I suspected Delgado’s silence was due to fear; he wouldn’t want a shaking voice to betray his tension. I knew how he felt. The first nighttime tunnel trek was a landmark in a young transit cop’s life.
When the downtown express thundered past, we ducked into the coffin-sized alcoves set aside for transit workers. My heart pounded as the wind wake of the train pulled at my clothes; the fear of falling forward, landing under those relentless steel wheels, never left me, no matter how many times I stood in the well. I always thought of Anna Karenina; once in a while, in my drinking days, I’d wondered how it would feel to edge forward, to let the train’s undertow pull me toward death.
I could never do it. I’d seen too much blood on the tracks.
Light at the end of the tunnel. The Worth Street station sent rays of hope into the spidery blackness. My step quickened; Delgado’s pace matched mine. Soon we were almost running toward the light, like cavemen coming from the hunt to sit by the fire of safety.
We were almost at the edge of the platform when I motioned Delgado to stop. My hunger to bathe in the light was as great as his, but our post was in the shadows, watching.
A moment of panic. I’d lost the drunk. Had he fallen on the tracks, the electrified third rail roasting him like a pig at a barbecue? Not possible; we’d have heard, and smelted.
I had to admit, the graffiti painting wasn’t a mindless scrawl. It was a picture, full of color and life. Humanlike figures in bright primary shades, grass-green, royal-blue, orange, sun-yellow, and carnation-pink-colors unknown in the black-and-gray tunnels-stood in a line, waiting to go through a subway turnstile. Sexless, they were cookie-cutter replicas of one another, the only difference among them the color inside the black edges.
A rhythmic clicking sound made Delgado jump. “What the hell-”
“Relax, Manny,” I whispered. “It’s the ball bearing in the spray-paint can. The vandals are here. As soon as the paint hits the tiles, we jump out and bust them.”
Four rowdy teenagers, ranging in color from light brown to ebony, laughed raucously and punched one another with a theatrical style that said We bad. We real bad. They bounded up the steps from the other side of the platform and surveyed their artwork, playful as puppies, pointing out choice bits they had added to their mural.
It should have been simple. Two armed cops, with the advantage of surprise, against four kids armed with Day-Glo spray paint. Two tilings kept it from being simple: the drank, wherever the hell he was, and the fact that one of the kids said, “Hey, bro, when Cool and Jo-Jo gettin’ here?”
A very black kid with a nylon stocking on his head answered, “Jo-Jo be comin’ with Pinto, Cool say he might be hringin’ Slasher and T.P.”
Great. Instead of two against four, it sounded like all the graffiti artists in New York City were planning a convention in the Worth Street ghost station,
“Sarge?” Delgado’s voice was urgent. “We’ve gotta-”
“I know,” I whispered back, “Get on the radio and call for backup.”
Then I remembered. Worth Street was a dead spot. Lead in the ceiling above our heads turned our radios into worthless toys.
“Stop,” I said wearily as Manny pulled the antenna up on his hand-held radio. “It won’t work. You’ll have to go back to Brooklyn Bridge. Alert Booth Robert two twenty-one. Have them call Operations. Just ask for backup, don’t make it a ten-thirteen.” A 10-13 meant “officer in trouble,” and I didn’t want to be the sergeant who cried wolf.
“Try the radio along the way,” I went on. “You never know when it will come to life. I’m not sure where the lead ends.”
Watching Delgado trudge back along the catwalk, I felt lonely, helpless, and stupid. No one knew we’d gone to Worth Street instead of the Black Hole, and that was my fault.
“Hey,” one of the kids called, pointing to a pile of old clothes in the corner of the platform, “what this dude be doin’ in our crib?”
Dude? What dude? Then the old clothes began to rise; it was the drunk from the train. He was huddled into a fetal ball, hoping not to be noticed by the graffiti gang.
Nylon Stocking boogied over to the old drunk, sticking a finger in his ribs. “What you be doin’ here, ol’ man? Huh? Answer me.”
A fat kid with a flat top walked over, sat down next to the drunk, reached into the old man’s jacket pocket, and pulled out a half-empty pint bottle.
A lighter-skinned, thinner boy slapped the drunk around, first lifting him by the scruff of the neck, then laughing as he flopped back to the floor. The old guy tried to rise, only to be kicked in the ribs by Nylon Stocking.
The old guy was bleeding at the mouth. Fat Boy held the pint of booze aloft, teasing the drunk the way you tease a dog with a bone. The worst part was that the drunk was reaching for it, hands flapping wildly, begging. He’d have barked if they’d asked him to.
I was shaking, my stomach starting to heave. God, where was Manny? Where was my backup? I had to stop the kids before their friends got there, but I felt too sick to move. If there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s a woman drunk. It was as though every taunt, every kick, was aimed at me, not just at the old man.
I reached into my belt for my gun, then opened my vest’s back pouch and pulled out the slapper. Ready to charge, I stopped cold when Nylon Stocking said, “Yo, y’all want to do him like we done the others?”
Fat Boy’s face lit up. “Yeah,” he agreed. “Feel like a cold night. We needs a little fire.”
“You right, bro,” the light-skinned kid chimed in. “I got the kerosene. Done took it from my momma heater.”
“What he deserve, man,” the fourth member of the gang said, his voice a low growl. “Comin’ into our crib, pissin’ on the art, smellin’ up the place. This here our turf, dig?” He prodded the old man in the chest.
“I-I didn’t mean nothing,” the old man whimpered. “I just wanted a place to sleep.”
Uncle Paul, sleeping on our couch when he was too drunk for Aunt Rose to put up with him. He was never too drunk for Mom to take him in. Never too drunk to give me one of his sweet Irish smiles and call me his best girl.
The light-skinned kid opened the bottle-ironically, it looked as if it once contained whiskey-and sprinkled the old man the way my mother sprinkled clothes before ironing them. Nylon Stocking pulled out a book of matches.
By the time Delgado came back, with or without backup, there’d be one more bonfire if I didn’t do something. Fast.
Surprise was my only hope. Four of them, young and strong. One of me, out of shape and shaky.
I shot out a light. I cracked the bulb on the first shot. Target shooting was my best asset as a cop, and I used it to give the kids the impression they were surrounded.
The kids jumped away from the drunk, moving in all directions. “Shit,” one said, “who shootin’?”
I shot out the second and last bulb. In the dark, I had the advantage. They wouldn’t know, at least at first, that only one cop was coming after them.
“Let’s book,” another cried. “Ain’t worth stayin’ here to get shot.”
I ran up the steps, onto the platform lit only by the moonlike rays from the other side of the tracks. Yelling “Stop, police,” I waded into the kids, swinging my illegal slapper.
Thump into the ribs of the kid holding the kerosene bottle. He dropped it, clutching his chest and howling. I felt the breath whoosh out of him, heard the snap of rib cracking. I wheeled and slapped Nylon Stocking across the knee, earning another satisfying howl.
My breath came in gasps, curses pouring out of me. Blood pounding in my temples, a thumping noise that sounded louder than the express train.