Stuart Kaminsky - Deluge

He had entered the building through the lobby door, though it wasn't much of a lobby and it wasn't much of a door. He had stood outside, hooded against the rain, and looked up at the words HECHT ARMS cut into the gray stone over the door.

There were signs that someone at some time had dutifully replaced the broken lock on the lobby door. The wooden doorjamb was cracked, the broken lock loose in a door that just didn't give a damn any longer.

The lobby was just big enough to stand in and look at the eighteen mailboxes, some of which stood open, some of which were protected by small flimsy padlocks.

Some of the mailboxes bore names printed in black magic marker. Some had names scratched directly into the thin metal. Some bore no name at all.

He didn't need to find a name. He already knew the right apartment. He had been here before, once before. This visit would be very different.

There was an inner lobby door. No lock. He went in and walked down the first-floor hallway, weaving past a pile of newspapers in front of one door, a tricycle with a bent front wheel in front of another. Voices, vague, crying, someone shouting in anger, television sets droning relentlessly on, laughing, applauding.

The limping man paused in front of the door at the dark end of the hallway. He knocked. No answer, though he could hear muttering, pacing beyond the door. He knocked again, louder, much louder. The muttering stopped. The pacing stopped.

"Who is it? What the fuck do you want?" said a voice.

"Adam."

Silence beyond the door.

Then it opened a few inches.

"Adam?"

Timothy Byrold opened the door wider and looked at his visitor. Timothy, shirtless in a baggy pair of dirty white painter's overalls, needed a shave and a strong comb. He was big, taller than the limping man by three inches, heavier by twenty-five pounds. Timothy seemed to sense the man's disapproval and ran a hand through his thick hair. It did nothing except make the dirty hair stand up. He looked like a clown about to put on his makeup. The image did not strike the limping man as funny.

"What are you doing here?" asked Timothy.

"Can I come in?"

"It's not fit out there for man nor beast," said Timothy, stepping back.

The limping man stepped in and shut the door behind him.

The studio apartment looked very much as it had the other time he had been here, cot in a corner with the sheet untucked, a single sweat-stained pillow, a rough khaki blanket in a tangle, a sagging sofa that had once been orange but was now a sooty burnt bark color, a small wooden table with two chairs, a battered chest of drawers with a small color television on top of it. A refrigerator sat near the only window.

On the table was a bowl. In the bowl was a mound of what looked like soggy Cheerios. The cereal was being probed by a single, large black fly.

The room was as repulsive as the man.

"It's raining like shit out there," Timothy said. "Like shit. I'm stuck in here, in here. And the TV's broken. It's like being in a cell. You know what I mean?"

"Yes."

"I'm used to wandering, finding things, meeting people," said Timothy, rubbing his face.

"I know."

"Hell of a time for a visit," said Timothy. "Hell of a time."

Timothy picked up three magazines from the sofa and dropped them on the floor in a corner to give his guest a place to sit. Then he turned and tried to smile.

"I've got a couple of Cokes."

"No, thanks."

"So, have a seat."

"No, thanks."

"Then what, what?"

"You ever make a promise?"

"A promise. Yeah, sure. I must have. Everybody makes promises," said Timothy, noticing, sensing that something was odd about his visitor.

"Did you keep your promises?"

"Some, I guess. Don't remember."

Timothy sat on the sofa and looked up. Then he saw what was wrong. His visitor was wearing white, skin-tight gloves.

"I made a promise," the limping man said.

"Interesting," said Timothy. "Sure you don't want a Coke? Sure you don't want to start making sense or get the hell out of here?"

"Remember, I know what you are."

"And I know what you are," said Timothy. "So what? That's what you came to talk about? You need a shoulder to cry on? We've got a place for that, remember? Once a week, remember?"

"I remember."

The limping man moved toward the sofa. Timothy rose. He didn't like the blank look on his visitor's face.

"Get the hell out," Timothy said. "Or say something interesting that makes sense."

He took another step forward. Timothy stood, legs apart, hands ready. He was no stranger to violence. There were times when he welcomed it. He expected no problem in throwing out this intruder. He reached for the limping man's poncho.

The limping man ducked and in a crouch came up with a knife in his right hand. He stepped forward, flowing into the move and plunged the blade under Timothy's armpit, burying it to the hilt.

Timothy grunted, not sure of what had happened, thinking he had been punched, losing his breath. He reached for the limping man's hair, but the man knocked his hand away with an elbow and delivered a short, sudden chop to Timothy's neck.

Timothy went down with a moan, reaching out for something to grab, to hold him up. The pain under his arm had spread to his chest. He was sitting now, puzzled, dazed. He looked up at his visitor who kicked him in the chest. Timothy went to the floor on his back, panting, trying to catch his breath.

"You…you're…my only friend," Timothy whispered.

"Not anymore. Not ever."

Timothy felt the straps of his overalls being pulled down. Then he felt the overalls being pulled off.

"What?" he managed. "Why?"

"You know."

When the next wave of pain came, Timothy wanted to scream. His mouth was open, but nothing came out.

DJ Riggs sat, towel over his shoulders, cup of awful coffee in his hands. One of the narc cops who had caught him sat across from him. The other stood behind him.

DJ knew the drill. He knew the room. All these rooms and all these cops were the same. They had him. They could play back and forth, good cop, bad cop, we know what you did, do you know what's going to happen to you?, we don't need you to talk but it will go better for you if you do.

"You saved a baby," the cop across the table said. He was young, younger than DJ, Hispanic, long hair.

"That buy me a ticket out of here?" asked DJ.

"Not hardly," said the other narc behind him, a tall black man who looked like somebody on the Yankees DJ couldn't quite place. "But it inclines us to listen to anything you might have to tell us."

"Okay, I tell you I want a lawyer."

"We can't help you once your lawyer comes," said the Hispanic cop.

DJ looked at the wall. He could have been left alone and supplied all the dialogue.

"Yeah," he said. "And you want to help me."

"Hell of a thing you did saving that kid, coming out of that doorway so we could see you. Hell of a thing," said the Hispanic narc.

"We're inclined to be nice," said the black cop behind him.

"Okay," said DJ. "I've got something. Deal is, I give it to you and it's good shit, I walk."

"It would have to be damn good," said the first cop.

"It is," said DJ. "I want it on tape and I want to hear your voices on that tape and I want my lawyer to hear the deal."

"Deal is off the record," said the first cop. "You trust us or no deal. And there will be no deal anyway if you don't have some top quality information."

DJ looked at them and said, "I saved that baby's life."

"You did," agreed the black cop.

"Okay," said Riggs folding his arms. "Deal."

"Talk," said the black cop. "Make it good."

"Terrorist," said DJ.

Neither cop seemed moved by the information.