Boy Nobody

by Allen Zadoff

  “Good for you,” I say.

  Her story sounds right. The location is right, as is her appearance.

  It’s not a setup. It’s a coincidence.

  The train pulls in. I sense motion behind me on the platform. The Presence and his two men coming down the staircase. I can’t see them, but I feel them closing in.

  “Will you take me home, Ben? I have a killer headache.”

  She leans into me.

  Choices.

  I could leave her here, but will she be safe?

  If I shrug her off fast, the people following me might read it as contact with a drunk stranger. A second longer and they’ll think I ran into an acquaintance. Longer still and she’ll appear to be someone who matters, someone they can use to get to me.

  “Benji, Ben-ben,” she says, and kisses my neck.

  She just made the choice for us both.

  I can’t let her go now.

  The train doors open and people move toward it, the platform emptying quickly.

  Movement in my peripheral vision. The pursuers making their move.

  The train chimes, warning of its departure.

  “Stand clear of the closing doors,” a voice barks.

  I wait.

  I need the pursuers closer. I need them to wonder which way I will go.

  I move like I don’t know they’re here, like I think I lost them with my dodge into the subway. I hesitate, my body swaying between options. I want them confused about me and my skill level. I might be good enough to know they’re here, but not good enough to know what to do about it.

  That is what I make my body tell them.

  “We’re going to miss the train,” Erica whines.

  “We won’t miss it,” I say. “I guarantee.”

  At the last second, I put an arm around her and pull her into the train car, and the doors close behind us.

  A second later a man’s face hits the glass, his fingers caught between the closed doors.

  Speakers blare. The train attendant shouts at the guy.

  His fingers stay there.

  I watch him over Erica’s shoulder. I log details.

  Olive skin. Unshaven. The collar of his wind jacket askew.

  I think of the man speaking Arabic yesterday. The new clothes he was wearing. This man is similar, but he’s not the Presence.

  The conductor doesn’t want to open the door for this guy. It happens from time to time. Stubborn rider. More stubborn conductor. Standoff.

  Usually the rider gives. It’s not like he wants to lose his arm.

  But it’s not like they can drag him down the tunnel, either.

  The battle goes for ten seconds, long enough for passengers to start to groan.

  I’m trying to make sense of what I’m seeing. Windbreaker is in public with witnesses all around, but he continues to push toward me, not caring.

  The conductor finally relents. The bell chimes, and the doors open.

  “Tell me something,” Erica says.

  “Anything,” I say.

  Windbreaker steps into our subway car. The doors close behind him.

  “If you had to choose between me and Sam, who would you choose?”

  “What am I choosing you for?” I say.

  “You know,” she says.

  Windbreaker turns toward me.

  I pull Erica with me to the rear of the car.

  “Where are we going? I want to sit down, already,” she whines.

  “We will.”

  Windbreaker advances. But he moves slowly, not at all like someone who wants to catch up to us.

  Interesting.

  If he’s not trying to catch us, what is he doing?

  Herding.

  I recognize it now. Three men moving in tandem. This is a tactic, a variation of the pincer movement. It’s an attack from the front obscuring a flanking maneuver.

  A military tactic.

  This means the real danger is not in front but behind. In the car attached to ours.

  As Windbreaker comes forward, the natural response is to retreat and transfer to another car to get away. You think you are escaping danger, but you are walking into it.

  What is the unnatural response?

  Go toward him.

  “I see a seat down at the other end,” I say.

  I take Erica with me toward Windbreaker. His eyes narrow. I am not following his plan.

  The train accelerates away from the station, rocking side to side.

  I head directly for Windbreaker, one arm around Erica.

  Windbreaker reaches into his pocket.

  Maximum danger in five seconds.

  “Jerry!” I shout at him. The first name that comes into my head.

  I lunge forward, Erica held tightly at my side. I reach for Windbreaker like I’m reaching to hug a friend. I grasp him before he can react, a crushing hug that pins his arms hard against his side and keeps his hand from leaving his pocket.

  As the train lurches and the brakes squeal, I slam his head hard into the metal pole at the same time. The crack is lost in the sound of the brakes. I follow through with the motion, swinging him around and dropping him into the open seat.

  Then I turn and slide open the door between subway cars, hanging on to Erica the whole time.

  A brief scream of brakes and wind as we step out onto the exposed metal platforms swinging between cars, navigate across the gap, and slam open the door, passing through to the safety of the next car.

  “What was that?” she says. “Did you know that guy?”

  “I thought I did. I was wrong.”

  I notice an empty seat by the door.

  “You want to sit now?” I say.

  “If you’re done dragging me around, mister.”

  “Done. I promise.”

  “I’m so wasted,” she says. “I have to cut down on my partying.”

  She flops down, head in hands.

  I sense movement in the car we were just in. Windbreaker is out of commission, so man number two is coming forward. He’s wearing a light spring jacket and bright white, perfectly clean sneakers. Too clean.

  “Are you okay for a second?” I say to Erica.

  The train rocks. This conductor is a real cowboy. He’s helping me without knowing it.

  “Where are you going?” she says, starting to nod out.

  “I forgot something,” I say.

  “You never answered the question about me and Sam,” she says.

  “I have to think about it,” I say.

  “You shouldn’t have to think about a question like that.”

  I watch Sneakers coming forward. He reaches for the subway door in the car next to ours. Left hand on the door handle, right hand going into his jacket pocket.

  I wait for him to open the door to his car, then I open mine.

  We meet in the middle.

  Roaring wind. Darkness.

  A flurry of blows. Most of them glance off my side. He’s good. He’s fast.

  I am faster.

  Four blows rising from waist to head.

  The train screams around a bend. Centrifugal force pulls him back and me forward. I use the inertia to straight-arm him in the chest. He reels back on the tiny landing. The guard chain snaps, and he swings out into the darkness.

  Brakes squeal.

  I reach for him.

  He teeters on one leg, reaching back toward me, trying to stop his fall. I grasp the corner of his jacket, trying to pull him back. It slips between my fingers, and I grasp tighter.

  There is no need for this man to die now. I need him disabled. I need to ask him some questions.

  The noise in the tunnel doubles. On the other track, a train roars forward.

  Timing.

  A single hard yank to get him back. It should work.

  It does not.

  The jacket slips, his eyes widen in fear, his fingers claw at my face—

  And then he’s gone, his body bouncing like a limp doll from train to train before being su
cked beneath the rushing metal on the opposite track.

  I stand alone in the space between cars with his jacket in my hands. There are no shouts from inside the car, no emergency brake pulled.

  Nothing at all.

  It happened too quickly.

  Sneakers is gone, and that leaves only one man.

  The Presence.

  I glance behind me to check on Erica. She’s dozing on the bench, her chin on her chest. So I move away from her into the other car.

  Toward the Presence.

  I run through the car. Eyes look up at me, then back down. It’s a New York subway. You notice everything, but you don’t see anything at all.

  I make it to the end of the car as we pull into the 72nd Street station.

  I note movement a car away. The Presence.

  He looks back at me. A quick look, but enough.

  I see his face for the first time.

  Dark complexion, curly black hair, and a well-trimmed beard.

  I’ve seen this man before.

  Faces flip like playing cards through my mind. They move faster and faster until they stop on—

  The Apple Store.

  I saw this man in the Apple Store on my first day in New York when I was buying my phone. That means he was the one who followed me afterward.

  He’s been on me from the beginning, nearly from the time I arrived in the city.

  That’s not precise. He might have been on me when I arrived, but I did not see him until later. After I entered school.

  After I met Sam.

  It’s a tenuous connection, maybe even coincidental. I met Sam, and then I was followed.

  There are other scenarios that might explain the Presence, but I can’t know what they are without more information.

  The quickest way to get information is to catch him.

  That’s what I’m going to do.

  Now.

  I rush forward as the train grinds to a stop, racing directly at the Presence.

  The doors open, and he leaps out of the car to get away from me, pushing past the riders who block his path. I jump out of my own car onto a platform filled with people.

  I look everywhere trying to reacquire him, but I cannot.

  The Presence is gone, swallowed up by the crowd. And with him, my opportunity.

  I walk slowly down the platform and get back onto the car where Erica is sleeping.

  Passengers stream in. I squeeze in next to her.

  She stirs. “I’m cold, Benjamin.”

  She tugs at the jacket in my hands. The one that belonged to Sneakers. I put it on her.

  “Mmm. Cozy,” she says.

  I run my hands through the pockets, checking for the weapon. It’s gone.

  “Are you searching me?” Erica mumbles.

  “I’m looking for my ChapStick,” I say.

  “Keep looking,” she says. “It feels nice.”

  I stop looking.

  She sighs, reaches into the breast pocket, comes out with a price tag.

  “No ChapStick. Sorry,” she says.

  She hands me the tag.

  Brand-new, from Gap. Just like the man I killed in the town house.

  Men with military training come to the United States, they’re in a rush, and they want to fit in. What do they do?

  “Funny. You’re not really a Gap guy,” Erica says.

  “I’m a lot of different things,” I say.

  They disguise themselves, posing as something they are not.

  Just like me.

  It cannot be a coincidence. We are moving toward the same finish line but with different objectives. I am aimed at the mayor, and they are aimed at me.

  Why?

  Five days, two of them gone. Three left.

  What’s happening three days from now?

  Erica pulls the jacket tight around her. She lays her head on my shoulder, and her soft hair brushes against my cheek.

  “I feel safe with you,” she says.

  And she drifts off to sleep.

  I make sure she gets home okay, then I make sure I do.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  “YOU’RE KILLING ME,” HOWARD SAYS.

  Friday morning. Day 3. The school hallway.

  Howard’s sentence comes out as a squeal, the words barely comprehensible. But I comprehend because I’ve heard words like these before. They are the words of someone begging for his life.

  Howard comes into view, trapped in yet another corner of the school hall by Justin and his greasy-faced friend. Justin is pushing Howard into the wall, squashing him with a beanbag chair.

  Howard is trapped.

  The idea causes something uncomfortable to stir inside me.

  “I can’t breathe,” Howard says.

  I glance over again. Justin isn’t really going to kill Howard, just make his life hell until he does it himself.

  It’s got nothing to do with me. That’s what I tell myself.

  Guys like Howard live like this. It’s their burden to bear. They don’t get to make choices about who they want to be in the world. The choice is already made for them, maybe from birth, maybe from bad luck. Who knows?

  They only have to live with the consequences. Or invent the next Facebook and get their revenge.

  In any case, it’s none of my business. So I keep walking.

  Justin steps back like he’s letting Howard go, then he jumps forward into the beanbag. Howard’s head smacks against the wall with a loud thump.

  Sam’s not around. Nobody’s around.

  Except me.

  Goddamn it.

  I turn and head toward them.

  “What’s up,” I say, loud enough to be heard down the hall.

  Justin’s head pivots toward me, but he doesn’t stop pushing. His greasy friend steps out to block my path.

  “Mind your own business,” the guy says.

  “I should,” I say. “I really should. But I’m not going to.”

  Greasy chuckles. A drop of spittle flies from his lips.

  He’s about a minute from drinking through a straw for the next six weeks.

  But I don’t want to hurt anyone. Not if I don’t have to.

  Choices.

  I’ll try to play peacemaker. Start with the least aggressive posture.

  “Let’s call it a day, guys. What do you say?”

  “What do you say?” Greasy parrots me.

  Wrong move.

  “Straw or crutches,” I ask him.

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s how you’re going to live for the next six weeks. I’m giving you a choice.”

  He laughs. “What’s the straw?” he says.

  “Forget I mentioned it,” I say.

  I break his ankle.

  Not break. Dislocate.

  I do it in one motion. I bring my heel down at a certain angle, let gravity and weight do most of the work. He drops like a demolished building and bursts into tears.

  “What the hell—” Justin says.

  He barely has time to get the words out before I’ve sideswiped him, knocking him off Howard and down to the floor.

  It’s a layer cake. Ground on the bottom. Then beanbag. Then Justin. Then me with a knee in Justin’s back.

  “You’re going to leave Howard alone,” I say.

  “Like hell,” Justin says. “He’s a freak. You don’t know the story.”

  “What sport do you play?” I say.

  “Soccer,” he says.

  I’m feeling magnanimous, so I leave his feet alone.

  I break his wrist.

  Not break. Hyperextend.

  “Fuuuck—” he cries out, rolling onto his side and clutching his injured paw.

  Howard watches, mouth open in surprise.

  “Now we walk away,” I say to Howard.

  “What about these guys?” he says.

  “They were roughhousing and it went too far. Right, guys?”

  Justin groans and nods. Greasy is still crying.

  �
��Don’t worry,” I say. “They can fix you up in the emergency room.”

  Their injuries are consistent with a wrestling match that got out of hand. I made sure of it.

  I lead Howard away.

  “Why did you help me?” he says.

  I’m wondering the same thing. Why would I choose to expose myself in this way? In any way?

  Stupid. Damn stupid. But it felt good, too. That’s the part I’m having trouble understanding.

  “I don’t know,” I say to Howard.

  Which is the truth. There are too many things like this lately. Things I do without knowing why, motivations that I cannot fully comprehend.

  “Whatever the reason, I owe you,” Howard says.

  We turn into the main hallway. I watch how students pass to either side of us, not wanting to get too close to Howard. He’s got an eighteen-inch exclusion zone around him at all times.

  “You’ve got a lot of enemies,” I say.

  “A whole school of them,” he says.

  “What did you do?”

  “I’m weird.”

  “Lots of people are weird, but they’re not hated by everyone in school. What story is Justin talking about?”

  “I got caught doing some things….” Howard says, his voice trailing off.

  “What did you do, Howard?”

  “I was playing with myself, okay? In the library. Back in ninth grade.”

  He looks at the ground.

  “That’s embarrassing,” I say, “but you can’t be the first guy to look for a happy ending in the library.”

  “If I tell you the whole thing, you might never talk to me again.”

  “I’m the guy who got thrown out of Choate, remember?”

  Howard nods.

  “I was using a book when they caught me,” he says.

  “Reading a book?”

  “No, rubbing myself with one. The Sound and the Fury.”

  “You were masturbating with Faulkner?”

  “I love the classics.”

  I have to stifle a laugh.

  “They went through the stacks after that. Most of the pages of the senior reading list were stuck together.”

  “I’m surprised you’re still in school.”

  “I got suspended. Psych eval and everything. The doctor said I was acting out my disdain for the educational system.”

  “What do you say?”

  “I say the seniors are assholes. Anyway, the administration let me come back with mandatory psychological monitoring. The paperwork said I had a mental breakdown because of bullying. You use the word bullying these days, you pretty much write your own ticket.”