A great journalist,he mused as he listened to the phone ring, adapts himself to the options offered him.Take the Wisher story. He had been totally unprepared for the mother. She’d been impressive. Smithback found himself embarrassed and deeply moved. Fired by those unfamiliar emotions, he’d written a new article for that morning’s edition, labeling Pamela Wisher the Angel of Central Park South and painting her death in tragic colors. But the real stroke of genius had been the $100,000 reward for information leading to the murderer. The idea had come to him in the middle of writing the story; he had carried the half-written piece and his reward idea straight into the office of the Post’snew editor, Arnold Murray. The man had loved it, authorizing it on the spot without even bothering to check with the publisher.
Ginny, the pool secretary, came on the line excitedly. Twenty phone calls about the reward, all of them bogus.
“That’s it?” Smithback asked, crestfallen.
“Well, there was, like, this really weirdvisitor for you,” the secretary gushed. She was short and skinny, lived in Ronkonkoma, and had a crush on Smithback.
“Yeah?”
“He was dressed in rags and he smelled. God, I could hardly breathe.And he was, like, high or something.”
Maybe it’s a hot tip,Smithback thought excitedly. “What did he want?”
“He said he had information about the Wisher murder. He asked you to meet him in the Penn Station men’s room—”
Smithback almost dropped his drink. “The men’s room? You’ve got to be kidding.”
“That’s what he said. You think he’s a pervert?” She spoke with undisguised relish.
“Which men’s room?”
He heard papers shuffling. “I’ve got it right here. North end, lower level, just to the left of the track 12 escalator. At eight o’clock tonight.”
“What information, exactly?”
“That was all he said.”
“Thanks.” He hung up and checked his watch: seven forty-five. The men’s room in Penn Station? I’d have to be crazy or desperate, he thought, to follow up a lead like that.
Smithback had never been inside a men’s room at Penn Station before. Nobody he knew would ever go in one, either. As he opened the door into a vast, hot room, suffocating with the stench of urine and old diarrhea, he thought that, in fact, he’d rather piss his pants than use a Penn Station men’s room.
He was five minutes late. Probably the guy’s gone already,Smithback thought gratefully. Assuming he’d ever been here in the first place.He was just about to duck back outside when he heard a gravelly voice.
“William Smithback?”
“What?” Smithback looked around quickly, scanning the deserted men’s room. Then he saw two legs descend in the farthest stall. The door opened. A small, skinny man stepped out and walked up to him unsteadily, his long face grimy, his clothes dark with grease and dirt, his hair matted and knotted into alarming shapes. A beard of indescribable color descended to twin points near his belly button, which was exposed through a long ragged tear in his shirt.
“William Smithback?” the man repeated, peering at him through filmy eyes.
“Who else?”
Without another word, the man turned and moved back toward the rear of the men’s room. He stopped at the open last stall, then turned, waiting.
“You have some information for me?” Smithback asked.
“Come with me.” He gestured back toward the stall.
“No way,” said Smithback. “If you want to talk, we can talk out here, but I’m not going in there with you, pal.”
The man gestured again. “But this is the way to go.”
“Go where?”
“Down.”
Cautiously, Smithback approached the stall. The man had stepped inside and was standing behind the toilet, prying back a large piece of painted sheet metal that, Smithback now saw, covered a ragged hole in the dirty tile wall.
“In there?” Smithback asked.
The man nodded.
“Where does it go?”
“Down,” the man repeated.
“Forget it,” said Smithback. He started to back away.
The man held his gaze. “I’m supposed to bring you to Mephisto,” he said. “He has to talk to you about the murder of that girl. He knows important things.”
“Give me a break.”
The man continued to stare at him. “You can trust me,” he said simply.
Somehow, despite the filth and the drugged eyes, Smithback found himself believing the man. “What things?”
“You have to talk to Mephisto.”
“Who’s this Mephisto?”
“He’s our leader.” The man shrugged as if no other information was necessary.
“Our?”
The man nodded. “The Route 666 community.”
Despite his uncertainty, Smithback felt a tingle of excitement. An organized community underground? That would make good copy all by itself. And if this Mephisto really knew something about the Wisher murder… “Where exactly is this Route 666 community?” he asked.
“Can’t tell you. But I’ll show you the way.”
“And your name?” he asked.
“They call me Tail Gunner,” the man said, a small gleam of pride flaring in his eyes.
“Look,” said Smithback. “I’d follow you, but you can’t expect me to just crawl into a hole like this. I could get ambushed, mugged, anything.”
The man shook his head vehemently. “I’ll protect you. Everyone knows I’m Mephisto’s chief runner. You’ll be safe.”
Smithback stared at the man: rheumy eyes, running nose, dirty wizard’s beard. He had come all the way to the offices of the Post.That was a lot of trouble for a guy who looked both broke and homeless.
Then the image of Bryce Harriman’s smug face filled his mind. He imagined Bryce’s editor at the Times,asking him again how come that hack Smithback had gotten the story first.
He liked that image.
The man known as Tail Gunner held back the large piece of tin while Smithback clambered through. Once they were both inside he carefully maneuvered it back into place, propping it closed with some loose bricks.
Looking around, Smithback found himself in a long, narrow tunnel. Water and steam pipes ran overhead like thick gray veins. The ceiling was low, but not so low that a man as tall as Smithback couldn’t stand upright. Evening light filtered in through ceiling grates spaced at hundred yard intervals.
The reporter followed the stooped, low figure, moving ahead of him in the dim light. Once in a while the rumble of a nearby train would fill the dank space; Smithback could feel the sound more in his bones than his ears.
They began walking northward along what seemed to be an endless tunnel. After ten or fifteen minutes, Smithback began to feel a nagging worry. “Excuse me,” he said, “but why the long walk?”
“Mephisto keeps the nearest entrances to our community secret.”
Smithback nodded, making a wide detour around the swollen body of a dead dog. It wasn’t surprising these tunnel dwellers were a little paranoid, but this was getting ridiculous. They’d walked far enough north to be under Central Park.
Soon, the tunnel began to curve gently to the right. Smithback could make out a series of steel doors set into the thick concrete wall. Overhead a large pipe ran, water dripping from its padded covering. A sign on the padding read DANGER: CONTAINS ASBESTOS FIBERS. AVOID CREATING DUST. CANCER AND LUNG DISEASE HAZARD. Stopping and digging one hand into his rags, Tail Gunner extracted a key and placed it in the lock of the closest door.