Kill or Be Killed

            I hastily scanned the half-open windows above. Each was highlighted by a pale, yellow glow that reflected eerily off the damp pavement, and moth-eaten curtains that swayed gently in the cold breeze of the night. I looked toward a corner window where at that moment laid the corpse of a ‘supposed’ dead man. A long time ago I considered myself a dead man. Now, the blood was flowing through me, through the old tired bones that had seen too many dead mugs and dark alleyways. I felt alive again.

 Behind me, the bridge climbed out of the water like a steel and brick monster. The shadow it created stretched across much of the river. A few empty lots bathed in waste marked the edge of death like a clock stuck on midnight. Above the suspicious solitude could be heard the far-away steady hum of cars crossing the bridge. It was like watching death do the tango to the sound of raised voices, distant gunshots and blaring police sirens.

As if on cue, police sirens suddenly rose up out of the muted volume of the city, increasing in degree with each passing second. Most people, if they lived here long enough, could figure out where they came from and where they were headed. If you were really good, you even knew why. I knew they were headed here, and I also knew why.

It began an hour ago when I received a call from Mr. Nobody. That’s right, Mr. Nobody. See, Mr. Nobody called and told me there was a dead fish here, in this apartment building on Henry Street, and that I needed to be here when the cops arrived. That was it. That was all. I suppose that should have been enough.

After the mysterious caller hung up I contacted Pete Miller, a friend on the force, and told him about the call. Twenty minutes later, I found myself staring down a potential murder scene, wondering all the while why I was the one that had to be here. I didn’t feel like complaining until I knew what was going on and what my alibi would be. In New York, without an alibi, call yourself a bowl of soup and get served up for dinner because everyone wants an alibi. I know it sounds corny, but it makes sense to me, and honestly, that’s all you got to know. The rest of it couldn’t get you enough to buy a decent cup of coffee at the local burger joint.

I mulled these and other thoughts over as I waited patiently for Pete to show up. Moments later, Pete pulled up just slightly behind my car, parking like a granny set to make her way to the retirement home. I could never figure Pete out. He was tough and took no guff from anybody, but sometimes could be the biggest baby of the bunch. He looked like his mother still dressed him, and he smelled like he just got finished rolling in a rose bush. Sure, I was no Sunday picnic, but you had to figure a guy who played cops and robbers had some raw edges to him, but in Pete, sometimes, I didn’t see any. Sometimes I believed I didn’t want to see any. It felt good to see that someone from the old neighborhood had done well, because a lot of the guys we used to know were either in stir or in the ground. Anyone else left out would quickly join them. I suppose I was just waiting to see which side of the ledger I’d be counted into. Pete, on the other hand, had done well. He married a beautiful dame, had a couple Pete juniors running around, and was looking for a quick promotion to Captain soon. Had I stuck, maybe I’d be where he was. But all things being equal, I didn’t think being on the inside worked for me. Outside is where I belong. It’s where I’ve always belonged.