Terminal City

FOURTEEN

At six forty-five on Thursday morning, I met Mercer and Mike at the information booth on the main concourse of Grand Central Terminal. As directed, I was dressed down in my shabbiest jeans, old sneakers, and a polo shirt.

Sergeant Hank Brantley of the Transit police had been assigned to accompany P.O. Joe Sammen-the cop who had recognized “Carl” the evening before-and us into the community of tunnel dwellers referred to as “mole people.”

In the pecking order of the homeless in New York City, moles had been given the most pejorative name. They were likened to animals, while others who slept in church doorways or on park benches were not.

Hank was stationed in Grand Central, with a specific duty to do outreach to homeless people in the area.

“Take a look around, guys,” Hank said. “You won’t see too many people dressed for success where we’re going.”

Morning commuters were beginning to swarm past us. They came up from subways that deposited them on the lower-level concourse, and from suburban trains north of Manhattan.

I grabbed Mike’s arm so I didn’t get separated in the flow. “How many people pass through here every day?”

“Seven hundred and fifty thousand of them daily,” Hank said. “Maybe half a million going in and out on trains, and the rest just tourists, now that it’s been restored. After Times Square, Grand Central is the most popular tourist attraction in New York.”

“That’s a staggering number of people. I remember coming here as a kid,” I said. I had grown up in Westchester County, and riding to the city with my mother for adventures-to see the Christmas tree at Rockefeller Center, ice-skate in Central Park, visit the great museums, savor an ice-cream soda at Serendipity, and shop in the wonderful stores that lined the broad avenues-was always a memorable experience. “Grand Central was our gateway to Gotham.”

“It was built as the Gateway to the Continent, more than one hundred years ago,” Hank said. “You weren’t the only one to find this place magical.”

“There’s almost a choreography to this flow of people.”

“You nailed it, Alex. During the morning and evening commutes, everyone’s making a beeline for an office or rendezvous, everyone’s in motion. They know exactly where they’re going and how to crisscross this place to get there. In between, we’ve got the tourists. Almost as crowded but moving at a much slower pace. Two entirely different dances, depending on the time of day you’re in here.”

“The ceiling has always been my favorite.”

“If you slow down to look up, Coop, you’ll be trampled,” Mike said.

The aqua-colored celestial ceiling with its golden constellations and stars stretched across the entire vault of the terminal. As a child, I’d been mesmerized by the sight of it whenever I emerged from the train. I had declared it my favorite work of art when I was six years old-the familiar signs of the zodiac played out above me but close enough to see in detail. I loved it.

Hank was leading us across the floor, to a wide ramp that led to the lower concourse. “Take a last peek.”

I looked up and practically gasped again. Artists had restored the enormous scene to its original vibrant coloration, and it sparkled above us like the heavens.

“At some point,” I said, “I remember visiting here and the ceiling was entirely black. I guess that’s what decades of railroad traffic did.”

“Turns out it had nothing to do with soot from the trains or steam engines,” Hank said. “It was completely the result of nicotine from the millions of cigarette smokers hanging out here.”

“Seriously? Nicotine blackened the painting?”

“All those mad men smoking while they waited for the last train to Scarsdale. Slurping down shellfish and martinis in the Oyster Bar, going through half a pack at the end of the day. That’s what did it.”

“Well, it’s glorious again. The entire station is,” I said, looking around.

“Ten constellations up there-the zodiac. Twenty-five hundred stars in an October night sky scene,” Hank said. “The only catch is that it’s all backwards.”

“What?”

We had lost sight of the great barrel-vaulted painting now, down on the lower level. “When the painters created the ceiling back in 1913, they misinterpreted the design, which was meant to reflect the sky from above.”

“You mean it’s a mirror image of what it should be?” Mike asked.

“First day the place opened, a commuter who was an amateur stargazer looked up and saw they got it wrong. He even wrote to the Vanderbilts, who owned the joint, to complain.”

“That must have gone down well.”

“They didn’t bat an eyelash. Told the media that they’d planned the whole thing that way-backwards-so it would be the view that God had, looking down at Grand Central.”

“I guess when you’re the richest family in America, you can plan for God, too,” Mike said. “You’re telling me Pegasus should be flying the other way?”

“For sure. The winged horse is prancing to the west, when he should be going east, in the other corner of the sky,” Hank said, stopping at the bottom of the long ramp. “So this is how we get into the tunnels, lady and gentlemen.”

“What about the trains?” I asked.

“Here’s the deal, Alex. When the station was opened in 1913, all the long-distance travel originated on the main concourse, whether you were going north to Canada or west of here to Chicago.”

Mercer interrupted, his transportation “gene” going into gear. “Now those were the glamorous runs, my dad used to say. Twentieth Century Limited, right?”

“Grand Central to Chicago’s LaSalle Street Station,” Hank said, “starting in 1902 and advertised as the most famous and luxurious train in the world. The New York Central provided a red carpet every night when the rich people boarded, and that expression-rolling out the red carpet, which originated right in this spot-stuck as a fancy way to treat people.”

“Never knew that,” Mercer said. “Wasn’t there an Owl, too?”

“Overnight to Boston,” Hank said. “I grew up on this stuff. The Yankee Clipper, the Detroiter, the Green Mountain Flyer, the Hendrick Hudson.”

“Used to be my old man could call out every train and all the stops it made.”

“Worked for the railroad?”

“No. For the airlines. That’s what put these great iron horses out of business after the Second World War. My old man loved train travel and everything about it. Always made him a bit melancholy that the work he did for Delta helped kill long-distance train travel.”

“I get that,” Hank said. “Like I was telling you, when this station was constructed, all the fancy out-of-town travel operated from the main concourse. This lower level was only for the commuter trains. Once those routes were shut down over the years, the locals moved upstairs. This area, as you can see, became a major food court and commercial zone, and most of the tracks down here have basically been closed off.”

We made our way around the various cafés and restaurants and the automated information booth that sat directly below the one on the main concourse. Hank Brantley had a plan and a path. The rest of us followed him.

We stopped in front of gate 100, its wrought iron grating shut tight. Hank had radioed ahead to get a Metro-North security guard to meet us and unlock the metal barrier. The guard had brought along four hard hats for us to wear.

“I need this?” I asked. “What are we expecting?”

“I’d prefer it, Alex. Never know what’s up ahead. Things leak, they drip, they fall from work areas above. It’s precautionary, okay? Just humor me.”

I put the hat on, increasing my discomfort and making me sweat before I even left the shelter of the building.

Once inside, there was another long ramp that led off to the side of the railroad tracks, those thick dark lines that appeared to stretch out endlessly in the tunnel ahead.

“Stay close, mind you,” Hank said. “There are loads of syringes and crack vials underfoot. And I heard you had your first close encounter with some track rabbits last night. We’ve got plenty of ’em down here.”

“Track rabbits?” I asked.

“Rats. That’s what we call them in the tunnels. They’re so used to seeing moles-underground people-that they’re more likely to run towards you than away.”

“Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.”

“You’ll see some fires, too. Don’t be alarmed.”

“Fires in the tunnel? I can barely breathe now,” I said.

“Lots of the moles scavenge for pieces of old wood. Keep fires lit even in this intense heat ’cause it keeps the rodents away.”

He started to walk along the narrow ledge to the left of the last set of tracks. Mercer followed, and I was next in line. “I always thought the tunnel-people stories were urban legend. All the stuff about a city beneath the streets.”

Hank Brantley shook his head. “I asked to work in this building thirty years ago, Alex. It was the height of the city’s homeless problem. I came here because I loved trains, and then I had this awfully rude awakening. Grand Central was one of the meccas for the homeless.”

“The station itself?” I asked.

“There used to be a waiting room,” Hank said. “A huge space that’s completely empty now. In fact, it’s rented out for private parties. But it was quite the sight in its time. Marble walls and oak flooring, with wainscoting around the entire room. Maids standing by for women who were traveling without help. When train travel hit the skids, that waiting room became the finest free hotel space for the city’s homeless, sleeping on the long wooden benches that lined the room.”

“I can’t imagine it.” Though the homeless-whether mentally ill, victims of domestic violence, or returning veterans without resources-were still a big problem in the city, there were now entire departments of government and nonprofit agencies that tried to work with the struggling population.

“Vagrants is what we called them back when I was a kid. Got here to find out that Grand Central’s public areas were considered the safest places for them to seek shelter from the wild streets of the eighties,” Hank said. “That was the city’s decade lost to crack and homelessness.”

“They could remain inside all night?” Mercer asked.

“Yes, unlike today, the building used to stay open. There’d be regular police checks at one in the morning, and then again at five A.M., just before the commuter rush. In between, it was easy for them to close their eyes and get some real rest. During the day, they’d panhandle to get enough food to keep them alive.”

“How many homeless people lived inside the main station?”

“By 1990, the estimates were at least five hundred of them. And from the faces I’d see day after day, I’d say at least fifty of them lived in here for more than a year. Pretty ironic that this magnificent edifice was so full of human misery.”

The path was narrow, and the farther we got from the train platform, the dimmer the lighting became. Every now and again, over our heads, was a bare bulb throwing off a glow against the dingy black area of the tracks. There was the distant rumble of subway trains going by somewhere farther below us. It seemed to repeat every few minutes.

“Is this dangerous?” I asked. I was running one hand along the wall to my left to keep my balance. “Where we’re walking now?”

“Not dangerous for you, Alex. More so for the poor souls who call it home.”

There were noises all around us in the long tunnel. Train whistles from nearby and far away, the occasional screeching sound of brakes, a dull pounding from a jackhammer, and voices too indistinct to hear from this distance.

“Is there still such a thing as an electrified third rail?”

“Sure there is. But not in a dead tunnel like the one we’re going to.”

“Relax, Coop. Years of ballet lessons and you can’t do a little balance beam here?” Mike said. He had latched his forefinger into the rear waistband of my jeans. “You won’t get electrocuted.”

“Actually, Mike,” Hank Brantley said, “that’s usually the way we discover where moles live. Someone rolls out of a cubby onto the tracks, while they’re sleeping or high. Gets electrocuted. Those bodies even cause trains to derail. Happens every week or two.”

There was the sound of something scratching against the metal tracks up ahead of us.

“Quit tugging at me, Mike,” I said.

“Can’t have it both ways, kid. I’m either hooked in your pants for life or not. Hear that noise?”

“Yeah.”

“Track rabbits. That’s the sound their nails make when they’re scampering across the railroad ties. Nails scratching metal.”

“I just changed my mind then, Mike. Don’t let go of me.”

Hank turned on a flashlight to guide us ahead. In about ten feet, he came to a place where the path widened into a raised concrete square, and we all grouped around him.

“So the guy you’re looking for, you know anything about him?”

Our heads all turned to Joe Sammen, the cop who’d recognized “Carl.”

“Only that I’ve seen him around my beat for the last three, maybe four years. That he’s a mole. ’Cause he told me that a few times, and I’ve seen him with other guys I know.”

“What’s your sector?” Hank asked.

“Charlie-David. I got above 43rd Street, Third Avenue to the east side of Fifth, north to 50th Street. The body was in DePew.”

“Let me see his photo again,” Hank said, holding out his hand for Mike’s iPhone. He looked at the picture of the dead man’s face, grimaced, and shook his head from side to side.

“Not familiar to me, which probably means he didn’t come into the station proper.”

“Is that uncommon?” Mike asked.

“Not for a real mole. I mean, there are at least six hundred people-men, women, and the occasional kid-who live in the tunnels that burrow out of 42nd Street, below the concourse. Some of them come in to use the bathrooms and clean up in the sinks, but the ones who are really hard-boiled? They’ve got their own little apartments down here. And they’re afraid that if they run into any of the homeless advocates in Grand Central, they’re going to be scooped up and taken to the nut house. Last thing they want are the rules and regs of a homeless shelter, you know?”

I knew that fact from many of the vulnerable homeless with whom my colleagues had worked.

“I’m warning you guys. What you’re going to see is unpleasant. These folks, they’ve got their own mayor, their own system of laws, and they live by their wits. Some of them cook food on the steam pipes that you hear hissing-food they beg for or take half eaten out of the trash.”

“How long has this been going on?”

“Hobos have lived along train tracks since the first steam engine was invented. Right here, I’d say the nineteen eighties was the decade of the tunnels. The New York Central had gone bust, so a lot of tracks were shut down. At first men mostly used to come in to do drugs. It just kept growing,” Hank said. “Okay, we’re going to move along now. When we stood at the entrance to gate one hundred, I’d say we were almost directly underneath what would be 44th Street to the east of the building.”

“Sort of right below where DePew Place begins,” Mike said.

“Yeah. We’re going to pass along here, and there are hollow areas under this walkway where people live. Don’t disturb anyone if you hear noise. Most of them know me and will respond better than to strangers.”

“Okay.”

Hank Brantley was moving as he talked, turning to look back at us so we could hear him. “There are also some cubbies overhead-”

“In the wall?” Mike asked. I stood still while he leaned his head back. “Up there?”

“Pickaxed into the cracked concrete. Yup. That’s what I meant by apartments. If you look for the areas with overhangs, they’re especially sought after,” Hank said, pointing the light up and craning his neck. “That protects the moles from being seen by workmen on the platforms opposite the wall.”

“Do the tracks run straight out like this from the station?” I asked.

Hank held out one of his beefy arms. “Not at all. The train tracks go due north, but the tunnels spread out and around like the veins on the back of my hand. Sooner or later they connect to the subway tunnels throughout the city, and eventually they lead over to Penn Station,” he said, referring to the city’s massive but far less attractive train hub on the west side. “They were never meant to be linked together, but as the systems spread and the infrastructure rotted, you can pretty much get from here to the Hudson River via underground tunnels.”

“Don’t any of them get killed by trains just walking around?” I asked.

Hank Brantley shrugged. “Not too often. They manage to navigate the rails incredibly well.”

“What’s that smell?” We were deeper into a branch off to the side, still walking on our narrow ledge. I pulled up my collar and buried my nose and mouth in the soft cotton material.

“We’re coming up on one of the little communities,” he said, shining his light on an area below the platform and ten feet ahead of us. “Twenty or thirty guys live in it at any given time. Human waste is a problem for them here in the condos, otherwise they’ve got it figured out pretty good.”

“Condos?”

“That’s what they call them. Like a series of concrete caverns, so close to the surface that they’re often an entry point to tunnel life, but just far enough away from routine police patrols. The condos are pretty upscale, compared to the rest of the area. There are enough sprinkler pipes scattered throughout to get water, and some electrical wire to screw in bulbs. Just hold your nose and walk on by me. Hand me your phone, Mike.”

We inched around Hank, though I almost gagged on the awful smell emanating from below. I took a flashlight from Mercer and moved forward, enough to get away from the direct line of the scent. More scratching noise, and out of the next hole ahead came four or five rats, two the size of piglets.

Hank Brantley had lured three men out of their condo. All were dark-skinned, two were bare-chested against the intense heat, while the third wore a torn undershirt. They stood inches from the long out-of-use tracks, leaning on the edge of the platform to talk with the cop whom they regarded as a friend.

They looked at the photograph of the dead man on Mike’s phone. None of them showed any glimmer of recognition. I couldn’t hear their conversation, till the one closest to me called out and asked if we had any food.

Mike apologized and said he’d send some back in with Brantley.

The man thanked Mike and laughed, directing his gaze at me. “Make mine a filet, medium rare.”

“Don’t look at her, buddy. Can’t cook to save her life. I’ll see you get some red meat.”

“Well, how about she delivers it?” the man said, wagging a finger at me.

“Tell us how to find out who this guy is,” Hank said, “and she’ll bring you a six-pack, too.”

“Don’t know. Not my neighbor.” He held up his arm, and Hank’s light followed. The tunnel forked about twenty feet away. “To the left, you’re going west across 44th. The other one leads up to 46th Street. You say you found him in DePew? Then I’d stay to the right. There’s some broken air vents near DePew you could crawl down if you know your way around here.”

Hank thanked them, then straightened up and rejoined us.

“Can we give them some money?” I asked. “To eat? I mean it’s no worse than paying informants, and I feel so badly for them, living this way.”

“Stone-cold junkies, Alex. Those three would trade it right in for heroin. Mike’s got the right idea. I’ll send one of my men back later with a few sandwiches.”

At the actual fork, the platform we were on ended. Hank guided us down a short staircase. “Step lively. You’re crossing an old track here. Keep your toes out of the ties.”

We paraded across the solid lines, our forward advance sending a dozen or more track rabbits scurrying out of our way. Up five steps and onto another ledge. We passed several more apartment units, with residents occasionally sticking out their heads to see who was trespassing in their hood. They all seemed to relax when they spotted Hank Brantley.

“Just look the other way, Alex, if we come upon a guy called Dirty Harry.”

“And I’ll know him because…?”

“He’ll come out of his hole, expose himself, and start masturbating, okay?”

“That’s her specialty,” Mike said. “Nothing shocks Coop.”

“These tunnels might just prove to be the spot that does,” I said. “Mentally ill?”

“First layer of hell here are the criminals and junkies. Second are the insane, those who have walked away from all the help that’s been offered. You’ve seen a lot of homeless street people,” Hank said, “but the moles are outcasts even within the homeless world of outcasts.”

We had just worked a case that involved the murder of a young homeless woman in Central Park. The way she and her friends existed in the city’s woods and vast green areas seemed almost tranquil compared to the stifling, foul, airless space beneath the city streets.

Hank led the way again.

“How long are we going to keep this up?” I asked. “How many tunnels are there?”

“Just coming out of Grand Central alone, there’s thirty-four miles of track, which fan out and around going down seven levels below the street.”

“Seven stories?”

“Not kidding. So, tunnels? Impossible to know how many there are. The place has been dug and redug so many times for so many different reasons that no blueprints exist of the terminal area. That’s why it’s impossible to patrol.”

Two white men, both bearded and shoeless, soot blackening their feet as high as their ankles, greeted Hank, but he passed them by.

“Both crazy as loons. Not worth my time,” he said. “Those seven levels funnel into twenty-six main rail arteries, which leave here going north, east, and west.”

I was getting nauseous from the smells and sounds as we burrowed deeper into the tunnels.

I knew the importance of what we were doing but should have let Mercer and Mike make the trip without me. Still, I wouldn’t have believed what they reported to me.

Several steps ahead, Hank came to an abrupt stop. He stooped and braced one hand on the platform, then jumped down beside the tracks. “You in there, Smitty?”

It took almost a minute for the bone-thin black man to crawl out of his cubbyhole. “Officer Hank. What’s the beef?”

“No beef, Smitty. I think one of your boys got himself killed last night.”

“Haven’t heard a word. Can’t be true.”

Other heads appeared above us, and a guy in only his undershorts started coming closer to Hank.

“Go back home, Harry,” Hank said, as the man rested one hand on his crotch and started rubbing himself. “I got some police here with me. I got a lady, too.”

Harry ignored the officer but looked at the four of us-Joe Sammen bringing up the rear of our group. He became more excited and obviously aroused.

Smitty shouted at him. “Get out of here, Harry. Respect yourself, dude.”

Dirty Harry didn’t stop playing with himself, but he turned his back and walked off into a darkened strip adjacent to our platform.

“Thanks, Smitty,” Hank said, turning to the officer who’d recognized the deceased. “You two know each other?”

Sammen screwed up his face and studied Smitty. “I think I’ve seen you around, but not lately.”

“I don’t go up much anymore. Don’t have to. Got most of what I need down here.”

Mike’s curiosity got the better of him. He lowered himself down to take a look at Smitty’s lair. The man was intelligent and well-spoken. I couldn’t imagine what had reduced him to life as a mole.

Mike motioned to me, and I slid down off the platform to stand next to him. Inside the hole in the concrete, extending back about eight feet, were the makings of a home. There was a mattress covered by a dirty sheet, a stack of crates that had been converted into a dresser, a bulb overhead, and a wall-sized sketch of Derek Jeter that dominated the space. On top of the bed was a dog-eared old paperback by Chester Himes.

“I’m Mike Chapman. This is Alexandra Cooper,” Mike said, making the rest of the introductions.

It was clear that Hank Brantley had a relationship with this man, who seemed to trust him. “Smitty used to be a graffiti artist. He did that Jeter portrait himself.”

“You’re so obviously talented,” I said. “Why-what brought you-?”

“Why am I a mole? That’s what you want to know, isn’t it?”

“Yes, please,” I said, while Mike brought up the photo of the dead man on his phone.

“I spent a lot of time riding subways doing my art. That got me into the tunnels, and I kind of liked it here. I used to shoot heroin. Big-time habit, and I was stealing all the time. In jail and out, on probation and off. Finally tested positive for HIV and now it’s full-on AIDS. I’ve been shunned for so long aboveground-lost all my family along the way-it’s just easier for me to live down here. Not so judgmental. Not so painful.”

“But there’s medical help we can get you for your condition. You don’t need to live like this,” I said.

“Speak for yourself, lady. This happens to suit me fine.”

“Smitty used to be the mayor of the Grand Central tunnels.”

“No more politics for me,” he said, holding up both hands and smiling broadly.

“You know everybody, don’t you?”

“Pretty much.”

“Need you to look at this picture,” Hank said, taking the phone from Mike.

“What you got for me? Something to eat or a good cigar?”

Hank took a pack of cigarettes out of his pants pocket. “For starters, okay?”

Smitty took the Marlboros and opened the box, reaching into his pocket for a book of matches. “Let me see.”

Hank handed him Mike’s iPhone.

“Sure, I know him.”

I felt better immediately. “What’s his name?”

“Down here, Ms. Alex, that’s the last thing you ask anyone. Nobody wants to be known-not by his street name.”

“Officer Sammen had a nickname for him. Called him Carl. Did he have another name?”

“Not that I know of. You need to understand, there’s groups of people down here. Folks who come in to get out of the cold.”

“Get in how?” I asked. “Through the station?”

“That doesn’t happen much. Security there is pretty tight,” Smitty said, punctuating his words with a few violent coughs. “But there are ladders hanging on some of the walls throughout all the tunnels in the city, rusty old things with thin iron rungs that workmen have used for decades. Gets frigid enough on the street and some people just find a broken grating, a manhole in the street. Let themselves in for the night and maybe stay a week or two. We call them wanderers. Not likely to stay very long. Not worth bothering to get to know ’em.”

“And your-your constituency?” I asked.

“Like you hear. Moles. Full-on moles. This is home. There are Grand Central moles, Penn Station moles, Bowery moles, Riverside Park moles, Dyker Avenue moles. We’re all straight out of the journey to the center of the earth, Ms. Alex. Only it’s not science fiction.”

Out of the darkness behind Smitty’s back, the shadowy silhouette of Dirty Harry reappeared. He was fully exposed now and still touching himself. Smitty knew it from the expression on my face.

“I hear you coming, Harry. Now I’ve got company, and this fine lady has no interest in you taking care of your nasty business while she’s talking to me. She’s sent people up the river for less than that. You go on to Ms. Sylvia’s nest and maybe she’ll tell you how pretty it is. Then you can put it away for an hour or two.”

Harry retreated, and Mike was back to pressing Smitty.

“So this guy,” Mike said, taking back his iPhone and shaking it in Smitty’s face, “he’s not quite a mole and more than a wanderer.”

“That’s right,” he said, drawing deeply on the lighted cigarette before coughing. “This boy’s a runner.”

“What’s that?”

“Just what it sounds, Detective. Me? I don’t like to go up to the street. Somebody might try to take me to a hospital or put me in some kind of sterile shelter. Cramp my style. Some moles, like Harry, can’t go up, ’cause they’d land in the Bellevue psych ward, where he busted out from two years ago. Wants to go up-show his stuff-but he just can’t. Ms. Sylvia? She’s got a load of warrants from when she used to have enough meat on her bones to turn tricks. Hank’s good to her. He just looks the other way and lets her be, so she sits tight, too.”

“And runners,” Mike said. “They’re the go-betweens, right?”

“Yes, indeed. Mostly, they live down here because we let them. Don’t plan to stay very long at first, but if their spirits are dark enough, compromised enough, they get used to our ways,” Smitty said, crossing his arms and resting his back against the platform. “But some of them-like your dead man-they still like the night prowl. Go up to steal food sometimes. Maybe swipe some clean clothes out of a Laundromat when no one’s looking. Take a shower in a summer rainstorm.”

“So this guy, who did he run for?”

“Anybody who asked him, Detective.”

“Someone stabbed him in the back last night,” I said, ratcheting up the urgency of our mission. “It doesn’t get more serious than that, Smitty. Was he a runner for moles, or for people above, on the street?”

“Stabbed to death was he? That’s sure as hell tied into his business.”

“What business?”

“Look, Ms. Alex,” Smitty said, coughing up enough of whatever was killing him to spit it out onto the tracks behind us. “When I was in charge of this tunnel-back when I had some juice-anything I asked the guy to get me from the street, he’d find a way to come back with the goods. Not my job to ask how, you understand? So you call him Carl or whatever you want, he was just a runner-boy to me. I had a craving for a Big Mac and fries? A carton of cigarettes? A new lightbulb or an old library book or a can of spray paint for me to draw with? He’d steal those things or hustle a few bucks to buy them. I don’t know whether he sold his sweet ass or knocked over your aunt Tilly to steal her purse. He got it done.”

Smitty realized he was snapping at me and backed off. “Now, he didn’t bother me and I didn’t know what he was up to. No doubt he was running up more regular in this heat. It’s a good time of year to escape the tunnels.”

“You called it business,” I said.

“I’m out of office, Ms. Alex. Kept my nose clean. Somebody on the street-your kind of people-somebody offered him a dime to do a job, that runner-boy’s likely to say yes. He liked to hustle. There are others here who’d know what he was up to. I didn’t much care.”

“So how do we find those moles?” Mike asked.

“Where runner-boy kept his crib,” Smitty said, taking the phone from Mike and staring at the lifeless image of his old neighbor.

“Where’s that at?”

“Last I knew, this runner-boy lived where it was easy to get in and out. Third tunnel ahead on the left, above the platform. There’s a great big hole in the concrete, almost gets you to the subway entrance if you can stand crawling through it, past the rodents and roaches. It’s got one of those old iron ladders-missing a few rungs.”

“Can you take us to it?” Mike asked.

“I don’t like to leave home. Officer Hank can find it,” Smitty said, turning to our underworld guide. “It’s near the wall where the concrete crumbled a few years back. Crushed that girl who was trying to get herself out. The city never patched it up, ’cause one less mole didn’t make the least bit of difference in the scheme of things.”

“I can probably get us there.”

“You know it, Officer Hank. Just south of that entrance on 47th Street. It’s the hole that connects to the Northwest Passage.”