The Taking of Pelham 123

by John Godey

  “I’d be interested in hearing your own judgment of the matter,” the doctor said.

  Ryder shrugged again and watched the brown fingers applying tape to the dressing. Wait until the tape had to be pulled away from the hair. That would be a test of courage. The doctor paused, his dark face turned upward humorously.

  Ryder said, “You’ve probably seen more than I have, Major. I defer to you.”

  The doctor spoke confidently. “No such characteristic as fearlessness. Recklessness, yes. Not caring, yes. Some people wish to die.”

  “Meaning me?”

  “Can’t really say, not knowing you. All I know is rumor. You can put your trousers on now.”

  Ryder examined the bloody tear in his pants before pulling them up. “Too bad,” he said. “I was counting on you for a conclusion.”

  “I am not a psychiatrist,” the doctor said in half apology. “Merely curious.”

  “Not me.” Ryder picked up his steel helmet—it was remaindered World War II Wehrmacht goods—and put it on, tapping it down firmly so that the short brim shadowed his eyes. “I’m not the least bit curious.”

  The major flushed, then gave a sporting smile. “Well, I do think I’ve gained an insight to why they call you Captain Ironass. Take care of yourself.”

  Watching the unhappy profile of the transit cop, Ryder thought: I could have given the Indian doctor an answer, but he would probably have misinterpreted it and concluded that I was talking about reincarnation. You live or you die, Major, that’s my simple philosophy. You lived or you died. Which didn’t translate as either recklessness or fearlessness. It didn’t mean you courted death or saw no mystery or loss in death. It just canceled out most of the complications of existing, just reduced the principal uncertainty of life to a workable formula. No excruciating exploration of possibilities, just the stark profundity of yes or no: You lived or you died.

  A train was coming into the station. Near the transit cop, directly under the number 8 marker, a leaner was bent so far forward that he appeared to have overcommitted himself. Ryder tensed and almost made a first step toward the man, to pull him back to safety, thinking: No, not today, not now. But the man drew back at the last moment, his hands thrown out wardingly in a belated reflex of fright. The train stopped, and the doors opened.

  The transit cop stepped in.

  Ryder looked at the motorman. He was sitting on his metal stool, his arm resting on his half-open window. He was a black man—no, black was a misnomer, Ryder thought, a political color; actually, he was a light tan—and he was indifferently covering a stretching yawn with his hand. He glanced out of his window without interest, then checked his indication box, which, like the conductor’s, lit up when the doors were closed and locked.

  The train started. Its designation (since headway between local trains was five minutes at this time of day) would be Pelham One One Eight, according to the simple, effective system that identified a train by the prefix of its terminus and the suffix of its time of departure from that terminus. Thus, having left Pelham Bay Park station at 1:18 P.M., its designation was Pelham One One Eight. On the return trip from its southern terminus, Brooklyn Bridge station, its new designation would be something on the order of Brooklyn Bridge Two One Four. At least, Ryder thought, that would be the case on a normal day. But today was not a normal day; today there would be some considerable disruption of the schedule.

  As the third car of the train went by, Ryder spotted the transit cop. He was leaning against a pole, and his right shoulder was low, so low that he looked as if he were standing on an incline. Suppose he hadn’t got on the train? They had prearranged a signal for aborting if some unforeseen danger arose. Would he have used it? Would he have withdrawn from the engagement to fight another day? He gave a minimal shake of his head. No need to answer. What you might have done didn’t count, only what you did.

  The last car of the train sped past the platform and into the tunnel toward Twenty-third Street. New passengers were appearing. A young black man—this one was the color of bitter chocolate—was first, splendid in a sky-blue cloak, red and blue checkerboard pants, tan shoes with a three-inch heel, a black leather beret. He came on in a loose-jointed swagger, strutted by, and took up his position a car length beyond the 10 marker. Almost immediately, he leaned over the platform and stared northward with affront.

  Peace, brother, Ryder thought, Pelham One Two Three will be pulling in in less than five minutes, and being hostile toward the track won’t bring it along any sooner. The young black turned suddenly, as if aware that he was being watched. He faced Ryder squarely, his eyes defiant, glaring out of clear, hard whites. Ryder met the challenge without interest, his own eyes mild, and thought: Relax, brother, conserve your energy, you might need it.

  WELCOME

  At Grand Central, responding to the hold signal, three horizontal yellow lights, Pelham One Two Three kept its doors open, waiting for the next express train to pull in.

  Joe Welcome had been on the platform for fifteen minutes, restless and edgy, checking the arrival and departure of local trains against his watch, glaring at the express trains for their irrelevance. Fidgeting, he had walked an erratic sentry post of thirty or forty feet, alternately eyeing the women on the platform and himself in the mirrors of the vending machines. The women were all crummy and made his lip curl. An ugly broad was a curse. He derived more satisfaction from his own image—the handsome, reckless face, olive skin a shade paler than usual, the dark eyes glowing with a strange fire. Now that he had got used to the mustache and the sideburns that curved inward toward his lips in a pointed flourish, he kind of liked them. They were a hell of a good match with the soft glossy black of his hair.

  When he heard Pelham One Two Three come in, Joe Welcome walked back to the last car. He was sharp and jaunty in his navy blue raincoat, slightly suppressed at the waist, ending an inch or two above the knees. His hat was dark gray, with a narrow curled brim and a bright yellow cockade flowering out of the band. When the train stopped, he went in through the last door, pushing against the flow of three or four people seeking to get out. His valise, brown and tan in wide alternate stripes, banged against the knee of a young Puerto Rican girl. She gave him a sidelong resentful look and muttered something.

  “You talk to me, spic?”

  “Why’n you watch where you go?”

  “Up you brown ass, righ’?”

  She started to say something but, assessing the malice of his smile, changed her mind. She stepped out of the train, looking back over her shoulder indignantly. Across the platform, the express train came in, and a few passengers trickled into the local. Welcome glanced into the rear half of the car, then began to walk toward the front, looking at the passengers on both sides of the aisle. He passed into the next car, and as the door slid shut behind him, the train started with a sudden jerk, throwing him off balance. Recovering awkwardly, he glared forward at the motorman eight cars ahead.

  “Mother,” he said aloud, “where you learn to drive a fucking train?”

  Still glaring, he walked on, his eyes sweeping the passengers. People. Meat. No cops, nothing that looked like a hero. He walked with confidence, and the sharp sound of his footfall compelled attention. It pleased him to see so many eyes turn up to him, and it pleased him even more to stare them down, mowing a whole row of eyes down like ducks in a shooting gallery. He never missed. Bang, bang, down they went. It was his eyes. Occhi violenti, his uncle had called them. Violent eyes, and he knew how to use them, he knew how to scare the piss out of people.

  In the fifth car, he located Steever at the far end. He flicked a look at him, but Steever ignored him, his face stolid and vacant. On his way to the next car he brushed by the conductor, a young stud neatly dressed in pressed blue, the golden Transit Authority badge on his billed hat brightly polished. He hurried on and reached the first car as the train decelerated. He put his back against the door and placed his valise on the floor between the points of his Spanish shoes.r />
  “Thirty-third Street, station stop is Thirty-third Street.”

  The conductor’s voice was high-pitched but strong, and the amplification made it sound like the voice of a big man. But he was a pale redheaded string bean, Welcome thought, and if you hit him right you would probably break his jaw like a piece of china. The image of a jaw fragmenting like a fragile teacup struck him as funny. Then he frowned, remembering Steever sitting there like a chunk of wood with that flower box between his legs. That was Steever, a dumb ape. Plenty of muscle, but just muscle; upstairs was an empty room. Steever. With the flower box, yet.

  A few passengers got off; a few entered. Welcome picked out Longman, sitting opposite the motorman’s cab. He was quite a distance away. The car was seventy-two feet long, right? Seventy-two feet, and it had forty-four seats. The BMT and the IND, what they called the B-1 and B-2 divisions (IRT was the A Division, right?), were seventy-five feet long, and they had up to sixty-five seats. Big deal, making him learn that shit. Nothing.

  As the doors started to shut, a chick bumped it back with her shoulder and slipped in. He looked at her with interest. Short-short miniskirt, long legs in white boots, a little round ass. So far so good, Welcome thought, now let’s see the front view. He smiled as she turned, and checked off great boobs stretching away at some kind of a light-pink sweater under a short green jacket that matched the little skirt. Big eyes, heavy fake lashes, wide gorgeous mouth with lots of bright-red lipstick, long black hair falling straight down out of one of those sexy soldier hats with the brim curved up on one side, flat against the crown. Australian? Anzac. An Anzac hat.

  She took a seat in the front half of the car, and when she crossed her legs, the little skirt climbed halfway up to her neck. Nice. He concentrated on the long expanse of thigh and leg and visualized them wrapped around his neck. For starters.

  “Twenty-eighth Street.” The conductor’s voice, singing out like an angel. “Next stop is Twenty-eighth Street.”

  Welcome wedged his hip securely against the brass handle of the door. Twenty-eighth Street. Okay. He made a rough count of the seated passengers. About thirty or so, plus a couple of kids standing up, looking out of the front storm door. About half of them would have to get the boot. But not the chick in the funny hat. She was staying, no matter what Ryder or anybody said. Crazy, thinking about pussy at a time like this? So he was crazy. But she was staying. She would provide, like they say, the love interest.

  LONGMAN

  In the first car of the train, Longman sat in the seat that corresponded to Steever’s, five cars back. It was directly opposite the shut steel door of the motorman’s cab, decorated with an elaborately scripted signature in hot pink: PANCHO 777. His package, covered in heavy wrapping paper and bound with coarse yellow twine, was marked in black crayon: “Everest Printing Corp., 826 Lafayette Street.” He held it between his knees, with his forearms resting on its top, and his fingers loosely burrowed beneath the intersection where the strands of twine were knotted.

  He had boarded Pelham One Two Three at Eighty-sixth Street, to make certain that, at some point before Twenty-eighth Street, he would find the seat opposite the cab unoccupied. Not that that particular seat was essential, but he had been stubborn about it. He had won his point, but only because nobody cared about it one way or another. He realized now that he had pressed for it because he knew there would be no opposition. Otherwise, Ryder would have made the decision. Wasn’t it actually because of Ryder that he was here at all, about to plunge into a nightmare wide awake?

  He watched the two boys at the window of the storm door. They were about eight and ten, identically plump and round-faced, both healthfully flushed and intent on their game of driving the train through the tunnel, to an orchestrated accompaniment of appropriate clicks and hisses of voice and tongue. He wished that they weren’t there, but it was inevitable. On any given train, at any given time, there was sure to be a kid or two—sometimes, an adult!—romantically playing motorman. Some romance!

  When the train reached Thirty-third Street, he began to sweat. Not gradually, but all at once, as if a heat wave had suddenly swept through the car. It broke out all over his body and face, an oily slick that fogged the dark shades over his eyes and spilled down his chest, his legs, his crotch…. For an instant, as the train entered the tunnel, it bucked, and he felt a heart-stopping surge of hope. His mind leaped to round out the picture: Something wrong with the motor, the motorman hits the brake and lays dead. The shop sends a car knocker; he looks it over, scratches his head. So they have to cut the power, dump their load, lead their passengers to an emergency exit, and haul the train away to the yard….

  But the buck disappeared, and Longman knew—as he had all along—that the train was okay. Either the motorman had made a clumsy start, or it was just a train that bucked, one of those dogs that motormen hated to get stuck with.

  Not because he believed in them, but out of desperation, his mind sought out other possibilities. Suppose one of the others had suddenly taken sick or been in an accident? No. Steever wouldn’t have the brains to know he was sick, and Ryder… Ryder would get off his deathbed if he had to. Maybe Welcome, feisty and crazy as he was, had gotten into a fight over some fancied insult—

  He looked back to the rear of the car and saw Welcome there.

  I’m going to die today.

  The thought came unbidden to his mind, accompanied by a sudden gust of heat, as though a flash fire had been touched off inside his body. He felt suffocated and wanted to tear his clothing off and give his burning body air. He fumbled at the button at the neck of his raincoat and worked it half free before stopping. Ryder had said they weren’t to open any part of the coat. His fingers forced the button back through the buttonhole.

  His legs began to tremble, shivering down their length to his shoes. He placed his hands on his knees, palms flat, and pressed downward to nail his feet to the dirty composition floor, to stop their involuntary little jig of fear. Was he being conspicuous? Were people staring at him? But he didn’t dare look up to see. Like an ostrich. He looked at his hands and saw them crawl under the knotted twine on the package, twist into it until they began to hurt. He pulled his fingers away, examined them, and then blew cooling breath on his reddened index finger and forefinger. Through the window opposite his seat the gray rushing wall of the tunnel blinked out and widened into the tile of the station wall.

  “Twenty-eighth Street. Station is Twenty-eighth Street.”

  He was up on his feet. His legs were trembling, but he was moving well enough, dragging his package after him. He stood facing the cab door, bracing against the train’s rapid deceleration. Outside, the platform was becoming less of a blur, slowing down. The two boys at the storm door were making hissing noises as they put the brakes on. He glanced at the rear of the car. Welcome had not moved. Through the storm door he watched the platform jerk to a stop. People were moving forward, waiting for the doors to open. He saw Ryder.

  Ryder was leaning against the wall, very relaxed.

  TWO

  DENNY DOYLE

  Somewhere on the run, Denny Doyle had spotted a face on a platform that reminded him of someone. It kept tantalizing him until, just as he was pulling out of Thirty-third, it popped into his head like a light snapping on in a dark room. It was a black Irish face, one of those bony ones you always saw in pictures of dead members of the IRA. The person it reminded him of was that Daily News reporter, a year or so back, who had come snooping around to write an article on the subways. The TA Public Relations Department had made Denny available to him, as a typical veteran motorman—as they put it—and the reporter, a sharp enough young donkey, had asked a lot of questions, some of which seemed ridiculous at first, but were pretty smart when you thought about it.

  “What do you fellows think about when you’re driving the train?”

  For a wild second, Denny thought that the question was a trap, that the reporter had somehow latched on to his secret, but that was imposs
ible. He had never breathed a word of it to a living soul. Not that it was so criminal, just that a grown man wasn’t supposed to play silly games. Not to mention that the TA sure wouldn’t be delighted to hear about it.

  So he had handed the reporter a deadpan answer. “A motorman don’t have time to think about anything else except his job. There’s a lot to it.”

  “Come on,” the reporter said. “Day in and day out you’re going down the same set of tracks. How can there be a lot to it?”

  “How can there be—” Denny put on a look of indignation. “It’s one of the busiest railroads in the world. You know how many daily trains we run, how many miles of track—”

  “They gave me a handout,” the reporter said. “Over four hundred miles of track, seven thousand cars, eight or nine hundred trains an hour in rush hour. I’m impressed. But you really ducked my question.”

  “I’ll answer your question,” Denny said righteously. “What I think about is driving the train. Meeting the schedule and observing the safety rules. I watch the signals, the switches, the doors, I try to give the passengers a smooth ride, I keep an eagle eye on the rail. We have a saying, ‘Know your rail—’”

  “Okay. But still. Don’t you ever think of, oh, let’s say, what you’re going to eat for lunch?”

  “I know what I’m going to eat for lunch. I fix it myself in the morning.”

  The reporter had laughed, and the line about the lunch actually turned up in the story the News printed a few days later. His name was mentioned in the story, and he was famous for a few days, though Peg had been a little annoyed. “What do you mean you fix? Who hauls herself out of bed every morning to put up your lunch?” He explained that he wasn’t trying to rob her of any glory, that it had just come out that way. Then, to his surprise, she said, “What in hell do you think of?”