Читать книгу KILLS 99.9% - Patrick Ottuso - Страница 5

Phillip Sabien was a multi-millionaire with everything a man could ask for. He had a 1986 Lamborghini Jalpa, the finest clothes, dined at the best restaurants in New York, and was always seen with at least one gorgeous woman on his arm. All that changed on October 19th, 1987. It was another Monday on Wall Street and Phillip was performing his magic, trading in derivatives when the bottom fell out. The Dow Industrial average fell 508 points and Mr. Sabien, known also as Goldfinger to his associates, found himself with his finger up his ass and even worse, broke. Soon thereafter, the women stopped coming around, his beautiful red Lamborghini was repossessed and he lost his penthouse suite on the upper east side. He also realized that he had no friends. Those whom he thought were friends suddenly disappeared, afraid that he just might ask them for their precious money. His whole life was formed around money and that life no longer existed. With no family, no friends and nowhere to live, he found himself in a homeless shelter for veterans located in Brooklyn. His six year stint in Viet Nam finally paid off, thought Sabien. There he was given a cot to sleep on and three meals a day. The only requisite was that he needed to actively look for a job. On the fourth night at the shelter he was awakened by a sharp sensation felt just below his jaw bone which turned out to be a very well honed pocket knife attached to the arm of a very large black man.

“Gimme everything you own dick head or you’re gonna die,” whispered the stranger. He soon was forty eight dollars poorer and minus his toiletry bag and pack of Marlboro cigarettes. The next morning, with the shelter behind him and facing the Chrysler Building, he headed back to Manhattan…for better or worse.

With only the clothes on his back, a replacement bag of necessities, and twenty dollars given to him during his departure from the shelter, Sabien found Manhattan no more forgiving of his plight. Shelters were dirty and dangerous and with the winter approaching fast, he needed to find somewhere safe and warm. He found that Little Italy was a sure place to find a partially eaten meal and he actually reintroduced himself to the owner of Patsy’s pizzeria who remembered him from better times. Gino was always good for a bowl of pasta e fagiole and Sabien was grateful. One day in early November, while walking down Essex street, Sabien noted a partially uplifted street grating and was curious as to what was below. The old master lock had rusted through and appeared to have been snapped. The wrought iron grating lifted with a slight pull and revealed an iron ladder extending down into the depths of the city. He also felt a welcome rush of warm air exiting from the opening.

Squeezing between the grate and the concrete of the street was difficult but Sabien found that the ladder was secure and able to hold his weight. As he descended, his eyes adjusted and he found himself lowering himself onto an iron scaffold complete with walkways and turn of the century lighting. To his surprise, the scaffolding was further connected to other ladders that descended even deeper into the bowels of New York. He followed the walkway in the direction of the Williamsburgh Bridge and after approximately 50 yards, took another ladder to the next level. Walking another hundred yards or so he came to a fork in the scaffolding where there were walkways stretching north, west and east. Another grating to the street level could be seen with its dim daylight stretching down to meet him from above. This must be the corner of Delancey and Essex, thought Sabien . He also thought that he could smell cooked food and he heard just a hint of human voices. Turning East and following the directions given to him by his stomach he soon came upon a large entryway with red arrows painted on broad steel girders. Passing through the entry, Sabien found himself in a dimly lit terminal with a sign announcing that he had arrived at the Essex Street Trolley Terminal. Sabien had remembered reading about the terminal which was built in 1908. It was used to transport passengers by trolley from Brooklyn to Manhattan until 1948 when trolleys were no longer used. At the center of the terminal stood about 12 people gathered around a large oil drum. The drum was alight with burning wood and several people were holding pointed sticks with what appeared to be skewered chicken, cooking in the flames. One of the men in the crowd turned quickly toward Sabien and, holding the glowing pointed stick in his direction in a defensive manner asked, “Who the fuck are you and whatta you want?”

“If we gather some bricks from the old passageway I just came from, we can make a firepit which would make it alot easier to light fires and cook,” said Sabien. “We can also get some utensils from the dumpsters behind the restaurant supply houses on the Bowery which would make it easier to cook the meals,” added Sabien.

“Not a bad couple of ideas,” said the sallow thin man who suddenly withdrew his makeshift sabre. “I’m Connely, the leader of the group,” added the man between deep gurgling coughing fits.

“I’m Phillip Sabien, and I just happen to be looking for a warm place to stay for the night and, by the way, that chicken smells great!” A couple of others in the crowd joined Connely in laughing; Connely though was also caught in another burst of uncontrolled coughing and difficulty breathing. This guy definitely has a disease and I hope I don’t get it, thought Sabien.

“Would you like a piece of chicken?” asked a disheveled though attractive brunette, seated on a plastic milk crate. Sabien accepted the small morsel off of the wooden skewer and ate the piece of meat quickly. The taste was a bit harsh and Sabien could not quickly identify the source of the meat.

“Not chicken is it?” asked Sabien.

Another voice in the crowd responded quickly, “Rail rabbit.” Sabien quickly found out that rail rabbits were rodents, specifically rats, that were caught in the underground railway tunnels. He also discovered that the group of people that he stumbled upon have been living under the streets of New York City for four years. Their histories were myriad with a divorced school teacher, a disbarred lawyer and a burned out emergency room physician, making up part of the cohesive entity. Sabien shared his misfortunes with his newly found friends and offered to help make life better any way he could, living under the streets of New York. He had found a new home, at least temporarily. On November 18th, 1987, Phillip Sabien was warm and had dined on his first course of rail rabbit.