Pulling out his cell phone, he lit up the screen, cursed that he had no service, then held the phone out before him, its light casting a green glow down into the tunnel.
He tried opening the panel door behind him. It did not budge.
Damn. Locked . . .
Carefully, awkwardly, he rushed to catch up with Cross.
—
Five minutes later, Tyrone Hooks and Josiah Cross were standing before a wooden wall—what looked like a dead end—with empty plastic milk crates stacked next to it.
“Now what?” Hooks said. “We’re trapped?”
“No,” Cross said.
Hooks tapped his phone to light up the screen again.
“And there’s still no signal down here,” Hooks added.
He waved the screen light of the phone around at the stack of crates and then the wood panel that capped off the tunnel.
“What is this place?”
“What DiAndre said. An escape route back when booze was illegal. For when the cops cracked down on the market selling moonshine—at least the cops who didn’t take an envelope of cash, and maybe a bottle or two, to look the other way.”
“What market?”
“It’s now a bodega, but same thing then. Selling whatever people wanted, legal or not.”
Cross shone his flashlight on the plastic crates and reached down. Hooks saw that not all the crates were empty. Cross removed a large blanket from one and handed it to Hooks.
“We’ll be here a little while, so better wrap up,” Cross said.
As Hooks did so, Cross sniffed once, then again, and added, “What’s that stink from? Is it that blanket?”
Cross pulled out another blanket, sniffed it, and said, “This one’s okay.”
Hooks did not say anything.
After a long, quiet moment, Cross began chuckling.
“Oh, man, don’t tell me . . .” he said.
“I ain’t ever been shot at before,” Hooks said quietly. He sounded deeply embarrassed.
“Shot at!” Cross parroted, then could not contain himself. He laughed so loud it echoed down the tunnel.
“What’s . . . what’s so damn funny? Those bullets went right past me!”
After a moment, Cross forced himself to stop laughing.
He said: “It’s just that the big badass rapper singing about capping the police hears a gun go off and shits his pants!”
“Fuck you,” Hooks said meekly.
“And I shouldn’t say . . .” he began, chuckling again. “Oh, this is funny . . . but it wasn’t . . . it wasn’t . . .”
“It wasn’t what?” Hooks said.