Bedbugs by Rick Hautala Page A

train’s wheels. But Ace hung on and kept right on screaming until the train was past him.
    Then, his ears still ringing and his body trembling with excitement, he watched as the train’s red taillights were swallowed by the darkness. The dull echo of the passing train faded to a low, steady clacking pulse that Ace felt in his blood more than heard.
    “ Fuckin ‘-A! ” he shouted.
    He raked his hair back out of his eyes with his fingers, then took a deep breath of the foul-smelling air, smiling with self-satisfaction. He was confident that no cop was desperate enough—or stupid enough—to follow him down here. The only problem he could see was if Flyboy had survived the fall. The stupid asshole would probably be so scared about saving his own ass that he’d give Ace up.
    But if the cop was desperate enough to come after him—well then, maybe Ace’s luck would hold, and the train that had just passed by would clean him out.
    That’d serve the asshole right!
    But Ace knew he couldn’t take a chance that the pea-brained son-of-a-bitch wasn’t coming for him.
    Hell, if Flyboy died from the fall, they might try to pin a murder rap on him. More than likely, though, the cop was just going to wait back at the platform. Maybe he had already called ahead to the next stop to alert the police to keep an eye out for him.
    But then again—maybe the asshole would just keep coming down the tunnel after him.
    The only thing Ace could do was keep walking—no matter how far it was—to the next stop.
    Maybe on the way he’d take a break and smoke some jib.
    Maybe he’d throw up a logo, too, just so anyone who came through would know that he’d been here. Once he was sure it was safe, he could catch the train back to Park Street Station and then get the train back to the ‘hood.
    As he walked along the service walkway, moving with a spider’s supple grace, Ace never stopped to wonder if this was ever worth the effort.
    Of course it was worth it . . . even if Flyboy got his ticket punched, it was worth it!
    Ace was one of the best graffiti writers in Boston. Hell, he’d bombed half of Beantown by the time he was sixteen. He’d marked his logo on billboards, city buses, trains, subways, store fronts, rest room stalls, construction sites, sidewalks . . . just about anything in Boston that would hold enamel paint.
    And he knew he was good— fast and good.
    He took pride in his work, and he had the scars to prove it. His arms, legs, face and shoulders were ribboned with thin white lines where razor wire, chain-link fences, broken glass, and pavement had cut him. The six-inch scar on the left side of his head that made his left eye droop down was where a cop had whacked him with his nightstick last summer. Ace called it getting a “wood shampoo.”
    But he kept bombing because he knew it was worth it. There weren’t many—hell, no! There weren’t any better graffiti writers in all of Boston!
    As Ace walked along, he kept his eye out for a good place to tag. It had to be someplace where the engineer, at least, would see it as he made his turn. Up ahead, where the wall curved gently to the right, looked like a good spot; but before Ace got to it, the tunnel echoed again with the distant squeal of another train. This one was approaching from behind.
    The sound of grinding wheels set Ace’s teeth on edge. He saw the signal light on the tracks change from red to green. In the dim light, he also saw a wide, dark opening—a service bay—not more than fifty feet ahead. He started running, hoping to make it to cover before the train got to him. He wasn’t afraid of falling under the train, but he wasn’t too keen on the engineer seeing him, either. If the cop who’d been chasing him had notified the engineers to keep an eye out for him, it’d be just as well if he stayed out of sight.
    A dull spot of yellow light swung around the corner behind Ace just as he reached the niche and ducked inside. He couldn’t see for shit in the