“Ah, you bastard – ”
Ten years of living with Magda had taught him more than one way to defend himself.
He punched at Stew’s throat, once, then again. Fedoras flew. Stew fell back, his naked head knocking on the concrete. The fever was in Lew’s veins now. He kicked Stew again and again till he was sure the man was dead.
“Lew and Stew,” Lew said.
Lew looked around. The platform looked as lonely and abandoned as it had before. No one had heard a thing.
He dragged Stew’s body to the train on Track 11 and slid him into a space between two cars. Stew got stuck halfway. Lew had to stand back and kick and push to shove Stew down.
“Garbage.”
The body fell down onto the tracks. Somebody passing by would have to look twice to see it.
Of all the lousy days. He had to get out of this business. Now he just wanted to get home, get back to Magda. The great and powerful. The Queen. He longed to see, cover her knifesharp face with kisses and cringe at her snarky putdowns.
He bent down to pick up his hat then arched his back with a crack. There was a smear of blood on the floor, and lying there was the gun. Lew picked it up. He’d have to dump it outside of the station. The Homeland Security cops probably checked every bit of trash in the station, and they could find human DNA on an ant’s ass hair.
There was an exit sign way on the other end of the platform. Lew made for that, walking quickly.
The exit led up three short staircases and then suddenly Lew was in the back end of a long tunnel lined with boarding entrances.
Here, the crowd returned. The tourists. The commuters. The homeless. And the cops. Where had they been the whole time he was almost killed and then had to kill a man? He walked slowly, as casually as possible. He didn’t need their help now.
He weaved through the crowd, getting hot and humid in his coat, weaved through the long tunnel that was clogged with the smell of sweat and feet and urine.
“How the hell do you get out of here?”
He took one set of stairs, then walked up an escalator that wasn’t working.
And then, finally, he was back in the Main Concourse. He decided he needed a drink of water, even an overpriced one. He went to the Hudson News stand and stood in line. It took a moment, but then he realized the chubby guy in front of him holding a pack of gum and an issue of Entertainment Weekly was Bernie.
“Bernie?”
His partner turned and his eyes went to saucers – and then did a dance to look at something behind Lew.
Lew turned. There was Magda. A glance down at the luggage at her feet told him the story.
She spoke first. “I’m leaving you, Lew.”
“But, Baby.”
“Lew, I’ve known about you for years. You can’t con everybody Lew. Not a woman who loves you anyway. Or used to.”
“Magda, I – ”
“You’re sweet, Lew. But I’m tired of TV dinners and having to wring twenty bucks out of you for a new blouse.”
“Fair enough,” Lew said. “So you came here where – ”
“We were going to drive to my mother’s in Danbury, but Bernie couldn’t move his car.”
Bernie spoke up. “It’s snowed in. It would’ve taken hours to dig out, and Maggles here was in a – ”
“Extraordinary.”
Lew felt the weight of the gun in his pocket. Tons.
“I’m sorry Lew I thought you’d be gone – ”
“Was it you that set me up?” Lew said, but as soon as he did he looked into the dull eyes of his partner and knew that the sap had been used.
“What set – ”
“You don’t have the flu, do you? What was it, Pete wanted to try a big score?”
“Yeah, Lew, that’s what he – ”
“That’s a lie. You don’t have the brains – ”
He stopped and looked into Bernie’s dull eyes. And then he looked at his wife’s bored-as-usual face and understood. And then he saw the two giant Homeland Security soldiers right outside the stand. Gun.
“Never mind,” Lew said. His luck had completely and righteously come in all wrong. Boxcars. He nodded at Bernie, gave Magda a half smile. “You deserve better than both of us, Baby.”
“Don’t I know it,” she said.
“Mazel tov.” Lew forgot the water and waved at them as he left. His wife looked at him with pity, his partner like a sheep.
So. Magda. That was over. All that he had worked toward for ten years. Done. She had made great pancakes. That one time. Magda.
Well, he was still alive. And something that had been itching in the back of his mind for years had been scratched. He’d have start a new life now. First, he needed a drink. No, first, he had to ditch the heavy, heavy gun. Then he’d have to use his last few bills to get out of town, go to Port Authority, get to Jersey then parts beyond. He’d had enough of Grand Central. He went up the Lexington Passage and stopped near the exit to button his coat. He watched the snow outside turn the city into a pretty postcard outside, knowing it would only be a while before it turned gray and black with soot and decay.
He was thinking he should go to an exit closer to the East River when he heard someone yell, “That’s the guy.” Then again, “Yeah, that guy. The guy with the old hat.”
He didn’t want to turn, but he wasn’t sure he should run, and before he could make up his mind he felt a tap on his shoulder and, sure enough, there was a police officer – if Lew wasn’t mistaken, the same one who caught him slamming down the pay phone – and behind him the pimply faced kid from the coffee stand. Classic.
“That’s the guy,” the pimples said. “That’s him.”
“I need to talk to you, sir. Please step to the side,” the cop said. Glare.
“Stupendous,” Lew said. “Stupendous.”
Terminal Sweep Stakes – by Amy Maurs
DETECTIVE BARABA WALKED INTO the situation room at the Grand Central Terminal Police headquarters carrying a Styrofoam container filled with black coffee in one hand and a cigarette in the other. The clock on the far wall read 7 a.m.
“Good morning, Crowley.”
The sergeant winked. “It looks like it isn’t so good for you.”
“Thanks.” Baraba took a seat in the far rear corner. The entire day shift of the GCTPD filled the room.
Crowley began. “Everyone was called in here due to a priority case involving the GCTPD, the NYPD, and the FBI. The parents of a young girl reported her missing yesterday at 11:22 a.m. The family came in from Bedford for the matinee of The Nutcracker at Lincoln Center.
“Susan Lankan is six years old. She was wearing a green velvet dress trimmed with lace, black patent leather Mary Janes and a brown wool coat. We are passing around a page with her recent school photo. She is retarded and deaf, which makes this even more troubling.
“Mayor Beame wants a media blackout. He doesn’t want anyone too afraid to come to New York City for the Christmas shopping season. Everyone keep their eyes and ears open. We have to find this girl and get her home. That’ll be all.”
Baraba walked through the rear doorway. He traveled down a corridor, blind to the wanted posters that lines its wall. He reached the far end, unlocked an unmarked door, poured another long-needed drink of coffee, then slid into his chair.
The office smelled of leather, pomade, old paper, carbon, dust, and cigarettes. The board across the office had a new case: an armed robbery of a woman’s engagement ring. “Happy Holidays,” he mumbled to himself.
A knock on the door broke Baraba’s concentration. “Come in.”
A uniformed officer entered with a Metro North conductor in tow. “Detective, this is Mr. Wilson, he found a deceased member of the cleaning crew this morning.”