The Taking of Pelham 123

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The Taking of Pelham 123 Page 23

by John Godey


  EIGHTEEN

  RYDER

  Longman said, “Can I push it up a notch?”

  “No,” Ryder said, “Steady as it goes.”

  “Are we past where the cops were hidden by now?”

  “Probably,” Ryder said. He watched Longman’s left hand polishing the handle of the controller. “Keep it steady.”

  “Calling Pelham One Two Three. Prescott here. Pelham One Two Three, come in.”

  Ahead, Ryder saw the long spread of brightness that was the Twenty-third Street station. He picked up the microphone. “Come in, Prescott.”

  “How come you’re moving? The track isn’t clear to South Ferry yet, and we’ve still got five minutes. Why are you moving?”

  “A slight change of plan. We decided we wanted to remove ourselves from all those cops you had hidden in the tunnel back there.”

  “Hell,” Prescott said. “There weren’t any cops there. Look, if you keep on as you are, you’ll begin to run into red signals. I don’t want you to blame us for it.”

  “We’ll stop soon and wait for you to clear the track. You still have five minutes.”

  “How are the passengers?”

  “The passengers are fine, so far. But don’t play any tricks.”

  “You crossed us by moving.”

  “You have my apology. Instructions remain the same. Get back to me as soon as the track is clear. Over and out.”

  Longman said, “You think they know anything? I mean—all those questions?”

  “The questions are natural ones,” Ryder said. “They’re thinking as we want them to.”

  “Jesus,” Longman said. “Look at them hanging over the edge of that platform. When I was a motorman, I had nightmares about a dozen of them tumbling in front of my train.”

  As the car entered the north end of the Twenty-third Street station, they could hear shouting from the platform. Fists were shaking, and at least a dozen people spat at them. Ryder spotted a number of blue uniforms mingled with the crowd. Just before they passed beyond the platform, he saw a man double up his fist and swing at the car.

  BOROUGH COMMANDER

  The commissioner’s limousine jolted over the curb and swung downtown onto Park Avenue South. The commissioner and the borough commander sat side by side on the rear seat. At Twenty-fourth Street, a cop was frantically trying to clear cross-traffic out of their path.

  “We might make better time by subway,” the commissioner said.

  The borough commander looked at him in open astonishment. In all the years he had known him, he had never heard the commissioner make a joke.

  The driver turned on his siren and shot through the intersection. The cop at the corner saluted as they went by.

  The borough commander spoke into the mike. “Still moving?”

  “Yes, sir. Moving slowly, in low gear, what they call switching position.”

  “Where are they?”

  “Almost to Twenty-third Street.”

  “Thank you.”

  The commissioner was peering through the rear window. “We’re being followed. A television truck. Maybe a second one behind, too.”

  “Shit,” the borough commander said. “I should have given orders to impede them. They’re a pain in the ass.”

  “Freedom of the press,” the commissioner said. “We don’t want them on our back. We’re going to need all the friends we can get after this is over.”

  The radio crackled. “They’re entering the Twenty-third Street station, sir, speed still about five miles per hour.”

  “Some sort of traffic jam up ahead,” the commissioner said.

  The radio voice said, “Not stopping. Going right through Twenty-third Street station.”

  “Open it up,” the borough commander said to the driver. “Make that siren sing.”

  DCI DANIELS

  In the cab of the darkened front car of Woodlawn One Four One, the DCI watched impatiently as the motorman replaced his instruments on the panel.

  “Now,” he said, “you understand what I want you to do?”

  “Follow that train. Right?”

  The DCI, suspecting mockery, looked at the motorman sharply. “Get moving,” he said roughly. “Don’t go too fast, and don’t get too close.”

  The motorman pushed his controller forward, and the car started abruptly.

  “A little more speed,” the DCI said. “But not too much. I don’t want them to see or hear us.”

  The motorman nudged the controller into series. “See is one thing. Hear is another. No such thing as a quiet subway train.”

  They sailed past the Twenty-eighth Street station, empty except for a handful of patrolmen. When the lights of the Twenty-third Street platform became visible in the distance, the DCI said, “Slow it down now. Crawl. Keep your eye peeled for their lights. Crawl. And don’t make so much noise.”

  “This a subway train, Cap’n. No such thing as no noise.”

  The DCI, peering through the window, felt his eyes begin to water with the strain.

  “Red signal there on the local track,” the motorman said. “Means they went by here not too long ago.”

  “Slow,” the DCI said. “Very slow. Crawl. And quiet. Don’t make a sound.”

  “You sure asking a lot out of one little old subway car, Cap’n,” the motorman said.

  THE CITY: STREET SCENE

  The crowd’s antenna, an organ tuned to a permanent wavelength of suspicion, evaluated the departure of the commissioner’s limousine as a prelude to breaking camp. The subsequent dispersal of police cars and personnel merely confirmed its judgment. A few of its members struck off southward, in hope of catching up with the action, but these were viewed with disdain; the mountain might come to Mahomet, but it didn’t chase him.

  In a matter of minute’s the crowd ceased to exist as an effective entity. Shuffling, then pushing, it fought its way free, and, once clear, picked up its pace briskly, because its time was valuable and must not be wasted in meaningless standing around. A few hundred remained, idlers or romantics, clinging to the forlorn hope of a shootout taking place in front of their eyes. Philosophers and theorists held seminars in small clusters. Individuals aired their opinions.

  “What about that mayor! They needed him down here like they needed a second hole in their ass.”

  “They should of gone in with guns blazing. You start coddling crooks and they take advantage. A good crook knows his psychology.”

  “Basically, they’re small-timers. If it had of been me, I would of asked for ten million. And of got it.”

  “Black guys? Never! Black guys are the quick knockover artists for ten dollars and like that. These were white guys, and I got to give them credit for thinking big.”

  “The police commissioner? He don’t even look like a cop. How can you respect somebody who don’t look like a cop?”

  “What about that mayor! You think a rich guy can really care about a poor guy? Never the twain will meet!”

  “Tell me one way, just one little way the hijackers are different from big business. I’ll tell you the only way—big business is protected by the law. As usual, the little man gets it in the neck.”

  “You know how they’re gonna get away? I figgered it out. They’re gonna fly that train to Cuba!”

  “What’s up, Mac?”

  NINETEEN

  RYDER

  The emergency exit was located north of the Fourteenth Street station, an opening in the tunnel wall providing access to a ladder that led to a grate in the sidewalk on the east side of Union Square Park near Sixteenth Street. Ryder watched Longman work the brake handle and bring the car to a stop a hundred feet short of the white light marking the position of the exit.

  “Right?” Longman said.

  “Fine,” Ryder said.

  Longman was sweating, and Ryder became aware for the first time of how badly the tiny cab smelled. Well, he thought, we can’t pick our working conditions on hygienic principles, and since when did a battlefield
smell like a field of daisies? He put his hand into the brown valise cautiously and took out two grenades. He inspected the pins and then placed the grenades in the deep pocket of his raincoat. He opened the first-aid box and brought out the spool of adhesive tape. He handed the spool to Longman, who fumbled it momentarily.

  “Just hold it steady,” Ryder said.

  He tore two strips of about sixteen inches each from the spool and wound them loosely around the grenades.

  “Those things make me nervous,” Longman said.

  “Everything makes you nervous,” Ryder said factually. “They’re safe as tennis balls as long as the pin remains in and the lever is not released.”

  “Do you have to?” Longman said. “I mean—suppose they aren’t following us on the express track?”

  “In that case we took an unnecessary precaution.”

  “But if they aren’t following us, then eventually an innocent express train will come along—”

  “Don’t argue,” Ryder said. “I want you to start working as soon as I leave. You must be finished by the time I get back, so we can move the train immediately.”

  “Command Center calling Pelham One Two Three. Command Center to Pelham One Two Three.”

  Ryder pressed the transmitter button. “Pelham One Two Three. Track clear yet?”

  “Not quite clear yet. About two to three minutes more.”

  “Be quick about it. And no police on the track, anywhere, or we’ll react. You understand the meaning of react, Lieutenant Prescott?”

  “Yes. We’re complying with your instructions, there’s no need to hurt anybody. Acknowledge, Pelham One Two Three.”

  Ryder hung the microphone back on its hook. “Don’t answer,” he said to Longman. “He’ll get tired and quit after a while. All right. Get started.”

  He turned the latch and went out of the cab. Welcome was lounging against the center pole, the submachine gun dangling from his right hand. Ryder suppressed a twinge of anger and continued by without comment. Steever stood up as he approached and slid the rear storm door open.

  “Cover me,” Ryder said.

  Steever nodded.

  Ryder stepped onto the threshold plates, crouched, and dropped lightly to the roadbed. He straightened up and began to trot northward between the gleaming rails.

  TOM BERRY

  As the leader came out of the cab, Tom Berry caught a glimpse of the smallest of the hijackers straining to lift some kind of heavy metal construction out of what looked like a Valpac. The door snapped shut, and the leader went through the car. He said a brief word to the heavy man at the rear door, then jumped down to the track. And now, Deedee, Berry thought, will I take advantage of his absence to storm the Winter Palace? No, Deedee, I will not twitch my ass off this seat by so much as a millimeter.

  Ah, Deedee, he thought, by what right do I mock you? At least, right or wrong, you believe in something, you have a place to stand. But who am I? Half a cop, half a surly doubter. If I believed in being a cop, I would probably be dead by now, but honorably dead by those lights, and if I didn’t believe in being a cop, I wouldn’t be gnawed by guilt. But, Deedee, why in hell should I feel guilty for having rejected suicide?

  And as long as I’m being selfish, Berry thought, I hope the hijackers make a nice unmessy getaway so that I don’t die accidentally in a crossfire between trigger-happy hoods and trigger-happy cops. Not that a getaway seemed easy or even possible, given that the hijackers were bottled up in a tunnel with all exits plugged by cops. Still, it was reasonable to suppose that the hijackers were resourceful and had figured out a happy ending for themselves, wasn’t it? Well, that’s their problem. Not mine. Tom Berry passes.

  DCI DANIELS

  “Shshsh,” the DCI said. “Keep it quiet.”

  “No way,” the motorman said. “Train don’t move on no tippy toe.”

  “Shshsh.” The DCI was peering out of the front window, his forehead almost touching the glass. The motorman applied his brake suddenly, and the DCI’s nose bumped the window. “Jesus!”

  “There she is,” the motorman said. “If you strain, you can see her up ahead.”

  “That little bit of light?” the DCI said doubtfully.

  “That’s her,” the motorman said. “She’s laying dead.”

  The radio crackled, and the DCI listened intently to Command Center’s end of a conversation with Pelham One Two Three.

  “She’s lying there, like you said,” the DCI said to the motorman. He listened to Command Center trying to continue the conversation with Pelham One Two Three, but the car was obviously not responding. “They won’t answer. Arrogant murdering bastards.”

  “What we do?” the motorman said. “Stay like we are?”

  “We can’t get any closer or they’ll spot us. My God, I never felt so helpless in my entire life.”

  “You see something out there on the bed?” the motorman said.

  “Where?” The DCI stared through the window. “I don’t see a thing.”

  “Looked like a man,” the motorman said. “But I don’t see nothing now. Might be I could been mistaken.”

  “You don’t see anything now?”

  “Sure. See the train.”

  “That’s all I see, too. Keep looking. Let me know if you see any movement.”

  “Just the train, and it’s not making no movement.” The motorman took his eyes off the track and looked at his watch. “Except what happened, I’d be home right now. Got me working on overtime, way it stands. Time and a half, but I rather be home.”

  “Keep watching.”

  “Time and a half don’t mean that much to me. Taxes get it, anyhow.”

  “Just keep watching.”

  LONGMAN

  The parts of the Gimmick were neatly arranged in the Valpac—Longman had packed it himself—and except for the weight of the shaped iron piece that fitted over the controller, it was all as easy as it had been in rehearsal. Yet he could remember when the crucial problem that the Gimmick had eventually solved had seemed hopeless, and their entire plan had appeared doomed. At least, that was how he had felt about it. Ryder had been calm.

  “A few years ago,” he had complained to Ryder, “the deadman’s feature was a nipple in the head of the controller. All we would have had to do was tape it down and then find some way of pushing it into drive. But with the feature built into the mechanism itself, like it is now, it’s impossible. If you taped the whole controller down to the panel, you would deactivate the deadman’s feature, but then you couldn’t move it into drive. If it was only still a nipple—”

  “It isn’t a nipple now,” Ryder said, “so there’s no point dwelling on it. Concentrate on the present problem.”

  The present problem was that you couldn’t possibly drive a train without a motorman. Yet, when they found the solution, it made his earlier despair seem ridiculous. The heart of the Gimmick was a heavy iron mold cast roughly in the shape of the controller. Set in place over the controller, its weight substituted for the pressure of the motorman’s hand. It deactivated the deadman’s feature, permitted the controller to be moved into driving position, and, most important, by its weight kept the deadman’s feature deactivated.

  Simple and beautiful, Longman thought, and grunted as he hefted the Gimmick out of the Valpac and fitted it over the controller. The rest of it was equally simple. Three joining lengths of pipe—the first less than six inches in length and fitting into a receptacle at the front of the iron weight; the second about three feet in length, angled downward toward the tracks; the third three feet long and angled toward the tunnel wall.

  The lengths of pipe had been tooled to fit into each other with different degrees of firmness. The short piece joined tightly with the receptacle in the Gimmick, the second piece loosely at its inner end with the first piece, and securely at its outer end with the third piece. But before he could join the pipes together, Longman had to break out the front window. Irrationally, it bugged him, made him feel like a vandal. He
hesitated for a long moment with the butt of his machine gun poised, then slammed it against the window, opening up a great splintered hole. He struck several times more, until nothing remained of the glass but a few tiny shards clinging to the edges of the frame. He was willing to let it go at that, but Ryder had been emphatic about it. “No glass. Absolutely none or it could wreck the illusion.”

  Scraping with the barrel of his gun, Longman cleared all the small pieces out of the frame.

  RYDER

  Northward from the rear of the car, Ryder paced off about 300 feet. He stopped, and in the same motion went to his knees beside the inside express rail. He took one of the grenades from his pocket, removed the adhesive tape, and ripped it across in two unequal lengths of six and ten inches. He paused and peered intently along the roadbed. In the distance, he saw the dark hulking shadow of a train. He nodded, as if in acknowledgment of a judgment confirmed, and then put it out of mind.

  Holding the grenade in the palm of his left hand, he covered the lever from end to end, leaving the tape extending a few inches beyond the casing at each end. Dipping his head almost to the level of the track, he placed the grenade beneath the lip of the rail and carefully smoothed out the loose ends of the tape so that they held the grenade in place against the rail. He tore the smaller length of tape in half and plastered the pieces across the two ends to guard against accidental dislodgment. When he was satisfied the grenade was firmly in place, he reached in and pulled the pin. Then he moved to the outside rail and repeated the entire procedure with the second grenade.

  He stood up and, without a backward glance, began to trot back to Pelham One Two Three. With the pulling of the pins, the grenades were fully armed. When the wheel of a train struck, the lightly taped grenades would be dislodged, automatically releasing the levers. The grenades would explode in five seconds.

  Steever was standing guard at the rear door. Ryder nodded to him, then rounded the dirty red sides of the car to the front. Longman looked out at him through the glassless window. The middle length of pipe protruded. He held out his hand and Longman passed him the third length of pipe. He screwed it tightly into the second length, with the end angled in toward the tunnel wall.

 

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