I call the Dutch Consulate. Is it true I can be arrested when I enter the tunnel, even if I am an accredited journalist?
“Yes,” is the reply.
In that case, what can the consulate do for me?
“Not much,” is the answer.
So what do they advise?
“Don’t go to the tunnel,” they say.
I thank them for their help.
It is not possible to reach Captain Combs by phone, so I go look for her at Penn Station. It is a huge station. Eight subway lines stop here; it is also the terminal for the Long Island Railroad, New Jersey Transit and the Amtrak line to upstate New York, the train that runs through our tunnel.
Finally, I manage to find the office of the Amtrak Police. It is a tiny place in a corner near the toilets. Captain Combs is not there, and a friendly black lady receives me. Officer Samaliya is her name.
“What a nice name,” I say. On her well-rounded hips, she carries a Glock, the new service weapon of the police. Because of its enormous firepower, the weapon is controversial. Officer Samaliya sees me staring and smiles shyly. I decide to be straight with her, and tell her that last autumn I lived down in the tunnel.
“In between the rats and those creeps?” she asks in disbelief. She doesn’t mention the fact that I was trespassing.
“It was not too bad,” I say. “Hardly a rat and I met a lot of nice people. Actually, I had a good time.” Samaliya giggles softly.
I carefully ask whether she has also heard the rumor that Amtrak wants to kick out the tunnel people. “For everybody’s safety, of course, we want to have the tunnel empty sooner or later,” she says decisively. “But of course we will not kick people out. We will look for a humane solution.” Her deep brown eyes look deeply into mine. I can do nothing but believe her.
At the Coalition for the Homeless, the new computerized phone system is not only annoying and time-consuming but expensive as well. It eats up all my quarters at a pay phone. It seems much faster and cheaper to stop by their offices.
A bored receptionist is reading Vanity Fair. She hardly looks up when she tells me in a rude and uninterested voice that Mary Brosnahan is on holiday. After a lot of pleading, I manage to talk to her replacement, Bob Kelty. Kelty chews on a pencil and knows little. Yes, there seems to be some federal program to provide housing for the tunnel people. Who, where, what and when is unknown to Kelly. Mary has all the information, come back in two weeks, Kelly says.
The sun is straight above me as I lie flat on the grate at 95th Street and call out Bernard’s name. The tracks are bathed in sunlight. The rest of the tunnel is pitch dark. A few minutes later Bernard answers. He recognizes me. “The gate at 91st Street,” he screams. I remember there was an exit there, but we never used it since we had the keys to the Northern Gate. I find the gate hidden behind bushes at a pedestrian tunnel under the West Side Highway. One bar has been sawed through and I manage to squeeze myself through the opening. Down the stairs, Tony has obviously created a new storage space: piles of empty bottles, sneakers, books, and a few old teddy bears. Down on the tracks, Bernard is walking towards me. We embrace each other as old friends. “Welcome back, Duke!” he says happily. “I had expected you earlier.”
Bernard is dressed in his summer clothes, shorts, bare chest, and light sneakers. Compared with the sticky heat outside, the tunnel is nice and cool. Bright rays of sun have managed to penetrate the tunnel though the grates and have driven away the dampness and deep darkness of last autumn.
We lounge in chairs in the sunlight, and Bernard reports on current and past events. “Oh, Dune, it’s terrible. Disorder and chaos all around!” He lost the keys of the gates. “This bitch Combs…” he growls. From a confused story, I understand that Captain Combs entered the tunnel with a crew of officers. At first, she had started a friendly chat with Bernard, who as usual, had told her all about tunnel life and the philosophy behind it. The good Bernard also let slip that he had the keys to the gates.
“That is interesting,” the captain has answered slyly. “Can I see them?” It was like the fable of the Raven and the Fox. Bernard had shown her the keys in his outstretched hand. The captain had immediately snatched the keys, leaving a furious Bernard powerless against a crew of armed cops. Bernard is considering steps. Which, he doesn’t know.
There has also been a fire in Tony’s place. Sleazy Jeff was to blame, Bernard says. Jeff was smoking crack when a few candles tripped over. He was “high as a motherfucking cake” and had run away in panic. Tony stores a lot of inflammable materials, and soon his place was engulfed in flames. Black clouds of smoke rose through the grate. Bernard was taking a nap and woke up to the sirens of the Fire Department. They stuck their fire hoses through a hole in the grate. Not only the trains, but also the traffic at the West Side Highway came to a standstill. Firemen entered through the emergency exits and put out the fire.
“They also took care of your place,” Bernard says. The firemen wanted to take a look to see if there was any danger in Bob’s bunker. Bernard had offered to open the lock, but they had already smashed the plywood sheets at the windows. “They were only out to destroy everything,” Bernard says angrily. Jeff has disappeared in the meantime. He is in rehab upstate.
Tony hasn’t changed a bit. Still full of great and genial ideas to get filthy rich in one masterstroke. Shaking his head, Bernard tells me his latest plan. Together they would dig a tunnel to Broadway. There they would tunnel upwards to enter a jeweler’s store. Broadway is parallel to the tunnel, only half a mile to the East. According to Tony, they could not miss. He had just not realized that you need sophisticated drilling equipment to cut through the solid granite rock that New York is built on.
He still has his gambling addiction. “The idiot won seven hundred bucks last time. I told him. ‘Tony, lend me a hundred so I can do some two-for-oneing, and use the remaining six hundred to go finally print your T-shirts.’ ‘Let me think,’ Tony said. And what happened next morning at breakfast? He is bumming a cigarette from me. The idiot had lost all his money the same day on the horses.”
Bernard updates the tunnel news about Burk, the black man from ten blocks up north. Burk is slowly sliding away into his madness. Not very surprising. Last autumn, he already made an impression of complete incoherence, and could only mumble vaguely when asked something. The latest news is that he is starting to harass others and has developed aggressive tendencies. “Last week I was up top to cop a couple of bottles,” tells Bernard in an agitated staccato voice, “a few for me, a few for Burk.”
This is the usual way business is done. Bernard knows the reliable dealers up top and never gets fooled or tricked. Since he also knows how to evade the cops and is very discreet, he normally gets the stuff for Burk, Bob, Manny, or other guests. For his efforts, he gets one or two bottles.
Burk paid for his crack with a bag of empty cans. “One hour later, Burk came and demanded his cans back. I told him to keep his hands off. The idiot started to rave and rant and told me it was theft. He threatened to call the police. I said: ‘Go ahead, asshole. Up top is the fucking phone.’” Burk left but later returned with a big metal bar. Bernard only barely ducked the attack. “I tell you, Duke, with a little less luck, I would not have been here,” he says shaking his head. “I chased that idiot all the way to the South End with a big wooden stick.” A few days later Burk returned. For the moment, the two are on speaking terms, insofar as Burk utters anything sensible.