Operation Underworld (44 page)

“Marakov 7.65.”

“Fuckin’ great! Now we’re huntin’ elephants in Grand Central Station!”

Johnson was at the peak of his frustration and thought he was having a bad night until he glanced around through the crowd and saw that the night was about to get a lot worse.

At first, he wasn’t sure it was McKeowen, but as the aberration drew closer, the bruised face, blood-stained jacket and cast poking out of the jacket sleeve confirmed his worst fears. For the first time since he knew McKeowen existed, Johnson realised what he was dealing with. Beaten, bruised and broken, this bastard kept on coming. He didn’t give a shit, it only seemed to piss him off worse. Now, with nothing left to lose, he was ready to cross the line.

“Do you understand what I’m trying to tell you about the train situation, Agent Johnson?” the manager asked for a second time.

“Never mind that! Where’s the nearest transit police?”

“What?”

“
TRANSIT POLICE
!
WHERE ARE THEY
?”

“Ground level, upstairs, why?”

Johnson was already moving. “Call them! Tell them they’ve got a convicted murderer on the premises!”

Doc was only twenty feet away by now and picking up speed. Johnson saw the gun, and broke into a run.

“A
what
?”

“Do it!
NOW
! Tell them he’s armed and dangerous! Shoot on sight!” Johnson abandoned his luggage, taking only a black leather satchel, and darted into the crowd. The station manager stood and watched as Doc and Louie flew past the small booth.

As no trains were arriving or departing, there was eight or ten feet of space, closest to the rail heads on the platform, which for the most part was clear. Doc saw it first and, moving to his right, was able to close the distance between himself and Johnson.

By the time Johnson realised where he was it was too late. He had already passed the last flight of stairs to the upper level and Doc was only two tracks behind, and closing fast. Johnson looked around at the people and then at a porter driving a luggage tractor. Reaching the end wall of the lower level, with the tracks to his right, he waited until the tractor, with its train of empty carts, turned to head onto the last platform. As it passed in front of him he could see Doc over on track twenty-nine, standing on a bench waving hello at him.

Doc was surprised when he heard the two shots. He didn’t expect even Johnson to fire in a crowd. As he ducked behind a post, Doc understood what Johnson was doing. He wasn’t being shot at, Johnson fired into the air. The shots had the desired effect. Even jaded New Yorkers knew when to duck.

In seconds, everyone was on their hands and knees, there was screaming and commuters on their way down the stairs were now quickly on their way back up.

Doc peeked carefully around the post. Johnson had vanished. Where the hell did he go? Doc quickly hopped back on the bench, weapon at the ready, and scanned the crowd. No sign of him! Fuckin’ Houdini!

“
DROP YOUR WEAPONS, AND PUT YOUR HANDS ON

YOUR HEAD! THIS IS THE NEW YORK CITY TRANSIT POLICE! DO IT NOW!

”

Doc turned around and saw three Transit cops, about forty to fifty yards away, drawing a bead on him. There was no way it was going to end here! Putting his hands up slowly to buy time, he realised they had snub-nosed .38’s. They were at the outside limit of their accurate range. He made a decision.

He fell to the floor, rolled under the bench and off the platform and onto the track. Once there, he ran. Shots rang out behind him, but from the ricochets he knew he was out of range.

Through the shadowy tunnels, Doc couldn’t see where the tracks exited up onto the streets, even though he now judged himself to be about four hundred yards from the passenger platforms. A hundred yards ahead the track disappeared into a warren of tunnels, and he hoped Johnson hadn’t made it that far and lost himself in the labyrinth. Then McKeowen got a break.

Two more shots echoed through the tunnel, and the bullets hit the wall behind him high and to the left. It was too soon for the Transits to be this close. He had found Johnson.

“Why don’t you give it up, McKeowen? The cops’ll get you sooner or later.”

Doc was crouched behind a metal tool bin, against the far wall and smiled as he thought to himself,
That’s supposed to be my line.
He didn’t call back, gambling that Johnson wasn’t sure where he was. After about five minutes the gamble paid off.

Footsteps echoed through the tunnel, and Doc peered over the tool bin to see Johnson’s dark figure running along the tracks to the farthest branch of the railway. Doc stood, felt a little dizzy and steadied himself on the metal bin as he felt behind his head. His hand came back with blood on it. His head wound had reopened.

As he took off after Johnson, he heard three gunshots from Johnson’s tunnel. Louie!

Doc realised that, in his blind fury, he had lost his unarmed friend back on the platforms.
This is his neighbourhood and he musta known where the tunnels came out! Stupid bastard!
Doc shook off the dizziness and ran for all he was worth. Reaching the tunnel, he didn’t like what he saw.

There was a man, in coveralls and a work hat, bent over another man who was lying on the ground. Doc looked at the chest and head wounds as he approached the scene. It was a Transit cop. The older man in coveralls looked up at Doc while stooping to hold the head of the dead policeman.

“He just popped outta the wall and shot. Nuthin’ I could do. Never said nothin’. I thought I was next!” The old man was in shock. Doc put a hand on his shoulder and crouched down next to him.

“It’s okay, Pop,” Doc consoled in between breaths. “Take it easy. There’ll be some more cops along in a minute. You just tell them what you saw, okay?” The old man nodded in agreement. “Where does this tunnel come out?”

Johnson had run as far as he could and slowed to a walk. Asign on the tunnel wall told him he was no longer under Madison Square Garden but nearing the back of the General Post Office, so he figured he must be past Eighth Avenue. He picked up his pace again, and soon saw the lights of Ninth Avenue, about two hundred yards ahead, peering back at him. He walked swiftly, smelling freedom, adjusted his clothing and smoothed his hair to shake off the dishevelled appearance, then reloaded his weapon.

As Johnson emerged from the south bound tunnel, adjacent to 31st Street, he stopped, dropped his satchel and stood motionless.

There, about a hundred yards ahead on the track, flanked by four Transit police, guns drawn, with his arms folded across his chest, was former garbage man, US Treasury agent and almost PI, Louie Mancino.

Johnson instinctively looked behind him, and Louie called out. “Never look back, Johnson. Somethin’might be gainin’ on ya!”

Johnson swung back around, blasting. Louie and the cops dived for cover with bits of ice-covered rock and timber flying around them and, once on the ground, Louie yelled out, “It’s okay guys! Treasury agents only carry wheel guns. He’s only got six shots!”

There was a lull in the gunfire and Louie and one of the cops rose up and brushed the snow from their clothes. Two of the others tentativly followed.

“Let me show ya why Satchel Paige never made it to the majors!” a composed Johnson called back. He reached into his overcoat and removed a pair of chrome-plated .45’s.

Dirt and rock exploded around their feet as the .45 rounds shattered the stone and ricocheted off the steel rails. Louie’s group spread out, ran for cover and burrowed deeper into the gravel and frozen dirt with their hands. When the shooting stopped and they looked up, Johnson was gone. The cops looked at Louie, who smiled back.

“Must be new issue!”

As Doc emerged from the tunnel, the nervous cops drew a bead on him. Doc stopped where he was and raised his hands.

“
NO, NO, NO
! He’s one of us!” Louie jumped in front of the police with his hands in the air until they relaxed their guard.

“Mancino! You okay?” Doc called out, running on the loose gravel.

“Bastard’s got an arsenal!”

The men were forced to talk loudly to one another, as the wind surrounding them raised the level of ambient noise in the rail yard. Doc began giving instructions to the police.

“He killed a cop, body’s back there. Be careful tramping around the crime scene. You’ve got a witness so get a hold of the NYPD right away so they can talk to him. There’s a good chance there’s a couple more of them back there posing as treasury agents, here’s their ID’s.” He gave the transit cop two of the bifolds. “Be careful, they’re armed! Which way’d this one go?”

The officer he was addressing, responded, “He headed off towards 31st. But if he stays on foot he won’t get far. This stuff is supposed to get worse. He’ll have to find shelter.”

“Or transportation,” Louie added.

“Exactly where the hell are we?” Doc asked, still talking in a hurried tempo.

The cop used his gloved hand to indicate directions. “10th, 9th, 33rd and 31st.”

“So West Side Drive’s that way?”

“Coupl’a blocks, but ta get on it ya gotta hit Eleventh Avenue and head south.”

Doc and Louie began to climb the granite embankment to the street level and Doc called back, “Let your Captain know there’s two men in pursuit. We’ll call in on the nearest police phone when we make contact! Got it?”

“Yes, sir. Nice working with you, Agent Mancino!”

Louie waved back from halfway up the embankment, and Doc looked at him. Once on street level, the two were unsure of which way to go. Any direction would have been a guess. The question was answered when a loud scream, followed by cries for the police, emanated from Ninth Avenue.

“Let’s go,
Agent
Mancino!”

At the corner of Ninth they were in time to see a vehicle speeding away, down West 31st, and a woman violently beating a mailbox with her purse.

“Louie, find us something to drive, fast!” Doc ran over to the women. “Ma’am, what happened?”

“Dickless bastard stole my cawr! Ran up, pulled me out and stole my gowd-damned cawr! I find out who he is, I’ll cut his bawls off wit a butta’ knife!
A RUSTY ONE
! So help me,
GAWD
!” She hit the mailbox once again.

Doc took the irate women by the shoulders and looked her in the eye. “Describe your car to me. It’s very important!”

“Dark Green Mercury, tan interior, Wendal Wilkie bumper sticker, why? Youse guys cops?”

“No, but we know the man who did this. We’ll take care of your car.”

Doc heard a horn beep and looked to his right. Louie sat in a mother-of-pearl white ’32 Ford coupé hot-rod with a dark-haired stranger, barely out of his teens, in the driver’s seat.

Doc shouted instructions to the confused women as he ran to the car.

“Find the nearest police box. Call the station house, tell them what happened. Tell them the guys in pursuit think he’s headed towards the Battery.”

“What’s the number?” she called back.

“Just pick it up and talk!” Doc got in and gave the order. The hot-rodder spun a 180 on the snow-covered street and they were in pursuit. Louie noticed the radio was on.

“Hey! Gene Krupa! Mind if I turn this up?”

“Be my guest, Cool Breeze!” The young driver answered, as they sped down West Side Drive,
Drum Boogie
blasting away.

Due to the deteriorating weather conditions, traffic was sparse on the WSD. Ice hadn’t yet formed, but the wet snow made it impossible for the cars to do over fifty and not spin out of control.

Just south of Canal Street, around Pier 29, Louie spotted him.

“Doc! There he is! A few blocks ahead, step on it!” Louie instructed.

“No! Don’t! Drop back,” countered Doc.

The driver was confused. “Doc, why?”

“He’s not speeding. He doesn’t know we’re back here. Drive slow, keep about ten car lengths back. After Chamber’s Street, there’s only a coupl’a places he can get off.”

“Say, Daddyo, how’d you know this cat was makin’ fer the Battery?”

“He wants outta here and south as soon as possible. The GWis either jammed or closed, and without going all the way round through Brooklyn, Jersey’s the best bet. Maybe tryin’ get out in the morning at the Newark rail yard.”

“That’s far out! You should be like a private investigator dude or somethin’!”

“Naw! Pay‘s lousy and the conditions are shit,” Doc answered, just as Johnson spotted them. He sped up and weaved in and out of the few cars and trucks on the drive.

“Don’t lose him!”

“Not to worry, Big D!” The young hot-rodder’s driving was impressive. He brought them to within eight or ten car lengths in no time. “You want me ta get next to him?”

“No, hold it here. He’ll have to slow down at Battery Place to turn onto State.” Johnson again surprised them. He had no intention of slowing down, or turning.

All three watched, stunned, as Johnson picked up speed and headed straight for the wooden barricades bordering Battery Park. His car flew off the exit ramp, became airborne and his chassis ploughed through the top half of the red brick wall.

“Sorry, Doc!” The driver slammed on his brakes, and executed two perfect donuts in order to lose momentum and stop before the broken barricades. “That cat does not have both oars in the water!” The Mercury slammed hard onto the park lawn, and sped off around the Castle Clinton Monument.

“Go around to State Street! Go,
GO
!”

They fish-tailed out and rounded State Street in time to see Johnson tearing through the lower end of the park. Two late-night lovers scattered as he sped towards them, knocking over trash baskets and taking out a couple of signs.

From their cold seats in the hot-rod they could see Johnson continuing to drive down the footpath through the south barricade and on past Pier One.

“Shit!”

“What’s wrong, Doc?”

“I was wrong about Jersey. It’s Pier Two!”

“So?”

“Governor’s Island! It’s a federal reservation! He gets out there, we can’t touch him. We go anywhere near that place, they’ll shoot us then arrest us!”

“Whatta we do?”

“Step on it!”

In less than a minute they came to a screeching halt in front of Pier Two, next to the dark green Mercury sitting on the pier, its door open, engine still running. Doc was the first one to reach the waist-high accordian gates of the loading ramp. A sign posted the hours of the ferry and showed that the last run of the day to the island was an hour ago. But Johnson was nowhere in sight. A foghorn sounded over on Pier One and Doc vanished around the corner.