Tree of Life

Compromised

The music echoed from deeper inside the tunnels. But James had learned to trust gut over mind when underground. Manholes, exhaust vents, shifting air currents—at times, the most intimate above ground conversation wafted through the tunnels as if whispered in James’ ear. 

The air current shifted and took the music with it. West Westerly flipped open his butane lighter. The flickering flame revealed the presence of all five members of their odd party. As if gripped in a spell, everyone in the chamber snapped to attention simultaneously.

West spoke first, his nostrils pinched together to stem the bleeding. “Good sir, I’ll overlook the bludgeoning of my nose, if you’ll simply confirm your identity.”

With the urgency gone, James locked onto a question he’d been asking since he and Ebru had first been interrupted. “How did you get past Zubiri unannounced?”

“Who, old Jack Gartzia?” West scoffed. “The fool was asleep." 

James swore. “Then you left the door open!” He rushed past West toward the carved stone stairs. “Mr. Zubiri is old, but no fool.” He stopped short of referring to the smarmy local politician as the epitome of fool. With the entrance wide open, there was no time for argument, nor another round of fisticuffs.

West chased after him. “Good sir, I meant no offense. Please hear us out.”

At the top of the stairs, James climbed over the stone sill and dropped into the laundry trough—ankle high with detergent-laden water. “Zubiri?” He spotted the elderly Basque watchman asleep on his stool. He also spotted two men in suits striding across the street—Irish mobsters.

James recognized their stride. The front man would no doubt be Earl, a tempestuous individual too cunning to be considered a brute despite his outward manner. “Zubiri, wake up.”

The watchman snorted awake. “By shepherd’s watch, be not snaking a man from—”

“Company.” James clutched Zubiri’s arm and nodded toward the mobsters. “Inside, quick.”

“Fickly fiddle stones. And who be them?” Zubiri pointed northward up the street. A Model A equipped with an extra spot light rounded the corner.

“Police.” James tugged Zubiri from his wooden stool and pushed him square into a perturbed West Westerly.

“Sir, please. All we request is confirmation—”

“It’s him!” Earl the Irish mobster recognized West’s incessant plea even through pinched nostrils. Earl dashed toward the tunnel entrance cleverly disguised as a Chinese laundry. The mobster’s partner remained slower on the uptake. Or perhaps he’d been frozen in the police headlights like a bumper-slain deer.

“Inside!” West leapt into the trough. Skipping across it like a stone, he rolled over the sill and disappeared.

“But I can’t besmirch me watchman’s name by abandoning the post.” Zubiri complained.

“What do you call falling asleep?” James helped the old man into the trough, trying not to hurry him too roughly.

“Hand over Westerly, or there’ll be trouble, Moleman.” Earl leapt into the trough with them.

James couldn’t afford a fight now. “Take him. Just get inside before we’re spotted by the police.”

“Police? Where?" 

James lifted Zubiri out of the trough. “Get the door.”

“Hey, wait!” Earl clutched James by the collar.

James grabbed the hefty mobster by the shoulder and belt. With a single tug, he wrenched the both of them over the side of the trough and into the tunnel entrance. “Shut it.”

Zubiri dropped the lever. A thick, stone door slid shut with a reverberating thud.

Earl swore. “Get off me, Moleman, before I break your bloody neck.”

James stood and helped the mobster up. As he did, he leaned close and whispered into Earl’s ear. “Hurt anyone other than Mr. Westerly, and I’ll send you to hell personally.”

Earl laughed. “Then we’re agreed.”

“It’s best we be praying them plug-legged whimper nickels didn’t spot us hoisting Irish into the laundry.” Zubiri descended the smooth stairs, careful not to slip on the water sloshed into the entry.

“What the bloody hell is he going on about?" 

“The police.” James followed the old watchman, taking each step with certainty despite the pitch black. He heard Earl shuffling blindly about in attempt to follow them.

“And if the coppers find the entrance?”

“You heard Mr. Zubiri. Pray they don’t.”