Terminal City (15 page)

“Actually, Mike,” Hank Brantley said, “that’s usually the way we discover where moles live. Someone rolls out of a cubby onto the tracks, while they’re sleeping or high. Gets electrocuted. Those bodies even cause trains to derail. Happens every week or two.”

There was the sound of something scratching against the metal tracks up ahead of us.

“Quit tugging at me, Mike,” I said.

“Can’t have it both ways, kid. I’m either hooked in your pants for life or not. Hear that noise?”

“Yeah.”

“Track rabbits. That’s the sound their nails make when they’re scampering across the railroad ties. Nails scratching metal.”

“I just changed my mind then, Mike. Don’t let go of me.”

Hank turned on a flashlight to guide us ahead. In about ten feet, he came to a place where the path widened into a raised concrete square, and we all grouped around him.

“So the guy you’re looking for, you know anything about him?”

Our heads all turned to Joe Sammen, the cop who’d recognized “Carl.”

“Only that I’ve seen him around my beat for the last three, maybe four years. That he’s a mole. ’Cause he told me that a few times, and I’ve seen him with other guys I know.”

“What’s your sector?” Hank asked.

“Charlie-David. I got above 43rd Street, Third Avenue to the east side of Fifth, north to 50th Street. The body was in DePew.”

“Let me see his photo again,” Hank said, holding out his hand for Mike’s iPhone. He looked at the picture of the dead man’s face, grimaced, and shook his head from side to side.

“Not familiar to me, which probably means he didn’t come into the station proper.”

“Is that uncommon?” Mike asked.

“Not for a real mole. I mean, there are at least six hundred people—men, women, and the occasional kid—who live in the tunnels that burrow out of 42nd Street, below the concourse. Some of them come in to use the bathrooms and clean up in the sinks, but the ones who are really hard-boiled? They’ve got their own little apartments down here. And they’re afraid that if they run into any of the homeless advocates in Grand Central, they’re going to be scooped up and taken to the nut house. Last thing they want are the rules and regs of a homeless shelter, you know?”

I knew that fact from many of the vulnerable homeless with whom my colleagues had worked.

“I’m warning you guys. What you’re going to see is unpleasant. These folks, they’ve got their own mayor, their own system of laws, and they live by their wits. Some of them cook food on the steam pipes that you hear hissing—food they beg for or take half eaten out of the trash.”

“How long has this been going on?”

“Hobos have lived along train tracks since the first steam engine was invented. Right here, I’d say the nineteen eighties was the decade of the tunnels. The New York Central had gone bust, so a lot of tracks were shut down. At first men mostly used to come in to do drugs. It just kept growing,” Hank said. “Okay, we’re going to move along now. When we stood at the entrance to gate one hundred, I’d say we were almost directly underneath what would be 44th Street to the east of the building.”

“Sort of right below where DePew Place begins,” Mike said.

“Yeah. We’re going to pass along here, and there are hollow areas under this walkway where people live. Don’t disturb anyone if you hear noise. Most of them know me and will respond better than to strangers.”

“Okay.”

Hank Brantley was moving as he talked, turning to look back at us so we could hear him. “There are also some cubbies overhead—”

“In the wall?” Mike asked. I stood still while he leaned his head back. “Up there?”

“Pickaxed into the cracked concrete. Yup. That’s what I meant by apartments. If you look for the areas with overhangs, they’re especially sought after,” Hank said, pointing the light up and craning his neck. “That protects the moles from being seen by workmen on the platforms opposite the wall.”

“Do the tracks run straight out like this from the station?” I asked.

Hank held out one of his beefy arms. “Not at all. The train tracks go due north, but the tunnels spread out and around like the veins on the back of my hand. Sooner or later they connect to the subway tunnels throughout the city, and eventually they lead over to Penn Station,” he said, referring to the city’s massive but far less attractive train hub on the west side. “They were never meant to be linked together, but as the systems spread and the infrastructure rotted, you can pretty much get from here to the Hudson River via underground tunnels.”

“Don’t any of them get killed by trains just walking around?” I asked.

Hank Brantley shrugged. “Not too often. They manage to navigate the rails incredibly well.”

“What’s that smell?” We were deeper into a branch off to the side, still walking on our narrow ledge. I pulled up my collar and buried my nose and mouth in the soft cotton material.

“We’re coming up on one of the little communities,” he said, shining his light on an area below the platform and ten feet ahead of us. “Twenty or thirty guys live in it at any given time. Human waste is a problem for them here in the condos, otherwise they’ve got it figured out pretty good.”

“Condos?”

“That’s what they call them. Like a series of concrete caverns, so close to the surface that they’re often an entry point to tunnel life, but just far enough away from routine police patrols. The condos are pretty upscale, compared to the rest of the area. There are enough sprinkler pipes scattered throughout to get water, and some electrical wire to screw in bulbs. Just hold your nose and walk on by me. Hand me your phone, Mike.”

We inched around Hank, though I almost gagged on the awful smell emanating from below. I took a flashlight from Mercer and moved forward, enough to get away from the direct line of the scent. More scratching noise, and out of the next hole ahead came four or five rats, two the size of piglets.

Hank Brantley had lured three men out of their condo. All were dark-skinned, two were bare-chested against the intense heat, while the third wore a torn undershirt. They stood inches from the long out-of-use tracks, leaning on the edge of the platform to talk with the cop whom they regarded as a friend.

They looked at the photograph of the dead man on Mike’s phone. None of them showed any glimmer of recognition. I couldn’t hear their conversation, till the one closest to me called out and asked if we had any food.

Mike apologized and said he’d send some back in with Brantley.

The man thanked Mike and laughed, directing his gaze at me. “Make mine a filet, medium rare.”

“Don’t look at her, buddy. Can’t cook to save her life. I’ll see you get some red meat.”

“Well, how about she delivers it?” the man said, wagging a finger at me.

“Tell us how to find out who this guy is,” Hank said, “and she’ll bring you a six-pack, too.”

“Don’t know. Not my neighbor.” He held up his arm, and Hank’s light followed. The tunnel forked about twenty feet away. “To the left, you’re going west across 44th. The other one leads up to 46th Street. You say you found him in DePew? Then I’d stay to the right. There’s some broken air vents near DePew you could crawl down if you know your way around here.”

Hank thanked them, then straightened up and rejoined us.

“Can we give them some money?” I asked. “To eat? I mean it’s no worse than paying informants, and I feel so badly for them, living this way.”

“Stone-cold junkies, Alex. Those three would trade it right in for heroin. Mike’s got the right idea. I’ll send one of my men back later with a few sandwiches.”

At the actual fork, the platform we were on ended. Hank guided us down a short staircase. “Step lively. You’re crossing an old track here. Keep your toes out of the ties.”

We paraded across the solid lines, our forward advance sending a dozen or more track rabbits scurrying out of our way. Up five steps and onto another ledge. We passed several more apartment units, with residents occasionally sticking out their heads to see who was trespassing in their hood. They all seemed to relax when they spotted Hank Brantley.

“Just look the other way, Alex, if we come upon a guy called Dirty Harry.”

“And I’ll know him because . . . ?”

“He’ll come out of his hole, expose himself, and start masturbating, okay?”

“That’s her specialty,” Mike said. “Nothing shocks Coop.”

“These tunnels might just prove to be the spot that does,” I said. “Mentally ill?”

“First layer of hell here are the criminals and junkies. Second are the insane, those who have walked away from all the help that’s been offered. You’ve seen a lot of homeless street people,” Hank said, “but the moles are outcasts even within the homeless world of outcasts.”

We had just worked a case that involved the murder of a young homeless woman in Central Park. The way she and her friends existed in the city’s woods and vast green areas seemed almost tranquil compared to the stifling, foul, airless space beneath the city streets.

Hank led the way again.

“How long are we going to keep this up?” I asked. “How many tunnels are there?”

“Just coming out of Grand Central alone, there’s thirty-four miles of track, which fan out and around going down seven levels below the street.”

“Seven stories?”

“Not kidding. So, tunnels? Impossible to know how many there are. The place has been dug and redug so many times for so many different reasons that no blueprints exist of the terminal area. That’s why it’s impossible to patrol.”

Two white men, both bearded and shoeless, soot blackening their feet as high as their ankles, greeted Hank, but he passed them by.

“Both crazy as loons. Not worth my time,” he said. “Those seven levels funnel into twenty-six main rail arteries, which leave here going north, east, and west.”

I was getting nauseous from the smells and sounds as we burrowed deeper into the tunnels.

I knew the importance of what we were doing but should have let Mercer and Mike make the trip without me. Still, I wouldn’t have believed what they reported to me.

Several steps ahead, Hank came to an abrupt stop. He stooped and braced one hand on the platform, then jumped down beside the tracks. “You in there, Smitty?”

It took almost a minute for the bone-thin black man to crawl out of his cubbyhole. “Officer Hank. What’s the beef?”

“No beef, Smitty. I think one of your boys got himself killed last night.”

“Haven’t heard a word. Can’t be true.”

Other heads appeared above us, and a guy in only his undershorts started coming closer to Hank.

“Go back home, Harry,” Hank said, as the man rested one hand on his crotch and started rubbing himself. “I got some police here with me. I got a lady, too.”

Harry ignored the officer but looked at the four of us—Joe Sammen bringing up the rear of our group. He became more excited and obviously aroused.

Smitty shouted at him. “Get out of here, Harry. Respect yourself, dude.”

Dirty Harry didn’t stop playing with himself, but he turned his back and walked off into a darkened strip adjacent to our platform.

“Thanks, Smitty,” Hank said, turning to the officer who’d recognized the deceased. “You two know each other?”

Sammen screwed up his face and studied Smitty. “I think I’ve seen you around, but not lately.”

“I don’t go up much anymore. Don’t have to. Got most of what I need down here.”

Mike’s curiosity got the better of him. He lowered himself down to take a look at Smitty’s lair. The man was intelligent and well-spoken. I couldn’t imagine what had reduced him to life as a mole.

Mike motioned to me, and I slid down off the platform to stand next to him. Inside the hole in the concrete, extending back about eight feet, were the makings of a home. There was a mattress covered by a dirty sheet, a stack of crates that had been converted into a dresser, a bulb overhead, and a wall-sized sketch of Derek Jeter that dominated the space. On top of the bed was a dog-eared old paperback by Chester Himes.

“I’m Mike Chapman. This is Alexandra Cooper,” Mike said, making the rest of the introductions.

It was clear that Hank Brantley had a relationship with this man, who seemed to trust him. “Smitty used to be a graffiti artist. He did that Jeter portrait himself.”

“You’re so obviously talented,” I said. “Why—what brought you—?”

“Why am I a mole? That’s what you want to know, isn’t it?”

“Yes, please,” I said, while Mike brought up the photo of the dead man on his phone.

“I spent a lot of time riding subways doing my art. That got me into the tunnels, and I kind of liked it here. I used to shoot heroin. Big-time habit, and I was stealing all the time. In jail and out, on probation and off. Finally tested positive for HIV and now it’s full-on AIDS. I’ve been shunned for so long aboveground—lost all my family along the way—it’s just easier for me to live down here. Not so judgmental. Not so painful.”

“But there’s medical help we can get you for your condition. You don’t need to live like this,” I said.

“Speak for yourself, lady. This happens to suit me fine.”

“Smitty used to be the mayor of the Grand Central tunnels.”

“No more politics for me,” he said, holding up both hands and smiling broadly.

“You know everybody, don’t you?”

“Pretty much.”

“Need you to look at this picture,” Hank said, taking the phone from Mike.

“What you got for me? Something to eat or a good cigar?”

Hank took a pack of cigarettes out of his pants pocket. “For starters, okay?”

Smitty took the Marlboros and opened the box, reaching into his pocket for a book of matches. “Let me see.”

Hank handed him Mike’s iPhone.

“Sure, I know him.”

I felt better immediately. “What’s his name?”

“Down here, Ms. Alex, that’s the last thing you ask anyone. Nobody wants to be known—not by his street name.”

“Officer Sammen had a nickname for him. Called him Carl. Did he have another name?”

“Not that I know of. You need to understand, there’s groups of people down here. Folks who come in to get out of the cold.”

“Get in how?” I asked. “Through the station?”

“That doesn’t happen much. Security there is pretty tight,” Smitty said, punctuating his words with a few violent coughs. “But there are ladders hanging on some of the walls throughout all the tunnels in the city, rusty old things with thin iron rungs that workmen have used for decades. Gets frigid enough on the street and some people just find a broken grating, a manhole in the street. Let themselves in for the night and maybe stay a week or two. We call them wanderers. Not likely to stay very long. Not worth bothering to get to know ’em.”