The Underground Man

16

Joe Bissel sniffled twice, opened a bleary eye. Somewhere in his alcohol-dulled brain something stirred. Danger. Intruders.

Which wasn’t right. This was his spot. He’d staked it out himself. The far end of the station platform in a little alcove just behind the dumpster. It was his and no one had any right.

He opened both eyes now. Blinked. Focused. Christ, what the hell was that? Green hair? Shit. Give me a break. Green hair?

The bleary eyes focused on the other man. At least he was normal. Your typical homeless. But even they could be dangerous, and …

The eyes cleared. Oh. It’s all right. It’s Jack.

Jeremy grabbed Walsh’s arm. “Uncle Jack.”

“Yeah?”

Jeremy pointed. “Someone there.”

Walsh turned, looked. “Oh, that’s all right. That’s Joe. Don’t mind us, Joe. Go right back to sleep.”

“Uncle Jack. What the hell are we doing here?”

“Safest place we could be, my boy.”

“Yeah, but-”

“But nothin’. You been up top for a while, you get to like it down here.”

“Uncle Jack-”

“Hold on, my boy. We got work to do.”

“Work?”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Course you don’t. ’Cause I haven’t told you yet.”

Jeremy took a breath. Maybe this wasn’t such a hot idea after all. “Uncle Jack-”

“Now, now, my boy. I haven’t really lost my marbles. That’s what you’re thinkin’, isn’t it? The old man’s lost his marbles. Well, not at all, my boy. Crazy? Crazy like a fox. See here now.”

“What?”

“You did me a favor, my boy. And now I’m going to do you a favor. And then you’re going to do me another favor. Maybe that’s not equal, but maybe it is.”

Jeremy frowned. “Uncle Jack-”

Walsh held up his hand. “Jeremy. You’re young. You’re impatient. You want everything to make sense. The thing is, things don’t always make sense. And those that do, well sometimes they ain’t worth nothin’. Just relax and enjoy the ride.”

“Ride?”

“You’re far too literal, my boy. Now sit down. We got work to do.”

Walsh eased himself down, leaned up against the wall of the subway. After a moment’s hesitation, Jeremy did the same.

“Fine. Good,” Walsh said. “Now, let’s talk about these favors. You did me the big one, gettin’ me out of the nuthouse. Gettin’ the lawyer you went to. Damn fine job.”

“It just seemed to me-”

“I know it did, my boy, and you were right. And that was a hell of a favor and now I’ll do one for you. Then you’ll do one for me and we’re quits.

“Now, to the business at hand.”

Walsh dug in his overcoat pocket, pulled out some sheets of paper folded in thirds. He looked over at Jeremy. “You got a pen?”

“No.”

Walsh shook his head. “Always carry a pen. Let that be a lesson to you. You never know when it might get you a million bucks.”

“What?”

“Never mind, my boy. Just happen to have one.”

Walsh fished in his coat pocket, pulled out a ballpoint pen. “Now then, something to write on. That’s the thing I didn’t bring. Something to write on. Well, this will have to do.”

Walsh hunched over, spread the paper flat on the floor of the subway platform.

“Now pay attention, my boy, to what I’m going to do.”

Behind them, the eyes of Joe Bissel focused blearily, uncomprehendingly on the scene, as Walsh took the ballpoint pen, poised it over the paper, and began to write: “I, Jack Walsh, being of sound mind and body …”