Night-Train

by Thomas F Monteleone

  It had been a good day for Joseph Flaherty. The coin changer jingled on the side of his pushcart, and the strongbox underneath his steamer was stacked high with bills. He had finally turned the flame off underneath his stainless steel pots and decided to call it a day. A night, really, because he’d stayed out almost two hours past sundown because the business had been so good. This was probably the last good month for tourists in the city, and Joseph wanted to make the best of it. All day long he pushed that cart from corner to corner all through Little Italy and Chinatown. Grand Street, Canal Street, Mott, Allen, the Bowery.

  He knew every crack and split in the sidewalks. The faces of all the storefronts and restaurants were like the familiar faces of his own family to him. And on these streets he quietly hustled the people, talking a steady patter of tasty things to eat: hot dogs, pretzels, roasted chestnuts, coffee, and Cokes. He was a large man with beefy hands, sausage-like fingers, and a triple chin. He was losing his hair, and his baldness only contributed to his round, fleshy appearance. He walked along behind his cart with a rocking, shoulder-swinging gait, as though his great weight was shifting from side to side with every step. Street-vending was all he had ever known, and he was content with his work. He liked people, and in his line of work he saw a torrent of new ones all the time. He had seen them all—short, fat, tall, ugly, handsome, retarded, diseased, you name it. If Joseph Flaherty knew anything, it was the people.

  He was walking northeast on East Broadway, up to the garage in the alley where it ran into Canal Street. He and a couple other vendors had rented an old garage off Broadway where they kept their pushcarts every night. They had a refrigerator there too where everybody stocked their supplies, and always kept a few cold beers on hand. Checking his watch, Flaherty knew that he was too late too catch either of his friends, Francis, the old Hungarian, or Sam Li, the Chinaman. By this time they would have unloaded their carts, drunk their beers, and gone on home.

  Home. The thought lingered in Joseph’s mind as he pushed along the sidewalk. It wasn’t the same since Mary had passed on last summer. Goddamned cancer, it just tore through her like a brushfire, and three months after she went to the doctor she was gone. It had seemed so fast, and yet it was so slow, too. Joseph still remembered those last nights she was alive, nothing but a vegetable lying in bed, and at night, as the bad cells ate through her nervous system and her brain, she would start shaking and convulsing and making those strange wordless sounds in her throat. She sounded like the banshee that Joseph’s grandma used to tell about when he was a kid. Those sounds Mary made scared him awful, and he remembered how he would lie there next to her praying for God to take her away.

  Home. It was a quiet, lonely place now. And it was dirty and nothing got dusted or washed the way Mary used to do it.

  Joseph often told himself that he would try to do better, but his heart wasn’t in it. His son Michael lived in San Diego now—married and two kids, and a letter about three times a year from his wife, Ginger; the two daughters married and gone. It wasn’t really a home anymore, he thought idly, without bitterness or pain, it was just a place to go to sleep and watch TV and wait for the time when he would be with Mary again.

  He crossed the street at the corner and swung the cart hard left, went about twenty feet up Canal Street to the alley, and cut a hard right. The tire on the left side of his cart was getting worn pretty thin, and he thought that he would have to replace it soon. There was always something he had to spend money on. Never seemed like a time when he could put a little extra away. Always something.

  The alley was dark and a smell of garbage hung in the air. Kids were always putting out the streetlight bulb with rocks, and tonight Joseph walked to the door of his garage in almost total darkness. This didn’t bother him, though, because he knew the way by heart and could truly have walked it blindfolded, plus he always carried his .45-caliber automatic under his vest, and every punk in the neighborhood knew he had it. Nobody farted around with him. It was registered with the cops, and Joseph had used it twice before when some street toughs thought he would be an easy target. Once, right here in this alley, there had been a black kid waiting for him by the garage doors with a knife and a smile. It was the same day that his daughter Marion was having her sixteenth birthday, and Joseph was going to stop and buy her a party dress with that day’s money. There was no way some punk was going to ruin his daughter’s birthday, so he had pulled out that big .45 and let go. It was the first time he’d ever shot anybody, and he could still remember the shock of how it felt. The kid took the hollow-point slug right up under his rib cage and the force of it picked him up and slammed him against the garage doors. When he fell and rolled over, Joseph saw that the bullet had made a hole as big as a pie pan coming out the back.

  After that he was a hero in the neighborhood, and word got out not to bother Old Joe the Street Man, as he was called. And nobody did until that crazy white guy tried to rob him right on the corner of Mott Street and Grand, right in the middle of the day with people all around. Instead of reaching for his cash box, Joseph had pulled out that cannon of a gun and blown the guy’s hand off. That day, the people on the street had picked him up and carried him around on their shoulders.

  Flaherty was smiling as he recalled that incident and pulled the cart to a stop in front of the garage. He fumbled for his key with his left hand, while his right slipped inside his vest and grabbed his gun. It was a habit he had established a long time ago. He noticed that the garbage smell was stronger tonight than he had ever smelled it. Smelled like something was dead or had been dragged out of the swamp, really. It was a nasty smell that was so bad it was stinging the inside of his nose. And it seemed to be getting stronger.

  For some reason, that last thought made him stop and listen to the darkness all around him. He could feel goose pimples rising up on his arms as his jaw muscles tightened up. What the hell was going on here? Every part of his mind and body was sending signals that something was wrong, very wrong. Joseph held the .45 out in front of him and slowly turned away from the double doors, peering into the almost total blackness. If something was out there, he couldn’t see it anyway.

  The garbage smell was getting stronger, no longer just stinging his nostrils but actually threatening to choke him. The foulness in the air was almost a palpable thing that was clogging his throat, blocking his breath. Backing up against the doors, Flaherty could sense something closing in on him.

  Something touched his pants leg and he could feel his testicles draw up tightly to his body as a jolt of nervous electricity shot up his spine. Then something like a snake’s tail coiled around his leg. It was so tight that he could feel muscle and flesh rupturing as they were squeezed away from the bone.

  He screamed loudly from the pain and the terror that knifed through him. If only he could see! More coils encircled him about the thighs, waist, and chest, pinning his arms to his sides. The .45-caliber automatic dangled uselessly from his weakening fingers. Joseph fought to keep hold of the gun, fighting off the mind-boggling thought that he was being methodically crushed to death by something that smelled like a decaying corpse. His fingers drew the handle tightly into his palm and groped for the trigger. Squeezing it with the last of his strength, the last summoning of his will, he saw a brief tableau, illuminated by the muzzle-flash of the gun, which quickly disappeared. In that instant of light, he saw a thing that should dwell only in the nightmares of the demented, a thing that was drawing him closer to its open mouth.

  Tyrone Cleves leaned on his controller and the B Train roared through its tunnel away from the Pacific Street station and out of Brooklyn. He was on his last rim of the shift, all the way up to 168th Street at Broadway, and then he was done for the evening. Get off this train and do some high-steppin’, he thought. Stop off and get some T. J. Swann and hustle on over to Pamela’s for that partytime. She was a fat mama, but his friend Rollo had a lock on that pussy—for the time bein’, anyways. But Tyrone didn’t care much, ‘cause Pam al
ways had plenty of good-lookin’ stallions, fine women, at her parties. And most of ‘em ready to trot.

  Yeah, Jack, get off this train, get home and shower up, get some glad rags on, and the party should just be gettin’ into high gear when I get there! He slumped back in his seat. The last run of the night was always the slowest of all. Had to make all the stops, and there was hardly ever any people on the platforms. Only the cops and the weirdos and the cats who were after somethin’ ever rode the night trains.

  He watched the signal lights in the tunnel, following their yellow instructions to cut speed as the tunnel veered sharply to the right as it approached the Grand Street station. He was so used to running the train that he did most things automatically, like you shift gears with a clutch and don’t even remember doin’ it, that was the way he ran his train. He always watched the tracks and signal lights just in case, but usually his mind was wanderin’ around thinkin’ about other shit.

  And so he almost didn’t react when he saw something flash into his headlight. Something big and kind of white-yellow going across the tracks. He was bearing down on it still pretty fast and he had no idea what it was, only that it was pretty big, bigger than a man anyway, and a funny color. He pulled back on the controller and the train started to slow way down, the electric engines groaning down, losing current, and suddenly whatever it was was gone. One second, there was something big in the middle of the tracks, and then it was gone, just like it slipped through the walls.

  The train swung around the curve past the spot where Tyrone had seen it, but there was nothing there now. Light appeared in the tunnel ahead and he eased into the Grand Street station. As he sat watching through his mirror the few people getting on and off, he decided to call the Command Center. Picking up the mike, he thumbed it down and started talking as he watched for the conductor’s all-clear signal.

  “Uh, Center, this is Broadway 11:05. Come in please.” The tinny speaker crackled with static as a female voice came on the line: “Go ahead, Broadway, what’s your problem?”

  “Just checkin’ on somethin’,” said Tyrone. “As I was pullin’ into Grand Street, I thought I saw somethin’ on the tracks back in the tunnel. Just checkin’ to see if we have any men down there? Any work goin’ on?”

  “Negative, Broadway. What did you see?”

  “Don’t know what it was. Just somethin’ real big in the headlight, but when I got up to it, it was gone.”

  “Our board shows a clear track, Broadway. Proceed as normal. Center out.”

  The speaker crackled off and Tyrone saw his conductor waving frantically from the middle of the train. Time to light out. He moved the controller and the train eased out of the station, its engines whining as they fed on the high-voltage current surging through them. He jumped it up to speed and started watching for the signal lights again. Something was bothering him about seeing whatever it was on the tracks, all right. He couldn’t get his mind off it, and that wasn’t like Tyrone. He’d usually like to be thinking about anything except work.

  Suddenly the dark pit of the tunnel ahead was a rectangle of reflected light and he automatically let go of the controller. The dead-man’s switch took over and the train ground to a stop.

  What the fuck? He looked out of his cab window and saw what looked like a thick fog filling the tunnel. It seemed to glow on its own and was even brighter reflecting the headlamp of the train. Tyrone could feel something getting thick in his throat and he tried to swallow it, but it wouldn’t go away. Something was definitely fucked up down here.

  He radioed in again and told the Command Center what was happening.

  “We don’t show anything there, Broadway,” said the female operator. “We’ll put a call in to New York Steam and see if they have any reported leaks. Tower says proceed to Houston Street as normal.”

  “What?! That means I got to go right through that shit!” yelled Cleves into the mike. “Man, you don’t see it like I’m seein’ it. It don’t… it don’t look right!”

  “Tower says it’s probably just some condensation and ozone from the third rail, Broadway. Repeat: proceed as normal to Houston Street, and call back when you reach the platform. We have a crew out checking on it now. Center out.”

  Goddamn them funky bastards! Easy for them to say what you oughta do, sittin’ down in their warm-assed chairs at Tower. Tyrone Cleves leaned back in his seat and drew a deep breath. Through the window he could see that the fog looked thicker, if anything, and closer too. He could hear some of the passengers yelling in the front car, demanding to know why the train had stopped. Funny, but they always got upset when the train was stopped in the tunnels. People didn’t like to be in them tunnels. Tyrone didn’t blame them, not one bit.

  Well, fuck it, he thought. Here goes nothin’. He pushed on the controller and the train started moving. It was only a few seconds before he punched a hole in the fog and was quickly consumed by it.

  CHAPTER 32

  CORVINO

  Michael and Lya had left Lane Carter’s apartment and taken a cab directly back to Lya’s place in Turtle Bay Towers, leaving the precinct car to Provenza. They sat before the fireplace drinking wine, but neither one of them was in a very talkative mood. There was a closeness growing up between them that quietly suggested that they need not be talking all the time, that they could communicate just as freely through their silence. He knew that they were both filled with a mixture of good and bad feelings, of fears and joys, and that what they needed most from each other was the comforting security of someone to share it with.

  When he made love to her that night, he sensed an urgency and an almost desperate need in her to love him and to make love to him. And he knew what she was thinking because he was thinking the same kinds of thoughts: that it might be the last time they would ever hold each other, love each other.

  He woke with the harsh light of a cloudless sky burning through the windows. The morning sun had just cleared the Queens-Brooklyn skyline and already it was burning fiercely. Lya was still sleeping, and he decided not to disturb her, slipping from the bed and down from the loft to the shower. If she woke up, that would be okay, but he thought she could use the extra rest. There was no telling what they would be facing tonight.

  When he left the bathroom and dressed, Lya still had not stirred, so he poured himself a glass of orange juice and left a note, telling her that he would meet her after work at Lane Carter’s for the final preparations. At the bottom, he wrote, “I love you very much” and signed his name.

  Even though it was early, the streets were filling up with pedestrians and traffic. The crowds seemed to be slightly different this morning, although he was not able to pin down in precisely what way. They seemed more anxious, more animated, and the expressions on the faces of many of those he passed seemed somehow grimmer and more urgent. Perhaps he was picking up their unconscious vibes, their feelings of something not right in their city. It was an unsettling thought. Maybe he would mention it to John.

  When he entered the precinct, he could see immediately that the difference he had sensed in the faces of the people on the street was also affecting his colleagues. Everyone on the morning shift was bustling about with a hivelike urgency, their faces hard and set. Upstairs in the bull pen, all the other detectives looked busy, something that was usually a mixture of bullshitting, phone calls, coffee drinking, and an occasional report being filled out. Today was different. Everybody was hustling.

  Provenza was already at his desk, talking on the phone. He was nodding vigorously, scratching a few notes on his pad. When he saw Corvino standing over him he shrugged and grimaced, then returned to his intent listening for a few more moments before hanging up.

  “Looks like the shit’s already hitting the fan, partner.” Corvino was confused. “What do you mean? What’s going on?”

  Provenza chuckled grimly; then his expression changed to one of concern. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

  “John, would you mind telling me what’s
happening? Everybody’s running around like they got their heads taken off.”

  Provenza looked at him blankly for a second. “Didn’t you listen to the news this morning? Or take a look at a newspaper? Where’ve you been, anyway?”

  “I stayed at Lya’s last night. Just came from there.” Provenza grinned. “Man, you must be in love. You and old Nero, fiddling while Rome burned.”

  “I’m starting to get that impression. What happened last night?” Corvino sat down, wishing that he had a cup of coffee.

  “What didn’t happen last night! That might be a better question. So far this morning, we have thirty-four missing persons reports, seventeen killings, nineteen lootings, and a real zinger from the Transit Authority. But that’s not the half of it. It’s the kinds of missing persons, and the kinds of dead bodies we’re finding. It looks like Professor Carter is right about this much at least: they are coming to life down there.” Corvino felt an emptiness in the pit of his stomach that was spreading throughout his whole body. It was a frightening, hollow sensation, a numbing effect that was like the lull before the storm. “Could you elaborate on some of the cases? And what’s the bit from the transit guys?”

  Provenza shook his head slowly. “Oh, that’s a good one. A train coming out of Brooklyn last night around 10:15, right? The motorman thought he saw something on the tracks near the Grand Street station so he calls Command Center, but they say it’s okay to proceed. When he pulls out of Grand Street, he calls the Center again—says he sees some kind of ‘fog’ in the tunnel before the Houston Street station. Tower tells him to go on through to the next station, that they’re sending a maintenance crew down to have a look.” Provenza paused to light a Marlboro, and looked somberly at his partner. “Well, the train arrived at the Houston Street station okay, but there was only one problem—nobody was on the train! They have a dead-man’s switch on all the trains, you know, and this one kicked in just before the train reached the next station. People on the platform were wondering what was going on because the train didn’t pull up to the platform. A transit cop went back and climbed on board, and it was empty, man! Nobody was there. The maintenance crew went back into the tunnel to check out the missing motorman’s story, right? Well, it was three guys, and they’re gone too.” Corvino slumped down in his chair, trying to collect his thoughts. “Oh, Jesus, what the hell is happening here? We should have said something, John. We should have gone to the captain and told him what we know. You were right!”