that they needed any of them, but what was the point of shopping if you didn’t buy anything? That night they saw Mamma Mia! . . . or at least some of it. Madison fell asleep after half an hour and Tammy said she preferred the film, so they left during intermission.

  The trouble was that the city was exhausting them. Perhaps if they had planned their time a little more carefully they would have been able to travel less, but they had bounced up and down Manhattan as if they were trapped in some sort of demented pinball machine. And getting around wasn’t at all easy. The sidewalks were crowded and even a couple of blocks were too much to cover on foot. On the other hand, all three of them hated the New York cabs, which were cramped and uncomfortable with nasty plastic seats and drivers who seemed to originate from every country in the world except America sitting on the other side of their thick glass partitions and never once so much as wishing them a good day, leaving any discussion to the taped voices of TV celebrities who urged them to “buckle up” and “enjoy the ride.”

  And the traffic! It seemed to the Johnsons that they had wasted hours trapped in those yellow tin boxes, waiting for lights that refused to change or finding themselves stuck in cross streets with everyone blaring and swearing and policemen whistling and nobody actually moving. Visiting the tourist sites was bad enough. Getting there was even worse.

  It was Madison who suggested on the fourth day of their visit—it was Saturday—that they should use the subway. They were heading uptown to the American Museum of Natural History, which, according to the guidebook, was on Seventy-ninth Street and, traveling from the Wilmott Hotel, about as far as it was possible to go without actually leaving Manhattan itself.

  “I don’t want to ride in another cab,” she exclaimed. She had already texted exactly the same sentiment to her friend Chelsea. “They’re smelly and they’re slow.” Her eyes brightened. “Let’s take the subway! We can be like real New Yorkers. That’ll be cool.”

  “I don’t know, sweetie pie,” her mother said. “The subway’s very dirty in New York. And maybe it’s not so easy to find the way you want to go—”

  “I think it’ll be fun!” Herb Johnson was surprised to find himself agreeing with his daughter. It wasn’t something that happened very often. In truth, though, he was also thinking of all the cab fares he had paid out since they had arrived in New York. It seemed they couldn’t even go around the block for less than ten dollars. “You go north. You go south. How difficult can it be?”

  “Herb, there are all these different lines, local stops, express stops . . .”

  “We’ll ask the concierge.” Herb reached for his Stetson and balanced it carefully on his head. “We don’t want to look like out-of-towners.”

  The three of them took the elevator down to the ground floor, and while Tammy adjusted her lipstick in the ladies’ room and Madison texted Chelsea to find what had happened at the party and who, if anyone, had left with Charlie, Herb inquired how the three of them might reach the American Museum of Natural History using the subway.

  The concierge, like his name, appeared to be French. He spoke with a heavy accent that Herb found hard to decipher. At first, he seemed surprised that any guest of the Wilmott should want to travel on public transport, but once he had accepted that Herb was serious, he raised his eyebrows and provided the necessary information. “Of course, sir. It is very simple. You can take the 1 uptown from Houston Street, which is just two blocks from the hotel. Get out at Seventy-ninth Street and walk a couple of blocks east. Or you may find it easier to head over to Spring Street, where you have the choice of the C, the E or the B—but not the A, because that’s the Express, and look out for the B train because it doesn’t always stop at Eighty-first Street, which is the station you need for the Museum of Natural History. The N and the R trains leave from Prince Street, which is actually nearest to the hotel, but you’ll need to make a change at Times Square. Or you can pick up the same lines at West Broadway if you prefer.”

  “What was that about the 1?” Herb asked.

  But the concierge had already turned to another hotel guest and, not wanting to look ignorant, Herb decided to let it go. He’d gotten the general idea. Lots of trains stopped near Eighty-first Street. He just had to pick the right one.

  The family left the hotel, crossed Sixth Avenue and made their way into SoHo, an area of New York which was almost on their doorstep but which they hadn’t yet explored. This part of the city was too old-fashioned for their taste, too cluttered with shops that were themselves too cluttered to provide a comfortable shopping experience. The Johnsons preferred the sort of open spaces that they had found along Fifth Avenue.

  The New York subway was therefore the last place they would really have chosen to go. Even the entrance seemed purposefully designed to be hard to locate—they came upon it more or less by accident and saw at once that it wasn’t the station they wanted. Herb had planned to go to Houston Street, but he must have set off in the wrong direction, because this was Spring. However, at least it was a name that the concierge had mentioned and the three of them set off down the steep concrete steps that led them below the level of the road. Almost at once, Herb felt uncomfortable, wishing that he had stuck to the cabs. The walls were white-tiled and grimy, like a restroom in a cheap motel. The ceiling was low. The air smelled of dust and oil. But he remembered that this had been Madison’s idea. It had been the only enthusiasm that she had shown since they had left Texas. He didn’t want to disappoint her now.

  They bought three MetroCards from one of the machines that stood against the wall . . . or tried to. It was actually quite difficult to work out exactly what sort of ticket they wanted and how much they should pay, and then they found that Herb’s dollar bills were too crumpled and the machine wouldn’t accept them. Fortunately, there was a ticket seller in a booth, sitting on the other side of a dirty glass window. She scowled at them as she handed the MetroCards across—although Herb thought that he too would hardly have been smiling if he’d had to work down here all day.

  The platform was another level farther down, reached through a thickly painted iron gate that seemed to turn only reluctantly. As Herb pushed his way through, he had the impression that he was being eaten alive, that he was entering the bowels of some gigantic creatur
e. The platform was almost empty, with just a few people standing in clusters, some staring into the gloom of the tunnel, others reading the Saturday edition of The New York Times. There were more passengers on the other side—Herb could see them through the forest of steel girders that supported the ceiling. The light down here was hard and unwelcoming. Gusts of warm air scurried over the concrete, adding to the sticky heat.

  “You know, maybe we should take a cab after all,” Tammy said. She had painted her lips that morning with Chanel crème lipstick—Lilac Sky, her favorite shade of pink. But now they formed a little O of disapproval. “It’s not very nice down here.”

  “Well, honey, we’ve paid . . .” Herb didn’t care about the money, but he didn’t want to climb back up the steps. And anyway, it was never easy hailing a cab without the help of the hotel concierge.

  “Herb, I just don’t feel comfortable. Which train are we meant to take?”

  “I think he said the 1,” Herb replied. In truth, he couldn’t remember what he had been told.

  “I don’t think the 1 goes from here. I’m sure we’d be more comfortable in a cab. What do you think, Madison?”

  Madison, who was once again plugged into her iPod, didn’t hear what her mother had said but raised her eyebrows in disdain.

  Any further discussion was ended by the sudden arrival of a train, crashing out of the tunnel and roaring and rattling down the full length of the platform, a series of silver boxes scarred with graffiti and with shafts of bright white light spilling from a long line of windows.

  It was the A train.

  “Is this the right train?” Tammy asked.

  “I guess so.”

  “Maybe we should ask someone.”

  “I don’t think it matters, honeybun. They all go uptown. We might as well take it now that it’s here.”

  The three of them clambered onto the train. Tammy stepped through the door as if she knew they were making the wrong decision but had no choice in the matter and would regret this for the rest of her days. Herb followed sheepishly behind. Madison came last, lost in the music of Michael Jackson, which echoed faintly from her ears. There were perhaps a dozen people sprawled out on the hard plastic chairs. A couple of them glanced briefly at the Johnsons, identified them instantly as tourists, and then forgot them. The doors screamed out a warning signal and then slammed shut.

  With a jerk, the train moved off, then picked up speed, disappearing into the tunnel.

  “This is the A train, Eighth Avenue Express, heading uptown to Inwood 207th Street. The next stop will be West Fourth Street.” The amplified voice came out of speakers built into the carriage ceiling. None of the passengers seemed to notice it.

  “It’s the right train,” Herb muttered, then called out the words a second time so that Tammy could hear.

  Tammy nodded and they all sat down.

  In fact, Herb had to admit, the train was a lot faster than any cab would have been. It whooshed through the tunnels, suddenly exploding into the stations and hurtling along the platforms as if it couldn’t wait to be out again. It barely spent a minute at Fourth Street before the doors thudded together and it was off, racing through no fewer than ten blocks before stopping once again for breath. Above ground, the traffic would have been tied up in its usual knots—with red traffic lights, horns, piercing police whistles, angry faces. And this was an awful lot cheaper. Perhaps, after the museum, they might even use the train a second time to go back!

  The A train stopped at Thirty-fourth Street and again at Forty-second. People got on. People got off. This all seemed quite normal and Herb was able to relax, knowing exactly where he was. If he got out at Forty-second Street, he would be back in Time Square, close to the theater where they had seen Mamma Mia! But it was then that everything went wrong. The train stopped stopping. It ignored Fiftieth and Fifty-ninth. In fact, it gave all the fifties a miss . . . and the sixties too. It seemed that the driver had gone mad! Herb saw the flashing lights of Seventy-second Street, but the train didn’t stop there either. They seemed to be hurtling through the darkness as if they were going to leave Manhattan altogether.

  “What station is the museum?” Tammy asked, and Herb could hear the edge of panic in her voice.

  “It’s not until Eighty-first Street,” Herb reassured her.

  “Then that must be the next stop.”

  But the A train didn’t stop at Eighty-first Street or Eighty-sixth Street or even Ninety-sixth Street. It didn’t stop anywhere. None of the other passengers in the carriage seemed at all concerned, but then they were all lost in their own worlds, nobody speaking to anyone else, so it was impossible to tell what they were thinking. 103rd . . . 110th . . . 116th . . . It was only as they arrived at 125th Street and at long last the train began to slow down that Madison looked up and unplugged her iPod.

  “Are we there?” she asked.

  “I don’t know where we are!” her mother replied. Her lips now formed a single pink line.

  The train stopped. The doors opened.

  “We’d better get out,” Herb said.

  A few passengers had gotten off ahead of them. The Johnsons watched as they disappeared into the gloom at the end of the platform, making their way toward the stairs that would take them to the exit. The doors screamed and thudded shut. A moment later the train moved off, the windows seeming to melt into each other as it picked up speed until finally they were no more than a brilliant white blur. And then it had gone. The Johnsons were on their own.

  “What now?” Tammy demanded. Her voice was a sliver of ice in the damp heat of the station.

  “Where are we?” Madison asked. She had only just begun to realize that they weren’t anywhere near the natural history museum.

  “Your father took the wrong train,” her mother said.

  “We’ve just come a little too far up.“ Herb took out a handkerchief and mopped at his forehead. It often occurred to him that, in court, he could demolish anyone. But when he was at home or with the family, he had all the power and presence of a wet rag. Sometimes he wondered why that should be. Then he told himself—it was probably better not to ask.

  “One Hundred Twenty-fifth Street!” Madison read out the station name with contempt. “That is so not where we need to be, Dad.”

  “I know . . .”

  “Let’s go up to the street and take a cab back,” Tammy suggested.

  “I’m not so sure that’s such a great idea, honey.” Herb had a nasty feeling that they had left Manhattan. They had come so far north that they might be in Harlem. He didn’t actually know anything about Harlem, but he had seen a number of television shows set there and nothing good had ever happened. It was bad enough being lost down here. But if they went up to street level... “It might not be so easy to get a cab up there,” Herb said, putting worse thoughts out of his mind.

  “Then what—?”

  But before Tammy could finish, there was a distant rumble and a pair of lights appeared in the darkness, heading back toward them, which is to say—back south. A second later a train burst out and began to slow down. But it was on a different platform. Herb quickly looked around him, taking in the stairs leading up to a corridor that must surely cross over to the other side.

  “This way!” he exclaimed. Grabbing hold of his wife, he broke into a waddling sort of run.

  There were ten steps up. With Madison right behind them, Herb and Tammy clambered to the top and then, without stopping for breath, hurried along the corridor. Below them, they could hear the train come to a halt and the doors open. There seemed to be turnstiles and staircases everywhere. There were signs pointing to the A, the B, the C and the D train—and even to La Guardia Airport. Herb ignored them all. He just wanted to get his family onto this train before the doors closed again. He didn’t care where it took them. As far as he was concerned, they could go all the way back to Spring Street and see the American Museum of Natural History the next time they were in New York. Why had they wanted to visit the museum anyw
ay? None of them were interested in natural history.

  They reached a staircase. Herb just hoped this was the right one. Taking a tighter grip on Tammy and checking that Madison was still with him, he hurried down. It was lucky that his wife wasn’t wearing high heels today. The three of them reached the platform just as the doors signaled their alarm. They leapt on the train, the doors cutting across like guillotine blades behind them. Their clothes were crumpled. They were panting and covered in perspiration. But they had made it.

  Nobody had gotten off the train. Only the three of them had gotten on.

  “What train was this?” Tammy asked.

  “I didn’t see,” Herb confessed.

  “Did you see where it’s going?”

  “I didn’t have time to look.”

  It was only now that they realized they were alone in the carriage.

  And this train was somehow different from the one they had taken before. It was much older. The seats were brown, not gray, and the silver handrails were a different shape. Herb glanced at one of the advertisements. WINSTON CIGARETTES—FOR A FULLER FLAVOR. That was impossible! Cigarette advertising had been banned on the New York subway more than five years ago. Everyone knew that.

  There was no recorded announcement. Nobody told them what the next stop was going to be. But they were going the right way. They had to be. The train flashed through a station and Herb caught sight of the street number—116. They were already nine blocks south.

  ”Let’s sit down,” he said. He was still holding Tammy’s arm and he gently steered her toward the nearest seat.

  “We don’t know where we’re going!” Tammy said.

  “We’re going back to the hotel,” Herb responded. “And then we’re going to go out for lunch and I’m going to buy you the biggest steak you can buy in this darned city. Nice and bloody—just how you like it.”

  “We’re slowing down,” Madison said.

  It was true. They could feel the wheels braking beneath them, and as they entered the next station, it was obvious that they were about to stop. 107th Street. It was just like all the other stations, with a low ceiling and a sense of being squashed beneath the surface. But the walls were more ornate. The name was written in mosaic. And there were classical pillars dotted along the platform, like something out of a Greek temple.