Grand Central Noir

by R. Narvaez

  “Never mind,” Lew said. His luck had completely and righteously come in all wrong. Boxcars. He nodded at Bernie, gave Magda a half smile. “You deserve better than both of us, Baby.”

  “Don’t I know it,” she said.

  “Mazel tov.” Lew forgot the water and waved at them as he left. His wife looked at him with pity, his partner like a sheep.

  * * *

  So. Magda. That was over. All that he had worked toward for ten years. Done. She had made great pancakes. That one time. Magda.

  Well, he was still alive. And something that had been itching in the back of his mind for years had been scratched. He’d have start a new life now. First, he needed a drink. No, first, he had to ditch the heavy, heavy gun. Then he’d have to use his last few bills to get out of town, go to Port Authority, get to Jersey then parts beyond. He’d had enough of Grand Central. He went up the Lexington Passage and stopped near the exit to button his coat. He watched the snow outside turn the city into a pretty postcard outside, knowing it would only be a while before it turned gray and black with soot and decay.

  He was thinking he should go to an exit closer to the East River when he heard someone yell, “That’s the guy.” Then again, “Yeah, that guy. The guy with the old hat.”

  He didn’t want to turn, but he wasn’t sure he should run, and before he could make up his mind he felt a tap on his shoulder and, sure enough, there was a police officer – if Lew wasn’t mistaken, the same one who caught him slamming down the pay phone – and behind him the pimply faced kid from the coffee stand. Classic.

  “That’s the guy,” the pimples said. “That’s him.”

  “I need to talk to you, sir. Please step to the side,” the cop said. Glare.

  “Stupendous,” Lew said. “Stupendous.”

  Terminal Sweep Stakes

  - by Amy Maurs

  DETECTIVE BARABA WALKED INTO the situation room at the Grand Central Terminal Police headquarters carrying a Styrofoam container filled with black coffee in one hand and a cigarette in the other. The clock on the far wall read 7 a.m.

  “Good morning, Crowley.”

  The sergeant winked. “It looks like it isn’t so good for you.”

  “Thanks.” Baraba took a seat in the far rear corner. The entire day shift of the GCTPD filled the room.

  Crowley began. “Everyone was called in here due to a priority case involving the GCTPD, the NYPD, and the FBI. The parents of a young girl reported her missing yesterday at 11:22 a.m. The family came in from Bedford for the matinee of The Nutcracker at Lincoln Center.

  “Susan Lankan is six years old. She was wearing a green velvet dress trimmed with lace, black patent leather Mary Janes and a brown wool coat. We are passing around a page with her recent school photo. She is retarded and deaf, which makes this even more troubling.

  “Mayor Beame wants a media blackout. He doesn’t want anyone too afraid to come to New York City for the Christmas shopping season. Everyone keep their eyes and ears open. We have to find this girl and get her home. That’ll be all.”

  Baraba walked through the rear doorway. He traveled down a corridor, blind to the wanted posters that lines its wall. He reached the far end, unlocked an unmarked door, poured another long-needed drink of coffee, then slid into his chair.

  The office smelled of leather, pomade, old paper, carbon, dust, and cigarettes. The board across the office had a new case: an armed robbery of a woman’s engagement ring. “Happy Holidays,” he mumbled to himself.

  A knock on the door broke Baraba’s concentration. “Come in.”

  A uniformed officer entered with a Metro North conductor in tow. “Detective, this is Mr. Wilson, he found a deceased member of the cleaning crew this morning.”

  Detective Baraba motioned with a hand stained from nicotine. “Have a seat at my desk, Mr. Wilson. Can I get you something to drink, a soda or coffee?”

  Wilson sank into the seat offered. “A soda would be nice.”

  Baraba walked over to a mini refrigerator, took out a can of cola, and handed it to Wilson. Wilson finished it off in two gulps.

  Baraba sat back down. “Mr. Wilson, I’m sorry you have to go through this. Can you tell me how you discovered the deceased?”

  Wilson cleared his throat. “I walked out onto Platform 26, and he was there.”

  “I know this must be difficult. But something you say no matter how insignificant it seems may be helpful. So I ask for your patience. Why did you walk onto that particular platform this morning?”

  “I do it every day. That’s my assigned line. I always check the train over before I make a run.”

  “Who knows about you finding Mr. Devin?”

  “My supervisor and the officer here.” He indicated the officer standing in front of the closed door.

  “You knew Mr. Devin?”

  “Never met him.”

  “How did you know it was him?”

  “Part of his shirt was attached to the platform. Stuck there with blood.” Wilson shook his head, trying to wipe the image from his mind. “I saw a name patch. It said ‘Devin.’”

  “Did you notice anything different about the platform that morning?”

  “It looked the same as it does every morning at 4:45 a.m.”

  The interview continued for several minutes. Detective Baraba stood and offered a card from his desk drawer. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Wilson. Take my card in case you hear anything or remember something that may help the investigation.”

  Once the officer and Wilson left, Baraba went out to the main concourse of Grand Central Terminal. He made a stop at the GCT HR Department.

  Baraba approached the supervisor of the day shift cleaning crew. He pulled his jacket open to reveal his shield.

  “Mr. Clemens, I’m Detective Baraba. I’m in charge of the investigation into the death of Mr. Devin.”

  “I was waiting for you to look for me, detective. I really don’t know what I can tell you. I hardly know anyone on the night crew.”

  “What little you know of Devin may help.”

  “All I can tell you is he worked with the worst of the worst. And you have to be a tough S.O.B. to do that.”

  “What do you mean worst of the worst?”

  “That night crew is made up of ex-cons and degenerates. They work for cheap and at hours no one wants to. They see and deal with things most rather pretend don’t exist.”

  * * *

  Baraba walked down a ramp in the Eastern Wing and boarded an unmarked elevator disguised by ornate architecture. He rode into the depths of Grand Central Terminal.

  He descended to a place where the homeless escaped the angry, frightened stares of those who lived above ground. Until desperate, they resurfaced to beg for change to buy a meal or a fix. If begging failed, there were always wallets to snatch.

  The elevator opened and allowed the stench of rotted food and unwashed flesh in. Baraba immune from years patrolling the area walked out and approached a nearby gathering of homeless. Seeing him, some ran off. Others were too intent on one man for a detective to unnerve them.

  Dressed as he was in a navy suit, he could be mistaken for a Wall Street broker or banker on the terminal’s main level. Here his appearance was nearly obscene.

  One by one each ragged individual approached. Each handed him crumpled bills and received a small plastic pouch with white powder. Their salvo received, they scurried off to a cramped, filthy hole for a few hours of oblivion. Until the smack wore off and their monster came back demanding another feeding.

  Once the last of them exited, the man’s eyes met Baraba’s. The man, moving like a snake, made his way to the detective. He spoke in a seductive whisper, “I see you’re punctual, Detective.”

  “I need some information from you, Trace.”

  “Tell me what you need and I’ll deliver.”

  “A station cleaner died overnight. Hit by a train on one of the Metro North lines. I need anything you can get me.”

  “I will ask ar
ound. You have a name for this worker?”

  “His name is Devin, Sean Devin. He’s on the cleaning crew.”

  Trace nodded. “It can be terminal here.” He smiled at his own tasteless remark. Somewhere close a rat seemed to laugh.

  “You hear anything you let me know.”

  “You know if there’s anything to know here I’ll find it for you.” He handed a dozen pouches to Baraba. “We good for a while?”

  Baraba looked at the stash. “For about a week.”

  “A week? Your habit is growing.”

  “I don’t have a habit.”

  “Most of my clients take a pouch a day at most. If this isn’t a habit what is?” His eyes squinted. “Unless you’re selling?”

  “You don’t need to know what I do with this. You just pay me and you can sell as much as you want.”

  “The price you charge, I have to sell a lot more. I may have to branch out to some of those commuter trains to stay in business.”

  “You have free run to sell down here and the concourse. I can control GCT. I can’t guarantee impunity on the trains.”

  Baraba turned and left.

  Trace called behind him, “I’ll have to find someone who can give impunity everywhere.” The rat seemed to laugh again.

  Baraba returned to the office and waited. Two uniformed GCT Officers led a woman into his office. The woman wore a turtleneck and bell-bottom corduroys. As she took a drag of a cigarette, light reflected off a large diamond solitaire on her right hand.

  “So,” she said, “can you tell me why I’m here, Detective?”

  “Please have a seat, Mrs. Devin.”

  She complied. “Detective, these officers won’t tell me why I had to come here. Where’s my husband? He’s late coming home from work today. Is he all right?”

  Baraba interrupted, “I regret to inform you that your husband died sometime overnight here.”

  “Oh God!” None of the tears expected from a widow who loved her husband fell. “We just celebrated our twentieth anniversary last week. What happened?”

  “I’m very sorry for your loss. We don’t know exactly what happened, but as soon as we do, you’ll know. Is there someone you want to call? A friend or family member who can be with you?”

  “The kids are in school.” She took another drag of the cigarette. She crushed it out in an ashtray on the desk. Her ring glinted with each hand movement. “I can ask his mother. She works in the Pan Am Building. How could this happen to me?”

  “Please give the officer here her name. They will bring her here.”

  She lit another cigarette. “You have to tell her.”

  “I will, Mrs. Devin.”

  “You can call me Janet. Beatrice is going to flip her wig when she sees this ring her son bought me.”

  “What ring?”

  “This ring,” she held up her hand to show the solitaire. “Sean gave it to me for our anniversary. It was a big surprise. Usually it kills him to spend money.”

  Barbara thought that Devin must have saved for years to buy that ring. If not, he owed someone a lot. If it was the wrong person, it might be enough of a motive to kill him. He remarked, “I guess it did.”

  * * *

  Baraba arrived at an apartment that night. He opened the door then turned to secure the three locks. He walked straight to the kitchen and slammed the pouches down on the table.

  The woman sat there unperturbed, staring into space. Her long, straggly blonde hair hung in clumps. Her robe looked as though it needed washing weeks earlier.

  Baraba grimaced at the sight of her. “Do you know what I have to do to get this for you? When are you going to kick it?”

  There was no reaction. Her eyes never blinked. Only the rasp of her breathing indicated she was alive.

  Baraba whispered, “I expect to receive my payment for this. Be clean and in bed in an hour.” He took a beer out from the refrigerator and left the room. A moment later, the theme to All in the Family drifted in.

  * * *

  Trace waited by the elevator the following morning. His clients stood in a group thirty or so feet away. As soon as Baraba stepped out, he pounced.

  “Trace has delivered. One of my clients knows why that Devin was terminated.”

  “Where are they?”

  “You’ll meet after I deliver my goods and collect my pay.”

  Baraba waited until the group dispersed. Trace stood arranging the money into a neat roll. “Let’s go find her.”

  The pair walked up ramps and down corridors. Baraba began to lose his bearings. They emerged inside the base of the uptown IRT platform. If the homeless existing inside Grand Central Terminal were pitiful, those here were the most wretched.

  There was no climate control. While sleeping, one could fall out onto the tracks and be crushed by a train. Here, a woman held a young girl tightly to her coat. Both wore clothing as wretched as their surroundings.

  All four met in a huddle. “Lolli, this is the Detective who is looking for information on the worker that died the other night.”

  “I was there.”

  “You were there, Lolli? Where?”

  “I was with my daughter under the platform stairs.”

  “You stay there? Why are you here?”

  “We only stay there on the weekends. The weekend staff let us stay as long as no one sees us. The others look for us. And chase us out.”

  Baraba nodded. “I see. What did you see or hear?”

  “Men were arguing, cursing. They wanted to know where the ring was. They wanted their cut. He said he didn’t have it. They beat him and then I heard them leave.”

  “All of them?”

  “I guess they left him behind.”

  “Is there anything you need? For you or your daughter?”

  “We don’t need anything. I take care of both of us.”

  “Shouldn’t she be in school?”

  “I teach her all she needs to know. I went to school and now I’m here.”

  “Thank you, Lolli.” He handed her a five dollar bill.

  “Thanks. Now me and my daughter will be good tonight.”

  When they were almost back where they started, Trace mentioned, “You know Lolli’s daughter? I never saw her before yesterday.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean Lolli has been here for at least three years, always alone. She shows up yesterday with a daughter. Makes you wonder where she got her.”

  “Why didn’t you say something when we were there?”

  “Now if I say something to you in front of her and she loses her daughter, no one will trust me. They don’t trust me; I can’t sell to them. I can’t sell; you won’t get your supply. See, I’m thinking for both of us.”

  Baraba rode the elevator back to the main level. Could he use what Lolli gave him? Where did she get that child? How could he continue to hide his arrangement with Trace?

  Baraba waited in his office for the night crew to arrive. Interviewing several crewmembers, he learned two of them, Morris and Levine were former convicts. He also learned the last anyone saw of Devin was when he went with Morris and Levine to clean off a section of platforms.

  A uniformed officer escorted Levine into the interview room. His hands were bruised and his right eye was black. He took a seat without waiting for an invitation.

  “Mr. Levine, I see you’re comfortable in an interview room.”

  “Detective, let’s cut to the chase. Devin died the other night. You know about my record. We both know you suspect me because of my record.”

  “Glad we got that cleared up. Can you tell me about your bruises?”

  “Got these in a bar fight the other night.”

  “What night?”

  “The same night Devin died.”

  “What bar?”

  “On Broadway in Inwood.”

  “Your HR file says you live in Staten Island. Little far from home.”

  “I’m seeing a señorita up there.”

 
; “Was Morris with you?”

  “No. He isn’t allowed in that section.”

  “Why not?”

  “His skin is too dark for the Dominicans.”

  “When’s the last time you saw Devin?”

  “An hour before quitting time that night.”

  “Do you remember what you were doing?”

  “Morris and I went with Vega to clean platforms.”

  “What about Devin?”

  “He went to clean something with the others.”

  “Do you remember who?”

  “Rodriguez and Zlatan. There are only six of us.”

  Baraba laughed.

  “What’s funny?”

  “You think you and Morris would have your stories straight. Morris’ was better. I guess he’s just smarter.”

  “What do you mean he’s smarter?”

  “His story had you with him and no one else. He even said you two got jumped walking to Times Square for your trains.”

  “He has a bad memory. Got hit in the head too many times.”

  “According to the other crewmembers, Devin and you two scumbags went off to clean somewhere a little before shift end.”

  “Not that night.”

  “Everyone has a bad memory but you.”

  “Guess so.”

  “Mr. Levine I am placing you under arrest for the murder of Sean Devin. You have the right to remain silent.”

  “Save your breath. I know my rights.”

  “Probably know them better than me.”

  “I want a lawyer. A free one.”

  “You can wait in a holding cell with Morris until one comes.”

  After processing the cohorts, Baraba made an anonymous call to the NYPD.

  * * *

  Baraba drove back to the apartment that night. He let himself in and secured the locks. He walked to the kitchen. He looked at the woman. Lividity had set in.

  He saw she had used only one of the bags he brought the other night. He wiped the bags to destroy any possible fingerprints and rubbed them on her hands. He called it in and waited for the police and coroner to arrive.

  He withstood hours of their questioning. He was used to sitting on the other side of the table. The biggest mistake was to feel you were superior to your interviewer.