From far off in the heat and sea of sweat I heard the noise and the voices.
The gloom of the room was split by a shaft of light that stretched across my face from the partly opened door. It was from there that the voice kept saying, "Open this damn door, buddy."
I rolled off the cot and finally got to the door, pushed it shut, slipped off the chain, then backed off when it almost knocked me down swinging open.
Both the hoods were big. The snub-nose jobs in their hands made them even bigger. But they didn't come
Without even looking, one swung and last night came boiling out of me all over the floor and I crouched there on my hands and knees trying to keep from dying.
The other guy said, "She ain't here. This joker was drunk on the cot with the chain on. How could she get in here?"
Neither one said anything, but when I raised my head the guy with the long face and bloody shoe was looking at me. I started to grin at him. Not mean. Just a big, friendly grin like I knew how it was and I kept it going until the guy shrugged and said to the other. "He's nuts. Come on."
It was five minutes before I could get up, and another five before I could reach the sink. I ran it cold and splashed it over my face and head, washing the blood down the drain.
I didn't bother looking in the mirror. I felt my way back inside, reached the cot, and flopped out on it, suddenly grateful for the heat of the wall that sucked at the vast pain that was my head.
When I knew I was ready I said, "Okay, come on out of there."
Across the room the paneled closet door that seemed to be part of the wall swung open. For a moment there was only the darkness, then a shadow detached itself from the deeper black, took a step forward with a harsh, shuddering sob, and stood there, rigid.
I reached behind me and turned on the night lamp. It gave off a dull reddish glow, but it was enough.
She was beautiful. There was something Indian-like about her, maybe the black hair or the high planes of her face. Sweat had plastered her dress across her body, her breasts in high, bold relief, the muscular flatness of her belly moving as she breathed. Sudden fear of the hunted had drained her face so that her lips made a full red splash in contrast.
She stood there watching me, saying nothing, a quiver in her flanks as in a mare about to bolt. Spraddle- legged like that I could see the sweep of her thighs and liked what I saw.
I said, "They're gone."
"I never chain that door," I said. "Never. And that closet's the only place to hide in here. Cleverly made, that."
Her tongue flicked out and wet her lips. "When did you . . . realize."
"Right away." The words had blood on them and I wiped it away with my sleeve.
She was staring at my face. "You could have told. Then they . . ."
"I wouldn't tell them punks if their legs were on fire."
"Thank you."
"Sure. It's just a helluva way to get waked up, that's all."
For the first time she started to smile. No, not quite smile . . . a grin, sort of. It changed her whole face and somehow there was no heat and no hangover and no pain in my head and everything was different and I was different. But it was like a flash flood, suddenly there and suddenly gone, leaving behind it only damage from another broken memory.
"Can I do anything for you?"
"Nobody can do anything for me, kid."
She looked around, the grin gone now. "I . . . was running. This was the first place I came to. Your door was open."
I shaded the light with my hand. "Who were they?"
The fear touched her eyes. "I don't know," she finally said.
"They weren't just playing around, kid."
She nodded as if it were a familiar thing to her, then she took a few quick steps across the room and looked over me through the window to the street below.
Close now, I could see she was more lovely than I realized, bigger, and more scared. She was intent on the street below, and when I slipped my hand around hers and squeezed it; she squeezed back involuntarily without realizing it until I let go. Then she gave a sudden start and stepped back quickly, a frown crossing her face.
"I just kissed you," I said.
"What?" softly.
"When we were kids we called it sneak kissing, hand kissing. It meant you wanted to do more but somebody might be looking." I laughed at the expression on her face, but it hurt my head and I stopped. But it was worth it. I saw the trace of the grin again before the fear came back.
Once more she scanned the street, then said, "I'll have to go now."
"You're crazy if you do. You didn't know those two. How will you know any others who make a try for you. And right now you're a beautiful, sweaty, wet target. In this neighborhood you couldn't be missed."
She sucked her breath in through her teeth, and moved back from the window. I pointed to the chair at the foot of the couch and she sat down, hugging herself as though she were cold.
"When did it happen before?" I asked.
For a moment she stared past me, then shook her head. "I . . . don't know what you mean."
I bit the words out. "You're lying."
The anger came slowly, her folded arms pushing her breasts taut. "Why am I, then?"
"If you didn't know them and didn't expect them to hit, they would have nailed you. They were pros."
The anger receded and it was like losing her outer defenses. I had made her think and correlate and whatever the answers were put her on edge like a great big animal. "All right. It had happened before. Twice."
"When?"
"Tuesday. A car almost ran me down in front of my house. Then the day before yesterday I was followed."
"How'd you know? Pros aren't easy to spot."
Without hesitating she said, "I shopped in the lingerie department of three stores. You don't see many men there and when you do they're noticeable and uncomfortable. I saw this particular one in all three places. I left, made two cab changes, and went into the subway."
She paused, took a deep shuddering breath. Then with a small choking sob, buried her face in her hands and tried to keep from screaming.
I pushed myself up from the cot, my head a sudden spinning ball of pain. I reached over and took her hands down. She wasn't hysterical. She was just on the deep edge momentarily and now she was coming out of it. "Say it," I told her.
She nodded. "The train was coming in the station."
"Go on."
"I . . . felt his hands at my back and he pushed and I was falling and that train was coming on and I could hear the screams and the yells and the train trying to stop and my head hit something and it was like falling into a blessed sleep." She closed her eyes, rubbing at her temples to ease the pain of the thought. "I woke up and they were still yelling and hammering and lights were like fingers poking at me and I didn't know where I was. Terrible. It was terrible."
Then it was my turn to remember. "I saw the pictures. You fell between the tracks in the drainage well. Contusions and abrasions."
"I was very lucky."
"You told them you slipped off the edge."
"I know."
"Why?"
