Lowland Rider (12 page)

He set the book on Jesse's lap. It was open to a ballad entitled,
Jamie Gordon, the Lowland Rider
. Jesse started to read:

Oh there was a rider daring,

Yes, there was a rider bold…

Jesse became lost in the poem, adrift in a story so similar to his own that tears came to his eyes, and a shuddering gasp escaped him. "Hey," said Rags. "Jesse, what's the…"

The words were cut off by an echoing shriek. The two men looked up and saw the denim-clad boy wrestling with the black woman at the platform's edge. The boy held a knife with which he was trying to cut the handle of the woman's bag, which she was pressing to her side with surprising ferocity. He grunted as he sawed away, the bag in one hand.

Jesse jumped to his feet and started to move toward the struggle, but Rags put a heavy hand on his shoulder. "
No way
," he whispered harshly. "Come
on
," and he turned and headed for the exit. Jesse took a step toward Rags, then looked back to where the man and woman were still fighting. The man was kicking the woman in the legs now, and she staggered to stay upright. Her screams were growing weaker, but she still hung on to the purse.

"
Jesse!
" It was Rags who called his name, but for a moment it seemed to Jesse Gordon as though the woman, whom he had never seen before, had called on him for help.

Jesse!

He heard it again, and knew that it was not Rags, not even the woman, but someone else, a voice that ordered him to do what he had been about to do on his own before Rags had tried to stop him. He started to run.

~*~

The boy had reached the end of his patience. If he could not slash the purse off a live arm, he would wrench it off a dead one. His arm shot behind him like a bow being drawn, and plunged forward, intending to tear through the old brown cloth coat, to cut and weaken and kill, if need be, the old woman who was being so absurdly uncooperative.

The knife never touched her. Something grabbed his arm and twisted him around as easily as if he were a child, and suddenly he was facing the younger of the two bums he'd seen sitting on the platform. In the dark frame of hair and beard, the man's eyes were alive with fury, like some Biblical avenger, and the fist that drove the boy to the concrete landed with the impact of a trip-hammer.

When he shook his head to clear his vision, he still felt his knife in his hand. Beside him the old woman was panting with exhaustion and terror, clinging to her ratty purse like a lifeline, and above him stood the crazy hum, fists clenched at his sides. "Bastard!" the boy spat out, and came up fast, his knife held low, aiming for the gut. The bum jerked away, his fists went up, and thundered down on the back of the boy's head. The boy sank down again, his face striking the concrete, his nose breaking with a sharp snap that echoed for a moment until it was muffled by the boy's howl of pain.

He twisted again, and brought himself to a sitting position, the knife held in front of him, the blood from his nose darkening his jean jacket. "That's it, man," he said brokenly. "I'm gonna kill you now."

He lifted himself carefully to his feet. Except for the brutal pain in his nose, he was unhurt, and the street coolness that had betrayed him by its absence had returned. No more quick, angry, unplanned thrusts. He had the knife, so he would back this turkey up and wait for his moment. No use being stupid.

The bum's eyes grew
wary
, but the boy could detect no fear in them as he backed him toward the wall. The boy held himself low, moved on the balls of his feet, ignored the blood that dripped down over his mouth and chin, ignored everything except the
sonovabitch
he intended to gut. The bum was getting closer to the bench. Soon, the boy knew, the back of his legs would strike it, unsteadying him for just a moment, just long enough.

Two more steps, then one, and the bum bumped the bench, rocked on his heels, and the boy pounced.

At that same second something grabbed him at his groin and his neck. Unable to scream out his pain, he felt himself being lifted into the air, and through a red haze saw the dirty, vaulted arch of the station ceiling move past him and turn dark. Then he was flying, weightless, through the air for what seemed like minutes, but what was actually just long enough for him to realize how stupid it all was, because the old bitch probably had nothing anyway. With that in mind, he landed on the third rail.

~*~

"
Now
come on!" Rags shouted, running toward the exit with his rolling gait, like a garment center rack come to life. Jesse stood spellbound, held by the sight of the boy's body jerking convulsively, the sound of muffled crackling, like sparks heard underwater, the smell that was already creeping up from the bed of the tracks, the smell of burning cloth, charred flesh.

"Jesse!
Goddammit
!"

He whipped his head to the left and saw Rags at the end of the platform, beckoning to him, waving his burly arms. Jesse looked down at the woman. She was looking at him. There was pain in her face, and apprehension, as if she thought a new attacker might now replace the first.

"You all right?" Jesse asked, and her expression went blank for a moment before she nodded dumbly. Jesse turned then, and ran down the platform to Rags. Together they made their way through tunnels and down ramps until they found themselves on a downtown express. They chose the seat, just big enough for two, by the door. Rags was panting, and his face shone with sweat.

"Oh man. Oh man, Jesse, you really done it now." Rags wiped his forehead with a piece of blue cloth he'd drawn from his pocket.

Jesse said nothing. He only sat, knees apart, his hands between them, gazing down at the floor. His whole body was trembling.

"
Damn
, don't do that again.
Please
."

"I had to," he said in a low, cracking voice.

"No, you
didn't
have to!" Rags turned to him, his face angry. "You don't
mess
with things, Jesse. Not down here. You just stay the hell away from trouble 'cause if you don't you gonna be
in
it. Dumbest thing in the world you mess in somethin' like that . . ." He trailed off into mumbling, and they rode for a time in silence, the heavy bass rumble and higher
click-clack
of the steel wheels on the track the only sound.

"Thanks, Rags."

"
F'what
?"

"For messing with things. You saved my life." Jesse had stopped shaking. He gave Rags a thin smile

 
"Yeah.
Prob'ly
."

"Thought you said you shouldn't mess with things."

"Well, hell, I wasn't 'bout to let that boy kill you.”

“So you killed him instead."

Rags's
face became more pouched than before. "What you say?"

"You killed him."

"I
killed
him?" he said unbelievingly.

"He hit the third rail, Rags. Landed right on it.”

“I didn't . . . I didn't
see
, I was
runnin
'.
Soon's
I threw him, I was
runnin
'…"

Jesse was amazed. At first he could not believe that Rags did not know what he had done, but the older man's dismay was so heartfelt, his shock so real, that Jesse knew he was not feigning. There was no artifice in Rags. Suddenly the man's shoulders began to heave up and down, and Jesse saw that he was crying.

"I didn't
wanta
kill nobody . . ."

He put an arm around the big man, and patted his shoulder. "It's all right. He would've . . . killed the old lady, would've killed me . . ."

"I ain't never killed nobody, Jesse . . ."

"It's done, Rags. He didn't deserve any better."

Rags snuffled through the next stop, then said, "Oh, Jesus, you think that
lady'll
tell about us? What we look like? She seen us both . . ." His eyes widened. "And I called you Jesse! She heard me call you Jesse!"

Jesse shook his head. "She was too upset. I don't think she even knew what was going on." It was a lie, and he knew it. The old lady had been totally aware of what had happened. "Besides, we saved her. Why would she report us?"

"Oh, I hope she don't," Rags moaned.

So do I, Jesse thought, then considered what it would mean. They would have to hide, but weren't they already hidden? How much more deeply buried could they be?

The hell with it all. The boy had gotten what he'd deserved. He had tried to prey on the weak, had been given a chance to run, but had chosen to try and kill instead, and had received a killer's justice. No tears for him, Jesse thought.

They rode through half the night with a minimum of talk, and played several games of chess, which boosted
Rags's
spirits. By the time they transferred to the
Canarsie
line, he was smiling again. "I got to hand it to you, Jesse. I been
ridin
' a good many years and that's the first time I ever seen anybody do anything like that." He scowled momentarily. "Now wait. I did see one poor fool try to stop a
snatchin
'
coupla
years ago, but as I recall it was his wife or girlfriend or somethin'. Besides, he got cut up pretty bad,
so's
you could say that didn't really count. People don't do much to help other people. Not down here. Not very often up there either."

"That's probably smartest."

"Don't mean it's right. Now I was gonna just walk away from that shit tonight till you butted in. I
woulda
felt bad, sure, but I
woulda
felt a whole lot worse
gettin
' cut up. Can't blame people not
wantin
' to get cut up. I
been
cut up, and it ain't no fun. But hell, you just jumped in there like … like that Jamie Gordon guy, a-fightin' and
swingin
' your old sword … yeah, maybe you
oughta
get
a sword. Scare the shit
outa
these punks.
Yessir
, be
callin
'
you
the Lowland Rider you keep that crap up."

Jesse got on the train ahead of Rags and took a seat. His face had gone hard at
Rags's
first mention of the ballad, and the black man noticed it.

"What's the matter? I say somethin'?"

"No, Rags. Only maybe that name fits me too well.”

“Lowland Rider? That why you acted so funny when you read it?"

Jesse looked around the car. There was only one other passenger, a Hasidic student at the other end of the car, seemingly involved in a Hebrew newspaper. He looked back at Rags. Though weary with years, the man's face was open and honest. "I'm going to tell you something, Rags. Secrets. Just between you and me."

"Who would I tell?"

Then Jesse told him about Donna and Jennifer, about the gang and what they had done, and what Jesse had done to one of them. When he finished there were tears in his eyes, not at the pain of the memory, but the relief of being able to tell the story, and seeing his own horror mirrored in another person's eyes, even if that sympathetic listener was among the lowest of men. To Jesse, he was both father and priest and the small amount of God in which he still believed, and when he was through he felt better than he had in months.

"Dear God, Jesse," Rags said, putting a comforting hand on Jesse's knee, "that's a sad story, true enough. I didn't know before why you'd come on down here, but now I think I see. Least I see better. Terrible thing to carry around with you. I'm real sorry."

"I hate them when I see them, Rags."

Rags nodded. "You mean spits."

"No, not spits. I mean anybody who preys on anybody else. Anyone who turns something good into something rotten. I hate them because I'm one of them myself."

"Can't be, Jesse. You're a good man."

"I should've been better."

Rags swallowed heavily. "So should everybody, what's that prove?"

"I killed a boy who was trying to help me, Rags. That doesn't die easy."

"We're all human, Jesse. You wasn't in your right mind. You shouldn't blame yourself." Rags whispered the next words earnestly, as if trying to convince both of them of their truth. "Only God's perfect."

Jesse sat lost in thought. "God…" he whispered once, then was silent. After a time the train ground to a halt and he looked up. "Where are we?"

"14th Street."

"Let's get off. I found a five yesterday," Jesse said, getting to his feet. "I'll stand you a hot dog, okay?"

"Yeah, sure." Rags followed Jesse out of the car and through the labyrinth. Within minutes they were chewing hot dogs, washing down the meat and buns with coffee. When they were finished, they found a bench and began to play chess. A few moves into the game Rags spoke quietly. "Jesse?"

"Hmm?"

"What I said about you
gettin
' a sword and all. I was
jes
'
jokin
',
y'know
?"

Jesse looked up from the board. There was no humor in his face, only sadness, deep and lurking. "I know," he said.