by Bright,R. F.
“You know me?” Leun’s eyes were the size of golf balls.
“Yes. Of course. Do you know who I am?”
“Tuke Massive highly regarded in China.”
“I know you’re worried about your family. You have my personal guarantee, they are at this very minute on their way to Tokyo.”
Leun Yoon’s inscrutability failed, and he may have grinned.
Turnstyle raced between workstations, checking and tweaking every detail of her slapdash creation — Pick of the Litter. She caught Priyanka’s eye and nodded to the corner with the pinball machines, where their words were lost in the din of bells and gongs and women cheering each other on. Turnstyle whispered, “Petey said something about a tunnel that’s still open.”
Priyanka strained to recollect. “I thought they’d all filled up with water. That’s why they don’t watch them anymore. Did he say which one?”
“No. I was total fuego. How many tunnels can there be?”
Priyanka’s face brightened. “I know who to ask.”
“Who?”
Priyanka gave her a you-should-already-know-that face. “The Bridge and Tunnel Girls.”
On the banks of the mighty Hudson River, in Weehawken, New Jersey, sat a 1974 Airstream Trailer Super Deluxe as shiny as the day it rolled off the assembly line, high tide licking at its concrete block foundation. Inside, Emily Beamon, Queen of the Bridge and Tunnel Girls, pondered her acid green computer screen while stroking a wrinkled tattoo on her ample shoulder: We mug the muggers, it said, framed in skulls with snakes crawling through their eye sockets.
Madam Beamon usually went to bed about this time, before the sun was up but after all her girls had been accounted for. She was fiercely protective, and many a lecherous prick lay forever on the bottom of the Hudson who’d abused her tender mercies. She knew people. But this morning she had a funny feeling, reinforced by that acid green screen. She hobbled over to the coffee pot, blowing a kiss at a portrait of a young man in uniform enshrined on the wall above the sink. The Purple Heart was draped over one corner. It was all that remained of something splendid she’d lost along the way. She poured herself a watery cup of coffee as her screen blinked on with a smiling Priyanka wiggling all her pinkies in a deferential hello.
Madam Beamon laughed out loud. “Good morning, my big-pimpin’ little sister.”
“Good morning, my Queen.”
“Not a queen, my dear, toy keeper — mother of broken dolls.”
“Please forgive me, but there’s no time to explain. Do you know about a tunnel that’s still dry enough to get into Manhattan?”
“Of course I do. We’d just be the Bridge Girls without it. Ha! Ha!”
“Where is it?”
“My beautiful, up-market ingénue,” said Madam Beamon, rubbing her thumb against her forefinger. “I have just enough to last me until I die, unless I buy something.”
“How about a Park Avenue penthouse?”
Madam Beamon, hustler extraordinaire, fell uncharacteristically quiet. Her eyes slowly filled with trouble. “And give up my riverfront view?” she said in a smooth, double-suede voice.
Tuke was ushered down a rocky corridor toward the General Auditorium by a blur of splatter-painted coveralls. They pushed through two massive doors and into a dizzyingly tall cavern, unmodified but for a half-acre amphitheater carved out of the far wall. From the amphitheater’s stage, six 3D projectors shot acid-green cubes onto the massive volume of space above the crowd.
Tuke checked the one from the Meadowlands, then the one that showed MacIan’s room and Camille pacing in a tight figure eight between the beds. The whole room sighed. Then he switched to a cube screen with a shaky image of Max helping a stream of men into Airship One. “Is that you, Lily?” asked Tuke.
Lily’s golden hair flopped over the top of the screen. “It’s me.” She repositioned her laptop to an arm’s-length selfie. She was seated on a Tsing Tao beer case in front of a mountain of shiny railroad tracks dumped from the airships and piled in the rail yard.
Tuke asked, “Do we have a count?”
“The first ship’s almost full. Gotta be a couple thousand guys in there, but,” she panned her mobile over the crowd, “there’s a couple thousand guys waiting for . . .” she panned to Airship Two, which was being ransacked to make room for passengers, standing room only.
“Lily, let us know . . . ah . . . umm.” Tuke fell silent as a heavily bearded man in a crumpled top hat, wearing a powder-blue tux and tails with the pant legs tucked into huge rubber galoshes, waltzed up and sat on a beer case next to Lily. Lily recoiled slightly, but relaxed as he opened a violin case, lifted from it a ukulele, and began to tune up.
Lily resumed, “We can be at the Meadowlands by three o’clock this afternoon. That’s what Mr. Leun says.”
The entire auditorium sat on the edge of their seats, fearing for Lily as the bearded man began to play. “Lily, are you OK?” asked Tuke.
Lily smiled and winked. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”
The auditorium decompressed as everyone recognized the transcendent “I’ll See You in My Dreams”, which filled every rugged crag with plucky ukulele — a fitting accompaniment to Lily’s improvised hula-hands and swaying hair. Lily tried to be serious. “Max’s dad is on . . .”
But, as abruptly as he had appeared, the bearded man got up and marched into the throng of veterans as the chorus opened, and veterans joined in, “Lips that once were mine . . . tender eyes that shine.”
Lily stood and shouted after him, “Hey! Wait!” pointing to the violin case he’d left behind. She bent to look inside.
“Careful!” yelled Tuke as the entire auditorium lurched.
She looked to Tuke and back to the case, then lifted from it a small placard and held it to the camera. It was in the shape of a computer screen, and corner to corner . . . acid green. Lily looked puzzled.
Tuke laughed out loud. “Don’t worry Lily, they’re with us, and they’re everywhere.”
62
Petey Hendrix’s leathery eyelids refused to open, despite the sunlight bursting through his bedroom window. He wished he hadn’t drunk so much last night, but Turnstyle’s blistering dismissal had a worrying effect. He rubbed his nose, squinted a few times and thought back to his days as an investment banker. Back when nerve-wracking days like these always concluded with a self-congratulatory bar crawl and complementary hangover. Back when there was nothing on the line but other people’s money. Those were the days. But those days were gone. And the days ahead were fraught with uncertainty.
He lifted his head and rotated his creaking neck. It was Saturday. Why sweat it? He had fended off the inevitable, for one more day; another few minutes wouldn’t matter. But he had a pretty good guess as to what was coming, and he was determined to stay ahead of it. Because he was always ahead of it, and today was going to be a doozy.
He curled onto his side, pulled the covers over his head and fell back to sleep.
It was Saturday.
The mid-morning scene at the Polish Falcons Dance Hall was equally drowsy, but not so lavish. The music and cheers had been replaced by the laconic bell and buzzer of one pinball machine. Most of the women were on their way to the Great Lawn. The Ladies Who Lunch had left hours ago. The women who’d stayed were sleeping in chairs and bedrolls here and there. All the haphazardly mounted computer screens were black, now that Priyanka had ended her call with Madam Beamon. Only Turnstyle and Cellophane were awake, but only just. And the mood got even sleepier as Cellophane’s head drifted onto her keyboard.
Turnstyle had caught a second wind just as everyone else had faded. All but a graceful older woman in a long knitted sweater playing pinball. Turnstyle had seen her around; her name might be Sue. She strolled over and fixed her attention on the game table as the chrome ball ricocheted off a slingshot bumper and dropped into the multi-ball slot. She liked watching people play pinball almost as much as playing. There was something about that shiny chrome ball rolling toward its
doom under the inexhaustible influence of gentle gravity.
“You look tired, honey,” said a delicate voice.
“I’m OK. You?”
“Absolutely exhausted. But I have to hang in. This’s my last chance.”
“Last chance?”
“To do what I should’ve done a long time ago. To stand up for my dead husband. When I was your age, I was afraid. But it’s OK. You’re going to make it right. We’re all counting on you.”
The ever-stoic Turnstyle drifted back against the wall and braced herself. This wasn’t a game. These vets were real. What had she done? Would her arrogance betray them? Slaying Petey was easy; she hated him. She was against everything he stood for. But there was much more on the line now. She had to be — for something. She felt dizzy.
The older woman reached for her, just as six chrome balls shot onto the game table. “No, no!” yelled Turnstyle. “You got a multi-ball!” The older woman seized the flippers and fought the rain of chrome. Turnstyle had a numbing urge to hold onto the pinball machine’s side, an unpardonable breach of protocol, and dabbed her cheeks with her palm instead.
The woman’s right foot did a little kick each time she made a save and she threw her weight into her nudges and shakes most expertly. “It’s going to work out, my dear. You put too much into this to let up now. Don’t worry about how we got here, let’s just get to the end.”
Turnstyle wanted to do something, but what? There was only waiting now. What could be more exhausting?
Suddenly every monitor in the room came on — acid green, and “I’ll See You in My Dreams” sparked the hall. Even the women who appeared to be asleep started to tap their feet. Priyanka quaked a bit, but kept snoring. Cellophane was out cold. Turnstyle ran to her computer as Tuke’s face appeared on every monitor.
“Manhatmazon. You have full network access.”
“And the KNim.”
“And the KNim, of course. We’re long-time confederates.”
Turnstyle couldn’t hide her misgivings. “You sure that’s a good idea?”
“Absolutely.”
“Who are they? Why do they strike so hard?” she said bitterly. “I know people they’ve destroyed.”
“Struck a nerve there, I see.”
“Root canal,” she said, and laughed. “We found the open tunnel under the Hudson, well, we know a woman who knows where it is.”
“Can she be trusted?”
“Absolutely. But she wants a Park Avenue penthouse. Well, Priyanka promised her one. She knows this lady, she’s a friend.”
“No problem,” said Tuke. “There’ll be plenty of Park Avenue penthouses come Monday morning.”
Madam Beamon had just finished a nap and was combing her hair when Priyanka’s smiling face blinked from her monitor. “My Queen,” she said with a familiar grin. “The deal is done. You’ll have several Park Avenue penthouses to choose from. If you’ll tell me about that tunnel.”
Madam Beamon’s toothy grin turned to a frown. “If? If my aunt had balls, she’d be my uncle.”
Priyanka had hoped to avoid negotiating with Madam Beamon, who was known to exact a heavy toll just for the fun of it. “You have my personal word on it.”
Madam Beamon broke out in a belly laugh. “Your word? Hats fuckin’ off!”
Priyanka stared hopelessly.
“Don’t worry, my spicy little fixer. I don’t have to take my shoes off to count to ten. If my screen is acid green, I know there’s something big going on. The KNim wouldn’t bother with me unless their nuts were on fire. And the only thing the lowlifes who fund the high life are afraid of is a sick dick . . . and the KNim. So they gotta be the good guys. Right?”
“I love you, my Queen. You’re the best.”
They both laughed adoringly, and Madame demurred, “So it’s the Weehawken Boondoggle.”
“The what?”
“A leftover from the 2020s. The Plague of Pigs. They couldn’t figure out how to squeeze another buck out of it, so the Weehawken tunnel has just been sitting there. A cast iron tube under the Hudson. You can’t walk through it, it’s too long — there’s not enough air. But its railroad tracks are in perfect condition. They run from Weehawken to Pennsylvania Station, under old Madison Square Garden. The only tunnel that still does.”
“Holy shit!” said Priyanka.
“Ain’t holy at all, my love. The ticket station shares the waterfront with the Weehawken Cove Ferry.”
“Argh,” said Priyanka. All ferries were in the domain of . . . “Those fuckin’ Leprechauns.”
63
Airship One’s tethers were loosened enough to test its buoyancy. It felt a little iffy to Mr. Leun. Max snuck a peek at Lily, who looked worried.
“Maybe OK,” said Mr. Leun, tugging on a tether until his feet left the ground.
Lily could see in Mr. Leun a new spirit, now that he was free of his masters’ loyalty trap. “Five hundred pound, no more,” he instructed sharply.
Lily spotted Max drifting slowly toward the western fence, panning his ears at an ancient echo she didn’t quite recognize. The Portage crew erupted, jumping and shouting for joy. The Booby Duck gallantly emerged from a long-forgotten commuter track, bowling down the overgrowth with its duckbill cow-catcher. It rolled to a stuttering stop at its old passenger platform, which was gilded to match, but faded. Many of the Portage crew had serviced The Booby Duck in its heyday, and now it had returned to serve them. Its small scale, minuscule compared to the titanic airships, felt human, and the ornate appeal to beauty for beauty’s sake warmed their souls.
One of the younger yard workers squeezed through the crowd and tapped Ross Wilson on the shoulder. “Booby Duck? What the fuck?”
“Back before they put the rail yard here, they were going to put it in Lily. But there was a big stink about Lily being nothing more than an expensive whorehouse. So they put it here, and Lily got the . . . booby prize. That little train.”
The young yard worker smiled ear to ear.
Max ran onto the platform.
Lily didn’t know what to do, so she aimed her laptop at the scene as hundreds of veterans rushed to lend a hand. She zeroed in on a man who jumped from the engine into Max’s arms. Fred spun to a stop, cha cha cha, adjusted his hot mess fur hat back onto his head, and looked up at the airships. “They’re really big, down here, where you can really see.”
“Not one inch left inside — cram packed,” said Max.
Fred’s joy turned to disappointment. The Booby Duck’s mission to get Lily’s vets to the Meadowlands had failed. The disappointment was palpable.
Ross Wilson threw his hands in the air, and said excitedly, “We still have all The Booby Duck’s passenger wagons, at least two more coal cars, and a mountain of coal. It’s all right where we left it. We’ll hook ’em up and these guys can make it all the way to Philadelphia. Two hundred and sixteen miles — downhill.”
Lily’s eyes were peeking over her laptop again. “Are you seeing this?”
“Yes, Lily,” said Tuke.
“Can they do that? Go all the way to Philadelphia?”
“Let’s get a look at the tracks from Portage to Philadelphia. Deploy a drone to survey that line. Some people on the ground . . .”
Real time satellite images showed the tracks were intact, but that the patient forest had reclaimed a thirty-year share.
“Put out a LEVEL 5 for anyone along those tracks. All hands with chainsaws, bush whackers, picks, sledgehammers . . .”
Within minutes, thousands of volunteers who’d been dying for a chance to pitch in were off the bench and rushing to the long-forgotten Philly commuter line.
“Lily!” shouted Tuke.
She shifted to a selfie, with The Booby Duck in the background. “I’m here.”
“Tell Max we’re clearing the track to Philly.” He turned and shouted, “Get a crew to Philadelphia Station.” Tuke was juggling to beat the band, but when he saw Max and Fred hurrying toward Lily, he said, “We’ll give
you a minute.”
As she turned, Max and Fred were only a few feet away; she thought she might have a stroke. She removed her martini ball cap, pushed her hair from her face, and tried to smile as she put her hand out. But Fred swept her up in a huge hug.
“Dad, this is Lily.”
“My God, girl!” He stepped back, beaming. “You could shame the roses.”
Max laughed. “Forgot to tell you — he’s a poet. Tell her the one about the witch.”
Fred kept his smiling eyes on Lily while he enjoyed the insult.
Lily was confused, but relieved. Fred was a delight. She could just tell.
“I can see in my boy’s eyes something new, something good. It’s you. Yes, you, a mighty girl. I worried my whole life that he would never find the right girl. Not in our little village. And out in the world? But now . . . here you are.”
Lily turned bright red, blinking furiously and trying to swallow through the lump in her throat.
“I can die in peace,” said Fred. “A strong woman was the only thing I couldn’t give him. Thank you, my dear. Thank you.”
Tuke had intended for their meeting to be private, but there wasn’t one dry eye in the cavern, except Tuke’s. His mind was racing to the next move.
“Fred!” shouted Tuke.
Fred and Max looked into Lily’s laptop.
“Take all the coal you can carry. Max, I need you in the airship with Mr. Leun. I’m not absolutely sure about him, not just yet.”
Ross Wilson took two hundred men to a corner of the rail yard where the old passenger wagons had sat for decades. A brakeman gave each one a quick inspection before it was pushed to the roundhouse for essential repairs. Another crew worked frantically to fill two additional coal cars, which were quickly attached to The Booby Duck.
“It’s so small,” said Lily. “So fragile.”
Fred lifted her collar up over her ears and took her by the shoulders. “That’s how our village got its name.”
Lily looked miffed.
