Grand Central Noir Read online

  “Following Petrosino’s death, violence skyrocketed. My brother and I channeled our grief – into a tenacious vendetta. We worked under cover of night, using disguises, like Petrosino did. We gathered intel from saloons, pool halls, gambling dens, and brothels. We selected our targets carefully.

  “Suffice it to say, our stiletto training came into use. Our family or Petrosino would never have approved – but we strongly believed the guilty should pay – but suffer first. A swift death would have been humane. We said ‘Ciao’ to mercy.

  “The police attributed these deaths to criminal-on-criminal; that a Black Hander must have skimmed protection money, or had been suspected of informing. The removal of these killers from society was a ‘public service,’ anyway. And yes – if you’re wondering, we did avenge the death of our father, mother, and sister.

  “Let me describe the brightest part of my life. At a Sunday Mass, I exchanged glances with a young lady – così bella – and our souls rushed together before we ever spoke. Her father disapproved, so Josephine and I met secretly; first at my apartment, then in the glorious new Grand Central Terminal – where two lovers, unaware of the crowds, shared intimate moments. With the gateway to New York City as our backdrop, we’d gaze at the glorious vaulted ceiling mural and share our dreams. We’d whisper sweet nothings in the Whispering Gallery.

  “Sadly, our union was brief. Santo, my beloved brother – my only surviving family member – was killed in a fight. His murderer – a young thug – fled to Sicily, but I trailed him. I took care of business and returned quickly to New York. Regrettably, my darling Josephine was gone – I searched and searched, to no avail.

  “To summarize, here’s a Reader’s Digest version: I became a one-man agency, representing the families of innocent victims. The Black Hand menace began to decline after 1915; officially, history credits tougher sentencing, federal mail laws, and tighter immigration control. An uncredited primal force, however – your great-grandfather – worked tirelessly to rid the world of these monsters.”

  Tears of regret rolled down his cheek. “I had mourned the loss of my entire family – while, ironically, another one was growing. I wish your great-grandmother Josephine was still alive. I’ve loved her my entire life.”

  He hit pause, and glanced at his watch: 12:45 p.m. Time to meet Antonio soon. I should end on a positive note. He hit record one last time.

  “In my later years, I’d visit Grand Central and reminisce about my precious time with Josephine. Every time I’ve admired the ceiling, it’s like she’s right next to me. For the past decade or so, I chose to live here and befriend the lonely –”

  “Excuse me,” a male voice interrupted. “Weren’t you recently featured in the paper?”

  Startled, Guiseppe turned to face the man with an Italian accent. Looking into his icy eyes, he shivered. His intuition screamed: Evil eye.

  “Yes, I was,” he replied, slipping the recorder into his pocket. “Can I help you?”

  “Actually, I’m curious about this Whispering Gallery,” he said, gesturing toward the infamous domed ceiling area. “Does it really work?”

  “A lifetime ago, I experienced it with the love of my life. The echoes of her whispers remain with me to this day.”

  “Would you mind testing it with me?”

  Guiseppe paused. An odd, but brief request. Then I’m off to the clock. “Sure. We’ll face opposing corners; our voices follow the curve of the domed ceiling. If you hear me, whisper back.”

  Like boxers about to match, they retreated to opposite corners.

  Guiseppe whispered, “Do I detect a Sicilian dialect?”

  The stranger replied, “You’re hearing’s fine, old man, but how’s your eyesight? Do I resemble a ghost from your past? I’m the identical twin brother of the man you murdered in Sicily, decades ago.”

  Guiseppe gasped. He turned around. As the avenger charged at him, Guiseppe removed his coppola, which had a weight sewn into it. He swung it at the attacker, who ducked. The avenger forcefully placed his arm around Guiseppe, to make it appear like they were old buddies.

  “Let’s take a walk, paisano.”

  Guiseppe made eye contact with the sitting beggar, trying to convey a threat of imminent danger.

  The sound of the beggar scrambling to his feet went unnoticed by the avenger, who said, “Let’s find one of those secret passageways in this station –”

  “It’s a terminal, buddy, not a station.”

  “Oh, a wise guy, eh? Let me tell you something. You weren’t so wise when you trailed me to Sicily. You bumped off my brother instead of me. He didn’t kill your brother – I did. I’ve sought revenge ever since. Imagine my surprise when I read about you in the paper – and even better, they printed a current photo.”

  “You can read? How impressive,” Guiseppe quipped, trying to distract him while he devised a plan.

  Guiseppe’s face reddened as they headed towards a door that leads to a lower lever. His chest throbbed. I must get away from this lunatic. He won’t deprive me of meeting Antonio. But he must pay for killing my brother. This might be my only chance.

  Guiseppe kicked the assassin forcefully and broke free from his grasp. He grabbed his stiletto switchblade.

  So did the avenger.

  Throughout the fierce battle, the vengeful pair inflicted slices, cuts, and stabs, while aggressively blocking the blades or ducking. Blood saturated their clothes and spread across the floor.

  The homeless man with the broken umbrella struck the avenger – who then collapsed. Gasping for breath, Guiseppe thanked him, but advised him to retreat safely and get help.

  Guiseppe warned the avenger: “If I live, I’ll kill you. If I die, I forgive you.”

  The sound of running footsteps rose to a crescendo that could rival the running of the bulls.

  The avenger couldn’t lift his head. In a trembling voice, he asked, “What the hell is that noise?”

  Guiseppe felt light-headed. He slumped to the floor. “It’s the cavalry – or should I say, mi familia.” Guiseppe spotted the beggar clutching his ceramic cup, the Oyster Bar waiter armed with a butcher knife, cops with their guns drawn, Juan the janitor clenching a broom, Candy and dozens of terminal dwellers smacking their fists and yelling, prepared to pounce upon the man who threatened the life of their beloved friend. The cops radioed for a medic, advised everyone to keep back, and approached the bloodied men.

  A cop checked the avenger. “No pulse.”

  “Hang in there, Guiseppe,” another cop said. The cop gently wiped the blood from his face, then tended to his wounds.

  Guiseppe whispered, “Thank you.” The sight of a young man wearing a white carnation in his lapel sent a bolt of energy throughout his body. “Antonio!”

  The cop waved him over.

  Antonio knelt in blood beside his great-grandfather. “I’m here, Grandpa Guiseppe, he said, taking his hand. “All the people who adore you met me under the clock. The news spread that you were in trouble. I never saw so many people spring into action so quickly.”

  “Guiseppe studied Antonio’s face. “Your elegant features . . . they come from your great-grandmother, Josephine.”

  “Thank you, Grandpa Guiseppe. Can I do anything for you, before medics arrive?”

  “Your presence has brought me peace . . . these wonderful people . . . have been my family, when I thought I didn’t have one. Reach into my pocket – there’s a recorder.”

  The cop nodded, allowing Antonio to retrieve the recorder. It was still running.

  Guiseppe’s face paled. His voice weakened. “Take the chain from my neck . . . . It’ll open locker 13. It’s filled with journals, photographs, and much more – it’s all yours. Between this recording,” he said, his voice growing weaker, “the locker contents...and conversations with these wonderful folks, all will be revealed. Would you call a priest for me? God bless you, Antonio.”

  “I will, Grandpa Guiseppe. Ti amo.”

  “Ti amo, Antonio. . .
. My darling Josephine. . . . Santo –”

  Antonio pressed the stop button.

  Off Track

  - by Matt Hilton

  TERRY BISHOP SAT under a parasol at the corner of E 42nd Street and Park Avenue. The July sun beat down on the New York sidewalks. He wore a ball cap, so the parasol was unnecessary, but it came with the table he sat at outside Pershing Square, an eatery he’d never visited before. When he’d ordered a beer, he’d received an indifferent nod from a Hispanic waiter, who’d then handed him a menu. He wasn’t hungry but he ordered a chicken pot pie. He’d stabbed through the crust with his fork, but that was all the eating he’d do. He sipped his beer – a Corona with a slice of lime wedged in the neck – and ignored the disapproving glance of the waiter.

  The hell was the waiter worrying about? Terry would pay for the food, so he could waste it if he chose to. He just didn’t want it. He was way too nervous to eat. He only wanted the table from where he could watch the entrance to Grand Central Terminal.

  As usual 42nd Street was heaving with yellow taxis. Overhead more taxis and limos sped back and forth over the elevated ramp that took Park Avenue around the transportation hub. Terry could smell exhaust fumes and spoiling garbage and wondered why the fuck anyone would choose al fresco dining on one of the busiest streets in Manhattan. Maybe they were all there watching the entrance to the station.

  Terry had parked his butt at the outermost table of the seating area, facing the train station doors. From his position the overhead ramp obscured some of his view east, but he could still see the towering Grand Hyatt Hotel, its black tinted windows glistening like wet coal under the bright sunlight. If he craned his neck he could see part of the world famous Chrysler Building, but that would mean taking his eyes off the doors he was watching.

  He didn’t care about the sights; he was there for one thing only. Correction: one person only. No way was he going to miss his mark this time. He placed down his beer and fed a hand into his jacket pocket, checking – for the thousandth time – that the six inches of pointed steel was where it should be. He ran his fingers up and down its cold length, feeling again the thrill of anticipation and wondering if this time he’d have the nerve to do it. He’d followed his target through three U.S. cities already, and on each occasion had chickened out at the last second. Not this time, though. This time he was determined to succeed.

  He could remember last time he was here. Not at the eatery, but outside Grand Central Terminal. Twenty odd years ago, it was. Back then the place was a shit hole. Vagrants literally lived and slept in the phone booths, and it was a struggle getting inside the hub without losing your billfold to the pickpockets and muggers. Now the place had been gentrified. It had become a “tourist destination” and “must-do mecca” for shoppers. Terry had done a walk through of the station earlier and was surprised to find a proliferation of high-end shops, an entire level given over to eateries on the lower floor, and even an upmarket restaurant called Cipriani Dolci, full to the brim with wealthy looking men and women in business suits eating lobster and other rich crap. He’d gawped at the grandeur of the Main Concourse, recalling how last time he’d been there he’d barely noticed any of the architecture as he’d been scurrying to avoid some young hoods who had targeted him as an out-of-towner. On that occasion, young and frightened and overwhelmed by his unfamiliar surroundings, he’d made it on to one of the Metro-North trains with his hide intact. He’d avoided his hunters in a way he hoped his quarry wouldn’t escape him today.

  No. It wasn’t going to happen. This time he wouldn’t fail.

  Customers at the table next to his vacated their places. Waiting to be seated were a big, square-bodied Englishman with a GI cut, and judging by her unfamiliar mode of dress, with his wife in tow. They were accompanied by a couple of locals, or Americans at least: a red-haired gal who spoke with the rat-a-tat delivery of a 1940s femme fatale and her more reserved husband who looked like an academic, maybe a high-school teacher or a professor. They were an odd grouping, and Terry gained the impression they had only recently gotten acquainted judging by the exploratory nature of their chatter as they sat at the adjacent table. They were talking books and writing. Terry wasn’t surprised; there was a huge convention of thriller writers taking place in the nearby Hyatt. Terry looked them over, wondering if any of them was famous. He checked out the professor, but was surprised to learn moments later that it was the Brit who was the author, the Americans fans.

  Terry squinted at the Brit, trying to make out the name on a lanyard round his thick neck. Never heard of him, but maybe the guy was an up-and-comer. The Brit was soft-spoken, genial, and prone to self-deprecating laughter. But Terry recognized the front: the dude was built like a weightlifter, maybe a fighter gone slightly to seed. Crows feet at the corners of his eyes were the only marks he carried on his face, so Terry suspected he was an accomplished brawler. Terry just bet he was a tough son of a bitch, something that he carried over into his writing. He’d be a good test for Terry. He wondered if he should do him right now, and went as far as feeding his hand into his jacket pocket again and fixing his fingers around the tapering length of steel. It would be good practice. He’d know for sure if he finally had the nerve to get his man: if he could do this Brit in plain sight, in front of all these witnesses, then he’d be able to do his target.

  But what if he missed the man he was waiting for, for the sake of this nobody?

  He took his hand from his pocket and gripped the neck of his Corona. The bottle was half empty. He took a swig, taking one last glance at the Brit before ignoring him and concentrating on watching the sidewalk outside the terminal. He also ignored the banter and laughter of the group at the next table, zoning it and the street noise out.

  There was a gathering of pedestrians on both sides of 42nd Street. Waiting for the lights to change so they could cross. His view was momentarily obscured and he rose out of his chair, watching keenly over the bobbing heads. Traffic drew to a halt and the throngs moved quickly, weaving past each other from both sides of the street. Then the traffic was moving again and one of the open-top tour buses now blocked his view as it crawled toward a scheduled stop. Terry shook his head in disgust, downed the remainder of his beer then tossed dollars on the table. He didn’t add a tip; let the waiter eat the damn pot pie if he was that desperate. He squeezed out past the red-haired gal, without any of the quartet giving him as much as a second’s notice. He backed out of the eating area, craning all the time for fear he missed his target. The bus was now clear, but Terry rushed for the street and leaned on the steel bollards erected to form a walkway between Pershing Square and the busy street. Pedestrians bumped and nudged him as they squeezed by with not even a hint of apology. But why should he be surprised? This was New York, after all.

  He knew he dared not cross to the other side. There were hundreds of people on the sidewalk, and there was too much of an opportunity for his target to scoot by unseen while Terry was hemmed in by the crowds. He stayed put, watching keenly for the tall man he’d shadowed all the way from Los Angeles. He was jittery. Nervous as hell, but this was it. This was his chance and he wasn’t going to blow it again.

  His breath caught in his chest.

  There he was.

  The one Terry had followed from L.A. to Dallas to Chicago and finally here to the heart of Manhattan. He knew from his research that his target would be leaving the U.S. this very afternoon for a trip to Europe. If he didn’t get him now, then his chance would be lost.

  His target was tall and slim, fair-haired, square-jawed, and kind of distinguished looking, an English public schoolboy now grown to adulthood. He was dressed modestly in a navy blazer over an open neck shirt, jeans and slip-on loafers. Who would guess the nature of the innocuous looking man, who could ever tell he was a master of death and destruction? Who’d have believed that someone like Terry Bishop would have been able to get him right there inside one of the busiest train stations in the world?

  Despite being t
uned to his surroundings, for spotting anyone creeping up on him, Terry’s target missed the shabby guy in the John Deere ball cap and leather jacket crossing the street. The man paused momentarily outside a Capitol One bank, perhaps considering drawing money from the automatic teller machine for his anticipated journey. He must have decided against it; he was too compromised if he went into the narrow hall where the cash machines were, and could be cornered too easily. He moved on, using the cover of the crowd to remain anonymous. He glanced once at a transit cop standing in a doorway of the station but didn’t as much as notice Terry as he fell into step a few yards back.

  Terry’s mouth was dry. The Corona hadn’t helped. His heart was beating, and he was sweating from under his cap. His shirt was also damp beneath his jacket, and it had little to do with the hot spell bleaching the colors from the city. He fed his hands into his jacket pockets. His palms were slick. He couldn’t afford to lose his grip. He had to be firm, strike as soon as he had the opportunity. He scrubbed his palms on the lining of his pockets then took the tapering steel in his right hand.

  His target entered the terminal, pushing through the heavy wooden doors, averting his gaze to avoid eye contact with any of those pushing out. Terry hung back a pace, under the shade of the red awnings. They don’t recognize you or what you are, Terry thought, but I do. This time you won’t get away from me.

  His target slipped inside, hurrying through the crowds toward the Main Concourse. Terry wondered about the man’s luggage. If he was going on a trip, then where were his bags? Then again, the man was known to travel light, to purchase what he needed when he needed it. Must be nice to get incredibly rich off murder and mayhem, Terry decided. Not that Terry begrudged him the wealth; he worked hard for his pay.

  Terry followed into the echoing hall, his rubber-soled boots sucking on the marble floor. He was surrounded by the Beaux-Arts style and architectural opulence of grand staircases, an arched ceiling the color of a tropical sea, and the world famous four-faced gold and opal Tiffany clock. He noticed none of it. Terry’s attention was all on his target. He slipped the pointed length of steel part way from his pocket even as he moved another pace closer.