Grand Central Noir

Off Track – by Matt Hilton

TERRY BISHOP SAT under a parasol at the corner of E 42nd Street and Park Avenue. The July sun beat down on the New York sidewalks. He wore a ball cap, so the parasol was unnecessary, but it came with the table he sat at outside Pershing Square, an eatery he’d never visited before. When he’d ordered a beer, he’d received an indifferent nod from a Hispanic waiter, who’d then handed him a menu. He wasn’t hungry but he ordered a chicken pot pie. He’d stabbed through the crust with his fork, but that was all the eating he’d do. He sipped his beer – a Corona with a slice of lime wedged in the neck – and ignored the disapproving glance of the waiter.

The hell was the waiter worrying about? Terry would pay for the food, so he could waste it if he chose to. He just didn’t want it. He was way too nervous to eat. He only wanted the table from where he could watch the entrance to Grand Central Terminal.

As usual 42nd Street was heaving with yellow taxis. Overhead more taxis and limos sped back and forth over the elevated ramp that took Park Avenue around the transportation hub. Terry could smell exhaust fumes and spoiling garbage and wondered why the fuck anyone would choose al fresco dining on one of the busiest streets in Manhattan. Maybe they were all there watching the entrance to the station.

Terry had parked his butt at the outermost table of the seating area, facing the train station doors. From his position the overhead ramp obscured some of his view east, but he could still see the towering Grand Hyatt Hotel, its black tinted windows glistening like wet coal under the bright sunlight. If he craned his neck he could see part of the world famous Chrysler Building, but that would mean taking his eyes off the doors he was watching.

He didn’t care about the sights; he was there for one thing only. Correction: one person only. No way was he going to miss his mark this time. He placed down his beer and fed a hand into his jacket pocket, checking – for the thousandth time – that the six inches of pointed steel was where it should be. He ran his fingers up and down its cold length, feeling again the thrill of anticipation and wondering if this time he’d have the nerve to do it. He’d followed his target through three U.S. cities already, and on each occasion had chickened out at the last second. Not this time, though. This time he was determined to succeed.

He could remember last time he was here. Not at the eatery, but outside Grand Central Terminal. Twenty odd years ago, it was. Back then the place was a shit hole. Vagrants literally lived and slept in the phone booths, and it was a struggle getting inside the hub without losing your billfold to the pickpockets and muggers. Now the place had been gentrified. It had become a “tourist destination” and “must-do mecca” for shoppers. Terry had done a walk through of the station earlier and was surprised to find a proliferation of high-end shops, an entire level given over to eateries on the lower floor, and even an upmarket restaurant called Cipriani Dolci, full to the brim with wealthy looking men and women in business suits eating lobster and other rich crap. He’d gawped at the grandeur of the Main Concourse, recalling how last time he’d been there he’d barely noticed any of the architecture as he’d been scurrying to avoid some young hoods who had targeted him as an out-of-towner. On that occasion, young and frightened and overwhelmed by his unfamiliar surroundings, he’d made it on to one of the Metro-North trains with his hide intact. He’d avoided his hunters in a way he hoped his quarry wouldn’t escape him today.

No. It wasn’t going to happen. This time he wouldn’t fail.

Customers at the table next to his vacated their places. Waiting to be seated were a big, square-bodied Englishman with a GI cut, and judging by her unfamiliar mode of dress, with his wife in tow. They were accompanied by a couple of locals, or Americans at least: a red-haired gal who spoke with the rat-a-tat delivery of a 1940s femme fatale and her more reserved husband who looked like an academic, maybe a high-school teacher or a professor. They were an odd grouping, and Terry gained the impression they had only recently gotten acquainted judging by the exploratory nature of their chatter as they sat at the adjacent table. They were talking books and writing. Terry wasn’t surprised; there was a huge convention of thriller writers taking place in the nearby Hyatt. Terry looked them over, wondering if any of them was famous. He checked out the professor, but was surprised to learn moments later that it was the Brit who was the author, the Americans fans.

Terry squinted at the Brit, trying to make out the name on a lanyard round his thick neck. Never heard of him, but maybe the guy was an up-and-comer. The Brit was soft-spoken, genial, and prone to self-deprecating laughter. But Terry recognized the front: the dude was built like a weightlifter, maybe a fighter gone slightly to seed. Crows feet at the corners of his eyes were the only marks he carried on his face, so Terry suspected he was an accomplished brawler. Terry just bet he was a tough son of a bitch, something that he carried over into his writing. He’d be a good test for Terry. He wondered if he should do him right now, and went as far as feeding his hand into his jacket pocket again and fixing his fingers around the tapering length of steel. It would be good practice. He’d know for sure if he finally had the nerve to get his man: if he could do this Brit in plain sight, in front of all these witnesses, then he’d be able to do his target.

But what if he missed the man he was waiting for, for the sake of this nobody?

He took his hand from his pocket and gripped the neck of his Corona. The bottle was half empty. He took a swig, taking one last glance at the Brit before ignoring him and concentrating on watching the sidewalk outside the terminal. He also ignored the banter and laughter of the group at the next table, zoning it and the street noise out.

There was a gathering of pedestrians on both sides of 42nd Street. Waiting for the lights to change so they could cross. His view was momentarily obscured and he rose out of his chair, watching keenly over the bobbing heads. Traffic drew to a halt and the throngs moved quickly, weaving past each other from both sides of the street. Then the traffic was moving again and one of the open-top tour buses now blocked his view as it crawled toward a scheduled stop. Terry shook his head in disgust, downed the remainder of his beer then tossed dollars on the table. He didn’t add a tip; let the waiter eat the damn pot pie if he was that desperate. He squeezed out past the red-haired gal, without any of the quartet giving him as much as a second’s notice. He backed out of the eating area, craning all the time for fear he missed his target. The bus was now clear, but Terry rushed for the street and leaned on the steel bollards erected to form a walkway between Pershing Square and the busy street. Pedestrians bumped and nudged him as they squeezed by with not even a hint of apology. But why should he be surprised? This was New York, after all.

He knew he dared not cross to the other side. There were hundreds of people on the sidewalk, and there was too much of an opportunity for his target to scoot by unseen while Terry was hemmed in by the crowds. He stayed put, watching keenly for the tall man he’d shadowed all the way from Los Angeles. He was jittery. Nervous as hell, but this was it. This was his chance and he wasn’t going to blow it again.

His breath caught in his chest.

There he was.

The one Terry had followed from L.A. to Dallas to Chicago and finally here to the heart of Manhattan. He knew from his research that his target would be leaving the U.S. this very afternoon for a trip to Europe. If he didn’t get him now, then his chance would be lost.

His target was tall and slim, fair-haired, square-jawed, and kind of distinguished looking, an English public schoolboy now grown to adulthood. He was dressed modestly in a navy blazer over an open neck shirt, jeans and slip-on loafers. Who would guess the nature of the innocuous looking man, who could ever tell he was a master of death and destruction? Who’d have believed that someone like Terry Bishop would have been able to get him right there inside one of the busiest train stations in the world?

Despite being tuned to his surroundings, for spotting anyone creeping up on him, Terry’s target missed the shabby guy in the John Deere ball cap and leather jacket crossing the street. The man paused momentarily outside a Capitol One bank, perhaps considering drawing money from the automatic teller machine for his anticipated journey. He must have decided against it; he was too compromised if he went into the narrow hall where the cash machines were, and could be cornered too easily. He moved on, using the cover of the crowd to remain anonymous. He glanced once at a transit cop standing in a doorway of the station but didn’t as much as notice Terry as he fell into step a few yards back.

Terry’s mouth was dry. The Corona hadn’t helped. His heart was beating, and he was sweating from under his cap. His shirt was also damp beneath his jacket, and it had little to do with the hot spell bleaching the colors from the city. He fed his hands into his jacket pockets. His palms were slick. He couldn’t afford to lose his grip. He had to be firm, strike as soon as he had the opportunity. He scrubbed his palms on the lining of his pockets then took the tapering steel in his right hand.

His target entered the terminal, pushing through the heavy wooden doors, averting his gaze to avoid eye contact with any of those pushing out. Terry hung back a pace, under the shade of the red awnings. They don’t recognize you or what you are, Terry thought, but I do. This time you won’t get away from me.

His target slipped inside, hurrying through the crowds toward the Main Concourse. Terry wondered about the man’s luggage. If he was going on a trip, then where were his bags? Then again, the man was known to travel light, to purchase what he needed when he needed it. Must be nice to get incredibly rich off murder and mayhem, Terry decided. Not that Terry begrudged him the wealth; he worked hard for his pay.

Terry followed into the echoing hall, his rubber-soled boots sucking on the marble floor. He was surrounded by the Beaux-Arts style and architectural opulence of grand staircases, an arched ceiling the color of a tropical sea, and the world famous four-faced gold and opal Tiffany clock. He noticed none of it. Terry’s attention was all on his target. He slipped the pointed length of steel part way from his pocket even as he moved another pace closer.

His target had paused, checking the information boards, seeking which of the sixty-seven tracks he needed for his onward journey. Terry also paused. A flutter went through his bowels. Before he’d been experiencing anxiety, but now genuine fear went through him and he felt a very real need to find a lavatory. No, he told himself. Get a grip, goddamnit. You can’t back down. Not now, you coward. Do it. DO IT!

His self-admonishment did the trick.

He lunged at his target, as he pulled the glittering steel fully from his pocket.

The tall man flinched. In the next instant he relaxed, and there was barely a shadow of annoyance on his face as he peered down at the steel in Terry’s hand.

Terry’s cheeks flushed red.

“I’m… I’m really sorry for troubling you,” he stammered, as he drew a dog-eared paperback novel from his opposite pocket. “But would you mind autographing your latest book for me? I’m your biggest fan.”

“Sure. No problem,” said Lee Youngman, the best-selling thriller writer in the world. He accepted the old-fashioned fountain pen from Terry’s trembling fingers with a nod of approval at its fine steel construction.

Herschel’s Broom

– by W. Silas Donohue

GRAND CENTRAL TERMINAL was a completely different world for the third trick overnight maintenance crew, and Herschel enjoyed the serenity. In the very early morning hours of New York City, the crowds are gone, and the shops are closed. There are no harried workers or frantic shoppers or mesmerized tourists or clambering children with their bedraggled parents. The lights are dimmed now to save energy and the only interruption besides the whine of the floor cleaning machine are the late night train crews hurrying home and the occasional distracted police officer checking the email messages on his phone. The terminal may be called the crossroads of America during the day, but late at night it was as lonely as sunset in a dusty ghost town.

The overnight maintenance crew was lining up for assignments but the talk was all about a lost and found little boy.

“Didja hear? They found the kid.”

“Really? Where was he? How’d they find him?”

“Seems he just walked into the police office. He said that some big old guy took him by the hand and walked him over, but no one saw anyone with the kid. He just walked up to the sergeant’s desk and said, ‘I’m lost.’ They figure he just got scared and ran away, and when he got hungry enough and smelled the doughnuts he just walked into the office.”

“The cops were really eating doughnuts? Are you serious? Fuggedaboutit…”

The big floor-washing machine was the assignment that most of the workers wanted as they got ready for tonight’s shift. On the hockey rinks they use a machine called a Zamboni to smooth the surface and lay down a new fresh layer of ice. It is a sort of a mongrel mix between a farm tractor and a convenience store’s Slurpee machine. The terminal’s floor equipment looked a little like that except it sprayed out hot water and detergent in front and had a squeegee and vacuum in the back to suck it all up. It was quicker and better than the old fashion gang of workers with mops.

The best part for the staff though was that the driver got to sit up high in the seat like a stagecoach driver in the Wild West. Herschel chuckled as everyone pushed to get the assignment of chauffeuring the device around the extent of the station. Herschel even patted Vincent on the back when he was anointed, but Vinnie was too excited to notice and was beaming when he climbed into the driver’s seat. Herschel stood back behind the group and was happy to grab the big old dust mop and, even considering his seniority in the company, was happy to stay out of the nightly jockeying for the noisy machine. The broom was cotton and had soft tassels along the edge and was wider than Herschel was tall, and Herschel was a big man. Herschel was most comfortable when slowly pushing the broom around the boundaries of the waiting area in that little strip where the floor cleaner couldn’t reach; somewhere between the hard edges of the beige marble wall and the vast expanse of the rotunda. Roughly comparable to that fuzzy boundary between reality and hope.

Herschel followed the same routine every night with almost no variation. After picking up his broom from the closet by Track 115 he would go upstairs and start his sweep. Herschel started by circling around the clock and the information desk in the middle of the floor. There was always a hint of a grin as he looked up at the big mural of the night sky. The story was that the constellations were painted on the ceiling backwards but Herschel thought that people who worried about things like that were missing the point. The only thing that he saw was that the cosmos had been frozen in place forever and brought indoors; and that was pretty terrific no matter which way the stars were supposed to be pointed. “It’s amazing,” he thought, “how people get so caught up in the little crap that they miss the thrill of the big picture.” The rumor was that over the years the workers repairing the ceiling signed their name and left little notes in places that were invisible 125 feet below. Herschel liked the idea that someone could leave a little bit of his mark for posterity in this great old building.

As Herschel slowly pushed his broom, a different recollection would pop into his mind in each corner of the building. Every night was a special set of highlight reel memories that rolled through his mind’s eye. In the old days, the cleaning crews worked while the building was still open to the public. It was a little more difficult to maneuver with all of the people but Herschel enjoyed seeing many of the same faces night after night. This evening, as he headed towards the ticket windows, he remembered an old acquaintance, an accountant type who was always nervous and scampering from one place to another.

One night Sal, that was his name, a wiry little man from the Bronx, was heading to a meeting in the old New York Central Building at the north end of the terminal. He stopped, as he usually did, and spoke briefly with Herschel about how the Yankees were doing and making fun of Herschel’s poor Dodger team. Herschel turned out to be the last man to see Sal alive because at the same time they were talking about sports, a bunch of thugs were on their way over from a big time gangster named Lucky Luciano to silence Sal forever. Herschel never talked baseball with anyone again and lost interest altogether for the game a few years later when the Dodgers left Brooklyn.

One of Herschel’s favorite people, though he never talked to him directly, used to hold court in the corner of the rotunda. He was a drifter and a con artist, but when he spoke, he was as smooth as the newly polished marble floors. Herschel almost laughed out loud when he thought about the time Grand Central Pete, which was what everyone called him though no one really knew his name, sold the entire building to a guy who had just gotten off the 20th Century Limited train from Chicago. The 20th Century was one of the fastest and nicest trains in the whole world back then and it was usually filled with lots of wealthy customers.

Grand Central Pete was schmoozing with a well-dressed man for a while, had him laughing and feeling pretty good about himself, then he took his money and handed the poor guy some fancy looking paperwork that was supposed to be the deed for the terminal. Pete then sauntered over to the far corner of the rotunda, about a football field away from the first guy, still laughing and smiling, and sold the whole building again, right away, to another stranger in an expensive suit. And everyone laughed and felt real good as Grand Central Pete walked out of the building with his head held high, his hat set at a jaunty angle and all his pockets filled with hundred dollar bills. What a showman. What a crook.

Herschel turned right and headed up a long ramp between the two rows of ticket windows to the old waiting room. There used to be long wooden benches there, as if you were in church, lined up one in front of another. But as the railroads began to lose money and people started to forget about the old building, the poor and the homeless and the drug users turned this part of New York City into their own kingdom. The toilet was at one end of the hall and almost no one except the motley citizens of this unkempt kingdom would use those facilities. Herschel even remembered when the maintenance staff would sometime “forget” to go there. Then the mood shifted and the government spent more money than Herschel could imagine and fixed up the old station. They got rid of the benches, moved the toilet downstairs and cleaned up the old waiting room for the rich to use for parties and things like that. Even though the seats are gone, with a closer look, the outline of where the old wooden benches sat is still visible.

The floors here are made of the same marble found in the main rotunda, but running the full length of each ghost bench lies a shallow gully. Almost like the ridges of a washboard. After one hundred years of feet being crossed and uncrossed and toes tapped and shoes shuffled while waiting for a train, there is now a noticeable trough in the marble. The gullies are evenly spaced where the benches use to be located. Row after row. Much as water had eroded away the mountains to make the Grand Canyon, the leather shoes of countless travelers had done the same thing to the floors of Grand Central Terminal. Herschel loved the idea that an act as seemingly insignificant as sitting down and waiting, unnoticed by the same people who were worried about how the ceiling was painted, would have such a real and permanent physical impact. “Folks just don’t seem to appreciate that what is not seen is usually a lot more important than what is seen” was one of Herschel’s favorite observations.

As the night crept along, it was time for Herschel to take a little breather. Herschel leaned his broom on the wall and took out an old red bandana from his pocket. He wiped his forehead and brushed off the dust from his arms, tilted his large frame back against the wall, and took in the sights around him. The terminal was especially quiet tonight. Besides the Zamboni sliding around the rotunda and cleaning the floors, the only other thing he could see was a new guy climbing up a high ladder in the old waiting room.

Electricity was a new-fangled idea for a building back one hundred years ago when the terminal was built, so all of the fancy French-designed chandeliers purposely featured the light bulb. Like a newly engaged woman walking around holding her left hand out, just so everyone could see the diamond ring. Over the years the company introduced new super-efficient bulbs that lasted a lot longer than the old bulbs, so a regular light bulb crew was no longer needed. Nowadays the job of occasionally changing the bulbs fell on an unsuspecting new guy. So that is what Ryan – Herschel thought that was the new guy’s name – was doing way up on that ladder. There was a twinkle in Herschel’s eye as he watched Ryan struggle with the light bulbs. To prevent the public from being tempted to take any bulbs, it was an old railroad trick to use left handed bulbs. These bulbs were specially made and screwed in the opposite way from the light bulb in your house. It always took the new guys a while to figure that out and tonight was no different. It was like trying to tie your shoes while looking into a mirror and was a lot tougher than it sounded. The wooden step ladders were tall and Ryan had become all twisted around himself, twenty feet in the air, like a dangling ornament on a wobbly Christmas tree. Soon enough Ryan was cursing out loud as he fumbled with each bulb. “What the ‘fuh’ is the matter with these… damn… jeez… c’mon…”

Down the ramp in the main rotunda, Herschel turned and watched Vincent swing the floor cleaning machine around towards the ramp. The easiest way to get up the long incline with the Zamboni was to start in the middle of the hall and build up speed and race to the top of the ramp. If done right, the machine would slow down to almost a crawl by the time it got to the top. Without a good head of steam, the machine could stall out before making it all the way up to the waiting room. But since it was quiet tonight, Vincent was able to get an even longer run up the ramp. He looked like an old-time stock car driver behind the steering wheel with his perpetually slicked back hair and his blue work shirt open to show a skin-tight NY Rangers t-shirt below.

Vincent was fiddling with his cell phone and headphones as the machine started to pick up speed. He seemed more worried about playing a game on his phone then looking where he was going. The vehicle began its sprint up the ramp and the extra headway allowed the engine to rev up faster than anyone had ever seen it go before. To the right of Herschel, Ryan was still completely flummoxed by the light bulbs and was becoming more frustrated by the second. He was so confused and embarrassed that he had become oblivious to the world around him. The Zamboni continued to race as fast as the machine could go as it started up the ramp. Vincent was now completely lost in his phone and rushing along without ever looking up.

With the newfound power in its wheels, the Zamboni roared like an eight-year-old getting out of school for the summer break, and it refused to slow as it climbed up the incline. It was still racing when Vincent finally realized that he wasn’t in the slow crawl that he expected but was instead sprinting recklessly toward the old waiting room. In the too-little-too-late world that was common for Vincent, he finally put the phone down and grabbed the wheel and jerked the Zamboni to the left. Swerving harder than it ever was designed for, the machine bounded over the antique grooves in the floor. The Zamboni bounced like a baby carriage on a cobblestone street as Vincent completely lost control. His cell phone banged to the floor, a bead of sweat appeared on his forehead, and his hair lost its permanent cool for the first time in memory.

Hershel sized up the situation quickly and dropped his red bandana and ran toward the ladder and the light bulbs. Without slowing down for a step, Herschel leaped up the ladder as far as he could. Ryan was already stretched out and twisted around with the light bulbs and the two of them crashed to the floor. Ryan fell on top of Herschel while still looking up toward the chandelier. Both of them let out a groan as they hit the unforgiving marble floor.

An instant later the runaway Zamboni slammed into the ladder and snapped off the bottom half.

If Ryan were still on the ladder he would have been thrown into the air and crashed down headfirst to the floor. Vincent and the Zamboni finally came to a rest just before reaching the far wall. Ryan caught his breath, looked around and got up and started screaming at Vincent. The rest of the crew came running up the ramp from all corners of the terminal to see what had happened. The foreman was last to arrive and began yelling at anything with a heartbeat. Everyone was talking about how lucky it was that Ryan lost his balance and fell off the ladder at just the right moment. The general consensus was that it was a classic case of dumb luck.

Herschel picked himself up off the floor and in the confusion ambled quietly back to his broom, picked up his red bandana and started his rounds again. Everything happened so fast that Ryan never realized that it was Herschel who had knocked him off the ladder and softened his fall. The rest of the cleaning crew finally settled down, the Zamboni was given to another driver and Vincent and Ryan stayed away from each other the rest of the night. Soon enough the sun started to rise and the morning’s newly delivered soft light began to creep over the windowsills on the east side of the rotunda. Daylight was the call for this maintenance crew to close up shop and head home.

Well after the morning rush was over, but before the lunchtime throng jammed the restaurants on the lower level of the terminal, Chuck was showing a new customer-service representative around. The classic old building was crowded now, buzzing and in full organized confusion. It was Chuck’s job to teach Lizzy the ropes and show her all over. On the lower level, by Track 115, Lizzy saw an old broom behind the stairwell closet with a faded dusty red bandana hanging from a bent nail above.

Before she could reach out to touch the grimy broom, Chuck jumped in with, “No, no, no. Don’t touch that. It’s a san phra phum.”

Startled, Lizzy turned and softly asked, “A what?”

“OK, everyone calls me Chuck but my real name is Chanarong. I’m from Thailand and over there everyone has these little spirit houses outside their home. They are about the size of a little girl’s dollhouse but much fancier. The san phra phum brings protection and good luck. It is kind of where wandering spirits can find shelter or peace. Over here you have haunted houses; in Thailand they give the spirits their own private villas.”

Lizzy’s face squished up in confusion and she mumbled, “But, it’s just… an old broom…”

“Yeah, you’re right, but it is the same idea,” said Chuck. “I was told a long time ago that no one touches that broom. It’s been here forever. It is a sort of ‘spirit house’ for all of the maintenance guys. The broom and the red bandana are always there. Look at the dust that has built up over the years. It is a relic. The crews are pretty superstitious about it and they never move it from that spot. Hell, we haven’t even used a broom like that in decades. Anyway, no one moves it. Ever. You have to give the san phra phum the respect it deserves. Hell, if someone thinks it’ll protect him or something like that, what am I supposed to say? Just don’t mess with it. OK?”

Lizzy stared for a moment at the broom, and then the two of them moved back to the swirl of stories and characters in Grand Central Terminal.