Evan Hunter - A Horse’s Head

They changed trains at Euclid Avenue. There were a lot of people in the new car, reading their newspapers, or holding hands, or studying the carcard advertising, or idly gazing through the windows as the train clattered from station to station, making its way toward Manhattan. Mullaney wondered what would happen if he stood up and announced that the two men with him were at this very moment discussing ways and means of killing him, and guessed that everyone in the car would simply applaud and wait for him to pass the hat. He glanced across the aisle to the other side of the car, where a fat dark-haired woman sat with her button-nosed little daughter, and then looked beyond them through the open windows, watching the apartment buildings as they blurred past, wondering what part of Brooklyn they were traveling through. He suddenly realized he would be leaving the train by the doors on his right, in the center of the car, and he decided he ought to know how long it took for those doors to open and then close again. So he began counting as soon as the train stopped at the next station, one, two, thr... the doors opened, four, five, six, seven, they were still open, people were moving out onto the platform, others were coming in, eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, the doors closed, the train was in motion again. Well, that was a very pleasant exercise, Mullaney thought, but I don’t know what good it will do me when the time comes to make my break.

“What we could do,” George said, “is throw him in that big garbage-burning thing they got on the East River Drive.”

“I can’t stand the smell of garbage,” Henry said.

“Me neither.”

“Hey, you know what?” Henry said.

“What?”

“We could take him to that little park they got there outside the U. N. building, you know that little park I mean?”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, and walk him over to the river where that thing juts out over the water, you know where I mean?”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, and hit him on the head and just dump him over the side there.”

“Well, that’s the river again, ain’t it?” George said.

“Yeah.”

“I mean, that’s just the damn river all over again.”

“Yeah.” Henry seemed crestfallen. “Well, what do you want to do?”

“I don’t know,” George said. “What do you want to do?”

“Gee, I don’t know,” Henry said.

Mullaney heard the sound of an alto saxophone, and thought at first that someone in the car had turned on a transistor radio. New Yorkers were all so musical, always singing and dancing wherever they went, just like Italians, gay and light-hearted and singing, dancing, playing all the time. But as he turned toward the sound, he saw that a live musician had entered the far end of the car and was making his way, step by cautious step, toward where Mullaney and his potential assassins were sitting.

The man was blind.

He was a tall thin man wearing a tattered maroon sweater similar to the one Mullaney had worn all through college, dark glasses on his nose, his head carried erect, as though on the end of a plumb line, the saxophone mouthpiece between his compressed lips. The saxophone was gilded with mock silver that had worn through in spots to reveal the tarnished brass beneath. A leather leash was fastened to the man’s belt and led to the collar of a large German shepherd who preceded the man into the subway car and led him step by step up the aisle, sitting after each two or three steps while the man continued playing a song that sounded like a medley of “You Made Me Love You” and “Sentimental Journey.” The man, though blind, was a terrible saxophonist, miskeying, misphrasing, producing squeaks in every measure. The German shepherd, dutifully pausing after every few steps into the car, walked or sat at the man’s feet in what appeared to be a pained stupor, a glazed look on his otherwise intelligent face. The blind man sw ayed above him, filling the car with his monumentally bad music while on either side people rose from their seats to drop coins into the tin cup that hung from his neck, resting somewhere near his breastbone, its supporting cord tangled in the leather strap that held the saxophone. The dog was similarly burdened, carrying around his neck a hanging, hand-lettered placard that read:

The blind man had reached the center doors of the car now. The dog dutifully sat again with that same pained and patient expression on his face, and Mullaney wondered why a nice-looking animal like Rollo would wear a sign asking people not to pet him. The train had pulled into another station, and people were rushing in and out of the doors, shoving past the blind man, who immediately stopped playing. But as soon as the doors closed and the train was in motion again, he struck up a lively chorus of “Ebb Tide,” and then modulated into “Stormy Weather,” which he played with the same squeaking vibrato and fumbling dexterity while the dog continued to look more and more pained. They were still coming up the aisle, slowly making their way toward where Mullaney sat. He had not thought to count the time it took for the train to go from one station to another, that was his mistake, he now realized, he had counted the wrong thing. The blind man and Rollo stopped, the swelling sound of the saxophone drowned out the speculations of Henry and George (they were debating the possibility of garroting Mullaney) and filled the car with horrendous sound. Coins continued to rattle into the tin cup, music lovers all along the car reaching gingerly into the aisle and dropping pennies, nickels and dimes in appreciation as Rollo and the blind man moved a few steps, paused, moved again, paused again, they were perhaps three feet away from Mullaney now. The dog is probably vicious, he thought, that’s why you’re not supposed to pet him, he’s a vicious dog who’ll chew your arm off at the elbow if you so much as make a move toward his head. The train was slowing, the train was pulling into a station, Rollo and the blind man were moving ahead again, two feet away, a foot away, the train stopped, and the dog sat in the aisle directly in front of Henry.

Mullaney begged the forgiveness of polite society, he begged the forgiveness of God, he begged the forgiveness of tradition, but he knew he had to save his life, even if the only way to do it was to take advantage of a blind man. He began counting the moment the train stopped, one, two, three, the doors opened, he had eleven seconds to make his move, win or lose, live or die. He suddenly grabbed Henry’s right arm, cupping his own left hand behind Henry’s elbow, pushing his own right hand against Henry’s wrist, creating a fulcrum and lever that forced Henry out of his seat with a yelp. The dog was sitting at Henry’s feet, and Mullaney, counting madly (five, six, seven, eight, those doors would close at fourteen), hurled Henry directly at Rollo’s pained magnificent head, saw his jowls pull back an instant before Henry collided with the triangular black nose, saw the fangs bared, heard the deep growl start in Rollo’s throat, nine, ten, eleven, he bounded for the doors as George came out of his seat, drawing his gun, twelve, thirteen, “Stop!” George shouted behind him, he was through the doors, fourteen, and they closed behind him. Through the open windows of the car, he could hear Rollo tearing off Henry’s arm or perhaps ripping out his jugular while the blind man began playing a medley of “Strangers in the Night” and “Tuxedo Junction.” George was across the car now and leaning through a window as the train began moving out of the station. He fired twice at Mullaney, who zigzagged along the platform and leaped head first down the steps leading below, banging his head on a great many risers as he hurtled down, thinking this was where he had come in, and thinking By God, he missed me! He heard the train rattling out of the station, and was certain he also heard applause from the passengers in the car as Rollo eviscerated poor Henry. He got to his feet the moment he struck the landing, began running instantly, without looking back, thinking I’m free at last, I’m free of all of them, and running past the change booth and then bounding down another flight of steps to the street, not knowing where he was, Brooklyn or Queens or wherever the hell, thinking only that he had escaped, finding himself on the sidewalk, good solid concrete under his feet, glancing up at the traffic light, seeing it was in his favor, and darting into the gutter.