"Hey, Lady, could ya move it?" the kid with the skateboard said, behind me. I'm slow going down stairs, with my leg, and the train was throbbing at the platform below.
I
took a look at him as he went by; sixteen, maybe, all baggy clothes
and attitude. That elastic step, fresh round limbs and skin like
browned pie crust, trying so hard to be world-weary. He should enjoy
it more. You never know when some punk is going to put a bullet in
your ass.
The
train hissed off, dragging hot air across the commuters still
waiting. It was the standard five o'clock crowd -- business guys in
damp suits and expensive haircuts, pasty secretaries, overdressed
department store clerks. Gordon stuck out like a dandelion on a
suburban lawn.
He
was standing all the way across from me, close to the mouth of the
far tunnel, looking at a newspaper. I stopped at the bottom of the
stairs to evaluate, make sure everything was laid out the way I'd
been told: row of vending machines along the tiled wall between the
staircases, no benches, janitor's closet closed and locked up tight.
Metro cameras at either end of the platform, both of them jacked
offline for the next hour.
Gordon
looked bigger than I remembered, and for an instant I quailed. It was
going to be tricky to meander near him without getting clocked, and
even if I accomplished it, what if he put up a fight?
He
glanced over while I was chewing on this, and his complete lack of
recognition braced me. I was invisible now. I hadn't been, when he'd
tried to kill me seven years ago. Men were still looking at me on the
street then, at my glossy wild hair and burlesque figure. Now the
hair was steel-colored and lusterless, the figure sagging, the face
etched behind its bifocals. Constant pain had turned me into a
middle-aged fat broad, common and unremarkable as a clod of dirt.
Except, I was a gift. That's what the Old Man had called me, when I went to him. Not right after, of course. It took a couple of years, wearing out the justice system first.
Except, I was a gift. That's what the Old Man had called me, when I went to him. Not right after, of course. It took a couple of years, wearing out the justice system first.
"You've
never been in trouble," he said, leaning forward across his
laughably massive desk. There was a haze of cigarette smoke in the
dimly lit room, and his face seemed to float into focus out of it.
"I
don't care," I told him. "I had three marriage proposals
the year before that son of a bitch shot me just for the fun of it.
Look at me now."
The
Old Man averted his eyes and sat back. "Gordon is an old
problem."
I
watched him lay his right hand on the polished wood chair arm, a
glint coming off the gold pinky ring. It matched his cuff links.
Then he said I could do him a favor. In return, he'd make sure I didn't go to jail. That took the sting out of him laughing at the price I'd offered for Gordon's scalp.
Another
train was coming. Gordon folded up the paper and glanced down the
tunnel. Show time.
People
were picking up their briefcases, folding up their laptops. I came
along the vending machines, angling into the crowd about ten feet
from the opposite staircase. Barely limping at all. Adrenaline was
damping the pain down.
The
tunnel exhaled another hot breath, and I surged forward, bringing my
arms up across my chest. Gordon's weight resisted and then gave as he
lost his footing. He half-turned and grappled at me, tilting wildly;
one hand flailed across my elbow and caught.
I could see the conductor's face, every orifice wide with horror, as Gordon wrenched around. My leg went, and the rails jumped toward me.
No
more nights up late popping Hydrocodone and avoiding myself in the
mirror. The acid resentment that had become the fuel of my existence
fizzled away. Down at the core of darkness ahead of me, I heard my
voice, whispering back at my killer:
"Thank
you."
