I. A. Watson, Charles Salzberg, Jessica Hall, Ron Fortier, S. A. Solomon, R. Narvaez, Amy Maurs, R. J. Westerhoff, J. Walt Layne, Kathleen A. Ryan, Matt Hilton, Marcelle Thiébaux, Jen Conley, Seamus Scanlon, Terrence P. McCauley
Grand Central Noir
Copyright © 2013 Terrence McCauley and by individual authors for their respective works.
INTRODUCTION
Grand Central Terminal. The most dynamic building in the most dynamic city in the world. Thousands travel into and out of it every day. Get their shoes shined or buy a new outfit before a posh dinner at Michael Jordan’s or, less posh to some, Two Boots. All without having to step outside. Meet business partners, families, lovers, friends. Even criminal cohorts. It’s absolutely a world of its own. A world of hellos and goodbyes. A maze. A limbo. A banal conduit for some. A refuge for others. A tourist destination for throngs.
In short, a place teeming with stories.
Which is why we have assembled more than a dozen tales from some of the best authors working today. Specifically, stories about crime. For years, Grand Central Terminal has been seen as a place of despair, where the gullible arrived by the dozens and the homeless and the addicted flocked lacking anywhere else to go. Now celebrating its hundredth year, the terminal is experiencing something of a renaissance, but still, in the most dynamic city in the world, the most dynamic building lends itself to tales of adventure, of redemption, and of noir.
Botched robberies. Chance encounters. Stolen lives. Revenge. Revenge. And more revenge. All of this happens within the confines of the magnificent Beaux-Arts structure, under its great and ever-watchful vault of stars. Some of the authors here you may have read before. Others you may be reading for the first time. All of them are worth a look.
While crime and noir stories are often about those without hope, we thought it was important to hold a note of hope with this book. That is why we selected God’s Love, We Deliver to receive100 percent of the proceeds from this book. It is an organization whose mission is to improve the health and well being of men, women, and children living with HIV/AIDS, cancer, and other serious illnesses by alleviating hunger and malnutrition. They prepare and deliver nutritious, high-quality meals to people who, because of their illness, are unable to provide or prepare meals for themselves. They also provide illness-specific nutrition education and counseling to their clients, families, care providers and other service organizations. All of their services are provided free of charge without regard to income. For more information about this great organization, visit https://www.glwd.org/.
In purchasing this book, you’ve not only helped some great writers find a new audience, you’ve also helped a worthwhile charity continue an important mission.
Safe travels,
Terrence P. McCauley
Lost Property – by I. A. Watson
THE BIG MAN VAULTED the counter before Rebecca could react. He caught her by the collar and slammed her into the wire-mesh racking where the lost property was stored. “Where is it?” he snarled into Rebecca’s face. “Tell me now and I won’t hurt you – much!”
It was late, past two in the morning. Even the Grand Central Terminal’s main concourse was quiet. A difficult traveler at baggage checking might have been spotted by the clerks at the south side ticket booths – if the angry man hadn’t come over the counter and pushed Rebecca back from their line of sight.
The slim brunette gasped, choked by the calloused hand gripping her throat. “I don’t know what you’re talking about! I… please… ”
The grasp tightened. “I’m talking ’bout locker 59, honey,” the intruder growled. “I want my suitcase.”
The woman struggled but he was too strong. “I don’t understand,” she insisted.
Hanner’s face was red. A vein on his temple pulsed with his rage. “Two hours back I deposited a case in one of your lockers. I come back, it isn’t there.”
“I don’t know about that,” Rebecca insisted. “Talk to security. They have a master key. Maybe you had food in there that smelled rotten? Or a live animal?” It was remarkable what people tried to stuff into platform lockers. The baggage check girl could have told some great stories if a strangler’s hand wasn’t at her windpipe.
“I’m not talking about the bag,” her attacker hissed. His spittle splattered her cheek. “I’m talking about the locker. The whole damn row of lockers – gone!”
“That’s… unlikely,” Rebecca stammered. Was the man mad? Drunk? His stale breath has a sour whiskey tang to it.
“You took it. You or your thieving station buddies!”
“Sir… I have no idea what you’re… you’re hurting me. I can’t breathe!”
“I want it. I gave everything for it. If I don’t get it then it was all for nothing. No reason to take away those lockers ’cept to steal what’s mine. So again – one last time, sweetheart – where is it? Where’s my case?”
“Nothing’s been handed in.” How many times had Rebecca to say that every day to plaintive passengers? She’d never expected they’d be her last words.
The intruder had a gun. He pressed it to her cheek. “I already asked your security guy. He didn’t tell me. You want what he got?”
Rebecca cringed. So she was going to die. Her clerk’s life seemed very grey and flat. What had happened to her wild romantic dreams? She worked where thousands of people travelled to far off wonderful places – and she never went anywhere. Death in a lost and found was only one last disappointment.
Her mind raced through her options. Knee the big man, or maybe scream for help? Both would probably get her killed. But since he was going to murder her anyway…
The counter bell rang. The ding-ding was too cheery and incongruous for the final moments of a young woman’s life.
Hanner dropped out of sight behind the desk. His.45 kept steady on the woman. “Get rid of him,” he whispered.
Rebecca turned back to the front of the shop. A man in sharp pinstripes and a tilted fedora gave her a winning smile and tipped his hat. “Evening.”
“How – how may I help you?” The gun was three feet away from Rebecca. The thug could see her every motion, her expressions; any wrong move and she’d be dead.
“This is where lost property gets reported? I’ve lost a hat.”
Rebecca glanced up at the newcomer’s head.
He had a charming, roguish smile. “Not that one. The absent article’s a big flowery wide-brimmed affair of Auntie’s. In a hat-box about, oh, like this…” He gestured a circular container two feet in diameter. “Candy-striped. The box, not the hat. The hat’s monstrous enough without stripes.”
“Nobody’s handed in anything like that.”
“Probably not. Who’d want to be seen with it? It probably crawled off the train by itself. We should be calling up the circus with nets and – hey, are you okay?”
Rebecca hadn’t meant to tremble. “I’m fine. Long day, late night shift. You know?”
“Not really. I try to avoid honest work.” The newcomer handed over a calling card. “Bill Maxton. And you are…?”
“Rebecca Sharp.”
It was surreal, being flirted with in a killer’s gun-sights. But how could Maxton know what was hidden beneath the counter? He saw only a personable clerk in a deserted concourse in the small hours of Monday morning. Another time Rebecca might even have flirted back.
“Look, Mr. Maxton, I can fill out the lost property register with your details and we’ll call or write you if… ”
“Oh, call me anyway.” The newcomer grinned. “Life’s too short not to.” He turned to his left, where the turnstiles led to the tracks. Steam gushed out from the platforms, sending warm gusts into the high roof-vaults of the world’s most elegant station. “You know, we could just turn round, the two of us, and hop on any one of those trains and go anywhere.”