Chapter 8
EIGHT O'CLOCK ON A FRIDAY NIGHT and the Fleet's Inn, a few blocks away from the Brooklyn Navy Yard was crowded with swabbies, gyrenes, smoke, the hard laugh of floogies and the raw smell of booze. Except for a table of marines, the customers were all Navy. The crew of the Navy tug Pequod-all five of the malong with Chief Neff, their captain, held down a corner of the bar and grinned at each other while they took turns fondling the two young tarts they'd picked up.
Sitting on a stool slightly away from the rest Chuck Huzak, his first-class rating new and shiny on his arm, worked on his fifth bourbon of the night. Some duty station he had gotten. Stationed on a harbor tug in New York with his old buddy, Neff, as the Old Man. You might say he was exec officer of the Pequod. While only a harbor tug, it was pretty good for an enlisted man.
Funny, the way things turned out. Here he was, in the best set-up he'd ever had in the Navy, and he knew he'd be a thousand times better off if he swung a transfer to some place off in the boondocks on the other side of the world. He had been on the Pequod for a week and already it was driving him crazy to be so close to Manhattan-and to Kathy. At night, when they brought the Pequot up the East River to dock in the Yard and the lights started to come on across the river, he couldn't help but try to figure out where her apartment was located.
There it was, New York and Kathy. All he had to do was cross a bridge and he could see her. Kathy.
Kathy and Strang.
Try as he might he couldn't keep from remembering that night, and the sight of her blonde head, while the bastard standing there groaned and flushed red, damn his soul to hell! And Strang, grinning like a death's head as he reached down and put his long fingers on her as if she was nothing but a statue or a piece of furniture he owned.
Angrily, he tossed down the fiery drink. Thinking about it wasn't doing him any good, he had to forget. The liquor wasn't doing him any good, either. Signaling the bartender for another shot, he turned his attention to the rest of the crew.
NefFs chief s cap was tilted to one side and his tie was loosened as he stood with one stubby arm around each of the women. The one at his right was sallow-colored with a hint of the Negro in her flat features. Her hefty body was stuffed into red slacks and a striped blouse. The other was a thin blonde, younger but just as tough looking. Joanie was her name and her pinched face held no emotion while Neff squeezed her rump.
"You're two pretty good heads, you know," Neff mumbled. "One big and one little. How'd you two like to pick up a little extra change for yourselves?"
"What do you have in mind, Chiefy?" the darker woman asked.
"Well, it's this way. I'm captain of a ship, see. The good ship Pequod. Whoever named her that sure was a comedian. Ahab's my name and this here is my scurvy crew. Anyhow, I'm the sort of captain who takes an interest in his crew. I like to look out for their interests, see?"
"You're all heart, Cap," one of the crew said.
"You ain't bird-turding when you say that. See, I figure a happy ship is a well-run ship. What I'd like would be for you two to make my crew happy. Think you could do it?"
"I think so. What you got in mind?"
"Let's see, there's six of us. Figure each of you can handle three apiece at ten bucks a throw. What about it?"
"I don't know. Let me and Joanie talk it over." Separating themselves from the crew, the two hustlers made their way to the woman's room.
"What do you think of that big one? Hot stuff, ain't she? I get first crack at her," Neff said.
"Hey, what's this? Don't tell me you're going to start pulling rank on us?"
"I'm captain, ain't I? A good captain never sends his men someplace he wouldn't go himself. I'm just going to check out that broad to make sure she comes up to Navy standards."
"I'll say it again, Cap'n Neff. You're all heart."
"Call me Captain Ahab."
"Call me Ishmael," Chuck said.
"I'll call you crud-head if you don't get on the ball, Huzak," Neff said, pointing a wavering finger at Chuck.
"What's your bitch, Phil?"
"This. You're second in command on the boat, right? It's up to you to set a high standard for the rest of the crew. But you've been fouling up."
"What the hell are you talking about?" Chuck responded angrily. "I haven't fouled up and you know it. I've been handling that tug as well as you since I came aboard."
"I'm not talking about what you do on the tug. It's the way you act on liberty that bugs me. You've been here for a week now and you ain't been laid yet. Get on the ball, Chuck. You got responsibilities now. You got to play the game."
"That an order, Phil?" Chuck asked, grinning.
"Damn right it is."
"OK, I'll grab the little blonde."
"See that you do."
"Aye, aye sir," Chuck said, throwing him a mock salute. The two women came back to their seats and sat down.
"OK, we're selling if you're buying," the dark one said.
"Good. Do you have someplace we can use?"
"We got a place near here. We'll take you on two at a time, cash in advance."
"Fair enough. Come on, Chuck. Do your duty."
Wrapping his arm around the hefty one, Neff led the way followed by Chuck and Joanie. The other customers cheered and proffered advice as they passed through the door out into the street. Chuck, a wry grin on his face, followed Neff's lurching figure. So this is how it was going to wind up. Back to whores again.
"My name is Joanie," the blonde said. "Yeah, I heard. I'm Chuck."
There wasn't need for further conversation. Her arm was skinny and her yellow hair hung lank and dead from her head. Spawn of the city's slum, she couldn't be much past her teens but her hard, alert eyes seemed much older. As she walked, she pulled out a stick of gum and slipped it between her overly made-up lips.
Neff and the other were making slow going, but Chuck kept behind them. It didn't matter a damn to him whether he grabbed his woman or not. Nothing mattered a damn. If only it were Kathy walking here with him and he was back in school with her and the last five years had never been!
The liquor fumes started mounting inside his head as they walked along. What the hell good was it? Why not just take off and leave the whole damned batch of them? Find some quiet bar and get stoned again. Then Neff and his woman turned and entered a dilapidated two-story building, the first floor of which consisted of run-down stores.
"Here it is. We've got the whole top floor. Four rooms, all to ourselves," Joanie said with a trace of pride. You could see her whole life in that absurd pride. She probably never had a room to herself until she started hustling.
"Got anything to drink up there, Joanie?" he asked, stroking her long hair.
"Yeah, we got some booze."
"You're not a bad looking girl." Her hair was fine, almost like Kathy's. A crazy idea was starting to grow in his head. It was because he was drunk; but hell, that was why you drank. So you'd have the guts to do crazy things.
"We'd better get in before some fuzz spots us."
"Yeah, we'll go inside."
Standing behind her with his hands on her hips, he watched as she pushed open a door next to a cobbler's shop. They walked up a flight of stairs and into a dingy apartment. Neff and the other woman were laying all over each other on a couch. A whiskey bottle stood on the floor next to them.
"Come on," Joanie said, picking up the bottle "We can go in the back where I have my room."
The room was a narrow, stuffy box with barely enough space for the bed and a battered bureau. A single window looked out over one of those tiny backyard gardens you occasionally see in the city.. Chuck hoisted one foot on the window sill and took a swig of the liquor.
"You want me stripped all the way?" she asked as she pulled off her dress. With her blonde hair and white slip, she was only a white blur in the dim light.
"Yeah. I-I'd like something a little different."
"Oh? Listen, I'm straight, see. I don't go for any of the rough stuff so if that's what you want, forget it. You ain't getting anything imagine for ten bucks, either," she said.
"I'll pay an extra ten. It won't be anything rough." Now that his eyes were getting used to the dark, he. could make out magazines lying in stacks on the bureau. Movie magazines, they looked like. True Romance. God, True Romance!
"An extra ten? I don't know. What do you want?"
"Just stand over by the bed, looking the other way. That's all. Just stand there and keep your mouth shut."
"That all? OK. Give me the twenty first."
"Here." He gave her two bills and she opened the door so she could check them in the light.
"All right. You want the light on?" she asked.
"No. No, keep it dark."
As he took off his clothes, he looked away from her, trying to imagine back to the first time he had taken Kathy. He was back in school, five years ago, and Kathy was waiting for him by the bed, and she was scared.
No, it's only a whore waiting there for you. She's only a whore and you're nothing but a drunken sailor in a cheap, obscene, stupid farce, something inside him said.
He could see her outlined in the light from the window, her narrow shoulders hunched forward. His breath thick with whiskey he stepped toward her, put his hands on her upper arms and brought his lips to her neck.
"Kathy, Kathy," he whispered, kissing her and holding her bare body against him.
Slipping his hands beneath her arms, he grabbed both her hard, pointed little breasts and squeezed, trying to remember the firmness and size of Kathy's. She began rubbing against him the way an alley cat does when you pet it.
She turned in his arms and let him kiss her mouth, her fingernails scratching him lightly on the back. Desperately he kissed and fondled her tough, bony body, trying to keep within his remembrance of the Kathy he had known, trying to hide from the reality that was rapidly overtaking him.
"Kathy, Kathy, I love you!" he cried.
"You bet, Big Boy. I can feel it. Come to little Kathy," she said, twisting in his grip like a cat.
With a strangled moan he had her on her back on the bed, her expert thighs were opening and he was there. His breath came in explosive gasps as he clasped her thin-boned, violent body to him, lunging at her in a frenzy, trying to surmount his knowledge of what she was and what he was.
"That'a boy, Chuck! More! More!"
Slamming into her body like a berserk pile-driver, he rode his wild lust, his mind a turmoil of conflicting emotions. She was shaking and moving against him, her lips pulled away from her teeth in a grimace, her breath in his ear.
"More, more. Little Kathy wants more."
The stale musty smell of the sheets and the cheap perfume she used choked his throat. Speedily, with the skill that comes from long practice, she brought his lust to an on-rushing, unstoppable explosion, he shuddered for one last, straining moment and then it was over.
Nothing, nothing, nothing, the voice said.
They separated, she rolled off the bed and left the room. He was lying on his back with his hand across his face when she returned. She flipped a switch and harsh light flooded the room. The bones on her shoulders and hips jutted out sharply while the two small breasts barely broke the outline of her chest. Taking a faded blue robe from the back of the door, she put it on and rummaged around the top of the bureau until she found a pack of cigarettes. Lighting one, she looked down on Chuck with amused, contemptuous young eyes.
"So that's what you wanted?" she asked. "Who was this Kathy? Some twist who turned it off on you?"
"She was a girl I ran out on a long time back."
"Yeah? Well, that's one thing about this business, you sure meet a lot of nuts. There was this clown with me a few weeks ago and you know what he wanted? Same thing as you but he kept calling me 'Marilyn'. Can you beat that? Me, he starts calling Marilyn! Of course, I am a real blonde, you can see that."
"Yeah, I can see."
"Well, that's about it, ain't it? You don't want anything else, do you?"
"No, I don't want anything else."
"You'd better get dressed then and get back to the bar. Tell the next one to come along."
Slowly he picked up his tailor-made whites and dressed while she sat on the bed, reading a movie magazine article describing the latest love of Troy Donahue. Back in uniform, he went to the door and turned back to her.
"So long, Sailor," she said, looking up from her magazine. "If you get in the mood again, me and Rita generally hang around the Fleet's Inn on week-ends."
"Yeah, I'll remember."
When he went through the other rooms, he passed an open door where he heard straining bed-springs. Neff and the other one. He went out the door and down the steps. The street was empty and dark. Walking along the gutter, he headed back to the Yard. The Fleet's Inn was bright, gaudy and loud as he passed it by. He kept on walking until he came to the Sand Street entrance.
Showing his liberty and ID cards to the Marines at the gate, Chuck made his way to where the Pequod was docked. Everything seemed hard and harsh. He imagined he could feel Strang's eyes watching him. The rest of his life would be the same as this night. Lonely, useless drunks and cheap, useless whores. Lost, everything was lost.
Kathy was gone and he had destroyed her. No, that couldn't be. It wasn't his fault. It was Strang, with his cold hatred of anything that was warm and alive and good, who had ruined Kathy. He realized that he would have to think that if he was to hold on to his sanity. It was Strang, Strang who was the blame.
Why not destroy Strang, then?
The idea came full-grown into his mind, blotting everything else out. Kill Strang. Then Kathy would be the same as she had been before. And those terrible pictures of him and Kathy together wouldn't keep creeping into Chuck's mind. What happened to him wouldn't matter because he knew that Kathy would be safe then.
The pier guard recognized him and he dropped onto the deck of the Pequod. The light in the small galley was on, but the seaman left on watch was crapped out in the sleeping quarters. Chuck poured himself a cup of coffee and stared down into its murky depths for a few seconds as if he could read his fate there.
So far it had been nothing but a drunken idea. The walk back had sobered him, all he had to do was let the whole thing drop. He wasn't a killer. Forget it, or try to forget it, and sack out. Tomorrow night he could get drunk again or pick up another whore, a younger, better-looking one.
And the night after that, and the next night, and the next?
More booze, more women while Strang's face grinned at him and mocked him. What had Strang said to him? What are you going to do now? What next?
Abruptly, Chuck hurled the coffee cup at the stainless steel stove, breaking it into small shards.
"I'm going to kill you, you son of a bitch!" he said aloud, knowing that he meant it, knowing that he would destroy himself by doing it but not caring. He would free Kathy, that was all that mattered. She would realize that he had sacrificed himself for her, she would know that he still loved her.
He went down below to his bunk and opened the locker underneath it. Opening it very quietly so as not to awaken the seaman sleeping opposite him, he brought out his blue overnight bag and carried it up to the wheelhouse. His hands slid along the cluttered bottom of the bag until he finally found what he was looking for.
His old yellow switch-blade knife.
Funny how he'd hung onto it so long. It must have been at least fifteen years since he'd bought it. He had carried it with him all over the world, forgetting about it while it lay in the bottom of the bag, waiting until he would use it.
He was-what?-about fourteen or fifteen when he bought it in a store just off the Loop. He'd gotten into a fight with a couple of Italians and heard that they were laying for him. The guy who owned the store had the knives in a tray under the glass counter. When Chuck pointed out the one he wanted, the guy sold it to him without a word.
Carrying the knife in his hip pocket had made him feel older and tougher when he walked back to the neighborhood. Stopping at the pool hall where he hung out, he hadn't been able to resist taking it out of his pocket and admiring its sleek, simple beauty when he thought that nobody was looking his way. Someone was, though.
Berco.
Nobody knew if Berco was his last name or first, and nobody in the neighborhood was about to ask him. He was a runty little hunyak in his forties with long straight black hair combed flat on his head. He had done time and the word was that he carried a gun and used it.
Walking up to Chuck, he took the knife out of his hands and flashed it open.
"First time you ever bought a shiv, Kid?"
"Yeah. Except for jackknives."
"Figures. Shiv's a funny thing, Kid. You've got a lot to know about them if you're going to carry one. First thing is, never let anybody take it away from you," he said, jabbing at Chuck's belly with the blade and stopping the point less than an inch from his belt buckle.
"I'll remember," Chuck answered, making himself look straight into Berco's eyes. Some guys playing pool stopped and looked, but made no move towards them. Chuck remembered how they said that Berco was stir-crazy.
"That's the right idea, Kid. Don't flinch, don't let anyone see how scared you are," Berco said, barking out laughter suddenly. Turning his glance back to the knife, he twirled it around in his hand. "It's a cheap blade but it looks like it'll take an edge. Get yourself a stone and sharpen it. There ain't no sense in carrying a dull knife. Are you gonna carry it?"
"That's why I bought it."
"I tell you, Kid, don't carry this unless you're ready to use it. And if you use it, don't play around. If a guy's determined to get you, the only way you can be sure of stopping him with a knife is by killing him. Hold the knife at an angle like this, see, and then-straight to the heart!" Again he brought the point less than an inch from Chuck. He laughed again, closed the knife and dropped it into Chuck's slightly sweating palm.
Chuck never did run into the Italians he was scared of. In all the time he owned the knife, he had only brought it out twice. The time in college when the football player had tried to beat him up again, although Chuck hadn't cut him; and the time he ran into two Negroes one night near the Lake.
He was going to high school and had gone down to the playing field for some football. The breeze from the lake was cold with the threat of approaching winter when the game finally broke up. Stars were bright in the dark sky, he was hungry and anxious to get home. Leaving the others, he took a short-cut across the park. He was half-way across the baseball field when he heard somebody running up behind him. Turning, he saw two Negroes about his age coming toward him.
Immediately he took off, but they were fast bastards, big and with long legs. He could hear them gaining on him. When one of them was just behind him he desperately tried a kid's trick, stopping short and falling to his knees with his back bent. The one closest to him let out a yell but couldn't stop in time. As he tumbled over his back, Chuck stood up and the Negro crashed head first into the sandy ground.
Chuck's knife was in his hand, although he didn't remember taking it out. Holding it in front of him, he ran at the other Negro, slashing and jabbing. There was a confused flurry of blows and he felt the knife stick into something soft. The Negro screamed and he had a glimpse of his white eyes gleaming in the dark. Then he was past, running like hell all the way back to his neighborhood.
He hid the knife on the roof of a place near where he lived before he went home and couldn't sleep all night. The next day he bought all the papers and went through every page, but didn't see anything about the stabbing. So he figured he couldn't have hurt the Negro bad. A few days later, he went back to the roof and got the knife.
A garbage scow pulled by a tug underneath the bridge blew its whistle, bringing him back to the present. He pressed the button on the knife's hilt, but the spring had been broken long ago. Giving the knife a little twist, he snapped the blade out. He still had the knack of using a gravity knife.
The blade was pocked with rust spots, he saw. That wouldn't do. What would Berco say if he saw how crummy the knife looked? If Berco were still alive, that is. Searching through the bag, he took out a small stone and patiently began sharpening the knife against its smooth surface.
Early in the morning, Neff and the others came roaring back to the boat, drunk and singing. Sitting in the shadows, Chuck waited while they nosily made their way to their bunks.
"Where the hell is that Huzak?" Neff bellowed. "I thought the bastard would be back aboard by this time."
"Probably getting stoned in the City someplace. Figures he's too good to drink with us uneducated swabbies. The hell with him and his damn college."
"Yeah, you're right. Hell with him," Neff's voice agreed.
The Pequod grew quiet again in half an hour save for the slight whistling noise the blade made when it scraped against the stone. When the sky lightened and outlined the skyscrapers on the other side of the river, the knife was gleaming and sharp as if it had just been bought that day. The sun broke over the eastern horizon, burning the sky a flaming red.
Chuck rose, closed the knife and stuck it in his sock. The Yard was deserted. He didn't see anybody until he checked out of the Sand Street gate. The Marine on duty was a little surprised to see anyone at that time of day, but his cards were in order so he had no trouble.
The Sand Street of legend, song and story was long gone. Housing projects crammed with Puerto Ricans and Negroes stood on the spots where bars, clip-joints, "tatoo" and "massage" parlors once were located. Reaching the top of the slight hill that led to the subway and the entrance to the bridge, he took the knife out of his sock and put it into his front pocket.
White uniform gleaming in the newly-risen sun, he headed across the river to Manhattan. A young colored boxer, welter by the look of him, came running past him at the center of the bridge, pausing every once in a while to bob and weave and shadow box. The ancient buildings on the Manhattan side of the bridge lay in a confused jumble beneath the roadway, looking like a pile of children's blocks huddled together.
He didn't know the best way of getting to the Village from where he was, but that suited him fine. The bright morning light was pleasant to walk through and he was in no hurry. Crossing to the other side of City Hall, he found Broadway and slowly walked uptown.
At six-thirty on a Saturday morning, the street was deserted. A few bums sprawled in doorways and an occasional truck rumbled past, but that was all. It took longer to get to the Village than he thought, and finding Erwin Street was a bit of a problem. He had forgotten what a labyrinth the Village was.
By eight fifteen he was in front of fifty-five Erwin.
It didn't seem right, or the way he thought he'd feel, but he was too far gone to stop now. He went inside and began climbing the stairs, going slower and slower the higher up he went. He reached the fifth floor.
Strang's door was just across the hallway.
Taking the knife out he held it, unopened, in his hand, making no move. Standing very still, he watched the door, his mind empty. Long minutes passed and he didn't move a muscle. As the day grew older, the house started to awaken. Somebody opened a door a few flights beneath him and went down the stairs. An automobile horn blew loudly out in the street.
The sound of the horn seemed to be a signal of some sort to make him move. Stepping over to the door, he pressed the bell and waited, crouched slightly on the balls of his feet, breathing fast and holding the arm that held the knife away from his body.
No noise came from the apartment and for a second there was a chance that sanity could return, he felt a vague relief run through him and started to relax. Then he heard footsteps. The peep-hole in the center of the door snapped open and he heard a deep chuckle.
Strang opened the door.
He wore pajamas and a bath-robe. He didn't have his glasses on, his eyes were puffy and old with sleep. Grinning, he opened the door all the way.
"Well, if it isn't the wandering sailor back again. I knew you'd come back, but I'm a little surprised it's so soon. What have you been doing? Getting drunk in some dive and remembering the dear, dead days when you had all of your precious ideals intact? Come on in. I'll awaken Kathy."
Chuck shook his head and snapped his wrist down. The blade glittered in the dim light. Strang didn't change his expression. He even gave a little laugh.
"So you've reverted to type, eh, Huzak? All the way back to your juvenile days in-where was it? Oh, yes. Chicago. I, no doubt, am supposed to be so terrified of that ridiculous toy that I'll disappear in a cloud of smoke, leaving you with my wife. Put that thing away!" Strang said, his voice losing it's suavity and becoming urgent.
Chuck lunged smoothly forward, holding the knife at an angle so that it slid easily through Strang's ribs and found his heart.
Both of Strang's arms grabbed Chuck as if in an embrace, then he slid down and fell on his back on the floor, mouth and eyes wide open as if amazed that so simple a thing as a mere three inches of steel could still his quick intelligence. A blotch of red stained Chuck's white top where Strang had pressed against his chest.
The knife was red to the hilt. He shook his head again as if to clear it and looked down at the corpse. Strang had lost a lot of hair, his face was older than he'd realized. He had been getting old. Somehow he hadn't thought of Strang as an old man. He began rubbing at the blood-stain on his top with his left hand.
"Harold? Who is it?" Kathy's voice called from the bedroom in the back of the apartment.
He could hear her moving around and then she came through the door, her hair hanging loosely to her shoulders, wrapped in a silk dressing gown.
"Hal, who is it?" she started to ask, then stopped to gape at the scene before her. "Chuck! What are you doing here? What's happened? Hal!"
She fell to her knees on the floor beside Strang. Slowly, she lifted her face up to look at Chuck, her eyes wild with horror.
"You-you've killed him!"
"I-I-yes, I did. For you, Kathy, for you."
"You murdered him!"
"I had to, he was no good. He was evil. I killed him for your sake."
"You're crazy! You killed my husband!" she said, falling back on her knees. The robe separated, revealing her creamy white breasts as she stared up at him.
"I had to do it, Kathy, I had to do it," he repeated, bending over and putting his hand on her shoulder. It was very important that he made Kathy understand. "Don't you see that? The things he was making you do, I couldn't let that go on. I couldn't let him ruin you like that."
"What? What are you talking about?" I love you, Kathy."
Bending her head over Strang's face, she hid herself from Chuck. Her shoulders started shaking, choked, hysterical laughter rang strange and unreal through the room. When she lifted her face to his, it was rigid and twisted with hate.
"You filthy murdering son of a bitch, you killed my husband!" she hissed, brushing his hand off her shoulder and struggling up to her feet. Not paying any attention to the completely open robe, she swayed on her feet in front of him. "You simpering idot! You just killed my husband and you stand there talking nonsense about love. I loved him, don't you understand that?"
"You couldn't. Not him, not after those days we lived together back in Davis."
"Davis! Damn Davis! Do you think I could stay an eighteen year old virgin all my life? It wasn't until he took me that I found out what it meant to really be in love and to be a woman."
"No! You can't mean that! Those other men and the things he made you do-"
"I liked them! He made me like them. He was a man, a real man, the only real man I've ever had. You were nothing compared to him, nothing at all!"
"No, it's not so," he said, rubbing his hand against his eyes.
"And you killed him! You miserable, soft worm, you killed a man a thousand times better then you. You'll burn for it, they'll burn you and I hope they let me watch!"
"You don't mean what you're saying," he said in a very slow, distinct voice.
"I mean it, every word. I loved him, he was the only man I've ever loved-"
Chuck's body seemed to move of its own accord. The hand holding the knife moved forward and the blade disappeared into the smooth white skin over Kathy's navel. She looked down at the cut, screamed and began walking backwards away from him, clutching her belly while the blood streamed over her fingers. Still screaming, she backed against the wall and fell to the rug.
Then she stopped screaming and lay still.
The room was quiet again.
Stupidly, Chuck looked at the hand holding the knife. He hadn't wanted to do that. He tried to drop the knife but his fingers wouldn't let go of it. He began shaking his hand, trying to shake it loose. Bright drops of blood flecked off the blade onto the rug.
Trembling violently, he finally gave up and looked over to where Kathy lay crumpled by the wall with the robe pulled over her long dancer's legs.
"Kathy!" his voice said, sounding strange to his ears.
Backing up, he passed the body of Strang and the open door and was out in the hallway again. His eyes were wild as they looked back to Strang's apartment.
Run.
Still holding the knife in his right hand, he dashed madly down the steps. People stood at the half opened doors of their apartments and watched him over the safety of their chains. Something had happened upstairs, but you don't get involved in anything when you live in New York.
Down the stairs and out of the building into the bright streets. The people on the sidewalks shrank back at his appearance. Staggering into the middle of the street he began running down the center line, ignoring the cars.
He was running the way he ran when the Negroes nearly got him by the Lake. He was running as if in a dream, running so fast that he was ready to take to the air in flight.
He was running straight at a cop who looked at him with scared eyes over a .38 pointed at his chest.
The cop yelled something, there was an explosion and something slammed into his chest. He stopped as if somebody had hit him with a sixteen-pound sledge hammer the pavement came up and hit him hard, he was rolling in the street, dirtying his clean whites.
Then Chuck Huzak finally stopped running.