"He only pushed men who had their hands in their pockets because he thought a bad knee or an empty wallet meant a man had forgotten how to stand up. He thought sixty dollars and an old coat was all that was left of us."
Rourke picked up his mug, drank it down to the dregs, and set it back on the saucer with a small, clean click.
He stood up, taking his fedora from the peg and smoothing the brim with his thumb.
"I have to be at the borough hall at noon," Rourke said, resting his hand on the door latch.
"The commissioner is holding a press conference on platform safety measures. They're installing new security grates on the lower levels and replacing the manual locks on every junction box in the southern division."
"Tell them to check the locks at Nostrand Avenue while they're at it," I said, walking him to the vestibule.
"The third closet from the stairs hasn't had an inspection tag since sixty-nine."
Rourke gave a short, dry laugh—the first real sound of humor I had heard from him since the gates chained shut at two in the morning.
"I’ll make sure Diaz checks the key."
He pulled the outer door open, stepped onto the wet brownstone stoop, and paused for a second, looking back into the narrow hall where the radiator continued its rhythmic, metallic clatter.
"Get some sleep, Frank," he said.
"I will," I told him.
"After I take a walk."
I waited until Rourke’s sedan pulled away from the curb, its tires hissing through the slush, before I pulled on my overcoat, took my hickory cane from the corner behind the umbrella stand, and walked out down the steps.
The morning was cold, but the wind had died down, leaving the Brooklyn street under a soft, pearl-gray sky that smelled of burning coal and wet asphalt.
The children from the parochial school down the block were walking two by two along the sidewalk in their navy blazers, their satchels swinging against their knees, while the owner of the green grocery on Seventh Street was unrolling his canvas awning to keep the damp off the wooden apple crates.
I walked down the avenue with my cane striking the pavement in a slow, steady measure.
My knee felt stiff, the joint grinding slightly when I stepped off the curb, but the pain stayed where it belonged—behind the bone, familiar and manageable, like the weight of an old overcoat that had seen too many winters.
When I reached the entrance to the Hoyt-Schermerhorn station, the street-level gates were wide open.
A new transit patrolman was standing by the token booth, his leather gear fresh and uncreased, his silver badge polished bright against his blue wool coat.
He was twenty-five years old, maybe twenty-six, his eyes watching the crowd of office workers and telephone operators streaming down the concrete stairs toward the morning trains.
He saw me coming toward the turnstile, my cane tapping against the tiled floor, my canvas shopping bag tucked beneath my left arm.
He didn't step forward.
He didn't drop his hand to his holster or look for an unzipped pocket.
He touched the brim of his cap with two fingers as I dropped my copper token into the brass slot.
"Morning, sir," the young officer said.
"Morning," I answered.
The turnstile arm swung smoothly against my waist with a hollow, iron clack that sounded through the clean, damp air of the mezzanine.
I walked past the customer booth, down the wide passenger stairs, and stepped out onto the center platform where the southbound local was already rumbling out of the dark tunnel, its twin headlamps cutting through the shadows and lighting up every inch of the long concrete track ahead.
FINAL THANK-YOU NOTE
Thank you for making room for these pages today.