by Bob Mayer
“The High Line,” Kane repeated. “The tracks used to run along Tenth Avenue. But it ended up being called death avenue because the trains would hit trucks and cars and pedestrians. Even though they had guys on horses, West Side Cowboys, riding in front of each train waving red flags and warning people. Seems some people don’t take warnings seriously. So they elevated it.”
“Fascinating,” Toni said. “What are we going to do about the knuckle-dragger across the street?”
“’We’?” Kane sighed. “You want to know where I went after the accident, Toni? The years I disappeared? Besides watch Monty Python in black and white?”
“Father thinks you went in a hole somewhere and stayed drunk,” Toni said.
“I tried that for a while and it didn’t work. I tried a lot of things that didn’t work. I also learned some things.”
“Do I want to know what you learned?” Toni asked.
“Got no choice now. Watch my map case, please.” He exited the booth and headed for the Gansevoort door.
“Kane?” Morticia said, a pot of coffee in her hand, three fingers looped through the handles of cups in the other, pausing on her way to a trio of streetwalkers who’d wandered in via Washington. “What are you doing?”
He ignored her. Pushed the door open. Walked diagonally across the street into the dimness under the High Line. “Hey, big fellow.”
“The man with the guns.”
This early there wasn’t much traffic or many pedestrians.
Kane pointed further into the shadows, toward the brick wall of a warehouse built beneath the tracks. “Over there.”
Cibosky frowned. “So you can shoot me with your little gun?”
“I left that inside the diner.”
“Your big gun?”
Kane walked past him, out of arm’s reach. He put the .45 on a wood crate and turned about to face the muscles. Cibosky cautiously followed.
Kane held his hands out wide and empty.
Cibosky grinned and stepped forward, raising his arms.
Kane struck three times so fast that Cibosky didn’t lose the grin until the third blow: a sharp right-hand jab in the solar plexus, a strike in the throat with the left, and a flat palm from the first hand straight into the nose as Kane closed the distance between them. The crunching of the nose breaking matched the disappearance of the grin.
Cibosky would have screamed in pain, but the first two blows had taken his wind and bruised his throat respectively. He made a sick, gurgling noise as he doubled over, trying to get his breath back, blood pouring from the nose.
Kane took advantage of that position by cupping his right hand over his left fist to double the power to his left elbow. He rose up on his toes to deliver the blow downward. The elbow hit the back of Cibosky’s skull with a dull thud.
Cibosky crumbled face down onto the garbage strewn ground.
Kane rolled the big man over. Checked his pulse. Opened his mouth and inspected the airway as he tilted the head back. Then turned the head to the side so Cibosky wouldn’t choke on his own blood.
“What the fuck?” Toni said.
Morticia and Toni were casting long shadows in the early morning sunlight angled down Gansevoort. Morticia still had the coffee pot and mugs in hand.
“He’ll be all right,” Kane said. “He’ll have trouble talking for a few days. But he had nothing important to say anyway. He’ll have to get the nose set. Or not.”
He recovered the .45 and walked back toward the diner, the two women following. Thao was standing in the doorway to the kitchen, his wood crossbow in hand, a bolt loaded. Seeing that Kane was all right, the Montagnard went back in. There were several pedestrians who’d observed, but being New Yorkers, they quickly went on about their business. The three hookers at a table booth had seen but avoided Kane’s eyes as he returned. They talked quietly among themselves.
Kane reclaimed his spot.
“Told you to watch the bag,” Kane admonished Toni as she sat across from him. Morticia was completing her original task delivering coffee to the hookers.
“What was that?” Toni asked.
“That’s what I did most of the time I was gone,” Kane said. “I studied some things. What do you think I do at Gleason’s? Move weights about and stare at myself in the mirror?”
“And what now?”
“I dealt with the immediate problem,” Kane said. “What subsequent problems are going to arise from this temporary solution I don’t know. But Delgado sent me a message yesterday. I just replied. I doubt he’ll take it to heart.” He pointed. “You’ve got glitter in your hair again.”
Toni stared at him.
Kane nodded toward the door. “You can get a taxi easier on Hudson.”
Toni walked out.
Kane checked his watch.
Morticia was hovering nearby. “A crossbow, Kane?”
“It’s their traditional weapon. Thao is good with it. He’s also very dangerous with that machete.”
She shook her head. “The two of you are a piece of work.”
WEST SIDE HIGHWAY, MANHATTAN
Kane skirted the street level barriers that would block a car and drove the Kawasaki up the closed northbound ramp on 19th then turned south on the West Side Highway toward the original closure. Grass and weeds and a scattering of small bushes grew along the gutters of the elevated highway and from long-standing mud puddles in the roadway in both directions, making the road a burgeoning wilderness. He wove the dirt bike around the large clumps and avoided the places where the roadway had fallen through or looked close to that fate. The center divider splitting the three northbound and southbound lanes was a raised concrete curb. Evenly spaced along the divider were cast iron lampposts, with dual masts, a light hanging over each side. The light posts had a solid concrete base and when the road had been open, had claimed many an inattentive or drunk driver with an abrupt and deadly stop.
An uneven and incomplete wall of warped and rotting plywood marked the edge of the northward creeping death of the West Side Highway. Several thick railroad ties were scattered in front of the plywood as a deterrent against vehicle traffic even though the road was closed farther north. The dump truck had gone through the roadway on the northbound side of the Highway in December ‘73 approximately where Gansevoort ran under it a block west of Vic’s. This section north to 26th was slated for demolition later in the year. But for now, what remained was an elevated refuge for the city’s lost and forgotten.
The word CLOSED was barely visible in faded yellow spray paint on the plywood. All three northbound lanes where the dump truck had gone through were gone. Kane found a break in the southbound barrier and killed the engine. He kickstanded the bike, dismounted, and eased through the opening.
A scattering of shacks made from a wide range of material dotted the road as far as he could see. A small tendril of smoke was on the northbound side, past the missing section. Kane walked toward it, stepping over the center barrier. An old man sat on a wood milk crate, carefully tending a #10 can hanging on a precarious tripod over a small fire. He had a worn and faded cap on his head, a dirty white beard, and wore second-hand clothing.
Kane raised a hand in greeting. “Morning.”
The old man watched his approach with apathetic concern. He got to the heart of the matter quickly. “What do you want? You got money?”
Kane had a five spot ready. He held it out. “I’m looking for a veteran. Goes by Wiley.”
“Wile-dash-E.” The old man corrected him. “Like the coyote in the cartoon. Wile-E.”
“Right,” Kane said. “We served in the same unit.”
The old man spit. “Vietnam. You lost. I was in the Big One. We won.”
“What outfit?” Kane asked.
“Marines. The Pacific.”
“Once and always,” Kane said.
“Got that right, kid.” He held out his hand, palm up.
Kane surrendered the bill. “My dad was a Marine too, same theater.”
The old man could care less. He pointed, bill crumpled in hand. “There.”
Kane followed the direction of the black fingernail. A piece of corrugated metal was propped against the west edge of the highway, forming a lean-to.
“Thanks.”
The old man was once more intrigued by whatever was in the can, Kane already a lost memory.
Kane knelt at one end of the lean-to. Wile-E was asleep, the field jacket an expedient pillow. The smell was atrocious, a combination of rotting food, dirty human, unwashed clothes, all baked by the heat. Wile-E was stirring in his unconsciousness, legs twitching, the tic on the side his face doing a dance.
“Sarge.” Kane tapped the man on the shoulder. “Sarge.”
Wile-E snapped awake, hands scrambling for the gun in the pocket of the field jacket, but Kane snatched that as soon as his head lifted.
Wile-E blinked, seeing only a dark silhouette. “Give me my jacket.”
Kane stepped back.
“Who the fuck are you?” Wile-E asked. “Give me my jacket.”
Kane checked the pockets, carefully. The same cheap gun. A kit rolled in aluminum foil. Some cigarettes. He kept the gun and tossed the jacket back. “I got a proposition for you.”
Wile-E patted the pockets. “Give me my gun.” He crawled out of the lean-to, squinting in the sunlight. “You were at Dino’s the other night.”
“I made a call,” Kane said. “Guy I know works at the Soldiers and Sailors Club. You know where that is?”
Wile-E stood up, eyes bleary. “What?”
“Lexington Avenue,” Kane said. “Between 36th and 37th.”
Wile-E blinked at Kane, not following.
“Soldiers and Sailors Club on Lexington. You go there. Tell the guy at the desk that Kane sent you. He’ll give you a room for tonight and tomorrow night. You can shower. Wash your clothes. Lexington Avenue. Between 36th and 37th. Got it, sarge?”
Wile-E shook his head. “I can’t pay for—“
“They’ll give you a room,” Kane said. “Just tell them Kane sent you.”
“Kane. With a C or K?”
“K.”
“Yeah, okay, whatever.”
“You going to do it?”
Wile-E’s eyes narrowed. “Why do you care?”
Kane pointed at the winged dagger on the right shoulder of the jacket. “That’s why.” He turned and walked away. He didn’t look back.
“Hey. My gun!”
Kane left the Saturday Night Special on the concrete base of a lamp post as he crossed over.
BAYCHESTER, THE BRONX
Kane bounced over the curb onto the cracked sidewalk and used his left toe to shift the Kawasaki dirt bike into neutral. He stood with the motorcycle balanced between his legs. The intersection of East Gun Hill and Eastchester Roads. Holy Rosary Church was a block away, north on Eastchester, where his mother and older sister Our Fathered every morning. Where he’d been an altar boy. The other surrounding blocks contained parks.
In the park in the southern quadrant he’d fallen off the monkey bars and had the wind knocked out of him, feeling the panic that he’d never be able to breathe again. To the west, where a bunch of white teenagers hanging in the shade of an anemic tree next to a basketball court, were passing a joint, he’d been chased away by the cops when he’d drunk his first beer that a more enterprising classmate from eighth grade had gotten someone older to buy for them. Beyond the monkey bar park, on Arnow Avenue, was the six-story brick building housing Holy Rosary elementary school, where he’d spent eight years of his life getting whacked on the back of his hand by nuns with rulers who tried to force him to write right handed. That capricious discipline had been of some use years later when shooting off-hand and in boxing and martial arts.
Kane could never have imagined that the most important moment in his life would occur here, where these two roads met, when he wasn’t around. He turned the engine off. Looked at his watch.
10:07.
The police report listed 10:12 as the time of the accident, but Uncle Nathan had told him that was an estimate. A couple of minutes either way was possible, but all that mattered was the instant.
The truck had t-boned Taryn’s car on the passenger side. Where Joseph was sitting. In a car that predated the law passed the previous year requiring seat belts in all sitting positions.
Joseph never had a chance.
Kane had entered Ranger School at Fort Benning on 12 September 1966 on a rushed set of orders, typical Army fashion, giving him only 24 hours to drive all night from Fort Hood, Texas, his short-term duty assignment after graduation to prepare him for Vietnam. Taryn had stayed behind and packed all their worldly possessions into a trailer. She was halfway to Benning when her contractions began. She gave birth on the 13th of September, frightened and alone, and unable to contact Kane, in a clinic in a small redneck town in southwest Louisiana.
Kane didn’t see his son until after graduation from Ranger School two months later.
He’d missed his son’s death by a few hours as he was flying back from Vietnam in late 1969.
Bookended by the two Vietnam tours, with a stint in the hospital and the Special Forces Qualification Course between the birth and death, Kane had been present for under a year of Joseph’s abbreviated three years and nine weeks of life.
The accident happened when Taryn had been driving with Joseph to Kennedy Airport to meet Kane upon his return from Vietnam. He’d finally been released after the prosecution against him and seven of his Green Beret brethren for murder had been abruptly dropped by the Secretary of the Army.
Kane’s mind raced down a familiar rut of regret. If that trial had not occurred, if the killing that precipitated it had never happened, if Kane had never been in Special Forces, if Kane had never been in the Army, if he had never gone to West Point, if they’d never gotten married, if his older sister had never set him up with Taryn, the list of ifs was as long as his life, and somewhere in there, Joseph would never have died.
A pack of teenagers rumbled along Gun Hill Road, passing paper bags with quart bottles of beer. One of them carried a boom box on his shoulder, blasting a heavy beat. Kane didn’t recognize the song. They were a collection of Puerto Ricans and blacks. Five years earlier it would have been an unusual racial mixture given some were wearing the colors of the Black Spades on their denim jackets with no sleeves, but the gangs in the Bronx were in turmoil just like the city and the neighborhoods. Territory and hard times was making allies of previous enemies.
They spotted him on the bike.
It was easy to discern the leader. He wasn’t the biggest, he wasn’t the loudest, he was the opposite. The quietest, wearing a red pork-pie hat, precariously perched on a mid-sized Afro. His ebony skin glistened with a light sheen of sweat and he wore only the vest, no shirt. Someone nudged him, pointing at Kane.
Kane put the kickstand down, swung his leg over the bike and stood. He stared at the leader as they came closer. They made eye contact and Kane maintained it. The leader slashed his hand, quieting the yammering guy and gave an abrupt shake of his head. He gave a nod of acknowledgement to Kane along with a smile that said ‘not today’. The gang angled away through the park.
Across the way the whites in the basketball park had grown silent. Most wore the colors of the Golden Guineas. The Black Spades saw them and Kane was no longer a factor as glares were exchanged between the groups.
Out of the corner of his eye, Kane spotted a blue and white Plymouth Fury rolling up Eastchester. The police cruiser paused at the curb next to Kane, ignoring the gangs. The driver’s window scrolled down and a red-faced young cop squinted at Kane. The older cop in the passenger seat appeared to be sleeping.
“What ya doing? Get that motorcycle off the sidewalk.”
Kane looked at his watch. 10:11. His heart was racing, but cold, hard fingers were wrapping around it, squeezing.
The older cop stirred, blinking. He leaned forward and looked to the left. “Keep rolling, rook. L
eave him alone. He’s here every Saturday.”
The rookie was confused. “What?”
“Shut the fuck up and drive.” The older cop nodded to Kane.
Kane nodded back.
The cops drove away.
Kane checked his watch. 10:13.
Kane spread his left hand over his chest, gasping for breath, disconcerted and disoriented. It took a few moments for him to regain his composure.
The Black Spades swaggered down Gun Hill Road, toward the subway station. The Golden Guineas returned to smoking dope. The cops drove away, ignoring both. No harm, no foul. Another day in the Bronx.
A short, lean kid was coming from the subway, headed directly toward the Black Spades. He was dark-skinned and wasn’t wearing colors, only jeans and a dark t-shirt. He didn’t cross the street to get out of the way of the oncoming gang but possessed a confidence that wasn’t a swagger. He walked through, some looks exchanged, but nothing more. He didn’t look back once he was past, but headed directly toward Kane.
“Mister Kane?” he said as he halted a few feet away.
“Yeah.”
“I’m Dave.”
Kane waited for more information.
“Dave Riley.”
Kane put the kickstand down and stuck his hand out. “How you doing, kid?” He noted the white hoodlums across the street were watching.
Riley shook it with a firm grip. “My dad said I could find you here.”
“How is Liam?” Kane asked.
The kid avoided the question. “I asked him about you.”
“When did you see him last?” Kane asked, trying to get the lay of the land and not get roped into family drama.
“I went to his station house last week. He’s okay. On the job. You know.”
“What can I do for you?” Kane asked.
“I’m going to enlist and wanted to ask your advice.”
Kane waited, not sure he had any worthwhile advice on that topic for a seventeen year-old.
Dave plunged on. “I’m considering Marines. My dad was. Your dad. Your older brother is, aint he?”
“Right.”
“But.” Dave hesitated, trying to not possibly offend. “Seems like once you get in the Marines you’re a grunt and that’s it. I want to do more.”
