Читать книгу Witness To Death - Dave White - Страница 18

Chapter 9

John sat on the PATH train at 33^rd, hands shaking. The conductor walked up the metal platform, stepped into John’s car, gave the passengers a quick glance. John had only seen them stop someone once, a passed-out drunk who must have been riding the train back and forth for hours. The conductor turned his key and hung out the window and said, “Journal Square Train, 23^rd street next.” The train started to roll, picking up speed and finally enveloped by the tunnel.

What the hell was Frank? Where’d he learn how to fight like that?

John slammed his fists into his thighs.

Stop shaking, damn it!

Frank was a gangster. That was it. Someone who’d seen fights before, who’d been involved with gunfire. He was so calm, so damned calm, as if nothing had happened earlier in the evening. Maybe a terrorist. Hadn’t the newspaper just printed an article saying that Al Qaeda was trying to recruit terrorists who weren’t Muslim?

John’s knees knocked together and his teeth chattered. The images of the dead guys on the dock came rushing back. John covered his face with his hands. He could see the first guy Frank shot take a bullet to the neck and fall backward, his legs bending underneath him. The red cloud swirling above him, followed by an explosion of light and thunder from the guns around them.

And Frank just dealt with it. Like dealing with a pissed-off kid at school. John would tell Ashley about those kids like it was nothing, and Ashley would freak out about it, asking where he worked. Frank was the same way shooting the trenchcoats. Just part of the job.

He’d seen Frank like that before. Michelle and Frank met up with Ashley and John for drinks one night. Just as the cover band was finishing up their set, a guy with bulges the size of coconuts in his sleeves stepped in between John and Ashley. He started talking to her. She made eye contact and nodded once or twice, taking a step forward as if to step around him. The guy slipped into her path again. John couldn’t hear what he was saying.

John turned toward Frank and Michelle and smiled.

“Another ‘roid head,” he said and turned back toward Ashley and the guy.

He tapped the guy on the shoulder. The guy shrugged his shoulders, but didn’t turn. John rolled his head and cracked his neck, took a deep breath, and placed his hand on ‘Roid’s shoulder. Tugged, just a little bit.

Without hesitating the guy whirled, put the flat of his hand on John’s chest. He said “Fuck off,” and pushed. John landed flat on his butt, his beer bottle skittering to the floor.

By the time John looked back up, Frank had stepped in and grabbed the guy by the wrist and twisted. There was a quick snap, followed by the guy screaming. Before the sound even finished, there was a blur of flesh as Frank snapped his palm into the guy’s throat, and the rest of the scream was cut off. ‘Roid reached up and clutched his windpipe, staggering backward.

The PATH train slowed and stopped. John looked out the window and saw they were at Christopher Street. He’d missed three stops already. He took another deep breath. Two more until he could get off. Two more until he could go to the police and explain what happened.

He shouldn’t have been out there. John should have never followed Frank. What the hell was he thinking?

Tremors ran up his wrists. John held his breath.

None of this would have happened if he hadn’t danced with Michelle at that wedding. He’d still be with Ashley. She wouldn’t have dumped him. He could still be going along, pretending everything was fine. Ashley wouldn’t have started to act weird.

Tucking his hand under his armpits and squeezing, he tried to stop the shaking. No luck.

The wedding was when everything started to go wrong, wasn’t it? One of Michelle and John’s work friends was getting married. The groom dressed in a kilt, the bride had a plaid trailer. Bagpipes played as she walked down the aisle. Frank was off working again, backing out of a date with Michelle at the last minute. She went anyway, riding with John and Ashley, and making third wheel jokes the entire night.

At one point Ashley went to the bathroom, and “You Are So Beautiful” started up. The dance floor filled with couples as John and Michelle sat there. John asked her to dance, and Michelle said she didn’t know if she should. Ashley would be back any minute.

On the train, John gritted his teeth. You’re so stupid.

“Come on,” he’d said. “We’re friends. It’s fine. We’re not dating anymore. You set me up with her. I don’t want you to go the whole night without one dance.”

Michelle nodded, and John thought about Ashley. Her brown hair falling around her shoulders. Her bright smile. The late night conversations. The way she listened and never told him he was lost while driving. The smell of tulips on her long neck. And for most of the night, he could picture exactly what she’d look like in a long, white, strapless wedding dress.

But, as he held Michelle, swaying to the slow rhythm of the song, he remembered the smoothness of her skin. The hint of strawberry in her lipstick when he’d kissed her. The wry crooked smile when he made a corny joke.

The memory must have been plastered all over his face. Ashley came back from the bathroom, made eye contact with him and froze. A week later, she didn’t pick up when he called. She didn’t call back as much. They only hung out once a week, instead of three or four times.

When he would ask what was wrong, she’d tell him not to worry. She was just busy at work. A new assignment.

And now he sat on a PATH train pulling into the Pavonia/Newport station, hands trembling like a Parkinson’s victim, with images of men lying in puddles of their own blood flashing before his eyes.

The doors of the PATH opened and John got off. The escalator to the surface was moving slowly, and the people riding in front of him were quietly opening their bags. It reminded John of waiting in line at an airport. These people were waiting to be searched.

The escalator crested and he saw two uniforms sorting through bags. Behind them, standing against the glass doors, two cops scanned the crowd. Between them sat a brown dog. They all looked very patient, almost bored. John couldn’t wait to talk to them. He started to step past the people who were standing, taking the steps two at a time.

“Officer,” John said. “Officer, I need to talk to you. My name’s John Brighton and I—”

One of the cops made eye contact with him.

The dog must have sensed something as well, because it stood up and started barking. The two cops against the wall stepped forward, pulling their weapons. Their quickness surprised John, and he nearly fell backwards down the escalator, but managed to steady himself against the railing again. Some people in the crowd in front of him screamed and some hit the deck.

“Freeze!” the cops yelled, and John instinctively raised his hands above his head and stepped on to solid ground at the end of the stairs.

The two cops who were previously searching the bags, pulled his arms down behind him and cuffed him.

“John Brighton, you are under arrest.”

Arrest?

“I just need to talk. I need to tell you what happened tonight,” John said. He heard the thunder of blood pumping through his ears.

The other cop said, “Do you think he’s waiving his right to remain silent?”

They read him his rights, stuffed him in the back of the car, and took him to the Jersey City police station.