Never Go Alone Page 9

  Rivett sat on a stool at the Pickle, sucking down his third vodka soda of the night and staring directly at UrbEx on his cell phone. He watched with a smile as the views ticked up. With 612 likes and counting, he’d also managed to pull down about nine thousand views. Hey, viral—eat your heart out. Not that Mona or Rory, or anyone else from that crew had liked it yet. But maybe they had at least watched it.

  Nikki sauntered over, cocking her body in the familiar way. “Where ya been, hunny bunny?” Nikki half smiled, half smirked.

  “I’ve been exploring,” Jake replied.

  “You’re a slippery boy.”

  “No one’s ever accused me of that exact adjective . . .”

  “I dunno. Just thought . . .”

  “What?” Jake asked.

  “Maybe you came by the bar not just for the drinks all the time,” Nikki allowed a small smile to escape her lips.

  Now was the time to respond in kind. In relationships, you have to strike when the iron is pipin’ hot and the other ship’s lights are on. He was attracted to her, sure. She was the type of girl that Hector—and most of the guys who hung out at the Silver Pickle—were irresistibly drawn to. It was also a fact that everyone quietly admired Jake because Nikki had picked him. But friendships change and so do operational circumstances. Maybe her boat was throwing down anchors, but Jake wasn’t sticking around. It wasn’t that he was emotionally unavailable, or that his job explicitly prohibited the relationship. Nikki was on the edge and so was he. Jake wasn’t holding out for a Girl Scout. Girl Scouts—like his mother—have their own problems. He loved his mom for everything she did, and hated her for what she didn’t. So maybe, like most men, Rivett was looking for someone who was half like his mother, and half not at all. But the real reason that Nikki and he would never work was darker—and more unfortunate. She was too far gone. Jake was an actor on a stage. But for Nikki, the stage was her life. He knew it, she didn’t, and therein lay the problem.

  “I’m just here for a drink tonight,” Jake finally replied.

  “It’s on me,” she said.

  “I’ll pay.”

  “With all your gangster money?”

  “Funny,” Jake allowed himself to grin.

  “Now that Hector’s on ice, you still workin’ with his crew?”

  “Nah. But you know me. I’m a hustler. Won’t let it get me down. I don’t even need a crew.” Jake dipped down back to his phone. He didn’t look over his shoulder as the door to the thin bar opened and a slice of light from the street spilled into the place. But within seconds, he could feel it. The energy inside the Pickle had changed. A few other men sitting at the bar rotated and splashed out their freshest gazes to someone standing behind Jake. The hair on the back of his neck flung itself upright. He twisted around suddenly—compelled to see who had entered.

  Mona. Jake’s heart skipped a beat or two and found a new, faster rhythm. She looked slightly awkward—old enough to be there but the youngest in the crowd. She was obviously looking for someone. Once she noticed Jake, she dipped down into an empty booth next to the door. She didn’t look up.

  “I gotta get, babe,” Jake said to Nikki. He laid out a twenty-dollar bill on the bar.

  “So I’m just entertainment for you?”

  “No. You’re always the baddest chick in the room. I love that,” Jake said.

  “What does that matter?”

  “Precisely,” Jake said. He headed across the bar, leaving Nikki to process his rejection. Nikki watched him approach the girl, becoming angrier as she connected the dots.

  Jake slid into the booth across from Mona.

  “For some reason, I think you’re here to see me. After all, the only other reason people come here is because no one else wants them,” Jake said.

  “You’re some sorta genius,” Mona grinned.

  “Right? But you got more going on than that.”

  “I’m not here for pleasure. Rory wants to show you something.”

  “So you liked my video?”

  “I saw it. So did he.”

  “What’d you think?”

  “Doesn’t matter,” she said.

  “Huh?”

  “You wanted to see our world. Maybe you can. You coming?” Mona asked.

  “Where are we going?”

  Mona took another long look around the dimly lit bar and its denizens. The place was swathed in a nightmarish tint of purple. “Anywhere but here,” she finally said as she slid out of the booth. Her fingers hesitated on the edge of the wooden table, tapping lightly. “For the record, I think you’re cool. But I don’t like what he sees in you,” she said.

  “What do you mean?” he asked.

  “You’ll find out. Eventually.”

  Mona turned heel and walked out the front door without a word. Jake sat in the booth for only about three seconds longer, before compelling himself vertical and scampering after her.

  Nikki watched them leave. She reared back and tossed two empty beer bottles into the recycling bin behind her with so much hate that they smashed into a thousand little pieces.

  ▪

  As they passed by Jake’s motorcycle, double-locked to a gate in the bar’s tiny alley, he grabbed a backpack from the secured bin attached to the back of the machine. Mona watched with interest.

  “Call it covert preparation for an overt operation . . .”

  Mona smirked. “At least some of your words sound right this time, noob.”

  ▪

  Jake and Mona sat hip to hip on the subway. Neither spoke. They were in a primitive phase. Instant conclusions had already been made—but the rest was at the formation stage. Jake quietly watched through the capsule window, listening to the thundering and clacking of the subway car as connecting tunnels flickered past. Gelled filament lights illuminated each new passage for brief second, like a heartbeat underneath the place. Jake could feel his own heart beat. He wondered briefly if the pulse would pass through his body and into hers. He felt something whenever his arm brushed against hers. Did she? A sensation of . . . electricity? Or maybe it was just the train, or his cell phone buzzing in his pocket. He pulled the device out. Sure enough, there was a text from an unknown number: “Call your parents.”

  The message was undoubtedly from Tony, the emissary, sent at the behest of the royal one, Susan. For surrogate parents, they were just about as shitty as his real ones.

  “Where do they live?” Mona asked.

  Jake realized that she’d been looking over his shoulder. “Upstate. Albany.”

  “All good with them?” Mona asked.

  “Nah.

  “That’s a shame.”

  “And yours are perfect?”

  “Everyone’s different. Mine is mine. We’re close,” she said. “My sister’s everything I got.”

  “Where do you live?” Jake asked.

  “Brooklyn. Closer to Red Hook, actually. Down south. The old part,” Mona said.

  “Near the party?”

  “A few blocks away.”

  “Cool.”

  Silence pervaded the space for a few more moments.

  “Speaking of the party,” Jake started up, “what’s with that Dominican guy?”

  “Who?”

  “Emanuel.”

  “You got a lot of questions,” Mona replied sharply.

  “Is that a problem?”

  “Not really,” she said. “Not for me. But the rest of these guys are paranoid. They’re freaks. ’Cause that’s what this world is. It’s a bunch of people without control looking to scare themselves into it. Get used to it.”

  “I was just trying to make conversation . . .”

  She looked at Jake, verifying his intentions. “Emanuel’s an idiot,” she said. “He’s one of those dudes who goes in and tags up places. Breaks whatever’s in there. Destroys stuff. That’s definitely not what we do. We don’t vandalize. He’s not an explorer. He’s not what this is about.”

  “He’s always got a gun?”

  �
��He’s the type of guy you want to stay away from,” Mona nodded. “That enough to satisfy you?”

  “Plenty. Forget I asked.”

  ▪

  Rory Visco was the lone element not moving in the center of the neon spires and commercial artery that was Times Square. Jake strode a step behind Mona as they approached. Rory turned and inspected Jake again, his eyes taking in the newcomer standing in front of him. Much like when Jake met him at the entrance to the UrbEx party, Rory’s demeanor gave up nothing. His surface was as still as a lake, but his eyes glistened, making it quite clear that a deep lake of intellect lay beneath.

  “I caught your vid,” Rory finally said.

  Jake allowed himself to beam.

  “It was crazy. But it was stupid. A stunt. I would never infiltrate a police station. Because I don’t want to give the coppers any reason to ever know my name.”

  Jake’s smile immediately dropped. “Sure. Okay. Then why’d you bring me here?”

  “’Cause you were right.”

  “About . . .” Jake searched, then tossed a dart. “Somebody showed you the ropes.”

  “Yeah. Someone did. My brother. Will.”

  “Cool.”

  “But that just got your foot in the door,” Rory said with a grin. “It’s what you do now that defines who you are . . . How you fit into the world. And I gotta admit . . . what you did wasn’t smart, but it was pretty damn cool. If you have the balls to rooftop a cop shop? Maybe you can roll with us.” Rory pointed to Jake’s backpack. “What are you packin’ there, brother?”

  Jake swung the bag off his shoulders and into his hands. Without question, he gave it to Rory. Rory opened it and took a look, his hand quickly dashing around inside the dark corners of the satchel. After a brief moment of inspection, Rory pulled a set of lock picking tools out. Concealed inside a small leather pouch the size of a sunglasses case, the kit included fifteen tempered stainless steel tools, including a selection of hooks, rakes, extractors, and tensioners. They were the one piece of standard NYPD undercover equipment that Jake had figured would make him look golden in Rory’s eyes. But Rory shook the lock picking kit in Jake’s face, an angry expression on his face.

  “You’re an explorer, not a thief,” Rory said. “Never have anything on you that’s going to give the cops a reason to put you in jail.”

  “Come on,” Jake replied incredulously.

  “Come on, what?” Mona asked.

  “Are you serious? Those could be useful. You guys aren’t so clean,” Jake said.

  “Of course we are. That’s how we operate,” Rory said. To Jake’s disbelief, Rory threw the tools into a nearby trash can. Rory rooted through Jake’s bag a bit more. “I guess I need to give this a closer look, don’t I?” Rory pulled out a flashlight. “One flashlight?”

  “Extra batteries,” Jake answered.

  “Let me ask you a question. What good are the batteries if the flashlight falls down a drain?”

  “Good point.”

  “How long have you been exploring? And give me the real, for once. Not the bullshit, ’cause I know you’re good at that.”

  Jake took a deep breath. “Listen, ever since I was a little kid I’ve been exploring the world. Getting out of the house was the only thing that gave me happiness. But it’s just recently, like in the last few months, that I’ve taken it to the next level. I’m a fast learner. I’m not afraid. And I know the city. I hope that’s good enough for you.”

  “Next time? Two flashlights. Minimum. One on your head, one in your hand,” Rory zipped the bag up and threw it back to Jake’s feet. “Passion isn’t enough in this game. I don’t care how much you want something. I just need to know that you can do it. You have to know what you’re getting into, and pack for it. Otherwise that extra thirty pounds on your body is only good for one thing: To stop you from getting where you want to go.”

  “I understand. Be prepared. But in the right way,” Jake said, “So where we goin’ tonight?”

  “Where are we going?” Rory repeated Jake’s question with a slow-drawl, philosophical tilt. He focused on the masses passing by them. People whizzed past them—left, right, across the street, at a diagonal, every direction possible. “That’s not really the right question, is it?” Rory pointed to the crowd. “All the ants marching know where they’re going. But they don’t know where they are. Come with me, and I’ll show you the answer to that.”

  Jake followed Mona and Rory—ducking out of the way of the panhandlers, topless women body-painted as Uncle Sam, and rappers hawking their latest beats—and down a small street tangential to Times Square. Rory strode down a metal staircase that accessed a couple of businesses located in basement suites. As he did, they passed a large poster for the mayor, Ronald Berg himself. Rory snarled at the poster, gripping it with his hands and ripping it off the wall. Jake watched with interest as Rory scrunched the poster into a ball and tossed it into a trash can at the bottom of the stairs.

  “Um . . . Not a big fan of politicians?” Jake asked.

  “You got that right,” Rory replied.

  “Berg?”

  “Him and all of ’em.”

  At the end of the small corridor was a street drain, hidden on the ground behind a wall of stacked wooden pallets. It was protected only by a single steel bar that had clearly been bent upward at some point in the past. There was about a ten-inch gap.

  Rory slipped his body under the horizontal guardrail.

  Mona was next.

  Jake took a deep breath and followed.

  ▪

  Jake splashed directly into a large drainpipe with a wide enough diameter for him to stand up easily. Rory extended his hand and helped Jake out of the water.

  “Wow, it’s that easy?” Jake asked.

  “I know a thousand different ways to get into these tunnels. My favorites are the fake brownstones.”

  “The . . . what?” Jake asked.

  “Manhattan has fake buildings. Façades that look real on the outside but are really just entrances to the sewer system,” Rory explained but realized quickly that Jake wasn’t comprehending, “Don’t worry about it. You’ll get there . . .”

  The three of them marched in single file through the darkness, their headlamps dancing elegantly and catching a century of moss with each swipe. The faint scent of mildew wafted through Jake’s nostrils. The environment was so unfamiliar as to be alien. That’s also what made it interesting—not to mention the rhythm of blood pumping ferociously through his heart. He felt alive, vital.

  As they walked, Rory shined his flashlight around the entrances to a number of small pipes leading off the main drain they were traversing. Splashing behind, Jake could barely make out Rory’s tentative whispering to Mona.

  “See any hydras?” Rory murmured.

  “Not yet,” Mona replied.

  “Oh well.”

  It took ten minutes for the group to arrive at their destination: a circular drain opening located directly at the top of the pipe.

  “Crouch down there, noob,” Rory ordered, and Jake followed. Rory stood on Jake’s shoulders and slid the drain cover to the side. Rory grasped the top of the drain with his fingers and slowly pulled his body into the darkness above. After a few moments a rope dropped down, with large knots tied every foot or so.

  ▪

  As Jake climbed out of the circular drain and into a new space, the first thing he noticed was the tile work: Green and white subway tiles graced every single wall, a beautiful and elaborate skin that extended all the way up through vaulted cathedral ceilings. At the top of the room was a stained-glass skylight with dull light passing through. The room curved around a long loop. Rory turned on a battery-powered lantern and led the way. Jake quickly realized that this was some sort of antiquated subway station, obviously no longer in service. It was buried by time, not unlike a pharaoh in his final resting spot: jewels intact, beauty and grace preserved.

  “It’s . . . insane,” Jake finally emoted.

&
nbsp; “Where do you think we are?” Rory asked.

  Jake glanced around in an attempt to estimate where they’d come from. He couldn’t be quite sure. “Um . . . I don’t know . . .”

  Rory pointed to the ceiling. “We’re standing directly underneath where we were fifteen minutes ago. This station was closed in 1945,” Rory announced. “Not because it wasn’t beautiful. Nope. Logistics were the problem. See how the entire station runs along a curve? The looping design wouldn’t work with the longer subway cars that were coming into service. Down those tracks? There’s a private entrance to the Waldorf Astoria. It was built for Roosevelt. Bring him right into the hotel and hide his polio from the world. You’re looking at history. On pause. Just for us.”

  Jake took it all in. “How’d you find this place?” Jake finally asked.

  “Isn’t the real question: Why doesn’t everyone know about it?” Rory asked.

  “People are too interested in what’s right in front of them. Their cell phones. Their job. The next appointment . . .” Jake said.

  “Right. But I don’t buy that. Not completely. Humans are curious. It’s in our nature. And we love beauty—that’s also inherent. Imagine if you were a little boy and you grew up in a tiny log cabin at the bottom of a mountain. If you lived your whole life next to that mountain, there’s a damn good chance that at some point you’d climb that mountain. Probably early. Six or seven. Definitely by the time you were a teen. And you’d get to the top of that mountain and you’d look down at your house and you’d see the world a little differently,” Rory said.

  “But that doesn’t happen in the city,” Mona added.

  “They take what’s in front of them for granted. We don’t,” Rory said as a ghostly glow cast over his face. “Everyone comes to the city because they think it’s the promised land. But once they get here, they’re sucked up into it. The landscape reduces your imagination. It sucks away your curiosity. It turns you old—makes you worry about old people stuff. You don’t remember that you’re living next to mountains anymore. People think that Times Square is about the Disney Store and MTV. They think that a glass building rising into the clouds is a fortress for our modern gods—that the only way in is through the front door and up the gold-plated elevator. They never pull back the layers. They never look under the surface. But we do. We get everything. We get it all. We access all areas.” Rory extended his hand out towards Jake. “My question for you is simple,” Rory said. “How do you want to experience the world?”