"She won't turn me in. She needs me." Even as he said it, Jesse wondered if it was really true. He had sensed something in Claudia, a desire beyond mere curiosity. He felt almost as though she were still attracted to him, though their affair had ended twelve years before.
When he had first seen her at the agency Christmas party to which she'd been invited, he had been so struck by her that he asked a mutual friend to introduce him. They had chatted, made a movie date, and had become lovers within a month. The relationship, though passionate in the bedroom, was lukewarm elsewhere, and by April had run its course. When Jesse married Donna eighteen months later, he was pleased to hear that Claudia had gotten married as well. Though he had thought of her occasionally over the years, he had not seen her until she sat down next to him on the subway. He found himself wondering if he would have evaded her, had he seen her before she recognized him, and decided that he would have.
The train slowed, and he heard Rags swear beside him.
"What is it?"
"Come on, into the next car." Jesse followed his friend, then looked behind him through several windows to catch a glimpse of a dark blue uniform and the slight flash of a badge. "Sonovabitch," Rags muttered. "He gonna follow us straight on through. Jes' keep walkin', Jesse."
But as quickly as they moved, the transit cop moved faster, until he was less than two cars behind. "We get off?" Jesse asked.
"Not yet, not yet, jes' keep walkin'."
Suddenly, the pair of doors they were next to began to close. "Now," said Rags, squeezing through, Jesse right behind. On the platform, he kept walking toward the rear of the train as all the doors clattered shut and the cars began to move. Rags stopped and heaved a deep breath. "That does it," he said. "Cop's on his way to the next station."
"How'd you see him?"
"Outside. Angled way down. Made out the way he moved. Nothin' moves like a cop."
"We've been on the same cars with cops, Rags.”
“Not on this line we ain't."
"Where are we anyway?"
"Utica Avenue station. No Man's Land."
"What do we do?"
"Sit our asses down and wait." Rags plopped down on a bench and Jesse joined him. The station was silent. After twenty minutes they had seen no one, and no other train had come. Then, from far off, they heard footsteps echoing through the tunnel, and saw two men come around the corner. They were as thick-bodied as trees, and their skin had the flat, lusterless brown of the Chicano who never sees sunlight. The larger of the pair carried a child's red plaid book bag in a meaty hand. Despite the heat, they both wore jackets.
When they saw Rags and Jesse, they didn't slow, but walked past them, not even turning to look. At the end of the platform they stopped and stood, not talking.
Soon two more men appeared. They were blacks, and though they were thinner, the tightness of their muscles made them appear no less strong. They too wore jackets, and one of them had a brown parcel whose end boldly protruded from his pocket.
"Oh, fuck me," whispered Rags.
"What?"
"Fuckin' drug deal. Exchange."
"Those guys?" Jesse whispered back, and Rags nodded. "In front of us? Of strangers?"
"We ain't nobody. Even if we was, this's all been taken care of. It's a clean place for these bastards.”
“You mean no cops."
"That's right. Thanks to our friend, Montcalm. He sets it all up, the transit cops' ain't here to see nothin'."
"Son of a bitch," Jesse said, more in awe at the smoothness of the operation than in anger. "What are they dealing?"
"Smack, prob'ly. Maybe this new shit, this crack stuff. Somethin' high-priced. No grass, that's too small potatoes."
Jesse eyed Rags. "How do you know all this?”
“I know. Let's get outa here." Rags stood up.
"Why?"
"Why?" Rags's voice squeaked. "You just look down the tracks at those boys and tell me why."
The four men had stopped talking quietly, and were looking up the platform at Rags and Jesse.
"You think we make them nervous?"
"Jesse, don't be an asshole. Let's go."
"Where would we go? You said this is a bad neighborhood."
"Jesse…"
Jesse reeled to his feet, staggered, and clutched at Rags. "Whatta fuck," he slurred, "whatta fuck they care?" His voice was loud enough for the men to hear, and all four of them tensed. "Tired!" Jesse whined, "Jes' wanna siddown, f'crissake." and with a moan he fell back onto the bench, his head rolling for several seconds with the impact.
The men watched for a second longer, then laughed, and directed their attention back to each other. "What the game?" Rags asked.
"I just want to watch, Rags. Maybe go into business."
"What?"
"The dope business, Rags."
"You gonna get into the dead business, boy! You thinking of messing with them?"
"The cops won't."
Rags stared stonily at Jesse. "You dead and you don't know it. You mess with them, you look at them sideways, and you a dead man."
"I already am. Dead and in hell. That's why it doesn't matter, Rags. Why I'm not scared. They can't do any worse than what's been done. Now. Which ones'll have the dope?"
"What you tryin' to prove?"
"Which ones?"
"The spics will. The parcel. Money's in the bag.”
“What are the spics carrying?"
"Huh?"
"You think they have guns?"
Rags snorted angrily. "How the fuck I know?”
“Sons of bitches."
"Come on, Jesse . . ."
"Which one, you think?" Jesse's words were sharp. "If just one had a gun, which one would it be?”
“Shit, I don't know. . ."
"The shorter one, I bet. The little man."
"Yeah, fuck, sure, the little man, sure. Jesse . . ."
Jesse looked at Rags with clear, cold eyes. "Get out, Rags. Get up the stairs. I'm going to make some trouble here. You stay out of it."
Rags didn't argue. He merely shook his massive head, muttered, "Fuckin' crazy . . ." and went toward the stairs from which the Chicanos had come. He looked back once, and disappeared around the corner.
Alone on the bench, Jesse sat and watched the four men at the other end of the platform. Though three of them were talking and examining the contents of the packages, the shorter Chicano was looking down the platform at Jesse. Jesse coughed wetly, spat on the concrete, lowered his head so that it fell between his knees, and did not look back up until he heard footsteps once more. The blacks had vanished around the far corner, and the Chicanos were moving toward Jesse and the stairs beyond him. Jesse coughed again, closing off his throat so that air exploded from his nostrils with a burst of noise that made the smaller man stiffen and slow, then pick up his pace when he noticed that the larger man had paid Jesse no mind.
"Hey," Jesse croaked when the pair was ten feet away. "You guys . . ." He pushed himself to his feet and stumbled sideways, blocking their way. The smaller man said something in Spanish, and put his left hand on Jesse's chest to shove him out of the way.
Jesse grabbed the wrist and hurled the unprepared and off-balance man directly against the dirty tile wall, where his head hit with a loud crack. In an instant, Jesse had ripped open the man's jacket and run his hands over the torso from armpit to waist, where he felt the hard butt of a pistol.
If the big man had not been momentarily stunned by the unexpectedness and ferocity of the attack on his partner, he could easily have brought down Jesse with his own pistol. But he barely had time to yank the .38 from his waistband and begin to aim before the gun in Jesse's hand exploded, sending a bullet into the big man's cheek. His head snapped back, his arms flew up, and his pistol sailed down into the chasm of the tracks.
Jesse's ears felt as if they'd been hammered, and it took all his will to aim and fire again. The second bullet caught the big man, still standing, in the chest. He fell at last,
flat on his back, his bleeding head on the yellow warning line at the platform's edge.
Whirling, Jesse thrust the pistol toward the man from whom he had taken it, who was still lying on his stomach where he had fallen. He was beginning to move, placing his hands against the concrete beneath him to push himself up. He froze when he saw his gun in Jesse's hand.
"Give it here," Jesse said, his voice shaking.
Blood trickled down into the man's eyes, but he blinked it away savagely, glared at Jesse, and spat out a burst of Spanish.
"You know what I want," Jesse said more harshly. "Give it." He held the gun straight out in front of him, pointing directly at the man's face.
The man rolled over on his side and spread his arms apart. "Got nothing, man. He got it." He pointed to the dead man at the edge of the platform.
Keeping the pistol trained on the living man, Jesse went to the dead one and patted down the body. The packet was in a lined, zippered pocket in the back of the man's jacket, and Jesse, working with one hand, had to rip the cloth to get it out. He tore the tape and pushed back the paper.
There were two long, flat bags of black plastic, inside of which he could feel fine powder. Far down the tracks he heard the approaching roar of a train. It helped him decide what to do.
Jesse pressed the packets under his left arm. "Get up," he told the Chicano, "and come over here." The man got to his feet and, with effort, joined Jesse at the side of the tracks. The sound of the train was growing louder.
"Push him off."
"What?"
"He's dead. It doesn't hurt when you're dead. Do it."
The man tried to push the body with his feet, but it was too heavy, and he had to get on his knees, drag the body so that it was parallel to the tracks, and roll it off. Jesse did not hear it land. The din of the train was too great.
"Take these," Jesse said, handing the packets to the man. "When the train comes, throw them at the front of it."
The man's eyes widened and his mouth gaped. Jesse had to laugh. "You crazy, man! Don't you know what this shit is?"
"Dream dust," Jesse answered. "Let the train dream. Throw it. And aim well."
The light of the train was now visible in the tunnel, and soon the bright, white eye rounded the corner and bore down on them. It was a through express, and would not stop.
"Get ready…" he told the man, "… set… now!"
With a sob, the man hurled the packets into the face of the onrushing train. Jesse imagined he heard a pop, and then two white bombs exploded through which the train roared unperturbed, like a plane through a cloud. The fine white powder made sudden traceries in the air that the train pushed to either side, and there was an ever so slight hiccup in the rhythm of the wheels as they passed over and tore up the dead man, but that was all. The sound died away, and, except for a few barely distinguishable wisps of pale residue on the platform, there was no indication that drugs had ever soiled Utica Avenue station.
"You just made a big mistake, man," the Chicano said, trembling.
"Everyone does. When they're born."
"You gonna kill me?"
He looked at the man for a long time. "No. I don't have to."
"They're not gonna let this go. We'll find out who you are, man."
Jesse nodded. "When you do, let me know."
The man frowned, and the sound of another train came from far off. "Stay there," Jesse told the man. "Right there until the train leaves."
The train, a local, slowed as it appeared, and the doors slammed open. Three people got off further up the platform, and Jesse stepped into the nearest car. He stood just inside the door, the gun, unseen by the few other passengers, hanging at his side. The Chicano stood glaring, unable to move, and the doors closed. The train began to move, and the Chicano, now protected by the door, shrieked curses at Jesse, who heard them only as a slight whine above the clatter of the wheels and the lurching of the car, like a wasp on the other side of a closed and locked window.
CHAPTER 12
Montcalm's face was pasty in the light of the fluorescents. He could feel sweat on his upper lip, and he covered his teeth with his lips and sucked downward to dry it. Montcalm didn't like to sweat, and he didn't like the man who stood at the sink next to his own.
Rodriguez wasn't sweating at all. In spite of the heat and the tight-fitting black suit he wore, his skin was as dry as sand, each lock of dark hair powdered into place. "And I tell you," he was saying, "it had to be your man."
"And I'm telling you it wasn't." Montcalm held his hand beneath the tap and splashed cold water onto his face.
"I pay you good, Roberto. Why you wanna double-cross me?"
"Jesus, Tony! Use your head! I mean…" He lowered his voice, squeezed his hands into fists to keep his temper in check. "If it'd been my boys, we wouldn't've gone after the shit, we'd have gone after the money. If it was us, which it wasn't."
"You get stuff. I give you stuff."
"Then why wipe it? If I wanted it, why throw it into a fucking train? It doesn't make any sense!"
Rodriguez's face grew very stern. "Somebody pressing you, Bob?"
"Huh?"
"Pressing. Sniffing around. Checking you out. You going chicken on me? Getting religion?"
"Hell, no! There haven't been any leaks, nobody's asked me nothin'."
"You're not trying to scare me off, discourage me? Because if you were, this would be the way. A way that would give you all these excuses, these alibis."
"I swear to God, Tony, I had nothing to do with this."
"You don't want my business, Bob? You don't want the money? Or the smack? You could just tell me. You didn't have to blow away ten grand street value of good dope."
"I didn't."
An old man with a battered, plaid suitcase walked into the men's room. Both Rodriguez and Montcalm glared at him with such hostility that he turned immediately and shambled out.
"I want your money, Tony," Montcalm continued. "I want your business. I wouldn't fuck it up for anything. So why blame me? I mean, you got competition, don't you?"
The suggestion enraged Rodriguez, and he shook a long, dark finger at Montcalm. "I got no competition, asshole! Not over there. Nobody messes with me there, so don't go telling me it's some fucking competition, all right? Now you listen to me, Bob. Maybe you're on the level, and I'll give you the benefit of the doubt, although I don't often do that. But you better make damn sure this doesn't happen again. You're the law down there, and when I make arrangements with the law I expect it to protect me, just like any other citizen. So you—or one of the boys on your payroll—you find this guy and you stop him. Waste his ass. And you either bring me his balls in a bag, or I'm gonna take my business somewhere else."
"But, Tony, it might've just been some crazy . . ."
"You're fucking right, pal. Crazy is the word. You find him, and you kill him. If he ain't your own man, then it's no sweat. If he is and you been jivin' me, then you're fucked. Because you're gonna have to kill one of your own. And I don't think the rest of your boys will like that a whole lot . . ."
"Tony . . ."
"But whatever happens, I'll find out, won't I? You find this motherfucker and you kill him, Bob. And till you do, all bets are off. No more money, no more dope."
Montcalm could feel the blood rush to his cheeks. "Look, you can't just cut me off like that . . ."
"I like dealing on your line, Bob. It's nice and safe. It used to be. You're gonna have to prove to me it still is. Get him. Then we'll talk some more. But unless you can tell me you got him, just stay the fuck away from me."
Rodriguez pivoted and walked quickly out of the men's room. Montcalm remained, leaning with both hands on the white porcelain, a sick lump in his throat. He thought of Gina, of the money in the locker that he would have to start spending to feed her habit, of the way people went higher and then slipped back, until it became harder and harder to climb any more, and he thought finally of that goddammed sonovabitch who fucked it all up, th
at sonovabitch who he would find, and stop, and kill.
CHAPTER 13
Butch Devlin hated to scrub tile. Actually, it wasn't the tile that he hated as much as the grout in between. Hell, the tile itself wiped clean as a whistle, and stayed smooth and cool on a hot summer day like this. Of course he couldn't know that it was a hot summer day. He never knew what the weather was like until he went home. But it had been a hot summer morning when he came in, so odds were damned good that it would be a hot summer day when he got off at five.
Despite the air conditioning that kept Penn Station at a constant comfortable temperature, Devlin yanked his handkerchief out of his hip pocket and smeared it across his damp forehead. It didn't make sense that such a little job could make you sweat so much. Or maybe it wasn't the job, he thought. Maybe it was the crack.
The thought made him edgy, and he stuck out his lower lip and rubbed the small, wiry brush into the can of cleaning compound. As he scrubbed on his hands and knees, he remembered with a combination of pleasure and guilt how he had first smoked the stuff. Mike, one of the black janitors, had introduced him to it. Devlin didn't often hang out with the blacks, but Mike was different—cheerful, friendly, not at all sullen like the rest of them Devlin worked with, the ones who made it a point to ignore him in the locker room. Mike was about Devlin's age—mid-thirties but acted like an older man, deferential to the whites. If there was mockery behind the easy smiles, it was well hidden. Devlin had never seen it.
He and Mike had talked about drugs one day during lunch break, and Devlin mentioned that he smoked grass occasionally. "Grass is okay," Mike nodded. "But you ever smoke crack?"
Devlin had heard of it, and had the impression. that it was dangerous, something like angel dust.
"Naw, man," Mike responded to Devlin's concern. "Ain't a thing like that shit. It's just cocaine, only you smoke it instead of snort it."
"Cocaine's too rich for me."
"Ten bucks too rich? Come on, Butch."
"Ten bucks? You come on. How can coke sell so cheap?"
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