Atmosphere

by Michael Laimo

  "Look. You're a dear friend, and I have the greatest respect for you, but the fact of the matter is that even though I know you could help, and that I would love to work with you again, we have fine detectives here, all of whose egos don't take to kindly to outside interference. Think about how you feel every time someone from the FBI shows up invading your territory."

  Twinges of frustration started to well up in Frank's throat in the form of a hot burning ball. He wanted to tear at Rodriguez's collar, shake some sense into him, convince him that he was the best man for the job.

  "And," Hector added, "I'm sure you have plenty to do at the twelfth."

  "I've got a few days off. Hect, c'mon. You'd want the same thing if you were in my place." He knew he was starting to sway Hector, playing him just the right way, nice and easy does it.

  Hector smiled, half a grin of agreement, half cut partially in frustration.

  "Couldn't you come up with anything better than 'by-the-book bull-crap'?"

  Frank smiled. "Hect..."

  "I'll tell you what," he said, his breathy tone clearly expressing a settling against his better judgment. "Before you go inside to give your report, I'll let you in on what we already know. If on your spare time you hear something you think we ought to know, I'm all ears. Just keep it quiet, all right?"

  Frank smiled. Indeed if the situation had been reversed, Hector would have behaved in the same manner, would have picked at Frank's skin until he got his way. Frank felt ingratiated, like a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders. Good 'ol Hect, showing his professional respect for Frank, letting him do a little 'under the table' work.

  Now they could get down to business. Frank finally sat down, leaned forward, elbows on his knees, heart suddenly pounding with excitement. "Thank you. Now what about baldman? Anything?"

  Hector grabbed a yellow clasp envelope from the right side of his desk. "What do you think?" He pulled a sheet of paper from the envelope, showed it to Frank.

  Frank looked at the page. An artist's composite sketch of the sunglassed bald man stared back at him. A fine representation, chin sharp, quaint slit for a mouth, nose a mere drop of cartilage and skin. "That's him."

  "Yeah, pretty good, huh? It's going out tomorrow morning, local press first. If nothing comes up, we'll go national, first the precincts then public if we have to. It'd be nice if his face came up in a database somewhere. Meanwhile, I've got someone searching ours right now. Keep your fingers crossed.

  Frank handed the sketch back to Hector. "Can I have a copy?"

  "Sure." Hector slipped it back into the clasp envelope. "Actually—take this one." He handed the envelope with the sketch back to Frank.

  "Any I.D. on the two kids?"

  "The first kid had nothing on him. All we've really got is what you already know. Male, Caucasian, eighteen to twenty-two years. True cause of death right now unknown—until the coroner's report comes back. Should have something in twenty-four hours. We're guessing 'trauma due to blunt force'. Toxicology results will be back before that, tell us if he was under any influence. In the meantime, we've got someone checking out calls on missing persons."

  The image of the dying boy suddenly haunted Frank. He shook his head and rubbed his eyes.

  "Something wrong?"

  He looked at Hector, watched him come into focus through the fading blotches in his vision. "The whole thing is bugging me. It was so damn...unusual. You know? The kid, being naked and all, seeing him getting hit by the car. And then afterwards, when I looked into his eyes, they were so glassy. Spaced out. It could've been shock, could've been drugs, but I got a strange impression there was something else. I can't put a finger on it, but I know it's something we should be looking into."

  "Like what?"

  "Well..." He hesitated, not exactly sure what it was he wanted to say.

  Hector leaned back, put his arms on his head. His leather shoulder holster stretched across his chest like a giant shoelace. "Don't get too worked up over it. It's probably all drug-related. I'll let you see the toxicology report when it comes in. Don't waste your energy on something that's unlikely."

  Frank stared at Hector. The Captain's eyes were unmoving, seemingly in wait for Frank to either shock or amuse him. "Look," he said, frowning defensively, "I can't say for sure what happened out there, but I do know that that kid was terrified of something. He ran like hell from the alley. Naked. I'm telling you, I don't think he cared what happened to him as long as he got away from whatever it was that had him spooked. And then when I saw his face, the fear. Believe me when I tell you that I've never seen anything like it, and it's something I'll never forget. Honest. It was weird."

  Hector lowered his arms, took a mouthful of coffee, grimaced. Must have been cold. "You want my honest opinion, Frank? I think the two kids were all doped up having some sort of a sexual entanglement in the alley when baldie jumped out of nowhere, surprised them with a knife and sliced away their dicks. One kid almost got away. The other didn't. That's why your boy was afraid, Frank. You'd be too if someone did a Bobbit on your pecker."

  Frank felt droplets of sweat trickling down his back. "Did you find a knife?"

  "No. Baldie must've taken it with him."

  "How about the thing the second kid was holding onto? Find that?"

  "No."

  "Well, one thing I am positive about. That thing. Whatever it is, it's what the bald guy was after. Bad enough to risk his own ass in order to get it."

  "I thought about that," Hector confessed, "after you mentioned it this morning. But there's no evidence at this time to confirm that right now. We searched the entire area, the tunnel, found nothing. We don't even know how the damn tunnel was dug out. That's another mystery in itself."

  "What about the other kid? ID?"

  Hector shuffled some documents on his desk, picked one up. "Had a school ID on him. Patrick Racine, nineteen, student at the Fashion Institute. No prior arrests, good grades, nice family. They've been notified. I'm gonna have them interviewed either later tonight or tomorrow."

  "Gee, Jaimie goes there, F.I.T."

  "This is all a little too close to home, huh?"

  "Real close."

  "Why don't you ask her if she knows Racine, about his lifestyle, anything that would warrant his being out late, or in the neighborhood."

  Frank nodded. "Sure," then he said, "Let me go in on the interview."

  "Frank, please..."

  "I have to be there." Anxiousness ripped at his heart.

  "I'll give you a transcript."

  "Hect, please. I just want to listen. I won't say anything. I just know I can pick up a lot if I'm there."

  "I'll give you a tape and a transcript. End of story." Hector stood. "I think we're done for now." Clearly Hector was starting to lose patience, not necessarily with Frank, but with the whole occurrence. "Why don't we get your interview set up with Sergeant Simmons."

  Frank stayed seated, frustration tickling his nerve endings. "You hear about Bobby Lindsay?"

  Hector placed his fists on the desk. "Yes. I'm sorry."

  "It'll be front page again."

  "You did what you could. All you can do now is let the system do its job and everything will work out. Kid'll get his."

  Hector's phone beeped. He hit the speaker button. "Rodriguez."

  "Captain," a tinny voice blared. "I think we found something on the bald guy."

  "I'll be right there."

  Frank stood, gave Hector a grin. Action.

  Hector walked around his desk. "Let's go check it out, Smoky."

  Chapter Seven

  Jaimie waited on the platform several minutes before she felt a slight stirring breeze springing up from the tracks, alarming her of the F-train's approach. With her Eastpak knapsack fastened firmly to her back, hands gripping its straps, she leaned over the edge and peeked into the tunnel as the train's headlights floated in from the darkness like widening searchlights. Cursing the MTA, she stepped back while the train roared into the
station and screeched to a stop. Along with a number of other passengers, she quickly squeezed into the train before the doors rang shut.

  She gazed at the train's interior and its usual variety of occupants: people from many walks, many countries, students, workers, all on their way to determine their net worth in the world. Usually jammed, a few open spaces segregated the seated riders. She planted herself between an old Korean woman reading her country's newspaper and a man in a business suit who fiddled with the tiny dials on his watch. A number of people remained standing, holding onto the hand-poles.

  She loosened her knapsack to comfort herself, then looked at her watch. Already 5:12 PM. Anxiousness badgered her just as it had while waiting for the train to arrive. She had left the apartment early, hoping to spend at least an hour in the Institute's library to get some last minute studying in. But the train—as always unpredictable—ran late, virtually stranding her. Now she would have just enough time to rush to the lecture hall, settle in, and take the exam.

  The train made its next scheduled stop at 8th street. A few more passengers boarded, filling the remaining seats. The Oriental woman sitting next to Jaimie departed and a young guy about her own age wearing a black tee-shirt and headphones with a loud relentless beating inside took her place.

  The warning bells to the doors rang out. An announcement was made, alerting the passengers of the next station stop—14th Street.

  Just as the doors began to close, a mangy homeless man squeezed through, stumbling.

  He coughed, then leaned against the side of a seat occupied by an elderly man. Breathing heavily, it looked as though he had run a long way to catch the train, but more than likely had bronchitis or some other terribly belligerent infection or virus.

  Jaimie gazed at his loathsome appearance: dirt and whiskers covering his face like a mask; clothes hanging upon his body like oily rags strewn atop a service station pump. In one hand he gripped a battered laminated document, in the other a tin cup. He staggered to the center of the car and haphazardly pirouetted, gazing at the passengers, eyes wide and wild. Those near him inched away, allowing themselves as much personal space as possible.

  Suddenly, and quite vociferously, the homeless man began to yell out, raspy voice cutting through the air as though laced with razor blades. "Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention—I am very hungry and in pain and would appreciate you giving to the homeless shelters of New York." He held up the battered certificate as if it were a legitimate license to solicit funds from strangers; it probably was for someone at some point. "Anything helps, a penny, nickel, or dime. Please help." And then the vagrant held out his rusty cup to the riders near him, shaking its measly contents as if to say I need much more than what's in here to survive, which was probably the truth.

  Jaimie looked away from the vagrant, suddenly in realization that the train had not yet pulled out from the 8th street station. She anxiously looked at her watch. Her exam started in fifteen minutes. Her blood started to race, heart pumping restlessly. Not only was the threat of her being late for the exam quite real, but now a smelly bum was about to shove his dirty tin cup under her nose.

  She hated when this happened—which seemed all too often lately—and in the past she discovered that the best thing to do was pull a few coins from her pocket and send the vagrant on his way. She dug into her jeans, but no coins jingled out. Only two tens and her school ID. The train started to inch forward, slowly. A few riders voiced their complaints to no one in particular. And while others turned their backs on the staggering bum, some dropped a few coins into his cup, earning themselves a guttural, tired "thank you".

  Changeless, Jaimie would have to avoid eye contact.

  She peered down, aimed her sights at a grey, flattened circle of chewing gum on the dirty floor, trying to think only of exam topics: weather patterns, cumulus clouds, thunderstorms.

  Footsteps slowly approached, thump...thump...thump. They ceased, dirty laceless boots covering the circle of gum she stared at, filthy swollen ankles protruding like weird overgrown fungi.

  The cup jingled.

  The scene around her suddenly seemed as if it were shut out from her life, as though she had been sucked into some weird dream sequence in a movie. Her father had always warned her time and time again to never give anything to these creeps, just go on your way as if they aren't there. They were diseased individuals, always being brought in for crimes: assault, muggings, robberies, even killings. They prowled the streets like wolves in the night, looking for a ticket for their next meal, drink, or fix.

  But as much as Frank loathed these creatures, Jaimie always felt sorry for them. They were human beings like the rest of us, people who perhaps had had a chance in life to succeed, but due to unforeseen circumstances were disallowed the opportunity to participate in society. Now nobody cared and as a result were at a great disadvantage. They deserved some respect.

  "Change miss?"

  Jaimie raised her head, looked at him. Gooseflesh crawled along the length of her body. The skin of his face was horribly wrinkled, like a crumpled paper bag that had been smoothed out. Tangles of hair and whiskers reached out wildly from his head and chin, unidentified scraps of food nestling within the brown and gray growth. And he smelled, like the Jersey Shore at low tide. Jaimie shuddered. At the same time, her heart bled. She reached into her pocket.

  Suddenly his hand stretched out and grabbed her wrist. It felt rough, as if it had been dipped and dried in cement. She winced, heart pounding. The man in the business suit next to her took notice and stopped fiddling with his watch, seemingly readying himself should the contact go any further. The guy with the headphones on her left had his eyes closed, lost in his own world of rhythm.

  Then the bum spoke, eyes unblinking, rancid breath hitting her face like a cloud of steam.

  "Watch out for them."

  The sudden ringing of the train doors broke Jaimie from her paralysis. The bum released his hold on her and quickly fled the car before the doors slammed shut. She turned and watched him lurch away onto the R train waiting on the opposite track for the F transfer. She saw him inside the other train, his face a horrible mask looking back at her through the windows as it pulled away.

  She rubbed her wrist where the bum had grasped it, as if trying to wipe away whatever dreadful disease he may have left behind. What did he mean? Watch out for who? And why did he tell her? Could he be portentous? No. Jaimie shook the irrational thought from her head. There could be no other conclusion other than that the bum was distraught, an individual suffering from mental illness, his behavior a random act of lunacy. No assumption could be made that she was in any form of imminent danger.

  Unless he really knew something...

  No use wasting any more time thinking about it. She couldn't have anything impeding her logic and reasoning now. She had an exam to take.

  And besides, a more critical issue loomed right now. The train. It sat motionless.

  She looked around. Additional passengers had entered and were grumbling over the standstill, pulling on their sleeves and looking at their watches. Everybody seemed to be in a rush. What else was new?

  Jaimie followed suit, again looked at her watch. 5:24. The climatology exam began at 5:45. Surely students were already there, seats taken, books open in front of them, squeezing last minute details into their heads.

  The doors to the lecture hall would be locked as soon as the exam had been administered. If she were late, she would be declined entrance and given a make-up in a few weeks. That would be unacceptable; she studied a great deal, all the details freshly crammed in her head. To wait a few weeks would be devastating. And make-ups were always given in essay format, a bitch compared to the multiple choice kind given in class.

  The train started to shake forward, inches at a time. Peering through the corners of her eyes, she watched those around her. Techno-boy on her left, eyes still closed, head bobbing to the beat of the music in his headphones. Business-man on the right, bac
k to tinkering with his watch.

  She gazed forward for the first time since the bum grabbed her. She noticed a new passenger: a strange looking man wedged in the middle seat of a three seater. Bald, he wore sunglasses, dressed entirely in black clothing, a leather jacket, jeans, T-shirt, gloves, even his sneakers were black. Although it appeared he was looking at her, she could not tell for sure as his sunglasses sufficiently masked his gaze. Diverting her eyes, she peered above to the ads lining the wall of the train just below the ceiling. Dr. Geraldo Alvarado smiled down at her, his pearly white caps telling his tale: dentisto, hablo espanol. In another ad, two healthy men frolicked with a shapely woman in a swimming pool, the picture having nothing to do with the cigarettes the ad claimed they smoked.

  She looked back down to see the bald guy shifting in his seat. An elderly man seated next to him squirmed like a salted slug, brow furrowed, evidently uncomfortable with the bald guy's invasion of his personal space.

  Suddenly the bald man spread his lips wide and smiled, the whites of his teeth almost a match to those of Dr. Alvarado. But it wasn't the sort of grin that tickles a person's face when they suddenly think of something funny, or a flirtatious smirk directed at a pretty girl. This grin had ulterior origins, perhaps displayed as an uncontrollable gesture of senselessness, or a possible trace of underlying unbalance.

  Positive that the unwanted gesture had been splayed in her direction, Jaimie averted her gaze back to the piece of chewing gum on the floor, then checked her watch, then went back to the gum in vain struggle to dissuade his actions. With her good looks, she was used to making herself indifferent to the men who constantly came on to her.

  But she wasn't positive if the bald guy was actually hitting on her. The smile seemed too eccentric. Like the bum, he looked as though he had motives other than just trying to get her attention. She suddenly felt that no matter what she did to discourage him, his attentiveness toward her could not be led astray.

  The train halted its crawl, the dark of the tunnel the only view through the windows. She peeked up through the tops of her eyes, saw the bald guy digging inside his jacket pocket.