Monday Night on BART by Patrick Whitehurst
from TIGHTROPE: a PUNK NOIR Magazine series
He shouted in his ear. Couldn’t make out a single fucking word. The intention to kill was unmistakable, however. Nothing says fuck off better than a rusty switchblade. Especially when it’s pressed to your Adam’s Apple. The floor under their feet rumbled as the Bay Area Rapid Transit shot into the night. Not that there were many riders this late on a Monday night.
Sam felt a slight prick. He worried the blade would accidentally slit his throat if he spoke.
“Gonna have to repeat that,” he whispered.
“Shut your hole!” Spittle hit Sam’s cheek. “Said nobody fucking move!”
Sam eyed the old woman seated at the end of the train car. She watched them from under the brim of her Giants baseball cap. She was buttoned up in a faded pink rain slicker. Look in her eyes said she’d seen this shit before. Probably the last time she rode BART.
“Don’t got any money,” she mumbled. “Don’t look like he does either.”
But he did. Despite smelling like a sewer, Sam had two grand in cash in the front pocket of his black Dockers.
Had to be careful. Say the wrong thing and he’d have to stuff his throat back into his neck. Play his cards right, he’d only have to worry about a prick from a rusty blade.
“Know anything about tetanus?” Sam asked the switchblade’s owner. His assailant wore a green trench coat. Damp, shoulder length black hair clumped around his face.
“Man, shut up!”
Dude jumped him the moment Sam boarded the train. Gave him only enough time to see the weapon. Concrete walls, lit by security lights and covered in rain-drenched graffiti, dashed by outside.
“Nasty bacterial infection, caused by rusty blades, dirty wounds; shit I can do without.”
“C’mere, you old bag,” Switchblade said to the woman.
Sam tilted his head half an inch. “In a similar line of work as you. Leave her out of this. We’ll work something out.”
That line of work, that evening, saw Sam in one of San Francisco’s larger sewers. Smell still clung to him. Beat up Volvo in the shop meant he got to ride BART home.
“I get paid to do this.” Sam said.
“Hurry the fuck up, lady!” He kept the knife pinned to Sam’s neck. The old woman got to her feet. She wore a turquoise-colored Muumuu under the slicker. The baseball cap, like its owner, had seen better days.
“Coming. Coming,” she said. Sam watched her grab an aluminum cane from the bench next to her. She used it to hobble down the rocking aisle without falling over.
Stormy darkness whipped past. The lady kept her eyes on her feet. She wore fuzzy slippers the same color as her slicker. Stopped a foot away from the two men.
“Sorry about all this,” Sam said.
She offered him a sorry smile. “You know how it is at night in this city. Ain’t nowhere safe.”
“His pocket,” Switchblade growled. “Right front pocket.”
Sam closed his eyes, furious. He recalled a few goons hanging around when he’d been paid half an hour ago outside an alley. Paid well for a hard day’s work. Sam cursed himself for not noticing the tail. Smelled too bad to care. Wearing only a white tee shirt with no coat, he’d been in a hurry to get home.
He drooped slightly, hands drifting to his back pockets. Cash wasn’t the only thing he carried. Spiked brass knuckles, his Irish Devil, never failed to even the odds. Had to tread lightly, not risk more of that rusty blade cutting through skin.
The old lady reached out. Then paused. “One hell of a tightrope we’re walking, don’t you think? Who’s to say he don’t just kill us anyway?”
“He’s got his back to the door. Next stop coming up. He plans to bounce as quick as he can. Planned it well,” Sam said.
“Just grab the fucking cash, lady!”
Her withered fingers slid into his front trouser pocket. “Haven’t had my hands down a man’s pants in ages,” she said. “Too bad you stink.”
Sam’s fingers touched the tip of the Irish Devil. “Take your time.”
He felt her fingers curl around the wad of bills. That’s when he let out Hell.
Sam threw his head back. Right hand came up draped in brass knuckles. He punched upward into the mess of hair. Heard a wet pop and the weight of the man fell atop him. They both hit the floor. The switchblade slashed into empty air. Somewhere nearby he sensed the old woman’s presence. Saw a flash of faded pink.
The train slowed to a stop and the doors whooshed open. The chill poured in. Sam smelled rain. He had his hands full holding back the switchblade. His fingers clamped around the man’s wrist, holding the rusty blade at bay. He angled himself from his assailant’s snarling face and jabbed him with the Irish Devil a second time. Didn’t get much momentum but enough for the spikes to break the skin.
“Son of a bitch!” Switchblade shouted. Sam felt the arm relax. The switchblade fell to the floor. Drops of rain managed a small puddle at the open doors.
Sam rolled towards him and sat on his chest. The train doors whooshed closed.
“Had enough, asshole?”
“Fuck you.”
Dude finally went limp despite his arrogance. Blackish blood pooled around his jaw next to a wad of stepped-on bubble gum. His voice trailed off.
“Fuck... You...”
Sam wobbled to his feet just as the train started moving again.
“Sorry about the excitement,” he said. But there wasn’t anyone else on the train. The old lady, his two grand, and his good mood, had better places to be.
Sam appraised the unconscious goon. “Guess it’s just you, me, and tetanus.”
Maybe the asshole had some cash in his wallet.
Patrick writes fiction and nonfiction, the latter of which includes the books Haunted Monterey County, Murder and Mayhem in Tucson, and Eerie Arizona. He’s written three Barker Mysteries novellas and his short stories have appeared in Punk Noir, Shotgun Honey, Hoosier Noir, Mystery Tribune, Pulp Modern, Guilty Crime Story Flash, Dark Dossier, and elsewhere. He’s been featured in the anthologies Bitter Chills, Wild Violence, Shotgun Honey Presents: Recoil, and in Trouble in Tucson, a Left Coast Crime Anthology.