“Would you please sit down?”
“Not till I know they aren’t following us.” Behind the bus, a black Oldsmobile stopped to pick up Fedora and sped forward. “Shit, they are.”
Taylor sat back on the seat. Voichek looked determined rather than frightened. Fear had tightened Taylor’s chest at the instant the first shot had been fired. The tension spread to his entire body as he thought of that Oldsmobile, like he might remain frozen there until something bad happened. Unless he acted, the car would catch the bus and the men would jump on and grab Voichek. The bus stopped for a red light. Ahead, ramps arched into Port Authority Bus Terminal. These gave Taylor an idea. He tugged Voichek by the coat sleeve and urged him to the front of the bus. The Olds was stuck behind a police car at a red light one block back. “Don’t Walk” signs already flashed on both sides of the avenue. The light would change any second. Taylor swung the handle and opened the bus door.
“Jesus man, what are you doing? I’m driving this bus.”
Taylor didn’t answer but pulled Voichek out into the middle of Ninth and urged him to run for the curb as the traffic light flicked to green. Cars jumped at the two of them like dogs on leashes and braked hard as the men ran past. Drivers swore. A bumper caught Taylor’s right leg with enough force to knock him to the pavement. His bad right ankle blazed. He regained his feet and barely dodged between a car and a truck behind Voichek to make the sidewalk as the traffic took off. The police car peeled away east onto 41st, lights and siren on.
“Shit. Hoped the cops would stay around longer than that.”
The Olds hit the gas and raced catty-corner across the avenue toward them.
Taylor maintained something like a limping trot west down 40th with Voichek beside him. Brakes squealed when the Olds tried to come down the one-way street the wrong way and jumped the curb to avoid a head-on. At least that part of the plan had worked. The three men would have to come on foot. Here was a race Taylor and Voichek needed to win.
“Where the hell are we going?”
Taylor didn’t answer. He kept moving, grimacing, worrying that his ankle would seize up if he stopped. He swerved off the street onto a concrete roadway. They ran behind a bus from Jersey as they rose up into the spider web of ramps that fed Port Authority from the Lincoln Tunnel and local streets. The diesel fumes stank and came close to choking Taylor as he sucked in air. Another bus pulled onto the ramp behind them. It might block any view of them from 40th. As long as they didn’t get run over first. Taylor wasn’t counting on anything, including the amount of time they had before the villains figured out where they went. They must disappear.
Another ramp spiraled next to the one they were on, separated by a two-foot gap and a long drop to the ground. Taylor climbed onto the concrete wall and signaled to Voichek to do the same. Taylor leaped to the other roadway and rolled into something a lot less elegant than a somersault as he tried to land using only his good leg. Voichek executed a graceful drop to the pavement, looked up and grabbed Taylor’s right arm to haul him off the ground. Taylor flattened along the retaining wall as a commuter bus rolled down, horn blaring.
“Thanks.”
“Wouldn’t let you get run over, even if you are trying mighty hard to get yourself killed.”
Taylor leaned over to look at the ramp they’d escaped. No sign of the bad guys. He started up the down-ramp along the side, buses passing within inches on their way to the Lincoln Tunnel, each driver blasting his horn to make sure they got the message they weren’t supposed to be there.
“You go on ahead.” Taylor pointed to the bus-sized door into the terminal. His limp was worse. “I’ll slow you down.”
“I don’t leave anyone behind.”
There was no time to argue. They kept on and made it into Port Authority. Taylor leaned back out to peer down the ramps. The three men jogged halfway up the first roadway. One looked up. Taylor ducked his head inside. Had he been seen?
He led the way past numbered gates, panting. The diesel fumes were even thicker here. On the main level, they saw no sign of the three men, just day visitors from Jersey. Taylor wanted to put distance between themselves and the three hoods. Somewhere safe, where he could talk to Voichek. They took the stairway to the subway. Voichek didn’t have the fare, so Taylor flipped him a 35 cent token. They boarded the first uptown C train.
Chapter 19
A bundle on the street a few steps beyond the subway stairs spoke as they passed. “Hey, Voichek, still king of the road?”
“Whatever that road is, Pennyman.” Voichek fished for change until he came up empty.
The bundle, with so little face showing the man could have been any age from twenty to sixty, sat in front of an upended Green Beret and cardboard sign. “Vet. Please. Help.”
“Let’s keep going.” Taylor led them along 81st and up to the Lighthouse Coffee Shop at 84th and Broadway. A second—maybe third—cousin of Taylor’s grandfather owned the place. He’d met the man once in his teens and didn’t plan to announce his visit now. He wanted somewhere people wouldn’t look for him. That ruled out the Oddity. He was sure they’d eat well at the Lighthouse. He’d been raised to trust in the kitchen of a Greek coffee shop.
Taylor walked to the door, ready for the warmth, a seat, and coffee rich with half-and-half and sugar. Voichek continued up the street.
“Where are you going?”
“I’m sorry. It was a mistake trying to meet. That’s the closest they’ve come. I gotta stay away from those yeggs. They’re shooting at people.” He waved his hands in exaggerated fashion over his head, his fingers formed into pistols like a kid playing cowboys.
“Tell me what happened. If it’s the truth, and you didn’t know about Declan—”
“I don’t lie. Not about anything. Why the hell should I sit with you when you’re calling me a liar?”
“Sorry. No, I’m not.” That was a mistake. Voichek needed to see him as an ally. “Talk to me about who bought your clothes. Maybe I can help.”
“You got some kind of in with the bulls? They hear my story and they’ll grab me for a stay in the calaboose. Those thugs know how to get at you on the inside.”
“I’ll keep it anonymous and figure out what is really going on. How else will you stop them from chasing you?”
“Maybe. I’ll think about it.”
Taylor spoke quickly before Voichek could walk off. “How have they stayed on your trail? They must know something about the places the homeless go.”
“I’m not homeless. I’m a hobo. I choose to live this way. And I live well.”
“They’ve tracked you for a week around the city. They know something. Doesn’t that make sense?”
This seemed to hit a nerve. Voichek rubbed at his neat beard. The man had stayed clean and tidy while on the run. He was resourceful and proud.
“They don’t know who I am,” Taylor persisted. “Where I go. Who I know. If you work with me, maybe we can throw them off.”
“I don’t work with anyone for long.” He looked down the block and wavered.
“Let me buy you dinner. Spend a half hour with me.”
“I don’t take charity either.”
“Won’t be charity. Tell me what you know. You’d be doing me a favor.”
“That doesn’t sound much like work.”
“Believe me, it is. It’s how the news gets covered in this city.”
Taylor opened the door and held it for Voichek. The smell of fried comfort poured out into the cold. Eggs and hash, burgers and fries. Voichek nodded, apparently convinced this was the right move, at least for the moment.
The place was smaller than the Oddity, as everyone called his Grandpop’s coffee shop, The Odysseus, on the Eastside. The Lighthouse had a counter on the right and small booths on the left. At the back beyond the counter were six larger booths. Without asking, Voichek took the last one and sat facing the front, after he’d peeked into the kitchen behind.
“How’s it look?”
&
nbsp; “There’s a back door through a crowded kitchen. Go left, then straight out.”
“You always check?”
“Always.”
The Lighthouse didn’t play up the Greek connection like The Odysseus. Cousin likely agreed with some members of the diner-owning fraternity who believed ethnic identity was a liability. Items from a seashore souvenir stand hung on the wall. A lobster trap, a couple of red plastic crabs, and three plaster lighthouses.
Taylor’s right leg throbbed something terrible. He pulled up the pant leg. The ankle above his sock was swollen.
“That’s ugly enough.” Voichek crouched down from his chair and gave the ankle a gentle squeeze.
Taylor bit the inside of his lip to keep from yelling.
“Lucky for you, you probably just twisted it. Don’t take your shoe off or you’ll never get it back on.”
“You’re sure?”
“Life on the road and four years fighting taught me enough. Yeah, I’m sure.”
“I’ll be okay for now.”
The table was chipped blue Formica, with menus in a black wire rack that also held sugar packets and salt and pepper. The first two pages of the menu offered a wide selection of seafood dinners, all fried, all no doubt straight from the freezer. Some diner traditions were upheld. At the back, a full page was dedicated to breakfast, plus a section with pot roast, meatloaf, and London broil.
In swift, practiced moves, a gray-haired waitress set down two glasses of tap water and two coffee cups, returned and filled the cups and put a steel pitcher of half and half on the table.
“I’ll have Adam and Eve on a raft, eyes open,” Voichek said.
“Hon, it’s been an age since I heard that kinda order.”
“It’s hobo talk. Means eggs over—”
“Easy on toast. I know what it means. Just haven’t heard it in such a long time. I worked a little lunch wagon out in Jersey when I was a kid. A lot of the customers were ’boes.” She looked at Taylor. “What about you, hon?”
“Hash and eggs, eggs poached.”
The waitress pushed open the kitchen door and yelled inside, “Get this one, Eddie. I got an order for Adam and Eve on a raft, eyes open. When did you hear that last?”
“Don’t know. It’s been twenty years. All disappeared.”
“You made their night.” Taylor sipped the coffee. The taste and warmth of it brought a little smile to his face. “Jansen said you don’t travel anymore.”
“I quit five years ago.” Sadness sapped the confident energy out of his voice. “The traveling, that’s everything to a hobo. It’s freedom. Or was. New York was my jungle. That’s what we call a summer rest stop. I always lined up good work here when I stayed over. Passing out fliers, odd jobs on construction sites. Sometimes wore a sandwich board in front of a new restaurant. The trains, well, the trains had been going away for years. Interstates and trucking took care of them. All the great roads died. Rolled up into that ugly mess Conrail. The Pennsy, gone. Less Sleep and More Speed, the Lake Shore and Michigan Southern, gone. All gone. The Mullet Line. The Original Ham and Egg Route. All Tramps Sent Free. I could tell you their real names, but you wouldn’t know them. They’re gone and forgotten. You can’t hop a freight when the boxcars are all locked up. So I stayed here. I’m home-guard. Someone who leaves the road. I’m still a hobo. Still follow the code. Not a bum, not a tramp.”
“What’s the difference?”
“A hobo is someone who travels to work.” Voichek’s eyes flashed a challenge. “A tramp is someone who travels and won’t work. A bum is someone who won’t travel and won’t work. You’ve got a lotta damn bums in this town.”
“How many of you are still around?”
“God only knows. There’s hardly anyone on the road anymore. I feel like someone whose language is dying. You know, like the Indian in The Last of the Mohicans. I figure if I don’t use the words, the language will die completely.”
Here was a different sort of death. No investigation. No story. Not even an obituary. Voichek’s hobo language would disappear without any notice whatsoever.
“Maybe I can get a story on your lingo in the MT.”
“Why?”
“I like words. I mean, they’re my job.” Taylor shrugged. “It’s not the sort of story I usually do. I bet I can find someone at the paper who will.”
Laura, in fact. She had a talent for features. She’d even taken some linguistics courses at Columbia. He’d scoffed at those classes six months ago. Sometimes he could be a real idiot. He’d make up for that mistake by pointing her to this story.
“Jansen says you write the obits.”
“That was what I did.”
When the food came, Voichek dug in like he hadn’t seen food in days, which was more than likely. Taylor let the man have his meal. His own smelled glorious and set his stomach rumbling. He stabbed the eggs so the yellow yoke mixed with the corn beef hash and ate quietly and almost as quickly. No wonder. He’d last eaten at six that morning, when he and Laura picked up coffees and hard rolls on the way out of Albany.
“I needed that. Thank you.”
“So did I.”
Voichek’s eyes widened. “Goddamn it. Those yeggs again!”
He bolted out of the booth and through the kitchen door. It swung back and forth, the only sign he’d been there. Taylor turned. Fedora and one of the other two thugs stood at the front of the coffee shop. How the hell did they find us? He ran after Voichek and caught him before he could pull open the back door.
“Don’t. There’s only two of them. The third may have the back covered.”
“We’re trapped in this stew pot.”
Taylor turned to the bewildered cook. “My grandfather owns the Odysseus on Madison. He’s cousins with your boss. There are guys after us out front. Probably out back too. Is there another way out of here?”
“You’re cousins with me, cousin.” The cook spoke in accented English. He slammed home the dead bolt on the back door. “You’re still trapped bad.”
The wiry, olive-skinned man looked at the way into the restaurant and at the back door. He waved his hand like he had the answer, stepped into a little nook around the corner from the stove, threw brooms and mops out of the way and opened a closet door. “This way.”
Voichek looked in first. “Hide in a storage room? We’re walking into a cage.”
“No, see the floor. You go down to the basement to get to the front of the building. Go quick. They’ll figure it out soon enough.”
Voichek reached down and found an iron ring. He pulled open the trapdoor and dropped down into the black hole without looking back.
Taylor turned to his distant cousin. “What are you going to do?”
“Make sure no one’s hurting my dad.”
“They’re armed.”
“Cast iron’s a pretty good weapon too.”
With a determined smile, he disappeared around the corner. Taylor swung into the hole, his feet on a steep stairway—more a ladder posing as one—and descended, leaning on the right leg as little as possible. He eased the trapdoor closed.
Voichek moved quickly through the cluttered basement toward the front of the building. Taylor stepped off the bottom stair, stifled a yell as his twisted right ankle flared, and hobbled to where Voichek had stopped. The hobo looked up a steel ramp of rollers that sloped toward a pair of doors. This was the route supplies took into the Lighthouse’s basement through the iron trap door in the sidewalk above. It was their only way out.
“We gotta get up it fast. And that doesn’t look easy.” Voichek grabbed the edges of the ramp. “They’ll sure as hell catch us down here. Never go down a dead end.”
He moved, using the outside frame to avoid the rollers. His shoulder knocked the basement’s single exposed light bulb as he climbed. It swung in a violent loop, turning the shadows of crates and shelves into mountains, then miniatures in wild shifts. Taylor followed, and because he was looking down to mind his footing, heard rather than
saw Voichek slide the bolt and grunt as he put his shoulder to one of the two iron doors.
A crash from somewhere above, maybe the kitchen.
Taylor reached the top. He moved his right leg completely off the loading ramp because there wasn’t room for both men and the leg wouldn’t be any use in pushing. Voichek hadn’t shifted the door an inch. “Together.”
They both hunched their shoulders against it, and the metal door began to creak up and out. Looking back through his legs again, Taylor saw a square of light appear in the basement ceiling. They heaved again. The door swung wide and slammed against the pavement with a crash.
“We’ve got them!” said a voice from the trapdoor. “Jo-Jo, down now.”
Taylor missed his footing and instinctively tried to catch hold with his right leg. Pain shot up through his ankle. He fell over the side of the ramp and grabbed the metal with his left hand just in time to stop from dropping eight feet to the cartons and concrete below. Everyone moved but him. Voichek up and out into the light, and one of the thugs quickly down the ladder into the basement. He swung by one hand for several long seconds, thought his grip was going to give, somehow got his right hand on the ramp; finally, stretching his left leg to hook a heel, he pulled himself up and scrambled toward blue sky. A hand reached in.
“Let’s go. I’ve no intention of taking the Westbound tonight. Not at the hands of these damn villains.” Voichek pulled just as Taylor’s footing slipped. He slid backward on the rollers, threatening to drag both of them down to their pursuers. Voichek slammed a battered shoe against the lip of the door to stop Taylor. He gave a hard yank. They both fell over onto the sidewalk. A flash of light and a crack. A second flash-crack. Gun shots in the basement.
“Let’s move.” Voichek took off. Taylor followed. An old man in an apron came out of the door yelling at the two of them in Greek. That was bad; Greek was always a terrible sign with relatives. Grandpop was going to get a phone call. Taylor moved as fast as he could down Broadway behind Voichek, crossing traffic mid-block and dodging a honking car. Voichek slowed down to wait at 83rd.
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