I moved in, hooked a foot in front of his, drew his foot back so that he couldn't come off the wall in a hurry.
'I didn't do nothing,' he said. 'What's the matter with you?'
I told him to put his head against the wall.
'All I did was ask you for a match.'
I told him to shut up. I frisked him and he stood still for it. A little blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. Nothing serious. He was wearing one of those leather jackets with a pile collar and two big pockets in front. Bomber jackets, I think they call them. The pocket on the left held a wad of Kleenex and a pack of Winston Lights. The other pocket held a knife. A flick of my wrist and the blade dropped into place.
A gravity knife. One of the seven deadly weapons.
'I just carry it,' he said.
'For what?'
'Protection.'
'From who? Little old ladies?'
I took a wallet off his hip. He had ID that indicated he was Anthony Sforczak and he lived in Woodside, Queens. I said, 'You're a long ways from home, Tony.'
'So?'
He had two tens and some singles in his wallet. In another pants pocket I found a thick roll of bills secured by a rubber band, and in the breast pocket of his shirt, under the leather jacket, I found one of those disposable butane lighters.
'It's out of fluid,' he said.
I flicked it. Flame leaped from it and I showed it to him. The heat rose and he jerked his head to the side. I released the thumbcatch and the flame died.
'It was out before. Wouldn't light.'
'So why keep it? Why not throw it away?'
'It's against the law to litter.'
'Turn around.'
He came off the wall slowly, eyes wary. A little line of blood trailed from the corner of his mouth down over his chin. His mouth was starting to puff up some where my elbow had caught him.
He wouldn't die of it.
I gave him the wallet and the cigarette lighter. I tucked the roll of bills in my own pocket.
'That's my money,' he said.
'You stole it.'
'Like hell I did! What are you gonna do, keep it?'
'What do you think?' I flicked the knife open and held it so that the light glinted off the face of the blade. 'You better not turn up in this part of the city again. Another thing you better not do is carry a blade when half the department's looking for the First Avenue Slasher.'
He stared at me. Something in his eyes said he wished I didn't have that knife in my hand. I met his gaze and closed the knife, dropped it on the ground behind me.
'Go ahead,' I said. 'Be my guest.'
I balanced on the balls of my feet, waiting for him. For a moment he might have been considering it, and I was hoping he'd make a move. I could feel the blood singing in my veins, pulsing in my temples.
He said, 'You're crazy, you know? What you are is crazy,' and he edged off ten or twenty yards, then half-ran to the corner.
I stood watching until he was out of sight.
The street was still empty. I found the gravity knife on the pavement and put it in my pocket. Across the street, Armstrong's door opened and a young man and woman emerged. They walked down the street holding hands.
I felt fine. I wasn't drunk. I'd had a day of maintenance drinking, nothing more. Look how I'd handled the punk. Nothing wrong with my instincts, nothing slow about my reflexes. The booze wasn't getting in the way. Just a matter of taking on fuel, of keeping a full tank. Nothing wrong with that.
Chapter 12
I came suddenly awake. There was no warm-up period. It was as abrupt as turning on a transistor radio.
I was on my bed in my hotel room, lying on top of the covers with my head on the pillow. I had piled my clothes on the chair but slept in my underwear. There was a foul taste in my dry mouth and I had a killer headache.
I got up. I felt shaky and awful, and a sense of impending doom hung in the air, as though if I turned around quickly I could look Death in the eye.
I didn't want a drink but knew I needed one to take the edge off the way I felt. I couldn't find the bourbon bottle and then I finally found it in the wastebasket. Evidently I'd finished it before I went to bed. I wondered how
