The police didn’t finish processing me until around three in the morning. I stepped haggard out of the station wearing a gray NYPD sweat suit—it was claimed my clothes couldn’t be found—which I was obliged to return. I walked briskly but casually walked toward the subway, like I was just another girl on the pre-dawn walk of shame, heading home from an awkward online encounter that wasn’t nearly as good as advertised. It wasn’t until the light on the sidewalk under my feet seemed to dim, as if someone had come up behind me, that I turned to examine the road. Somehow, I found myself completely alone in the middle of one of the biggest cities in the world. The whole block was empty, and I watched in silence as a failing streetlight flickered and faded. When a second lamp dimmed a few strides later, I still didn’t think anything was wrong. It seemed more likely that some faraway control mechanism had rebooted—or perhaps the lights were going through a maintenance cycle and in a few moments, all would be reliably lit again. My mind was on my predicament. There had been considerable haggling out front of the club. Jay said Frankie belonged to him, but I don’t think the officers believed him. Lawyers appeared faster than I expected, and the officers in turn called for backup. In the end, it took no less than 17 highly trained adults to decide what to do. Jay and the lawyers didn’t actually want to take possession of Frankie, but neither did they want to admit any culpability. It was decided there was simply a “misunderstanding,” and Frankie and I were taken on the expectation that no charges would be filed against anyone but me.
A third lamp went dark behind me, and then a fourth directly over my head. I looked up just in time to see its orange coils fade under heavy glass, leaving me in darkness. There was now a long dark gap on one side of the lit street, as if someone had cut the light like a cake and removed a rectangular slice from the air. I got that prickly sensation then, like when you go into a dark basement by yourself, and I started walking faster. A couple times my stride turned into a brief trot. I knew it wasn’t rational, but I couldn’t help myself. I made it up the stairs and through the stile and onto the platform just in time to see the train coming. I was so relieved to see and hear signs of life that I failed to notice I was still completely alone. Lights appeared around a bend in the tracks and I heard the screech of the wheels and I let out the long breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding. The doors popped open, and I boarded a middle car. I took a seat and leaned my head back and shut my eyes under the buzz of fluorescent tube lights. Safe.
With my head back and eyes closed, I became vaguely aware that the ambient light around me had changed again, and I opened my eyes. My car was empty. So were the adjacent cars. I couldn’t see another living soul. But the rear of the train was dark, as if the electricity had failed. I couldn’t see any illumination except the passing lights of the tunnel. I thought for a second that I’d stepped onto an out-of-service train by mistake and that I was being whisked away to some distant service center where the security guys would search my bag and ask me all kinds of awkward and incriminating questions.
“Hello?” I called.
We seemed to be moving awfully fast. When the lights in my car flickered and went dark, I was sure I was in trouble. But before I could call out again, the lights returned, all of them at once, and a sharp-dressed black man stepped through the rear door. He was maybe mid-60s and very gaunt. He wore an expensive charcoal suit, and wore it well. It had gray pinstripes and looked well-tailored but also well worn, like it was something he’d donned every day for years. His necktie was very narrow, almost straight, and it matched the suit. He wore a brimmed hat with a satin band and walked with a fancy cane that tapped the floor with each step. I also heard the clink of coins in his pocket. His cuff links, belt, and shoes were all some kind of reptile hide—polished and shiny. He looked like a cross between a pimp and an undertaker.
“Miss,” he said to me, tipping his hat politely.
People don’t usually talk to each other on the subway. It’s some kind of universal rule no one teaches but everybody knows, like not farting on an elevator. But then, the two of us were the only ones within sight of each other. I assumed he came forward to escape whatever malfunction had blinded the rear cars. In the circumstances, it almost seemed ruder for him not to acknowledge me, and I responded with a polite, tight-lipped smile. He sat across from me, one seat down, and settled with a sigh like he’d been walking for hours. The loose change in his pocket shifted noisily. I thought maybe he was an off-duty security guard or other night shift worker who fed himself from vending machines and always kept a pocket full of change. I started humming ZZ Top.
He took off his hat and set it on the seat next to him. He had hardly any hair left. What was there was gray-white, same as the band on his hat. He caught me looking at his boots.
“Alligator hide,” he said.
He had a mouthful of gold and yellowed teeth. He pulled a handkerchief from his coat pocket and wiped something off the toe of his boot.
“Under-appreciated, if you ask me. It’s tough. But flexible. And it gets downright soft over time.”
He had a throaty voice, not so much like a smoker as much as a man who’d spent his entire life shouting—an auctioneer perhaps, or a blues singer.
“It’s certainly distinctive,” I said.
He nodded to me. “Just so.”
The shaft of his cane was solid black and lustrous, but I couldn’t tell if it was painted wood or obsidian. He held it loosely by the neck and rocked it back and forth. The bottom tip was polished silver. The knob on top was a grinning skull.
The train slowed and he leaned forward like he was going to get off. But then he stopped. He looked at me.
“This your stop?” he asked.
I shook my head. “Just a few more,” I said with another polite smile.
He sat back. “Then I’ll ride witcha.”
“Oh, you don’t have to do that.”
The train doors opened, but my companion stayed put.
“I’m old fashioned,” he said in that throaty voice. “I know it ain’t popular. I know these days old men like me are supposed to let young ladies like yourself take care of themselves.” He shook his head. “But that’s not how I was raised.”
“I wouldn’t want to make you late.”
“Oh, the fella I come to meet been waiting his whole life to see me. He can wait a bit longer.”
The movement of his jaw when he spoke pulled his skin taut over his skull, like there wasn’t much of anything underneath, like he was all bones and his skin was just as much a part of his tired uniform as his pinstripes.
I shrugged. “Suit yourself.”
The train started moving again and we sat in silence as it rocked back and forth over the tracks.
“Miss,” he said, leaning cautiously over his knees, “I hope you don’t mind me saying this, but are you okay?”
“Me?” I frowned. “I’m fine. Why?”
“You sure? You’re not in a spot of trouble, maybe?”
My face turned sour.
“Now, I know it ain’t polite to infer, but here you is on the late, late, late train.” He chuckled. Then he motioned to my head. “With a little bit of perspiration across your brow, and I thought—”
“I was out,” I said. I hadn’t realized I was sweating. “At a club. It was hot.”
He eyed the logo and the letters NYPD in large print down the leg of my sweat pants.
“It was a police party,” I said as if it all made perfect sense. “My boyfriend’s a cop.”
I looked around the empty car and wondered how rude it would be if I changed seats. He smiled in understanding and sat back and crossed his legs, revealing more of his fancy boots. The stitching formed skulls and flowers near the top.
“You’re not from around here, are you?” he asked.
“What makes you say that?”
“Your accent.” He twirled his cane in his right hand. “Very faint. If you was older, I’d say you’d been here awhile. But you young yet, which means you worked hard at it—putting the past behind you. How’d you do it? Wait, lemme guess. Lotsa American TV.”
“Deadly, but effective,” I joked. I turned my face toward the front of the train to signal the end of polite conversation.
“But just there under the surface.” He pointed the skull knob toward me and made waves with it in the air. “There’s a little something else. Like how you say ‘rubbish.’”
I scowled again and thought back over the conversation. Had I said rubbish?
“Here they say ‘trash,’” he explained. “And it’s not ‘flat.’ It’s ‘apartment.’”
My brow stayed knit. I didn’t think I had said either of those words.
“Um. Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.”
“My guess, you’re from Hong Kong,” he said. Then he added, “What brings you to New York?”
Only he didn’t say it in English. He said it in perfect Hong Kong Cantonese.
I mean, perfect.
Call me racist, but there’s something disconcertingly incongruous about a black man speaking Chinese like a native. He had no accent. None.
“School,” I answered. I glanced to the route map above the car doors and confirmed there were just two more stops.
We were quiet a few more moments as the train slowed for the next station. I wondered if I should hop off. He must have saw it on my face because he sat back and relaxed considerably.
“Oh, don’t mind me. I didn’t mean nothing by it.”
I watched the doors open.
I watched them close again.
The train started moving, and we rocked with it for another minute or so.
“It’s just really something,” he said softly. “After all these years.”
I didn’t look at him. It was way late and I’d been dealing with the police for hours. I was tired and just wanted to get home.
“You should know I ain’t never met the man, ’cept once in passing. Like this.” He moved the cane back and forth between us. “But folks says he’s a right proper sorcerer, like the shamans of old.”
I had no idea who he was talking about. I got up then and stood by the door. It didn’t seem like he wanted to hurt me. It seemed like he was just old and lonely. But I was ready to bolt just in case.
He brushed lint off his suit pants like he was annoyed. He replaced his hat on his head. He took out his handkerchief again and polished the silver skull at the top of his cane. Then he stood and faced me. He seemed taller, like he was growing and the top of his hat might get crushed under the ceiling. He brandished the cane.
“But that don’t give him the right to come into my house . . . And take what’s mine.”
I felt the train slowing. I realized then that there hadn’t been an announcement before the last stop, which made me feel terribly alone. I gripped the bar by the door with two hands. The lights in the car flickered and turned bright. Then too bright.
“You ain’t met him yet, but you will right quick, and when you do, you tell him. You tell him when you see him that I’m ready. And don’t think for one damned second that that thing”—he jabbed the tip of his cane at my side—“will protect you.”
I flinched, but it was unnecessary. The rounded silver tip stopped dead at my skin as if striking the solid walls of the train.
I was completely freaking as the train squealed to a stop. I was practically bouncing up and down for the doors to open. When they finally did, I made right for the stairs. I only glanced back once. The old man had removed his hat with one hand. He swung it wide and bowed formally as he called after me.
“See you real soon, Cerise.”