Atmosphere (9 page)

She hated when this happened—which seemed all too often lately—and in the past she discovered that the best thing to do was pull a few coins from her pocket and send the vagrant on his way. She dug into her jeans, but no coins jingled out. Only two tens and her school ID. The train started to inch forward, slowly. A few riders voiced their complaints to no one in particular. And while others turned their backs on the staggering bum, some dropped a few coins into his cup, earning themselves a guttural, tired "thank you".

Changeless, Jaimie would have to avoid eye contact.

She peered down, aimed her sights at a grey, flattened circle of chewing gum on the dirty floor, trying to think only of exam topics: weather patterns, cumulus clouds, thunderstorms.

Footsteps slowly approached, thump...thump...thump. They ceased, dirty laceless boots covering the circle of gum she stared at, filthy swollen ankles protruding like weird overgrown fungi.

The cup jingled.

The scene around her suddenly seemed as if it were shut out from her life, as though she had been sucked into some weird dream sequence in a movie. Her father had always warned her time and time again to never give anything to these creeps, just go on your way as if they aren't there. They were diseased individuals, always being brought in for crimes: assault, muggings, robberies, even killings. They prowled the streets like wolves in the night, looking for a ticket for their next meal, drink, or fix.

But as much as Frank loathed these creatures, Jaimie always felt sorry for them. They were human beings like the rest of us, people who perhaps had had a chance in life to succeed, but due to unforeseen circumstances were disallowed the opportunity to participate in society. Now nobody cared and as a result were at a great disadvantage. They deserved
some
respect.

"Change miss?
"

Jaimie raised her head, looked at him. Gooseflesh crawled along the length of her body. The skin of his face was horribly wrinkled, like a crumpled paper bag that had been smoothed out. Tangles of hair and whiskers reached out wildly from his head and chin, unidentified scraps of food nestling within the brown and gray growth. And he
smelled
, like the Jersey Shore at low tide. Jaimie shuddered. At the same time, her heart bled. She reached into her pocket.

Suddenly his hand stretched out and grabbed her wrist. It felt rough, as if it had been dipped and dried in cement. She winced, heart pounding. The man in the business suit next to her took notice and stopped fiddling with his watch, seemingly readying himself should the contact go any further. The guy with the headphones on her left had his eyes closed, lost in his own world of rhythm.

Then the bum spoke, eyes unblinking, rancid breath hitting her face like a cloud of steam.

"Watch out for
them
."

The sudden ringing of the train doors broke Jaimie from her paralysis. The bum released his hold on her and quickly fled the car before the doors slammed shut. She turned and watched him lurch away onto the R train waiting on the opposite track for the F transfer. She saw him inside the other train, his face a horrible mask looking back at her through the windows as it pulled away.

She rubbed her wrist where the bum had grasped it, as if trying to wipe away whatever dreadful disease he may have left behind. What did he mean? Watch out for who? And why did he tell
her
? Could he be portentous?
No
. Jaimie shook the irrational thought from her head. There could be no other conclusion other than that the bum was distraught, an individual suffering from mental illness, his behavior a random act of lunacy. No assumption could be made that she was in any form of imminent danger.

Unless he really knew something...

No use wasting any more time thinking about it. She couldn't have anything impeding her logic and reasoning now. She had an exam to take.

And besides, a more critical issue loomed right now. The train. It sat motionless.
 

She looked around. Additional passengers had entered and were grumbling over the standstill, pulling on their sleeves and looking at their watches. Everybody seemed to be in a rush. What else was new?

Jaimie followed suit, again looked at her watch. 5:24. The climatology exam began at 5:45. Surely students were already there, seats taken, books open in front of them, squeezing last minute details into their heads.

The doors to the lecture hall would be locked as soon as the exam had been administered. If she were late, she would be declined entrance and given a make-up in a few weeks. That would be unacceptable; she studied a great deal, all the details freshly crammed in her head. To wait a few weeks would be devastating. And make-ups were always given in essay format, a bitch compared to the multiple choice kind given in class.

The train started to shake forward, inches at a time. Peering through the corners of her eyes, she watched those around her. Techno-boy on her left, eyes still closed, head bobbing to the beat of the music in his headphones. Business-man on the right, back to tinkering with his watch.

She gazed forward for the first time since the bum grabbed her. She noticed a new passenger: a strange looking man wedged in the middle seat of a three seater. Bald, he wore sunglasses, dressed entirely in black clothing, a leather jacket, jeans, T-shirt, gloves, even his sneakers were black. Although it appeared he was looking at her, she could not tell for sure as his sunglasses sufficiently masked his gaze. Diverting her eyes, she peered above to the ads lining the wall of the train just below the ceiling. Dr. Geraldo Alvarado smiled down at her, his pearly white caps telling his tale:
dentisto, hablo espanol
. In another ad, two healthy men frolicked with a shapely woman in a swimming pool, the picture having nothing to do with the cigarettes the ad claimed they smoked.

She looked back down to see the bald guy shifting in his seat. An elderly man seated next to him squirmed like a salted slug, brow furrowed, evidently uncomfortable with the bald guy's invasion of his personal space.

Suddenly the bald man spread his lips wide and smiled, the whites of his teeth almost a match to those of Dr. Alvarado. But it wasn't the sort of grin that tickles a person's face when they suddenly think of something funny, or a flirtatious smirk directed at a pretty girl. This grin had ulterior origins, perhaps displayed as an uncontrollable gesture of senselessness, or a possible trace of underlying unbalance.

Positive that the unwanted gesture had been splayed in her direction, Jaimie averted her gaze back to the piece of chewing gum on the floor, then checked her watch, then went back to the gum in vain struggle to dissuade his actions. With her good looks, she was used to making herself indifferent to the men who constantly came on to her.

But she wasn't positive if the bald guy was actually
hitting
on her. The smile seemed too eccentric. Like the bum, he looked as though he had motives other than just trying to get her attention. She suddenly felt that no matter what she did to discourage him, his attentiveness toward her could not be led astray.
 

The train halted its crawl, the dark of the tunnel the only view through the windows. She peeked up through the tops of her eyes, saw the bald guy digging inside his jacket pocket.

He started to pull something out.

She prayed it wasn't a weapon.

Techno-boy suddenly intensified his head gyrations, the music inside his headphones no doubt reaching an apex of intensity. Slightly uncomfortable with
him
now, Jaimie warily peeked from the corners of her eyes in his direction.

He was staring directly at the bald guy, unwavering, as if their gazes had been tethered together with a string.

The train inched forward, blackness still in the windows.

The lights inside the car started to flicker. A female groan of panic rang out from the other end of the car. A series of Hispanic utterances followed, complaints no doubt by their indignant tone and manner. Jaimie warily glanced back at the bald guy. He held an object in his hands, not a weapon thank God. It was black, shiny, oddly shaped. He used his gloved thumbs to gently caress it, as if it were a pet.

His smile stretched even wider, as if he were experiencing a sexual feeling, head tilted not at her but at techno-boy next door.

The train finally started moving again, a snail's pace, but moving nonetheless.

Techno-boy was now rocking fervently, head bobbing and weaving, shoulders rolling so that they started knocking into Jaimie, unnerving her slightly. She took a deep breath, wondering if something could be wrong with him, if he might be having a seizure. He was totally strung out, skin flushed, eyes wide open, tears running from them like raindrops. The walkman was white-knuckled in his grip. Yes, his actions seemed too extreme for an over-enthusiastic response towards the music in his head, and she wondered briefly if she would have to run for cover in order to avoid an elbow in the gut.

Jewels of sweat formed on the bald guy's domed head, each one shimmering beneath the flickering lights like simulated stars on an astronomical globe. Techno-boy, still heaving to and fro, started to moan, ghostly snivels emitting from his lips. The bald guy rubbed the object harder, as though masturbating. A few riders started to notice the peculiar exchange going on and restlessly shoved off toward the doors, seemingly in hope to escape the train as soon as it pulled into the 23rd Street Station.

Jaimie's discomfort grew tenaciously. Acid bubbled in her gut in response to a sudden premonition that something unsettling was going to happen. Listening to her instinct, she quickly rose and stood near the other riders by the doors, tightening her knapsack around her shoulders.
There's safety in numbers
she thought, deciding she'd rather walk the last six blocks than spend any more time on the train.

Light appeared through the windows. The train was finally pulling into the station.

Just as the light of the station seeped into the train, techno-boy leaped up from his seat and grabbed the black object from the bald guy's hands, jostling a few standing passengers. A few screams erupted. The train stopped and the doors slid open. Techno-boy shoved aside the group of people exiting the train and fled through the open doors, taking the object with him.. A man in a suit and tie fell down onto the platform. A few women screamed, one yelling obscenities in
Espanol
. Jaimie clutched her beating heart and watched with dismay as the crook fled into the subway station and lost himself in the crowd.

The man in the suit and tie stood up and brushed off his clothes. Jaimie stepped away from the action and poked her head about, checking to see if the bald guy had hung around.

Gone.

She repositioned her knapsack, looked at her watch and cursed the MTA again. She then darted up the stairs out onto 7th Avenue.

Taking a deep breath, she ran, knowing that in order to make it to her exam on time, she'd have to try real hard to avoid knocking someone over between here and the Fashion Institute six blocks away.

F
rank grabbed a chair from an unoccupied desk and rolled it next to the desk of Detective Phillip Martin. Martin was a third-generation detective, possessed a perfect combination of inquisitiveness and ruggedness that not only gainfully streamed in his blood, but demonstrated itself externally in his appearance. He had silver hair, blue eyes, a handlebar moustache, eyebrows almost as thick as his moustache, and ruddy cheeks that looked as if they were filled with bullets. Every station house had a cop like Martin, Frank being reminded of Detective James Riley from the 12th. Red-faced, abrasive demeanor, a real Irish tough-nose perfectly fitted to frighten all those first-offenders in for their inaugural visit.

Standing at Martin's right, Hector leaned a respectful hand on the detective's shoulder. "What did you find?"

Martin rubbed the left side of his chest, using his right hand to guide the mouse alongside the computer on his desk. The monitor flashed—charts rolling, windows collapsing and changing as he loaded up what he wanted to show Hector. "Something really interesting, that's what. It took a while to get the ball rolling at first, but once I found what I was looking for, everything dominoed right into place."

Cracking his knuckles, he repositioned himself in front of the keyboard, inching his chair forward. "I started out by searching our database of police sketches. I entered
white, male, bald
into the search engine." He peeked over at some notes he had scribbled in an open notebook on his desk. "One thousand, seven hundred and fifty three instances occurred."

He demonstrated, utilizing the mouse to click the search button. The computer hesitated; a small hour glass flashing on the screen signaled its attempt to explore the hard drive. Martin bit his bottom lip, urging the computer on, uttering
c'mon...c'mon
. Finally, as Frank started getting antsy, the hour glass vanished from the screen and was replaced by a small window showing the search results: the same figure Martin had mentioned.

"There we go. Same total as before. Our artists sure are busy fellas, huh? Lots of faces in there." He started running through the sketches, each one taking perhaps ten seconds to load up onto the screen. "I spent a while going through them, one by one, but soon realized, as you can very well see, that I'd be here for days trying to come up with a fairly close match to our guy. Bald guys, lots of 'em."