South by South Bronx by Jr., Abraham Rodriguez Page B

underground through Manhattan, all the way into Brooklyn before turning back. Climbs out to open air on elevated tracks just after that other Third Avenue station at 149th Street. It clatters past small shops, a post office, and the running track, before its first outdoor stop by the tall projects. The Jackson Avenue station looks more like a worn-out house suspended over traffic. The round bulby lamps along the platform glow at night like fiery lemon drops. The 5 train runs all the way down Westchester Avenue until it hits Southern Boulevard. Makes that sharp turn right after the Freeman Street station. Trains howl when they hit that curve, even though they hit it slow. It is an animal sound, dogs crying, flutes wailing, a sound that has always been and will ever be. I remember it when I was a little kid and subway cars were black and boxy. I remember walking with my father toward Hunts Point. I must have been seven or eight. I was holding his hand, and looked back at that wailing sound to see those train cars up on elevated tracks all lit up like a string of jewels and Southern Boulevard all covered in flashing lights and Christmas wreaths that hung across the street over traffic. These things have not changed. Christmas wreaths still hang over traffic during the holiday season, and the trains still play their melancholic pipes. The trains are silvery smooth now, hydraulic systems adding a rising whine to the clatter of a passing train. A different song for a new generation to learn. A straight line from past to present, the one true continuity in a place where the landscape changes constantly. The South Bronx has become more like a city rebuilt after a war than the old town whose stories are etched in jagged tenement brick. Change comes. Change kills the past.
    On the third day, Myers excused himself. “It’s not like I don’t love you, but I have to meet with the FBI. They’re trying to horn in.” He had this habit of calling on the cell phone. “Where are you?” he would ask. I was driving under the 5 train. Spook had a million cousins. One of them told me he had just gotten a visit from him where she lived on Fordham Road, so I headed out there. I knew Spook had a place he used to rent on White Plains Road. I had barely scraped the door with my fist when it swung open. I quickly pulled out my gun, moving into the apartment carefully. The place was a mess. Drawers pulled out, clothes thrown everywhere, a floor lamp tipped over. Too late. I got on the horn and called Jack. I was too late. Cop cars under the el. Lieutenant Jack and I smoking cigarettes on the stoop.
    â€œDid you tell Myers?”
    â€œI left him a message,” I said. “He’s downtown.”
    â€œWhat do you think?”
    I couldn’t put the uneasy feeling into words. The door was open but the lock wasn’t busted. The place was ransacked, gone through, searched. A broken lamp, kicked-over table and chair, the general disarray of a fist fight.
    â€œI think they took him,” I said, now thinking about what Myers said, about “others” out there also in on the hunt. If there were “others,” they must be well-informed, because who knew about this place? How could some outsider sneak into town, find Spook unguarded, and take him? We questioned neighbors, street people, bodegueros . Nobody saw or heard anything. Lieutenant Jack and I snapped into rhythm. It was almost the old days again. I took the opportunity during another cigarette break to fill him in on everything—clearance or not, I didn’t give a damn because it was cop business and I wanted him in on it, I wanted him knowing. It was a calm cigarette moment for us.
    â€œYou really think this guy did it,” Jack asked, “swiped all that cash?”
    â€œSure he did,” I said. It was mostly the cigarette talking. “He took it and hid it.”
    â€œSo the feds are looking for it?”
    â€œYeah,” I