New York Minute

Saturday Morning, 9 July 1977 Part II

WEST SIDE HIGHWAY, MANHATTAN

Kane skirted the street level barriers that would block a car and drove the Kawasaki up the closed northbound ramp on 19th then turned south on the West Side Highway toward the original closure. Grass and weeds and a scattering of small bushes grew along the gutters of the elevated highway and from long-standing mud puddles in the roadway in both directions, making the road a burgeoning wilderness. He wove the dirt bike around the large clumps and avoided the places where the roadway had fallen through or looked close to that fate. The center divider splitting the three northbound and southbound lanes was a raised concrete curb. Evenly spaced along the divider were cast iron lampposts, with dual masts, a light hanging over each side. The light posts had a solid concrete base and when the road had been open, had claimed many an inattentive or drunk driver with an abrupt and deadly stop.

An uneven and incomplete wall of warped and rotting plywood marked the edge of the northward creeping death of the West Side Highway. Several thick railroad ties were scattered in front of the plywood as a deterrent against vehicle traffic even though the road was closed farther north. The dump truck had gone through the roadway on the northbound side of the Highway in December '73 approximately where Gansevoort ran under it a block west of Vic's. This section north to 26th was slated for demolition later in the year. But for now, what remained was an elevated refuge for the city's lost and forgotten.

The word CLOSED was barely visible in faded yellow spray paint on the plywood. All three northbound lanes where the dump truck had gone through were gone. Kane found a break in the southbound barrier and killed the engine. He kickstanded the bike, dismounted, and eased through the opening.

A scattering of shacks made from a wide range of material dotted the road as far as he could see. A small tendril of smoke was on the northbound side, past the missing section. Kane walked toward it, stepping over the center barrier. An old man sat on a wood milk crate, carefully tending a #10 can hanging on a precarious tripod over a small fire. He had a worn and faded cap on his head, a dirty white beard, and wore second-hand clothing.

Kane raised a hand in greeting. "Morning."

The old man watched his approach with apathetic concern. He got to the heart of the matter quickly. "What do you want? You got money?"

Kane had a five spot ready. He held it out. "I'm looking for a veteran. Goes by Wiley."

"Wile-dash-E." The old man corrected him. "Like the coyote in the cartoon. Wile-E."

"Right," Kane said. "We served in the same unit."

The old man spit. "Vietnam. You lost. I was in the Big One. We won."

"What outfit?" Kane asked.

"Marines. The Pacific."

"Once and always," Kane said.

"Got that right, kid." He held out his hand, palm up.

Kane surrendered the bill. "My dad was a Marine too, same theater."

The old man could care less. He pointed, bill crumpled in hand. "There."

Kane followed the direction of the black fingernail. A piece of corrugated metal was propped against the west edge of the highway, forming a lean-to.

"Thanks."

The old man was once more intrigued by whatever was in the can, Kane already a lost memory.

Kane knelt at one end of the lean-to. Wile-E was asleep, the field jacket an expedient pillow. The smell was atrocious, a combination of rotting food, dirty human, unwashed clothes, all baked by the heat. Wile-E was stirring in his unconsciousness, legs twitching, the tic on the side his face doing a dance.

"Sarge." Kane tapped the man on the shoulder. "Sarge."

Wile-E snapped awake, hands scrambling for the gun in the pocket of the field jacket, but Kane snatched that as soon as his head lifted.

Wile-E blinked, seeing only a dark silhouette. "Give me my jacket."

Kane stepped back.

"Who the fuck are you?" Wile-E asked. "Give me my jacket."

Kane checked the pockets, carefully. The same cheap gun. A kit rolled in aluminum foil. Some cigarettes. He kept the gun and tossed the jacket back. "I got a proposition for you."

Wile-E patted the pockets. "Give me my gun." He crawled out of the lean-to, squinting in the sunlight. "You were at Dino's the other night."

"I made a call," Kane said. "Guy I know works at the Soldiers and Sailors Club. You know where that is?"

Wile-E stood up, eyes bleary. "What?"

"Lexington Avenue," Kane said. "Between 36th and 37th."

Wile-E blinked at Kane, not following.

"Soldiers and Sailors Club on Lexington. You go there. Tell the guy at the desk that Kane sent you. He'll give you a room for tonight and tomorrow night. You can shower. Wash your clothes. Lexington Avenue. Between 36th and 37th. Got it, sarge?"

Wile-E shook his head. "I can't pay for—"

"They'll give you a room," Kane said. "Just tell them Kane sent you."

"Kane. With a C or K?"

"K."

"Yeah, okay, whatever."

"You going to do it?"

Wile-E's eyes narrowed. "Why do you care?"

Kane pointed at the winged dagger on the right shoulder of the jacket. "That's why." He turned and walked away. He didn't look back.

"Hey. My gun!"

Kane left the Saturday Night Special on the concrete base of a lamp post as he crossed over.