"There!" said Barry. He pointed with one hand and tugged Jericho with the other toward Aamil on the ground with the guard. The two rushed and dropped to their knees. They followed the guard's instructions and applied pressure to the gash on Aamil's head allowing the guard to stand and search for the other guy who'd tumbled down the stairs.
What none of them noticed was the black and silver remote control, riding on the very last step of the escalator. It flipped over and over as the stairs kept moving. A man with shiny black tasseled shoes inadvertently kicked the remote. A woman with high heels stepped on it; she wobbled and took the arm of the woman next to her for stability. The two women didn't know each other, but through eye contact and mouthed "Thank you" and "You're welcome," they accepted the moment and moved forward. The remote moved on, along the platform with the crowd.
"Here, you, stop!" shouted the transit cop toward Nasser. He pulled out his gun. Around him, commuters shouted and screamed at the site of the weapon. At the opposite end of the platform three police officers approached. They saw the transit cop and ran toward him. Commuters jostled for position either to get away from the scene or to see what was happening. Several called 9-1-1 on their cell phones. No trains entered or left the platform.
Nasser was surrounded by commuters. The transit cop came from one side, the policemen, now with guns drawn, too, came from the other. He didn't know what to do. He thought of jumping on the train on the opposite side of the platform from him. Just as he thought of the action, the doors on the train closed.
More police rushed down the escalator. No more commuters followed them. Several immediately started shoving commuters toward the escalators in the middle and stairs at either end of the platform, doing all they could to empty out the space.
Nasser hoped that he'd either find the remote or that someone would accidentally step on it. Something. He wanted this to be over. He'd rather blowup and do his duty than be tortured in prison for the rest of his life.
The crowd on the platform thinned. Medical personal arrived. They worked quickly and applied a neck brace before sliding Aamil onto a board, and themselves, behind the escalators and out of what they thought was harm's way.
With fewer people around, fewer moving feet, Nasser saw the remote. It'd been pushed up against a trash can only ten feet away from him. He started toward it, but a policeman grabbed him from behind.
Thinking fast, Nasser stopped and ripped open his dance costume, exposing the bomb strapped to him. "Step away from me," he said.
The police did as told, taking a step back.
Nasser took another step forward toward the remote.
Ahead of him, paramedics pulled themselves and Aamil onto the escalator and started to ascend, leaving their equipment behind on the platform. A policeman stepped between Nasser and Jericho. Behind him, Barry clutched his arm. Together, the policeman and Jericho moved in backward steps toward the escalator. Jericho was the last pedestrian to leave the platform. All that were left below were Nasser and the police and that lone transit cop, his gun still steady on the terrorist.
"Take it easy, man," and other similar phrases were whispered by the cops.
Nasser eyed the remote and took another slow step toward it, then another. The police stayed focused on the young man and the bomb strapped around his middle. As he dove for the remote, the transit cop fired. Nasser rolled onto his back in pain. But, he'd gotten close enough. He reached an arm over his head, felt around, found the trash can, and then the remote. He fingered it and pushed the button.
Nothing happened.
Nasser thought about the plan. He thought about the goal. Hundreds, maybe thousands would die. Train travel, subway travel would stop. The city would be shut down. His bosses would claim responsibility and calmly ask for an end to the war in Afghanistan. If their demand was not met, another bomb would go off in Boston. Another in Chicago. Day after day, bombs would go off across the country until the war ended. They were prepared. Nasser, Aamil, and dozens of other boys living and working throughout Manhattan’s Upper West Side had been assembling the parts for months, each man making a small, necessary component that when combined created a body bomb and a future martyr.
The transit cop, incensed by the bomb strapped to the guy, walked a little closer. He looked Nasser in the eye. "Not on my watch, asshole," he said and shot Nasser in the head. Brain and blood splattered everywhere.
* * *
Jericho and Barry arrived at the top of the escalator. All the commuters were gone. The only people in the massive lobby space were a few cops, the paramedics helping Aamil, Amy Senteri, and her cameraman. Somehow, the newswoman had managed to talk her way into staying on the scene. She rushed to Jericho. "What's happened?" she asked.
"I don't know," said Jericho. His voice was monotone. He remembered the boy's name and moved toward the paramedics. "Aamil?"
A gunshot from the platform below echoed around the nearly empty station.
Aamil was again conscious. He looked hard at the director. "Jericho! I'm sorry. I didn't know. But, I did bring Nasser into this. I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry."
As the paramedics wrapped a bandage, police started rushing up and down the escalators. There were suddenly hundreds of them, like ants swarming over a jar of jam. Several came toward Barry and Jericho and pulled them away toward an exit; another started grilling Aamil. All the boy said, over and over, was "I'm sorry."
* * *
Jericho was quickly released from custody. He didn't know anything about the young man who'd had the bomb. He didn't know anything about the plot. Because of the cooperative Aamil, they were able to nab several members of the organization responsible. There were still more bombs out there though. There was still a plan to blowup targets until the war ended. But, they'd stopped today's bombing. New York City was safe for another day.
News and gossip circulated around the city in a flurry. The dozens who were on the platform turned into hundreds and then thousands, as New Yorkers claimed to have been there, to have seen the morning's events in Penn Station.
Jericho didn't know what to do. He didn't want to be alone, but he didn't want to be with anyone he knew either; they’d only ask questions that Jericho didn’t have any answers to. He started walking. From the police station, he walked through the fashion district, he kept heading north. He traveled through midtown, oblivious to those on the sidewalks all around him. He took a moment and looked at the marquee for his show as tears welled into his eyes. He moved on through Times Square, past the TKTS building and the lines of tourists hoping to see a show for half price.
He kept moving north until he arrived at the park. Jericho got a cup of coffee from the vendor on the corner before heading to his spot outside the Children's Zoo. There, on his bench close to the Delacorte Clock, Thom waited.
"I thought you might come here. People are frantically trying to reach you," said Thom with a calm and quiet voice.
Jericho sidled up to his friend. With tears streaming down his cheeks the two men hugged. Thom held Jericho. He rubbed his back with caring hands. Jericho dropped his coffee, splattering the hot liquid across Thom's legs. Thom just hugged his friend and let him cry.
* * *
Twenty-Four
Newspaper, radio, and television headlines told of the heroes and enemies at the attempted bombing at Penn Station the morning before. Jericho tossed the Times in the trash without reading it. He'd been there; there was nothing anyone could say to him about what happened. He knew too much about the whole thing already.
"What now?" he asked himself. Jericho wanted a cigarette, but refused to leave the house to buy a pack. He ignored his cell phone as it rang over and over.
"Jericho!" Billy shouted from the front door.
"Here!" he shouted back. Jericho didn't want to admit to himself that he was excited when Billy entered the kitchen. His heart sank just a little when he noticed Hank behind the handsome young man. "Hi," he said, hiding his enthusiasm in his voice.
/> "Hi," said Billy. He rushed to his friend and dropped to his knees in front of him. He hugged Jericho for a long time.
Jericho allowed the hug. He cupped the boy's head near his chest and enjoyed the familiar smells of Billy's soap and shampoo mingled with cigarette smoke and a hint of musky sex. He thought about it; if he'd had someone in his life he might have had glad-to-be-alive sex, too. But, that Flash Mob was only his second "date" with Barry. Jericho didn't know if he'd ever hear from him again. After all, he did almost get him killed.
"I'm so relieved that you're okay," Billy said into Jericho's robe.
"I'm fine. I'm fine," Jericho said gently pushing Billy away. "It's nice that you're concerned.
"You know, we didn't even know anything had happened. The music ended and we high tailed it out of there. It wasn't until hours later that someone asked if we knew about the bomber at Penn Station. How strange to be there and not even know that was going on." Billy's words came at Jericho in a rush.
"Then, we turn on the news and see you there, covered with blood," added Hank.
“We called and called to see if you were okay, but you didn’t pick up,” said Billy.
"It wasn't mine. That Middle Eastern kid, Aamil, he hit his head trying to stop the other guy from setting off the bomb. They're both going to jail for awhile, I suspect." Jericho looked from Billy to Hank. "Do you want coffee?" He asked the question, but didn't move.
"Jericho, didn't you hear?" The words that came out of Billy's mouth were barely a whisper.
All three men looked from one to another.
"What? I haven't turned on the television or read the paper," said Jericho.
Billy looked toward his feet, afraid to tell Jericho what had happened.
"The other guy," Hank started, and cleared his throat. "The bomber was killed by a transit cop." Hank looked hard into Jericho's eyes until the director looked away, out the kitchen window, through the dead tree’s branches toward the sky.
The boys busied themselves fetching cups and filling the coffee pot, while Jericho sat silently. The silence ended with a pounding on the door.
Billy looked toward Jericho, who was still staring out the window. "I got it."
Hank poured coffee. He could hear whispering, but couldn't identify the person or the words. "Who is it?" Jericho shouted into the hall, suddenly back in the moment.
Sara returned with Billy to the kitchen.
"Oh, we're not doing this. We won't be having a house full coming to check up on the old man," Jericho said. He started to stand, but dropped back into his chair. His body was weak. He felt old and used up.
"Shut up, Jericho. We love you and care about you. You're not answering your phone, obviously," Sara said as Jericho's cell phone went off again.
They all looked at the ringing phone. "Nancy Ann" flashed on the little screen. Everyone waited. Jericho didn't move.
Sara picked up the phone. "Hi, Nancy Ann." Sara listened. "We're all here in his apartment. Jericho's here." She listened again. "Okay, see you." Sara looked at her compatriots. "Nancy Ann is on her way."
"This is turning into a circus," said Jericho, disgusted. "I really do just want to be alone. All you young people should be on your way. Don’t you have a show to perform?"
Sara ignored her boss. "Is there any more of that coffee?" she asked.
"I was just putting on another pot," said Hank who went to work.
When the next knock on the door happened, no one moved. Finally, as it continued, Billy again said, "Got it," and headed to the door. He returned to the kitchen followed by Barry.
Jericho was the only one in the room who knew the man. This time, Jericho stood, he took a step and fell into Barry's arms. The two men crumpled to the floor, Barry hugged Jericho with all his might. He cooed into Jericho's ear, stroked his hair, and let the man cry.
A few more moments passed and Nancy Ann was knocking on the apartment door. Hank went to let her in. She bustled into the room with an armful of bags. "Hi! Hi!" she said, cheerful and content. "I've got bagels and cream cheese, lox, and some other spread, something veggie. There's fresh fruit here, and what else?" She started emptying the contents onto the table.
Everyone ignored Jericho and Barry on the floor. Out of respect, or feigned privacy, or an attempt to find some normalcy to the morning.
"You had time to stop for this?" Sara asked, once again amazed at Nancy Ann’s abilities.
"No, I was on my way to brunch with my parents. I like you all better than them and Jericho here looks like he could use a schmear or two." Nancy Ann smiled at her long-time friend as Barry helped Jericho up off the floor and into a kitchen chair. Once he was settled, Nancy Ann kissed the top of his head and held it for a moment. "I love you, Jericho," she whispered into his hair.
There was another knock at the door.
"Who now?" Jericho asked. “Maybe that Amy Senteri is here for an interview?” Everyone ignored him.
"That'll be Thom, someone let him in," Nancy Ann said to the others.
"So, you've called in the big guns?" Jericho said to his stage manager. He placed his hand on hers. "Thank you." He wouldn’t admit it, but he was thankful for them all. Their youthful energy was bringing him back from his depressed haze into a clearer reality.
She smiled at her friend without comment.
"Where is the man-of-the-hour?" Thom said as he burst into the room.
"I don't know what you're talking about. If it hadn't been for me none of this would have happened. It's my fault that there was a terrorist at Penn Station." Jericho dropped his head down, chin pressed tight to his chest. His moment of revelry ended and he reentered the realm of sadness.
"Haven't you read the paper this morning?" Thom asked in disbelief. You could always count on Jericho having read the New York Times, cover to cover, before breakfast.
"What are you talking about?" Jericho asked, his head still down.
"That Amy Senteri, the reporter who keeps showing up at the Flash Mobs. You know, that blonde reporter from New York One News? Her. She's spun the story so that because of you, more specifically, that little Middle Eastern dancer guy…Aamil?" Thom paused, waiting for Jericho to acknowledge he knew who he was talking about, but his friend didn't look up. Thom continued on: "Well, Amy has spun the story so that if you all hadn't been there and that kid hadn't been the one to tackle the terrorist, the bomb would have been detonated. They uncovered this huge, organized plot. The bomb was going to be set off that day whether you and your dancers were there or not. Turns out, because the Flash Mob dancer stopped him, because the Flash Mob was there at that time, well, you're being called a hero. The only person who died was the bomber. No one else."
Everyone watched Jericho. He raised his head with red eyes and his tear stained face. "Really?"
"Yes!" said Thom. "So, enough of this self pity. Have a bagel!" Thom shoved a pastry and napkin at Jericho who used the napkin to wipe his eyes.
"So, when's the next Flash Mob, Mr. Director?" asked Sara with a big smile on her face. "Maybe we can become crime fighting dancers or something. Wouldn't that be fun?"
Everyone at the table turned to her. The laughter started out small, just a smirk on Nancy Ann's face, Hank's famous wink. The chuckles started and rose until the laughter became side splitting and uncontrollable.
The sparkle returned to Jericho's eyes. "Sara, you're fired!" he said.
Sara’s phone rang. She answered and listened for a moment. “Turn on the TV!” she squealed in delight. “New York One. They’re announcing the Tony nominations.”
The whole group, including Jericho, moved into the living room where Billy had already hit the clicker and illuminated the big screen.
“Shhh,” hissed Nancy Ann.
They watched as the nominations were read. The highlights throughout the reading included: Hank Miller for Best Actor; Billy Lake for Best Supporting Actor; 42nd Street for Best Revival of a Musical and Best Costumes; as well as Jericho Taylor for Best Choreography
and Best Direction. As those in the room were announced for awards the group of friends and colleagues cheered and offered hugs as Nancy Ann shushed them.
Everyone’s cell phones began ringing and buzzing.
Jericho looked around the room. It had taken decades, but he’d finally been nominated for a Tony award, not just one, but two. His shows had won in the past, but he’d always been overlooked. Not this time, he thought to himself. This is going to be my year. His depression from moments ago quickly faded. “Sara,” Jericho said.
“Yes?”
“Your rehired. We’ve got a lot to do between now and June.”
Sara pulled open her Blackberry. “Shoot. What’s first?”
Jericho didn’t speak, instead he surveyed the scene in his home. He was surrounded by friends. Off in the corner, Billy and Hank were whispering conspiratorially together, playfully poking each other. Barry lifted his coffee cup in congratulations. Nancy Ann beamed as she passed a tray filled with breakfast pastries while Thom looked on all smiles, satisfied to have been there for yet another moment of shared history with the Great Jericho Taylor.
Flash Mob Page 21
