I FOUND THE PROF working the Living Room- what the army of homeless humans who live in the tunnels and work the corridors call the arena-sized waiting room at Grand Central. He was propped against the wall by the gourmet bakery, a thick blanket beneath his legs, single wooden crutch standing next to him, a paper plate half full of coins in front of him. I bought him a large cardboard cup of black coffee. Hunkered down next to him, back to the wall. Street people stopped by the Prof's station, talking their talk, dealing their deals. Cops strolled past, eyes working from the ground up. Drugs moved in and out faster than the trains. It felt like being back on the yard in prison.
"You know a guy named Train? Over in Brooklyn."
He sipped his coffee, buried inside a winter overcoat that tented around his shoulders, running it through his memory bank. "It doesn't scan, man."
"He's got some kind of thing going. Like a cult, only…I don't know. Woman asked me to bring her kid home from there."
"Runaway?"
"I don't think so. The deal was, I just ask him, okay?"
"Ask him hard?"
"No. And just once.
"If it's like you say, what's the play?"
"He asked me the questions."
"Show me a piece."
"Mostly about his security system…did I think it was good enough."
"For what?"
"To protect him, I guess. I thought he was trying to hire a body-guard at first, but he never really asked."
"He want a favor? Don't he know you only play for pay?"
I lit a cigarette. Told the little man about the lie detector Train used, the karate-man he had at the door, the layout of the house.
I wasn't watching his face but I could feel him nod. The words came out of the side of his mouth. "I ain't read the book, but I'll take a look."
I left him at his post.