Children of the Underground Read online

  The air had grown cooler. At some point in the afternoon, the heat broke. It wasn’t cold, just cooler. I kept the windows open. We could hear the city outside. I watched Reggie, trying to determine if he was enjoying hearing the city one last time or if the sounds were painful for him. He didn’t let on one way or the other.

  It was the middle of the afternoon when we heard a knock at the door. It was s single knock and then silence. “What the fuck was that?” Reggie asked, looking at me, growing more nervous with each moment.

  “It’s Michael.” I was so excited to hear his knock that I’d almost forgotten how strange Michael was acting when he left, how disappointed he’d seemed to be with me. I nearly ran to the door. I unhooked the chain lock to let Michael in. I nearly hugged him, but stopped when I remembered how cool Michael had been to me. Michael stood in the doorway for a second. Somehow he looked bigger than I remembered. He was carrying a large brown paper bag in one of his hands.

  “Hey, you two,” Michael said as he stepped inside. He glanced over at Reggie. “Did I miss anything?”

  “Almost,” I answered him, referring to the fact that he’d finally shown up only hours before we were supposed to be meeting with Dorothy. “But I guess you have a few hours to spare.”

  “Almost is a word for people with too much time on their hands,” Michael replied. He walked over to the cabinet to get a glass. His limp hadn’t improved. He filled up his glass with water and drank the whole thing in two enormous gulps. Then he turned back toward us. He looked at Reggie. “You ready?” Michael asked.

  “As I’ll ever be,” Reggie answered flatly. I wondered if I should tell Michael about Reggie’s cold feet.

  “I got something for you,” Michael said to Reggie, reaching into the brown paper bag and pulling out a small silver gun. I saw Michael kill the two men in St. Martin. I listened to him describe killing the fat man. But a gun was something new. Reggie stared at the piece of metal in Michael’s hand. “Do you know how to use it?” Michael asked Reggie. I remembered the crash course your father had given me in how to use a gun. All you have to do is point it at anything scary and pull the trigger.

  “I think so,” Reggie answered. He didn’t question why he needed a gun. “Is there anything tricky that I need to know?”

  Michael showed Reggie the gun. “There’s no safety on this one,” Michael said. “It’s a double action, so all you have to do to fire it is pull the trigger. So when it’s loaded, be careful with it. It’s loaded now. You’ve got twelve bullets. Then you need to reload. Twelve shots go quicker than you’d think. Remember that.”

  “Okay. Anything else?” Reggie asked Michael.

  “Yeah,” Michael said. “It’s a small gun. Small guns aren’t very accurate from a distance. If you’re going to use it, be close.” Michael handed Reggie the gun. Reggie lifted it in front of him so he could feel the weight of it in his hand.

  “Why did you get him the gun?” I asked. I didn’t appreciate how Michael waltzed in here after five days and acted like he’d never left.

  “Because he might need it,” Michael said without looking at me. “Because I know what it’s like to be out there with no one protecting you.”

  “He’s got people protecting him,” I said to Michael. I didn’t want to believe that Reggie would need a gun. I wanted to believe that he would run away to a normal life and live happily ever after.

  “Do you carry one?” Reggie asked Michael.

  Michael shook his head. “I’m still part of the War. We were taught not to use guns unless we needed them. My knife has kept me alive this long.”

  “But the gun is okay for me?” Reggie asked Michael.

  “Unless you tell me otherwise,” Michael said, giving Reggie one last chance to back out before we hooked up with Dorothy again. Reggie put the gun in his pocket. A long silence filled the room.

  “So, are you going to tell me how things went in Philly?” I asked Michael, killing the silence.

  “Maybe,” Michael answered. “Once he’s gone. If you still want to know.”

  “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” I nearly shouted. “Of course I want to know.”

  “This can wait,” Michael said to me after glancing at Reggie.

  “No,” I told him. “It can’t. I don’t care if Reggie hears this. Hell, maybe Reggie should hear this. Listen, I know I should have asked you about working with Dorothy before agreeing to do it, but you’ve got to drop it. It happened. We need to move on.”

  “I’m not mad at you for agreeing to do this without asking me. You can make decisions. I’m not your babysitter.”

  “Then why are you mad at me?”

  “I’m mad at you because you made a bad decision without really thinking about it,” Michael said, pointing at Reggie. “You were careless. You can’t be careless like that. You risked everything we’re working for. You put yourself in danger. You put me in danger. Hell, you put your own son in danger.”

  “You’re going to lecture me about being careless? Don’t forget that I know a lot more about you than you know about me.” Maybe it wasn’t a fair thing to say, referring to all the stories that your father had told me about Michael before Michael even knew that I existed.

  Michael shook his head. “I may be reckless, but I am never careless.”

  “You think there’s a difference?”

  Michael’s voice lowered. “You’re naive enough to think there’s not? Carelessness is doing something without thinking about the risks and ramifications first. Recklessness is knowing the risks and ramifications and rolling the dice anyway. Recklessness can be a choice. I may choose to be reckless sometimes. I may choose to take risks. But it’s always my choice. I am never careless. My recklessness is never a mistake.”

  “Why do you choose it, then?” I asked.

  “To prove that I can,” Michael said. “To prove that I’m in control. If I wasn’t willing to be reckless sometimes, I would have dropped you the moment we got out of St. Martin.”

  I felt a chill run down my spine when Michael said those words, but I knew they were a lie. “That’s the biggest heap of bullshit I’ve ever heard.”

  “You don’t think that there’s a difference between being reckless and being careless?”

  “It’s not that. I just don’t think that’s why you’re mad at me. I think you’re mad at me because you’re worried that I’m going to leave you. You’re worried that I found a different cause and that we’re not on the same team anymore.” I looked at Reggie. Even though I was the one doing the talking, he was watching Michael. “You think that Joe left you because of me and that I’m going to leave you because of Reggie, and nobody tells you shit and it makes you feel stupid and used.” I could tell from the way that he looked at me that I was right. That look gave me strength. “I should have recognized it before, but I wasn’t used to seeing you look scared. Stop me if I’m wrong.”

  Michael didn’t say a word. He simply stared into my eyes. I have known all along why I needed Michael. I was only beginning to realize why he needed me back.

  “Okay, then. Let’s get a few things straight. First, Joe didn’t leave you. He left the War because he figured out it was shit. He didn’t tell you because he wanted to protect you. It’s not more complicated than that. Second, I’m not going to leave you until we find my son, and even then it’s going to be your call. I’m not just using you. Sadly for me, you’re my best friend. So don’t fuck that up, because I’m pretty sure that I’m your only friend.” I gave Michael a moment to say something, but I didn’t expect him to. It wasn’t his style. I looked over at Reggie. He was sitting silently, absorbing everything. All these men, they’re so physically strong but emotionally fragile.

  “Okay, Michael. We’ve got, like, four hours before we have to meet Dorothy and send Reggie on his way. Are you going to tell us what we need to do or not?”


  “Well, if you’re done with your speech”—Michael feigned coolness—“I can probably help us work on a plan.” I could already hear the sound of the old Michael seeping back into his voice. Nobody is fearless, Christopher. It helps to understand your friends’ fears as much as your enemies’.

  Twenty-seven

  When we left the apartment, I felt naked knowing that I was the only one who wasn’t armed. The sun was sinking behind the buildings as the three of us surveyed the point where the drop-off was supposed to take place in only a few more hours. The sky was an amber color. “So, where are we supposed to do this?” Michael asked.

  “Between the bridges,” I said. I was eager to get this done. I was eager to move forward. I could feel the same emotions coming from Michael and Reggie. Still, I knew what Michael was thinking as he eyeballed the area. Some park benches were bolted into the ground facing the water. A number of giant stone columns held up the highway above us. We could hear the cars rumbling by overhead. The columns were our best bet for cover. There was no place to hide.

  “We’re sitting ducks,” Michael said.

  “We’re not blocked in,” Reggie said in my defense, pointing toward the Brooklyn Bridge. “There’s three escape points: north, south, and west. Maria’s right. If anyone comes after us, we’ll see them coming. If we go west, we head right into the thick of lower Manhattan. If we go north or south, we can eventually turn into Manhattan, or we climb up onto either the Brooklyn Bridge or the Manhattan Bridge and head into Brooklyn.”

  We moved in closer, walking under the Manhattan Bridge. For a moment, the sound of traffic from the bridge and the sound of the traffic from the FDR merged. It was beginning to get dark, but people were still on the path, jogging or riding their bikes. We stopped walking, standing along the path as people passed us; runners, young kids on bikes, old Asian men pushing giant black carts filled with God knows what, street vendors heading away from the South Street Seaport for the night.

  “How much time do we have?” Michael asked me.

  I looked at my watch. “Just over an hour,” I answered.

  “Let’s get off the path, then,” Michael said. “We’ll make them wait. We’ll come to them. They can take the risk of standing out here in the open.” We began walking away. I looked back once as we walked. The bikers and the runners were beginning to thin out. It got darker earlier beneath the shadow of the highway. The lights draping the bridges were on, lighting up the sky and reflecting off the turbulent black water beneath them. As I looked, I saw one of the street vendors, a small Middle Eastern man, standing still, watching us. He had been pushing a giant metal street vendor’s cart. The metal slats pulled up on the sides covered the cart’s windows. When the man realized that I was watching him watch us, he put his head back down, leaned into the cart, and kept pushing. The cart moved.

  We went to a bar nearby to kill the hour we had before the action started. We ordered sodas and pretended we were carefree. If the drop-off went down like it was supposed to, the whole exchange should have taken five minutes, ten tops. I have no idea how long the bloody mess that occurred actually took. It felt like an eternity. While we were in the bar it had grown dark and quiet. When we left, the only sound we could hear was the drone of traffic whizzing by above us. As we neared the water, I looked down the footpath running beneath the two bridges. At first, I didn’t see anyone. Then I noticed a figure sitting alone on one of the benches, facing the water.

  “Is that her?” I asked Michael, pointing to the bench. The figure didn’t move.

  “There’s only one way to find out,” Michael said. We crossed the street toward the footpath. A boat floated by on the river, sending light flashing over the figure on the bench for only a second. It was a woman, her hair hanging down to her shoulders. Shadows flitted over her like smoke drifting from a fire.

  “I think it’s her,” I said to Michael. A single biker rode by us, a small white light flashing on his handlebars. The bridges were like giant beacons of light now, pointing in different directions and both pointing away from where we were. Michael walked up to the railing overlooking the black water and turned so that he could get a good look at the woman on the bench. We were only fifty feet from her now. She still hadn’t moved. I stepped close behind Michael so that I could see her. Reggie stayed a few feet behind us.

  “Dorothy,” I whispered into the darkness, hoping that she could hear me, hoping that she would turn her head and we’d be able to see her face. I was sure that once we saw her face, everything would be okay.

  She did turn toward us. Everything wasn’t okay. The light from the bridges reflected off the tears on Dorothy’s cheeks. I followed her tears down her face to her mouth. Then I saw the tape covering her mouth. I looked up for a split second, following the sudden sound of wheels rolling over concrete, and saw a metal pushcart. It was coming toward us and gaining speed. I turned back to Dorothy, looking down at her hands. They were tied together and fastened to her lap as if she were praying. Her feet were tied together too and lashed to one leg of the bench. I remembered her telling us that she was working alone, since she was dealing with people she trusted. I remember thinking how dangerous that sounded. Even if she could trust us, there were so many people she couldn’t trust.

  Even over the sounds of the cars roaring on the highway overhead and the sound of the pushcart rolling toward us, I could hear a muffled sound coming from Dorothy’s direction. She was trying to scream to us. She was trying to tell us to run. Michael ran—only instead of running away from Dorothy, he ran toward her. He cleared about half the distance between us and Dorothy before I saw Dorothy’s head jerk forward. Her head bounced back up. For that split second, I could see the hole where the bullet had come out of the front of her head. Finally, her head came to rest, dangling loosely in front of her like the head of a marionette without a puppeteer.

  I thought in a flash of each of the times I’d met Dorothy—the breakfast in the compound outside of D.C., the late-night visit to my apartment, the meeting in the park. Her death seemed too quick, like she deserved more drama. We all deserve more drama. Few of us get it. Reggie, I thought suddenly. What is going to happen to Reggie? I turned to him. “Run,” I shouted at him as loudly as I could. From where he was standing, he couldn’t see everything that was happening. Maybe he heard the gunshot. Maybe he saw the fear in my face. Whatever it was, he turned and ran. He was already past the first stone column when I turned back to Michael and Dorothy.

  Michael almost made it to Dorothy before the second gunshot. For some reason, I hadn’t heard the first shot. I hadn’t been listening. Not for that. I was listening now. I turned in time to see the splash of water where the bullet entered the East River after whizzing past Michael. Michael heard the shot too. He dove down to the ground. I don’t know if he knew how close the bullet had come to him. I looked over at the pushcart. Two men were stepping out of the back of the cart. They both had guns in their hands. As they stepped out, the small Middle Eastern man hurried from behind the cart. I could see the sweat on his forehead glistening in the dim, shadowy light. He was breathing heavy from pushing the massive cart. He had a gun in his hand too. Whatever rule Michael and your father had about guns, they didn’t share it.

  The first man was holding his gun in front of him, his arm outstretched. He was ready to aim, ready to fire. He only needed a target. The man behind him had a rifle with a scope. He must have been the one that shot Dorothy. The pushcart must have been rigged for this. The men were moving quickly, having lost the element of surprise. The man in the front was aiming his handgun at Michael. He pulled the trigger. I heard the crack. I looked over. Michael was on the ground. He was about three feet from the bench where Dorothy’s body was tied. He was crawling for the cover of the bench. The bullet missed him, but I saw dust from the concrete kick up as the bullet entered the ground only a foot or two from his legs. Another bullet came, one that Michael couldn�
�t avoid. It hit his right calf. I saw his leg jerk and saw blood begin to seep from the wound.

  I stood there, confused and frightened. The bench, Dorothy’s body, even, would give Michael a little cover, but the men with their guns were no more than thirty feet from him. In no more than seconds, they would be able to walk up to him and shoot him at point-blank range. Michael was trapped. He had nowhere to run. I couldn’t do anything to save him. The only thing that could save him now was a gun on our team. Michael reached Dorothy’s body. His hands clambered up her legs, up to the pockets of her pants. I remembered seeing the bulge in her pocket the night she first came to visit me in New York. Was there any chance she had a gun, that they’d tied her up without having the time to search her? Maybe they’d just been lazy. I thought it was Michael’s only hope. I tried to think of something I could do to distract the men with the guns to buy Michael time, but it was useless. I was useless.

  I turned my head and looked south. I should have still been able to see Reggie running but I saw nothing. I turned my head quickly back to Michael. They were closer to him now. My eyes passed by the column closest to me. I saw him standing behind the column. Reggie hadn’t run away. He hadn’t deserted us. He stood with his back pressed against the column, trying to control his breathing. He was holding his gun in his hand. In the growing darkness, I could still see the shining color of his eyes looking to me for guidance.

  “Reggie, now!” I shouted, still not bothering to hide myself. He gave me a small nod and stepped past the edge of the column. He aimed his gun toward the men as they closed in on Michael. He pulled the trigger. One shot. Then another. Reggie missed them with both shots, but he got their attention. I remembered how Michael said that the small gun wasn’t accurate from a distance. We weren’t close enough. Reggie kept pulling the trigger. He pulled the trigger, took a breath, aimed, and then pulled it again.