Walk on the Wild Side Read online

  “If you haven’t seen him, how do you know?” Truvey asked, hurrying to keep up with him as he headed for the dark opening to the underground.

  “There’s no other reason for him to go to your show and let you see him.”

  “Huh.” Truvey began processing that.

  They started down the stairs.

  Truvey made a connection. “He wanted me to call you.”

  Kane glanced at Truvey, one eyebrow raised. “Yeah. He did.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said as they reached the underground level.

  Kane fished two tokens out of his pocket, handing one to Truvey. “No need. Him and his brothers have been trying to kill me. I was going to have to face whichever one of them it is sooner or later. I’m sorry you’re getting caught up in it, but I think it’s working out for the best.”

  “I ain’t too sure about that,” Truvey said.

  They were through the turnstiles and to the southbound platform, which was relatively deserted this late in the evening. Kane placed his hand on Truvey’s elbow and led her south along the platform.

  Truvey looked over her shoulder. “There’s a guy at the far end coming this way. I think it’s him.”

  “Good,” Kane said.

  “Really?”

  They reached the end. Several metal stairs went down to the tunnel. A sign covered in graffiti was unreadable, but it was most likely a dire warning not to enter. There was a narrow concrete emergency path on the outside wall.

  “After you,” Kane said.

  Truvey didn’t hesitate or complain, which surprised him. “So, we’re not taking the train?”

  “Nope.”

  “But we paid for it.”

  Kane finally looked back as he followed down the stairs and onto the ledge. He recognized the Navajo as one from the boat, but couldn’t recall his name, nor could he remember if Yazzie had introduced them, which he doubted. Some of the events were kind of blurry in his mind.

  It had been a hard couple of days.

  The guy was walking toward them with purpose. He wore a black leather jacket, white t-shirt, jeans and black boots. As Kane stepped back out of the light, he saw the Navajo reached inside his jacket and pull out a gun.

  So much for the code.

  The tunnel stank of garbage, stagnant water and the faint odor of decomposing animals. Something screeched and Truvey jumped back into Kane. “A rat!”

  “It’s more scared of you than you are of it,” Kane assured her.

  “I don’t think so,” Truvey said.

  “Keep moving,” Kane said, glancing over his shoulder.

  There were two lines, south and north, separated by stanchions. A few emergency bulbs barely gave enough light to see. Kane wished he’d brought the night vision goggles, but wishes were bullshit, at least that had been Merrick’s take on them. Play the cards he had.

  “Hold on,” Kane said, putting a hand on Truvey’s shoulder. He looked back. The station was a patch of light fifty meters away. He saw the Navajo silhouetted for a moment, then the man was in the tunnel and hidden by the same darkness.

  “Shit,” Truvey muttered as the distant sound of steel on steel indicated an approaching train.

  “It’s coming on the other track. Northbound.” Kane indicated an indentation in the wall with several panels and vertical conduits. “Stay here.”

  “Until when?” The sound of the approaching train was reverberating off the tunnel walls.

  “Until I come and get you,” Kane said.

  Truvey nodded. “Okey-dokey.”

  Kane jumped off the ledge between the tracks. He drew the forty-five. The headlights of the northbound train were flickering through the pedestals between north and southbound as it approached. Kane hopped over the third rail and hid behind one of the stanchions. The subway clattered by, inches from Kane, slowing as the first car entered the 23rd Street Station. Kane spun about, watching the windows of the cars flash by, going slower and slower. As the last car passed, he jumped onto the north bound tracks, then leapt, grabbing hold of the bar to the side of the sliding door in the middle of the rear car. He pulled himself up and onto the train outside the door, looking to the left. He was reminded of subway ‘surfing’ as a kid.

  He spotted the Navajo, gun raised, walking in the other direction along the southbound tracks his focus directly ahead. Kane gave it a couple of seconds, the train slowing down, then he jumped down to the tracks, two car lengths short of the station. He crossed over to the southbound side and walked stealthily on the crossties.

  The Navajo was thirty feet ahead, moving slowly, sweeping his gun back and forth, searching the nooks and crannies.

  Kane closed the distance, hurrying to arrive before the man reached Truvey’s hiding spot. Behind him, the brakes released and the subway continued on its northbound journey out of the station. The noise helped cover Kane’s approach. He closed the gap until he was only ten feet behind the Navajo.

  “Drop the gun,” Kane shouted, above the dwindling noise of the train.

  The Navajo froze. Slowly began to turn.

  Kane fired, the round just inches from the man’s head. “Drop it!”

  The Navajo let go of the pistol and finished his turn, hands held high.

  “What’s your name?” Kane asked, the sound of the train fading into the distance.

  “Begay.”

  “Why the gun?” Kane asked. “What happened to blood for blood?”

  “The gun is for the woman.” Begay smiled. “I have a blade for you.”

  “Yeah, I bet you do. Why don’t you guys just go home? Call it even.”

  “You killed two of my brothers.”

  “They’d be alive if they hadn’t tried to kill me,” Kane said. “I’ve got no blood feud with you people.”

  Begay laughed, the sound echoing off the concrete walls. “Are you going to shoot me, Kane? Is that your idea of honor?”

  “It’s my idea of being smart,” Kane said, but he was in a quandary. Unlike the previous morning when Dale had had the drop on him, here he had the upper hand. Giving it up would be stupid, but . . .

  Truvey’s voice cut through his dilemma. “You were going to shoot me?”

  Begay glanced to his left as she appeared out of her hide site. “Shut up.” He returned his focus to Kane. “Blade on blade?”

  Kane figured shooting Begay in the leg would cripple him and definitely lower the probability of a knife fight. It would not however—

  His calculations were interrupted by Truvey swinging her heavy purse and smacking Begay on the back of the head. “You were gonna shoot me!”

  Begay whirled and hit Truvey in the cheek, open-handed. “Silence, whore!” The slap echoed off the walls.

  Kane’s finger tightened on the trigger, but Truvey was in the line of fire, albeit behind Begay, but if the bullet punched through it would—

  “Screw you, asshole!” Truvey swung the bag, this time with all her might, and it hit Begay on the side, knocking him off balance.

  Begay put his right foot out to steady himself. Onto the third rail. Electricity arced from the rail through his body, down through his other foot, which acted as a ground. Begay went rigid, his muscles contracting out of control and he was unable to break the circuit.

  “No!” Kane yelled as Truvey reached to help him. He grabbed her, pulling her away. Begay’s hair began to smoke and then he collapsed, foot still touching the rail.

  “Let’s get out of here,” Kane said, dragging Truvey with him.

  MEATPACKING DISTRICT, MANHATTAN

  It was taking a lot less work convincing Truvey she hadn’t really killed Begay than it had Pope reference Dale. She seemed more than willing to accept Kane’s loose definition of ‘accident’ as they walked from the 14th Street subway station to the diner.

  Kane had ruled out the homeless village on the West Side Highway, because her presence might cause a riot. As he unlocked the diner, he realized he had a limited number of places where he could fe
el safe.

  Before they both got in, the lights came on, and Thao was standing next to the counter, crossbow in hand.

  “Dai Yu,” he said, lowering the weapon.

  “Thao,” Kane said. “I believe you’ve met Truvey.”

  “I have.” Thao smiled at her. “Welcome. Are you hungry? Would you like something to drink?”

  “I’m starving!” Truvey said. Then came the pout. “But I can’t eat ‘cause I had lunch today and I gotta maintain.” She indicated her body with her hands. “It was really good though, Sweet-T. But some water would be great. They say it’s got no calories.” She sat down at the counter, dropping her bag on the next stool. She looked at Kane. “He shouldn’t have called me a whore.”

  “No,” Kane agreed, “he shouldn’t have.”

  “Do you think I over-reacted?”

  “Nah,” Kane said. “He was rude.”

  “He was!”

  Thao got her a glass and she drank it down like it was the best Scotch. Thao refilled it.

  “What now?” Truvey asked.

  “We’ll spend the night here,” Kane said.

  Truvey looked around. “Morticia did good on the new seat covers.” She smiled. “We won’t have to go far for breakfast.”

  Thao looked at Kane and lowered his voice. “What happened?”

  “Four left.”

  10

  Friday Morning,

  12 August 1977

  MEATPACKING DISTRICT,

  MANHATTAN

  Kane woke to the familiar sounds of New York City: horns, sirens, an airplane sliding in to an airport, a jackhammer in the distance. The noise wasn’t filtered by walls or windows since he was lying on top of the diner, next to Thao’s ‘home’.

  It was late. Kane knew that not just by the sun already casting long shadows in the east, but his internal clock was twinging guilt at having slept in later than usual. He remembered ‘minute calling’ as a plebe at West Point: a first-year cadet in every corridor, against the wall, in uniform, facing a clock. Starting at ten minutes before formation the minute-caller would bellow out how many minutes until the upperclassmen had to be in ranks, what the uniform for the formation was, and, if it was a meal formation, what the meal and beverage would be. The other plebes not assigned that duty were already outside in formation, required to be there before the 10-minute bell, having first to stand in line to pass questioning by yearling (sophomore) cadets on arcane plebe knowledge, the ‘days’, who the officer of the day was or some such.

  It was a lot of work just to get to march to breakfast to get hazed some more.

  This morning nobody had called minutes nor had Thao or Truvey, who wasn’t on the cot inside the shack, woken him. Kane stood up, running a hand through his disheveled hair. He’d slept hard, the presence of Thao nearby a comfort. Kane went to the trap door leading to the steep steps into the diner’s storeroom. He climbed down, shutting the door behind.

  He entered the diner to the unfamiliar sound of music playing. Stevie Nicks was singing about going your own way as Kane claimed his usual booth. Thao was in the kitchen, hard at work. Two tables held meat truck drivers finishing their night of work and lingering because Truvey was at the counter. Several ladies and sort of ladies of the evening were in a booth, completing their different tour of duty. Morticia was hustling plates and Truvey was next to Mac at the far end of the counter.

  It was a lot for Kane to process, especially with the music.

  “Mornin’ sleepy head,” Morticia said as she deposited coffee, water/two cubes. She pulled a folded meal ticket out of a pocket, putting it on the table.

  “Morning,” Kane said.

  “I hear Truvey spent the night here,” Morticia said. “We opening a hotel now?”

  “What do you mean ‘we’?”

  Truvey waved at Kane and blew him a kiss. Kane nodded back. She appeared quite bubbly given all that had happened the previous evening. The truck drivers gave Kane the ‘ain’t you a lucky asshole’ eye.

  “Truvey says you went to her show,” Morticia continued, apparently hitting a lull in her serving routine.

  “She had a stalker,” Kane said. “I didn’t see any of the show. Just went and brought her here. She slept in Thao’s shack.”

  “That was nice of you.” Morticia looked over at Truvey and Mac. “They’re getting along great. And Mac actually is happy about having clean clothes, even though he’s acting like he isn’t. Speaking of which, isn’t the music nice?”

  “Right.” The song ended and the jukebox lifted a new single into place.

  Morticia frowned as Elvis began crooning about returning to sender. “I didn’t play that one. I don’t care for Presley.”

  “I don’t care for any sound this early in the morning,” Kane said. “You can unplug the jukebox.”

  “Truvey put it on. She’s big on Elvis.” Morticia indicated Truvey at the counter, swaying and gyrating to the song and the tables of truckers who were a rapt audience. “You tell ‘em that. They’re enjoying.”

  Kane unfolded the ticket. There was an address in Thao’s handwriting. The Montagnard hadn’t bothered to encrypt it. Kane memorized it, then burned the ticket in the ash tray.

  Kane tensed as a man entered the Washington Street door. He was Native American, older than the Flint Brothers Kane had seen so far, with white hair that flowed to a braid that went to the back of his neck. His face was weathered and the skin drawn over the bones. He wore a black Stetson with a silver band around it, worn jeans, and a long sleeve khaki shirt. His pointy leather boots were worn and supple. It was obvious he’d once been a solidly built man, but his shirt hung on his frame with room to spare and his shoulders were pointy under it. He paused upon entering, taking the hat off, and looked around, then made a beeline for Mac. The two older men shook hands. From the way they greeted each other, it appeared to Kane that this was the first time they were meeting. After a minute conversing, they headed for Kane’s booth.

  Kane stood as they arrived.

  Mac did the introductions. “Kane, this is Sam Kinsman. He got the word that I was looking for someone who was with the Second Rangers on Makin.”

  Kane shook Kinsman’s hand. “Good to meet you, sir. A code talker?”

  “Just Kinsman. I’m not an officer.” His voice was deep and slow, no indication of New York City in it. “Yes, I was a code talker. I wasn’t a Raider, but I went on that mission with them.”

  Kane indicated for them to sit in the booth. Mac slid in first, followed by Kinsman who winced slightly as he folded into the booth.

  “You live in the city?” Kane asked.

  Kinsman glanced at Mac, then back at Kane. “The Pine Barrens. Mac put the word out on the old Raider network. My daughter heard about it and contacted me. Why are you interested in Makin after all these years?”

  “There’s a man named Crawford,” Kane said. “He was a Marine on the operation and . . .” Kane stopped speaking as Kinsman’s face tightened. “You know Crawford?”

  “He was with us,” Kinsman said. “A sergeant in charge of me and the other code talker.”

  “Not a Raider?” Kane asked.

  Kinsman shook his head. “No. A regular jarhead; part of our unit. He spoke Navajo, which was rare for a white skin.”

  “He was a code talker?” Kane said.

  “No.” The Navajo didn’t elaborate.

  “He was there to guard you,” Kane suggested.

  “That was the stated reason,” Kinsman said.

  “But really to make sure you weren’t captured,” Kane said. “What’s odd is that if he spoke Navajo, he couldn’t be captured either.”

  Kinsman gave a slight nod. “True. Yaz and I wondered about that, but while he knew the language he didn’t know our code.”

  Kane felt the tingle. “Yaz?”

  “The other Code Talker on the mission,” Kinsman said. “But this Crawford was so—” he paused, searching for how to express it—“I would have to use the term Carlso
n imposed on us: Gung Ho, that we believed he would kill us, then fall on his own grenade.”

  “’Gung-ho’,” Mac repeated, a bit of derisiveness in his tone.

  Kinsman glance at him. “Yes. I agree with you. In fact, many in the Second Battalion were less than happy using a Chinese phrase as their motto. Especially when someone learned that it didn’t really mean anything in Chinese, other than being the name of a company, but Carlson said it meant something like work together.”

  “Doesn’t sound as if you thought much of Carlson,” Kane said. “Thought he was a legend in the Corps?”

  Kinsman shrugged. “Carlson was a good leader. To a point. Things happened on Makin that never made the media or history books. But he isn’t the man you’re interested in, is he?”

  “Crawford,” Kane said.

  Kinsman nodded. “I know about him from more than just Makin. His father was a Mormon preacher on the reservation for many years before the war in Escalante, Utah. A decent enough man. The son? Not so much. He was part of the original Code Talker unit because of his language skill. We had the feeling the Corps didn’t trust us, especially in the beginning. He was there to listen in, make sure we weren’t spies or simply stupid.” Kinsman indicated his skin. “There were Marines who mistook us for Japs. Many also looked down on us.”

  Kane remembered his first reaction when Thao rescued him: that Thao was actually the enemy and going to execute a wounded American.

  Kinsman paused as Morticia swung by and topped off everyone’s coffee.

  “Near the end of the war and after it,” Kinsman continued, “Crawford was involved with the Nation. And not in a positive way like his father. He adopted the sons of some of my fellow code-talkers who were KIA. He helped start a program of adoption imposed by the Mormons. It was something that the elders fought, but had no power over. The white man’s court ruled in the church’s favor. They said it was for the betterment of our people. You’ve met some of his Hard Flint Boys?”

  “Yes.”

  Kinsman pointed at his head and then his chest. “They are not right here, and more importantly, here. Crawford corrupted them. Taught them a twisted path. He used some of our Navajo customs, enough that they could easily believe, but not with a pure heart.” Kinsman coughed several times, then drank some water.