Read Online Atropos by William L. Deandrea - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: William L. Deandrea
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There, if he finished doing all his work early, wasn’t anything to do but sit around and twiddle his thumbs. There wasn’t much to do here, either, but Norman liked to walk around and look at the city lights when he had the time. Another thing was, he lived nearby. If an emergency came up, he could run home. From Shady Grove, he’d be lucky if he could send a telegram.
Norman finished the platform, pulled back his broom like a matador with a sword, and turned around.
And there was someone in the car.
“Damn,” Norman said. “Second one this week.”
Some weeks, it happened more than that. Weren’t any conductors on the Metro, see, so when the line shut down each midnight, anybody who slept through the loudspeaker announcement wound up here with Norman.
Norman walked down to him, keeping his broom handy. He didn’t look bad, a small old white man with gray hair. He was a white man, even though his skin was darker than Norman’s—he just had one of those tropical tans. Maybe he was a Congressman back from one of those junkets or something.
He didn’t look like one of the dope fiends who sometimes nodded out on the Metro, and sometimes died there. The suburbanites who came into the city and tied one on a little too big usually were a lot younger than this guy. And you never got winos and derelicts on the Metro. The phrase for them now was “the homeless,” but Norman Jones, who had worked very, very hard for the last thirty-nine of his forty-nine years to keep a roof over his head and the rest of the heads he was responsible for, still thought “bum” was the word that said it best. Anyway, whatever you called them, you didn’t get them on the Metro. Not in the cars, anyway. Sometimes in those big barns of stations, but not in the cars. It cost too much. This wasn’t like New York, where one dollar let you ride as long as you wanted. There were fancy computer tickets here, and the longer you rode, the more it cost.
Anyway, this guy didn’t look like any of those, but Norman didn’t take any chances. He walked up the aisle to a distance of about eight feet from the sleeper.
“Yo. Mister, wake up. Hey, wake up.”
No answer. He didn’t even stir.
“Come on, I’ll show you where to get a cab. You’re lucky. You could have wound up way the hell out in Shady Grove.”
Still no answer. Norman prodded him gently with the broom handle.
“Dammit, Mister, I’ve got work to do. If I have to get the guard, you’ll be in no end of trouble, wait till you see the fare they’re gonna hit you with—”
Norman stopped because the prodding had caused the old white man to move at last. He moved right out of the seat and slumped to the floor. That was when Norman saw the ice-pick handle sticking up from the man’s back.
Chapter Eight
Stamford, Connecticut
T HE DOOR TO APARTMENT 6B looked different from the others on this floor; it was cold when Trotter touched it. Metal. His old friend must be having a hard time adjusting to freedom.
Trotter rang the doorbell and waited. A peephole in the door opened, then clicked shut. Then followed a series of gliding, grating, and clicking noises as various locks and bolts were undone. Finally the door swung open.
The man in the doorway had aged since Trotter had seen him last. Age, which it had seemed would never touch him, had begun to caress him gently. There were lines around the eyes, now, and a touch of gray in his hair. He was still the handsomest man Trotter had ever seen.
“Come in, my friend. This is a surprise.” The man was smiling broadly. He seemed almost too happy over some unexpected company on a Wednesday afternoon. Then Trotter realized that a lot of the smile must be from relief. When a man is constantly expecting unknown dangers, a known one can be almost a comfort.
Trotter looked around while his host locked the door back up. A nice place, modern and roomy. There wasn’t a lot of personality to it, but Bulanin hadn’t been here very long
Norman finished the platform, pulled back his broom like a matador with a sword, and turned around.
And there was someone in the car.
“Damn,” Norman said. “Second one this week.”
Some weeks, it happened more than that. Weren’t any conductors on the Metro, see, so when the line shut down each midnight, anybody who slept through the loudspeaker announcement wound up here with Norman.
Norman walked down to him, keeping his broom handy. He didn’t look bad, a small old white man with gray hair. He was a white man, even though his skin was darker than Norman’s—he just had one of those tropical tans. Maybe he was a Congressman back from one of those junkets or something.
He didn’t look like one of the dope fiends who sometimes nodded out on the Metro, and sometimes died there. The suburbanites who came into the city and tied one on a little too big usually were a lot younger than this guy. And you never got winos and derelicts on the Metro. The phrase for them now was “the homeless,” but Norman Jones, who had worked very, very hard for the last thirty-nine of his forty-nine years to keep a roof over his head and the rest of the heads he was responsible for, still thought “bum” was the word that said it best. Anyway, whatever you called them, you didn’t get them on the Metro. Not in the cars, anyway. Sometimes in those big barns of stations, but not in the cars. It cost too much. This wasn’t like New York, where one dollar let you ride as long as you wanted. There were fancy computer tickets here, and the longer you rode, the more it cost.
Anyway, this guy didn’t look like any of those, but Norman didn’t take any chances. He walked up the aisle to a distance of about eight feet from the sleeper.
“Yo. Mister, wake up. Hey, wake up.”
No answer. He didn’t even stir.
“Come on, I’ll show you where to get a cab. You’re lucky. You could have wound up way the hell out in Shady Grove.”
Still no answer. Norman prodded him gently with the broom handle.
“Dammit, Mister, I’ve got work to do. If I have to get the guard, you’ll be in no end of trouble, wait till you see the fare they’re gonna hit you with—”
Norman stopped because the prodding had caused the old white man to move at last. He moved right out of the seat and slumped to the floor. That was when Norman saw the ice-pick handle sticking up from the man’s back.
Chapter Eight
Stamford, Connecticut
T HE DOOR TO APARTMENT 6B looked different from the others on this floor; it was cold when Trotter touched it. Metal. His old friend must be having a hard time adjusting to freedom.
Trotter rang the doorbell and waited. A peephole in the door opened, then clicked shut. Then followed a series of gliding, grating, and clicking noises as various locks and bolts were undone. Finally the door swung open.
The man in the doorway had aged since Trotter had seen him last. Age, which it had seemed would never touch him, had begun to caress him gently. There were lines around the eyes, now, and a touch of gray in his hair. He was still the handsomest man Trotter had ever seen.
“Come in, my friend. This is a surprise.” The man was smiling broadly. He seemed almost too happy over some unexpected company on a Wednesday afternoon. Then Trotter realized that a lot of the smile must be from relief. When a man is constantly expecting unknown dangers, a known one can be almost a comfort.
Trotter looked around while his host locked the door back up. A nice place, modern and roomy. There wasn’t a lot of personality to it, but Bulanin hadn’t been here very long
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