Bedbugs (12 page)

Spreading his arms out wide, Ace flattened himself against the damp tile wall, but the backpack pushed his stomach out a little too damned close to the train for comfort.

For a single, terrifying instant, he was afraid that the front of the train was going to scrape him up like so much dog shit; but then, with a roaring suction of hot wind and exhaust, the engineer’s car took the turn and zipped past him. Ace couldn’t help but laugh as he wondered what the engineer might think, seeing him appear so suddenly from out of the darkness.

The passenger cars clattered past, and Ace stared at the dull lemon light inside the train that flickered like an old-time movie through frame after frame of grime-smeared windows. He caught quick, blurred glimpses of the people, either sitting or standing, hanging like apes from the hand grips.

The screeching sound was all-encompassing. The chatter of rails and grinding of steel wheels vibrated the tunnel and shook Ace’s body. Just for the pure rush of it, he threw back his head and started screaming as loud as he could, even though he couldn’t hear himself. Sweat ran in icy streams from his armpits down the inside of his tee-shirt, tickling him. The dark air was filled with the choking stench of exhaust, the sting of ozone, and other, unnamable things that swirled in a blinding cloud and tugged at Ace like strong, urgent hands that wanted to drag him under the train’s wheels. But Ace hung on and kept right on screaming until the train was past him.

Then, his ears still ringing and his body trembling with excitement, he watched as the train’s red taillights were swallowed by the darkness. The dull echo of the passing train faded to a low, steady clacking pulse that Ace felt in his blood more than heard.

“
Fuckin ‘-A!
” he shouted.

He raked his hair back out of his eyes with his fingers, then took a deep breath of the foul-smelling air, smiling with self-satisfaction. He was confident that no cop was desperate enough—or
stupid
enough—to follow him down here. The only problem he could see was if Flyboy had survived the fall. The stupid asshole would probably be so scared about saving his own ass that he’d give Ace up.

But if the cop
was
desperate enough to come after him—well then, maybe Ace’s luck would hold, and the train that had just passed by would clean him out.

That’d serve the asshole right!

But Ace knew he couldn’t take a chance that the pea-brained son-of-a-bitch
wasn’t
coming for him.

Hell, if Flyboy died from the fall, they might try to pin a murder rap on him. More than likely, though, the cop was just going to wait back at the platform. Maybe he had already called ahead to the next stop to alert the police to keep an eye out for him.

But then again—maybe the asshole would just keep coming down the tunnel after him.

The only thing Ace could do was keep walking—no matter how far it was—to the next stop.

Maybe on the way he’d take a break and smoke some jib.

Maybe he’d throw up a logo, too, just so anyone who came through would know that he’d been here. Once he was sure it was safe, he could catch the train back to Park Street Station and then get the train back to the ‘hood.

As he walked along the service walkway, moving with a spider’s supple grace, Ace never stopped to wonder if this was ever worth the effort.

Of
course
it was worth it . . . even if Flyboy got his ticket punched, it was worth it!

Ace was one of the best graffiti writers in Boston. Hell, he’d bombed half of Beantown by the time he was sixteen. He’d marked his logo on billboards, city buses, trains, subways, store fronts, rest room stalls, construction sites, sidewalks . . . just about anything in Boston that would hold enamel paint.

And he knew he was good—
fast
and good.

He took pride in his work, and he had the scars to prove it. His arms, legs, face and shoulders were ribboned with thin white lines where razor wire, chain-link fences, broken glass, and pavement had cut him. The six-inch scar on the left side of his head that made his left eye droop down was where a cop had whacked him with his nightstick last summer. Ace called it getting a “wood shampoo.”

But he kept bombing because he knew it was worth it. There weren’t many—hell, no! There weren’t
any
better graffiti writers in all of Boston!

As Ace walked along, he kept his eye out for a good place to tag. It had to be someplace where the engineer, at least, would see it as he made his turn. Up ahead, where the wall curved gently to the right, looked like a good spot; but before Ace got to it, the tunnel echoed again with the distant squeal of another train. This one was approaching from behind.

The sound of grinding wheels set Ace’s teeth on edge. He saw the signal light on the tracks change from red to green. In the dim light, he also saw a wide, dark opening—a service bay—not more than fifty feet ahead. He started running, hoping to make it to cover before the train got to him. He wasn’t afraid of falling under the train, but he wasn’t too keen on the engineer seeing him, either. If the cop who’d been chasing him had notified the engineers to keep an eye out for him, it’d be just as well if he stayed out of sight.

A dull spot of yellow light swung around the corner behind Ace just as he reached the niche and ducked inside. He couldn’t see for shit in the sudden darkness, and he tripped over something and almost fell. He caught his balance and muttered a low curse as he brushed his hands on his pants legs.

“Yeah, well fuck you, too!”

The suddenness of another voice, coming from out of the impenetrable darkness, startled Ace.

For a flickering instant, he thought he might have imagined hearing the voice. His whole body tensed as the sound of the train grew steadily louder, echoing with a strange reverberation in the bend of the tunnel. Clenching both hands into fists, he got ready to fight if this tunnel rat, whoever the hell he was, gave him any shit. Ace wasn’t very big for his age, but he was street-tough and wiry. Not many people fucked with him and didn’t live to regret it.

The tunnel rang with grinding metal as the train roared by and disappeared down the tracks ahead. Then a deep silence clamped down in the darkness again. Still tense and ready to fight if he had to, Ace started backing toward the opening.

“Sorry, man. I din’t know you was down here,” he said with only the slightest hint of nervousness in his voice.

“What, you mean you can’t see where you’re going or something?” the man asked.

This was followed by a low, gravely laugh that ended in a raw fit of coughing.

The voice sounded old and cracked, kind of creepy, coming out of the pitch darkness.

Ace leaned forward, trying to get a glimpse of the guy, but there was nothing there—just thick blackness. He was pretty sure this had to be just some homeless wino, but he didn’t like not being able to see him. A vague sense of unreality swept over Ace as he shook his head and tried to convince himself that there really was someone there; but no matter how hard he stared into the well of darkness inside the niche, he couldn’t catch even the faintest hint of a shape that might be a person.

“So what the fuck’re you doing down, here, anyway?” the voice asked.

The last word reverberated with a dull, steady pulse that hurt Ace’s ears more than the sound of a passing train.

“Jus’ hangin’. Tha’s all,” Ace replied, his voice low and tight.

“Doing a bit of writing, too, I suspect. Huh? And maybe running away from the
po
-lice.”

The man pronounced the last word the way the brothers say it, heavily accenting the first syllable.

“I ain’t running from no one!”

“Is that a fact? Well maybe you think you’re some hot-shit because you got away tonight, unlike your friend, huh?”

Ace had no idea how this guy could have any idea what he’d been doing, but he wasn’t about to say a word. For all he knew, this might be another cop, setting him up to nail his ass.

Suddenly a soft scratching sound followed by a snapping crack filled the darkness as a small flower of orange light cupped inside the man’s hands burst through the darkness. A brilliant glow underlit the features of the man’s face as he raised a match to the tip of the cigarette in the corner of his mouth and puffed. Ace stared as the light flickered for a few seconds, and the man took a deep drag. With a quick flick of his hand, the match went out, plunging the niche back into impenetrable darkness. A vibrating green and black afterimage of the man’s features drifted in front of Ace’s vision, no matter where he looked.

“You think you’re some hot-shit writer, huh? Or should I say
graffiti
artist.” The man chuckled softly. “Is that what you think you are? An
artist?
”

He exhaled noisily, and a funnel-shaped plume of blue smoke appeared like magic from the darkness and blew into Ace’s face, stinging his eyes. Ace waved the smoke away with both hands but said nothing. He sure as fuck didn’t have to brag to anyone . . . especially not some burnout tunnel rat.

“Say, why don’t you do me a favor,” the man said.

His voice sounded mellow enough, like he was going to make a simple request; but there was also a harsh level of command just below the surface that Ace didn’t like.

“Look, man, I don’t owe you shit, understand? Who the fuck you think you are, anyway?”

Although he couldn’t see the man, and he had no idea if he was getting set to jump him or not, Ace bounced up and down on his toes, his fists clenched at his sides and ready to fight.

“Hey, all I’m asking is one tiny favor,” the man said, not sounding at all like he was rising to Ace’s challenge. “Just do me a quick throw up. Show me your stuff.”

“You’re fuckin’ crazy, man,” Ace said as he backed closer to the edge of the walkway. He wanted to turn and leave, but something warned him not to turn his back on this guy. The flesh at the back of Ace’s neck began to tingle as though tiny worms were crawling just beneath the surface of his skin.

 
“If you think you’re so damned good, show me what you got,” the man said.

“I don’t
think
—I fuckin’ well
know!
I’m tops in this fuckin’ city. D’you know of one block in Boston that I ain’t tagged in the last ten years?”

“I’m something of a writer, too, you know,” the man said.

He paused and inhaled on the cigarette. The glowing tip illuminated his face with harsh, black lines. When he exhaled, he made a soft, satisfied sound in the back of his throat that might have been laughter.

“Tell you what,” the man said. “Give me a can or two, and we’ll both do one. Just a quick mark so they’ll know we’ve been here.”

“I don’t need this shit,” Ace said, shaking his head and backing away.

He dropped his right hand to his pants pocket and felt for the bulge of the switchblade he always carried. He was more than willing to cut this mother-fucker if he didn’t shut his face.

“Tell you what. Let’s call it a little contest,” the man said, sounding friendly, almost cheery. He took another drag of the cigarette, then flicked it away with a quick snap of his finger. The glowing tip hissed and spun end over end like a whirling comet inches past Ace’s ear before it landed with a dull sputter behind him on the tracks.

“Yeah, ‘n what’s the prize?” Ace said.

“Show me your best work, and . . . oh, I dunno. Maybe—if it’s as good as mine—I’ll let you leave here alive.”

Ace sniffed with laughter even as cold tension coiled deep in his stomach.

“You don’t scare me, mother-fucker,” he said, squaring his shoulders and taking a threatening step forward.

“And you don’t scare me, either,” the man said. “I’m just not sure I like the way you left your buddy back there.”

“What—Flyboy?” Ace said. “He’s a cold turd. If he can’t climb, then he ain’t worth the effort it’s gonna take to shovel his guts off the street.”

“You mean you didn’t push him?”

Ace was about to say something, but then stopped himself cold.

How the fuck could this asshole know anything about what had happened up there on the bridge?

Okay, once Ace saw the cop coming, he might have nudged Flyboy a little, but only so he could clear the bridge railing first. He sure as fuck didn’t
push
him.

For several seconds, the tunnel was tomb-quiet. Ace couldn’t even hear the man breathing. Then he swung the backpack from his shoulder, unzipped the top flap, and grabbed a few cans of paint. Not caring what color they were, he threw them into the darkness, only guessing where the man was. He heard two loud
smacking
sounds as the man caught the cans, then a loud rattling as he started to shake them. The ball bearings inside the paint cans jangled as loud as alarm bells.

“So where do we write?” Ace asked. “I can’t see for shit back here.”

The tension in his gut was steadily tightening, but Ace chose to ignore it. He knew he was the best. He’d have a whole fucking mural done before this burnout figured out how to pop the lid off the can.

“Why not right outside here on the wall?” the man said.

Ace heard a low, shuffling sound as the man stood up. Then, like a photograph gradually developing, a face resolved out of the darkness mere inches from Ace.