Shadow Dancers

by Herbert Lieberman

  Close to the edge on the inside of the grating there was a scattering of old candy wrappers and discarded beer cans. Pickering hovered there awhile above the grating, hands on knees, still stooped and squinting through the interstices as though trying to see around corners. In the next moment, he gripped the iron bars of the grating with each hand and hoisted. A shower of dirt spilled downward. The grating jiggled back and forth in its housing like a loose tooth.

  It was heavy, at least a hundred pounds, but, surprisingly, it came off with little struggle. Pickering let it swing down from the top like a drawbridge and then fall freely to the earth, where it rang like a horseshoe on the sharp stones below.

  For a brief time he stood panting outside the main drain, as if waiting to catch his breath. Then, hunching over, moving head first, he advanced three or four steps into the tunnel. Almost at once, he felt it start to descend into the earth on a shallow grade. No more than ten or so feet in, daylight fell quickly away. A few steps farther and Pickering could see nothing before him. He retreated back to daylight, trudged over to his car on Pearl Street, got a flashlight from the glove compartment, and started back to the river.

  This time when he reached there, he removed his overcoat. Folding it into a tidy square, he laid it in a neat bundle on the slope just above the grating. Over his shoulder he glimpsed the Jersey shore. His gaze swept down toward the graceful arching span of the Verrazano Bridge. Then, with a wistful, rather despairing expression, he flicked on his flashlight and stepped into the hole.

  For some thirty yards or so, he could feel from the backward pressure on his heels and calves the tunnel dropping down beneath his feet into the earth. After that, it seemed to level off, and he walked in a half-stoop, making good progress.

  The farther in he penetrated, the colder and more dank it became. He regretted for a moment having left his overcoat outside. It occurred to him that the place was very quiet, except for a low, unbroken whooshing sound he took to be that of water, the timeless tidal flow of the river behind him, running out to sea.

  A bit farther on, he was startled by a soft, scurrying sound, some tiny subterranean creature perturbed by the unwelcome approach of a stranger. Full of misgivings, Pickering moved ahead, penetrating deeper at a fairly brisk clip, anxious to reach the end, to confront whatever it was he imagined he would confront. He plunged after the beam of his light, which cast yellow swaying rings on the crumbling clay walls. From his position in the tunnel and his vague memory of the ground above, he tried to judge where he was in relation to Bridge Street. It seemed to him that he was somewhere beneath the park. Possibly halfway through. He had no way of knowing for certain.

  A short time later, he began to approach an area from which a hollow rumbling sound issued. The closer he came, the more the rumbling increased in volume. He could see thin streams of dirt and sand spilling slowly through seams in the cracked clay ceiling and feel vibrations underfoot. It was the traffic above, of course, and then he knew he was somewhere under Bridge Street.

  The deeper in he went, the more disquieting were the signs of rock and sand spills. In some places whole patches of the tunnel ceiling had dropped out, leaving gaping fissures out of which wet, porous earth dripped. All the while, through his mind the cautionary words of Mr. Lydecker whirled: “dangerous … so badly undermined it had to be sealed off and abandoned.”

  With traffic rumbling overhead, the showers of dirt and gravel seemed to increase. Pickering grew increasingly uneasy. Several times his courage nearly failed him. He kept telling himself that if he didn’t find anything within the next ten feet, he would turn back. But he didn’t. Something drew him on.

  Slightly winded, his back aching from the unrelieved stooping, he suddenly picked out a low, squat object just ahead in the round beam of his light. For a moment he thought it was a box or a crate, but as he moved forward a step, it became apparent it was neither. A puff of air issued from his lungs like a gasp. His hand leaped to the gun holster beneath his arm. Quite clearly he could see now the outline of someone sitting there.

  THIRTY-SIX

  “WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU?”

  “In a phone booth in Battery Park.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Sewer sitting. Come on down. It’s beautiful. The World Trade Center. The Statue of Liberty. The Verrazano Bridge. The Arthur Kill.”

  “I just dragged my ass in here from Poughkeepsie. I’m in no mood for jokes, Rollo.”

  “What would you say to an abandoned sewer line?” Mooney sighed. “I’d say to go bugger off.”

  “I’m saying I hit pay dirt at the Bureau of Deeds and Instruments.”

  Comprehension came drifting slowly back at Mooney. “Oh, yeah? Tell me.”

  “I’m telling you. We hit pay dirt. Bingo. We’ve got a tunnel now.”

  “A tunnel?”

  “An old sewer line. Nearly a century old. Runs under the house on Bridge Street. Out to Battery Park. Lets out on the river.”

  Mooney’s thought processes accelerated. “You can get in and out of the house through the tunnel?”

  “Piece of cake. Ladder runs right up from the tunnel into the cellar.”

  “Have you been through it yet?”

  “Right to the end.”

  “Find anything?”

  There was a pause. When Pickering spoke again it was with giddy excitement, as though he were trying to keep from laughing. “I found our boy.”

  Mooney took a deep breath and let the air slowly expire. “Our …”

  “You heard me, Frank. Our boy. That’s right. Came right up within twenty feet of him. Didn’t see him till I was nearly right on top of him.”

  Mooney closed his eyes. His mouth felt dry. “What was he doing?”

  “Sitting there right in the beam of my flashlight. Watching me. Never saw eyes like that in my life.”

  “What were they like?”

  “Crazy.” Pickering started to laugh. “Fucking crazy.” For some reason unknown to Mooney, he started to laugh too, and for a while the two of them laughed together, great, long peals of healing laughter.

  “You didn’t try and take him yourself,” Mooney suddenly asked.

  “You gotta be kidding. This joker is sitting there on a ledge like a big rat watching me. In his hand, he’s holding a six-inch butcher’s knife, pointing it right in my direction.”

  “You didn’t do anything stupid, Rollo, like trying to take him yourself? He didn’t run, did he?”

  “He didn’t run,” Pickering sounded out of breath. “I did.” He started to laugh again. “I got my ass out of there fast.”

  “I want that son of a bitch alive.”

  “I know you do. If it was up to me I’d’ve shot the fucker on the spot.”

  “Where are you now?”

  “I’m watching the sewer opening from the phone booth. About a hundred yards away.”

  “He can’t get out any other way?”

  “Only through the house and the front door. And he won’t do that. The streets out front are crawling with Sylvestri’s guys. They been in and out of the house a half dozen times since I been here.”

  “They don’t know about the tunnel yet?”

  “Obviously not, otherwise they’d have been down there hours ago.”

  “Good. Now you listen to me, Rollo.” Mooney’s voice was clipped and urgent. “Keep out of the way. Not a word about this tunnel or what you’ve seen down there to anyone or, if it’s my last official act on this force, I’ll have your nuts.”

  “Thanks, Frank,” Pickering remarked with weary resignation. “Your expression of gratitude for all of my efforts is truly touching.”

  “You have no idea how touching I can be when properly motivated. Now keep out of sight and keep your mouth shut. I’ll be down there in twenty minutes.”

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  “WHERE IS HE?”

  “Just where I told you.”

  “You haven’t left this unguarded?” Mooney glanced down at t
he drain opening.

  “Haven’t had my eyes off it since I got here. He’s still down there, Frank. Take it from me. Hey, where you going?”

  “See if I can pry him out.” Mooney already had his coat off and was heading for the drain.

  Pickering scurried after him, trying to wedge himself between Mooney and the opening. “Hey, don’t go down there, Frank. He’s got a pig-sticker there the size of a saber. He’ll cut your head off.”

  Mooney hauled the .38 caliber police special from its leather nest beneath his arm. “Lemme have your flashlight.”

  “Don’t go down there, Frank. This one’s a specimen. I’m telling you.”

  “Step aside,” Mooney replied grimly and with the barrel of his pistol gently nudged his partner out of the way.

  Pickering appeared distraught. “Please don’t do this, Frank. Not unless you’re prepared to shoot his fucking head off.”

  “This one I’m bringing back alive, Rollo.”

  Pickering watched the big man stoop and enter the drain. He stood there a moment, then shrugged helplessly. “Hey, wait a minute. I’m coming with you.”

  “You stay right there,” Mooney snapped, plowing forward into the tunnel. “If I’m not up out of this hole in fifteen minutes, call the National Guard.”

  Five feet from the entrance, it was pitch-dark in the tunnel. The flashlight helped, but motes of dust and dirt dropping steadily from the ceiling clogged the beam of it.

  Despite the fact that he had to travel stooped over, causing strain on his back and stomach, Mooney made remarkably swift progress. Halfway through he was panting, out of breath, and drenched in sweat. The closeness and lack of ventilation made him feel as if he was about to suffocate. For a man who’d suffered one coronary in the course of his lifetime, he was almost cavalierly indifferent to the stress he was subjecting himself to.

  Overhead, he was aware of the rumble of traffic. From time to time, he looked up at the seams and fissures in the clay ceiling down through which rained a thin but disquietingly steady shower of gravel and earth.

  When he found him at last, it was just as Pickering had said. He was sitting on a ledge amidst a number of crates and boxes. Not sitting actually, but crouching like one of the larger primates in the zoo, confined to a cage too small for him. He had that resigned look. Mooney had the distinct impression that he’d been waiting there, expecting him — that he’d resolved to run no further.

  The beam of the flashlight lit up the head, appearing to detach it from the rest of the body. The first thing Mooney was aware of was the smile he’d heard so often described. It was indeed crooked. On the street, with his black hair, Mooney was not at all sure he would have recognized him as the blond-headed, vague, and slightly discombobulated Ferris Koops he’d interrogated at the station house.

  Declining to approach any further, the detective came to a dead halt some thirty feet off in the tunnel. From where he stood, he could see quite clearly in the beam of his light the broken teeth, the glinting eyes, and a six-or seven-inch Sicilian fisherman’s bait knife held up like a torch before him.

  “Hello, Ferris,” he said and heard his voice ricochet off the walls of the tunnel. “You remember me, Ferris, don’t you? We had a nice talk together down at headquarters. I spoke with your old teacher today, Mr. Armstead. He told me what a great kid you were.”

  Mooney was aware of the bogus affability in his voice and hoped that Ferris wasn’t. As Mooney spoke, Ferris tilted his head sideways, as if the motion were an aid to comprehension.

  “I want to take you up now, Ferris. Outside, where we can talk.” Mooney stood there waiting, stooped over in the tunnel, his neck and chest aching. Still no response came. The eyes gleaming in the beam of light watched him. They appeared not to have blinked once.

  “Ferris, come with me now. I promise no one will hurt you.”

  Mooney waited. Still nothing, but in the next moment the figure shifted as if casting about for a more comfortable position.

  “My name’s not Ferris,” he said in a dreamy laconic way. He gave the impression that he was dazed or in some sort of trance, but the moment Mooney took a step toward him the knife blade flashed.

  “Oh, that’s right. Your name’s Warren, isn’t it? Warren Mars?”

  Mooney stood there crouched over, his neck starting to cramp.

  “Warren. ” He heard his voice unnaturally soft, pleading. “I promise. If you come up with me now, I’ll do everything in my power to help you. Come on, Warren,” Mooney said, extending a trembling hand toward him.

  The knife flashed instantly. Mooney flinched, seeing the crouched legs rise and start to uncoil, as if ready to spring.

  It was then that Mooney decided to let discretion be the better part of valor. He turned slowly and began his retreat, not at all pleased about having to undertake it with his back to Warren. He wasn’t too pleased about having to go at all, but he had resolved after nearly two years of a frustrating and humiliating search that he would bring the Shadow Dancer in alive, and for the moment, this was the only way he knew to keep that possibility viable.

  Pickering was hovering above the drain opening when he got back outside. “Glad to see you’re still in one piece.”

  “How long did you say this line’s been sealed off?” Mooney snapped.

  “Nearly thirty years is what the commissioner said.”

  “What was his name again?”

  Pickering’s brow creased, struggling to recall. “Merton. Frank Merton. Commissioner of Sewer Maintenance. What about him?”

  “I want you to call him.”

  “At this hour? He won’t be in his office.”

  “Call him at home.”

  “I don’t know his number. I don’t know where he lives. The guy at Deeds and Instruments spoke to him.”

  “Go call the guy at Deeds and Instruments.”

  “He won’t be there, either.” Pickering’s voice rose in exasperation. “Who the hell do you think is still working at this hour? This is Christmas, for Chrissake.”

  Mooney stood there glaring at him, as angry as he was puzzled by that disclosure. If indeed it was Christmas, he couldn’t have cared less.

  “Go find me that Sewer Commissioner, Rollo.” Mooney spoke softly. There was an ominous edge to his voice. “I don’t care how you do it.”

  Pickering stood there fidgeting with the buttons on his raincoat. A wet, cold wind had begun to sough in off the river. “What am I supposed to do once I find him?”

  “Ask him about the sewer line.”

  “What about it? It’s sealed, I told you.”

  “Ask him if it can’t be unsealed. Ask him if it can be flooded.”

  “Frank.” Pickering’s arms rose in dismay. “It’s been shut off for over a quarter of a century.”

  “Well, you ask Mr. Merton if it can’t be turned on again. Just for a little bit. Maybe it’s a simple matter, like a valve or a petcock somewhere. You go get Merton on the horn now. Those emergency Sewer Rats’ are supposed to be on duty twenty-four hours a day. Before I have to go back down there and shoot him in the legs, I want to see if I can’t just flush the fucker out.”

  The final days of the year were dwindling to a close. There hadn’t been much snow, but the weather was cold again and rainy, and that night there was sleet. A pale sliver of moon rode between a flotilla of angry black clouds, scudding low above the river.

  It was going on one in the morning. The footpath lamps had gone off in the park, all at once as though a magic wand had been waved, bringing down a darkness sudden and complete. Mooney sat huddled in creaky rainwear, concealed in a clump of tall marsh grass. He was not more than twenty or so feet from the drain opening, which in that spare light loomed larger and darker than in normal daylight. From where he sat it gave the appearance of some mystical square afloat in a dark void. The heavy grating lay off to the side where Pickering had let it drop.

  Just behind Mooney and to his right, Pickering shivered behind a screen of
cold, wet grass. The place and general discomfort made him think of duck blinds in which he’d crouched and shivered up north in Maine.

  Surrounding him was none of the pristine tranquillity of the Maine woods, however. Not more than twenty feet from his back, the choppy, sullen river tide punched past, lolloping hard up against the shore. Beyond that, cloaked in murky dark, the low, huddled silhouette of the Jersey waterfront stretched north and south. Directly in front of him, through the tall blades of marsh grass, Pickering had a clear prospect of the lower Manhattan skyline. In that bleak, cheerless hour, the tall, unilluminated shafts gave the impression of a ring of dolmens strewn about some old Druidic ruin.

  “What’s keeping your pal, Merton?” Mooney muttered through clenched teeth.

  “I told you, Frank. He was making no promises. No guarantees. He hadda go locate an old survey map …”

  “Sure, sure.”

  “You’re lookin’ for a valve maybe a century old, somewhere in lower Manhattan. It’s a needle in a haystack.”

  “I know. You told me that already.”

  “Well, don’t expect anything then,” Pickering sulked. “The man was not overjoyed, called away from his dinner table seven o’clock in the evening.”

  “I got lots better places to spend my evenings, too,” Mooney snarled.

  He sank lower into the grass and deeper into himself. The thick mist crept like icy hands down the collar of his coat and up about his trouser legs. The longer he sat, the more he smoldered like old burning rags. “Where the hell’s this valve supposed to be anyway?”

  “He wasn’t sure. He was calling in to check. He thought it might come off a big feeder line north of Nassau Street.”

  “He thought?” Mooney jeered. “He thought?”

  “That’s right. He thought. And even if they find it, he wasn’t all too sure they could get the water level up high enough in this line to flush the guy out.”

  “I don’t wanna drown the son of a bitch. I just wanna make it unpleasant enough down there to make him wanna come out.”