John Saul - The Manhattan Hunt Club

The man shrugged. "Nah-who cares about him?" He frowned, then reached tentatively toward Keith's wallet. "Lemme see that pitcher again."

Keith reopened the wallet, but kept it just beyond the man's reach. The man leaned forward, squinting, and Keith winced as his breath-a combination of stale wine and tobacco- threatened to overwhelm him.

"I dunno," the man finally said. Keith moved the five dollar bill closer. "Maybe that coulda been him," the drunk went on. "But maybe not." Keith let him have the five. "They was over there-" He gestured vaguely in the direction of the fire hydrant. "-an‘ I was sittin' right here. An‘ I didn't get a real good look before they went down in the subway."

"The subway?" Keith echoed. "Who went into the subway?"

The man sighed as if explaining something to a child who wasn't paying proper attention. "I told you. The guy Scratch took outta the van." Something across the street seemed to catch the drunk's eye, and he struggled to his feet. "Gotta git to gittin‘," he muttered, but Keith grabbed his arm as he started away.

"Scratch? Who's Scratch?"

The man's eyes widened, then darted once more across the street. "I dunno," he mumbled. "I dunno what you're talkin‘ about." Pulling his arm loose from Keith's grip, he started shambling down the street, one hand clutching at the collar of his filthy jacket while the other hand, which held the five-dollar bill, was plunged deep into his pocket. As he shuffled toward the corner, Keith scanned the street to see what had spooked the bum.

All he saw were three homeless people-a woman and two men-moving along the sidewalk, the woman pushing a shopping cart that seemed to be stuffed with nothing more than a bundle of rags. The little group, making their way slowly along the sidewalk with their heads down, looked far more pitiable than frightening. Keith shook his head to rid himself of the pathetic image, and also because of a twinge of guilt that he was going to do nothing to ease their plight.

The subway.

The man had said "Scratch" had taken someone from the van-someone who might have been Jeff?-to the subway.

At the corner he saw the sign, and the flight of stairs leading down into the subterranean station.

He started toward it.

Al Kelly glanced back over his shoulder. The man who'd given him the five dollars was headed the other way, but across the street, Louise and Harry were still coming. Al didn't know the guy with them, but it didn't matter-he looked like trouble. Looked like he didn't belong on the surface at all, in fact. Al shuddered, just thinking about the way some people lived. Okay, so he curled up in a doorway every now and then, or slept in the park over on Chrystie Street, at least when the weather was nice. But when it was bad, he slept indoors- went to one of the shelters, even if he did have to listen to some preaching or say he was going to try to clean up and find a job. But at least he still lived like a human being instead of some kind of rodent sneaking around in the sewers.

Of course, Louise had told him it wasn't that bad, not if you knew where to go, but he didn't have any desire at all to find out if she was telling the truth. No matter what happened- no matter how bad things got-he was going to stay on the surface.

He glanced over his shoulder again. Louise and Harry and the other guy had crossed the street now, and he was pretty sure he knew exactly what they wanted.

The five bucks the tourist had given him.

Shit!

He should've been more careful, should've palmed the bill, or at least made sure no one was looking when he took it-the last thing you wanted was money in your pocket.

He turned onto Rivington Street, cut diagonally across, then ducked into Freeman Alley and headed toward the jog halfway up it. Maybe Louise and Harry wouldn't spot him, but even if they did, he might find a place to stash the money, at least until he could lose them and their friend. He quickened his pace, but the blister on the sore on his right foot was hurting real bad today, and he couldn't move quite fast enough. He was just coming up to the jog when Harry's hand closed on his shoulder and turned him around.

"Hey, Al-whatcha doin‘?"

Al's eyes darted from Harry to the other man, then back to Harry. "Nothin‘. Just lookin' for something to eat."

"Why don't ya buy something?" the other man asked. "You got the money, don't you?"

"I ain't got nothing," Al protested, but Harry's hand tightened on his shoulder.

"We saw you, Al," Harry said. "We saw you talkin‘ to that guy, and we saw him give you the money. So what were you talkin' about, Al?"

Al Kelly sighed heavily-no point trying to pretend he didn't have the money. They'd just go through his pockets, and probably beat him up for making them look for it. Pulling the five out, he handed it to Harry. "Okay, so you got it." He started to pull away, but the second man blocked his way.

"Harry asked you a question, Al. Ain't you gonna answer it?"

Al shrugged. "He was just askin‘ about somethin' I saw yesterday, that's all."

The man's eyes narrowed. "So what did you tell him?"

Al shrugged. "Nothin‘ much. Just about the guy goin' into the subway."

Harry's grip on Al's shoulder tightened, and the other man reached into his pocket. When his hand emerged a moment later, Al saw the blade of a knife.

"What did you want to do that for, Al?" Harry asked, sounding almost sad.

"What's the big deal?" Al protested. "He wasn't a cop-he was just some guy lookin‘ for his kid. I-"

But before he could say anything else, he felt a strange sensation in his belly, like somebody had punched him. He looked down, and sure enough-the other guy's fist was right up against his belly. But where was the knife?

The man jerked his arm and fist upward then, and Al Kelly knew where the knife was. It was deep in his gut, and now the blade was moving up, slashing through his flesh and organs.

A guttural sound bubbling up from his throat, Al tried to pull away, but it was far too late.

Harry held him upright as the knife slashed through his lungs and its point pierced his heart. Then, as the other man pulled the knife free of Al Kelly's lifeless body, Harry lowered it gently to the ground and propped it against a door.

A door that was painted a shade of red that almost matched the blood oozing from the wounds in Al Kelly's body.

Slipping the five-dollar bill into his own pocket, Harry and the other man quickly went back to the street where Louise was waiting for them.

Anyone looking into the alley would see nothing more than Al Kelly's feet, and assume he was just another drunk sleeping it off in solitude.

That's what they would have thought, unless they noticed he was sitting in a pool of his own blood.

Keith took the stairs down to the subway station two at a time, fishing in his pocket for money. He had no idea how much a subway token cost now-it had been twenty years since the last time he'd ridden one. He glanced around for the token booth but saw instead several machines that looked like some kind of ATM. Frowning, he went over to a machine, read the directions, pressed some buttons, then put five dollars in the slot. A few seconds later a plastic card popped out.

With the card in hand, he moved toward the turnstiles, then stopped.

What did he think he might find, out on the platform?

Did he believe Jeff might be down there waiting for him?

If it had even been Jeff that the old drunk on the sidewalk had seen. Chances are the man just made up the story, wanting the five dollars he'd been waving in front of him like a fly above a trout.

But the bum had seen someone getting out of the back of the van. And not just getting out, either-the drunk had said: "The guy Scratch took outta the van ."