Hosts Page 8

  "Yes," the man said. "Very nice."

  Sandy got the feeling the guy thought he might be scaring away his customers and wanted him to move on. So Sandy moved on, feeling lighter than air. Nobody could bring him down this morning. Nobody.

  2

  "Yo, Stan."

  Stan Kozlowski lowered his copy of the Times and looked across the table. His shorter, heavier younger brother Joe had a copy of The Light folded in half and was pinning it to the table with the index finger of his good hand. Usually he bought the Post but The Light's front page photo of the dead gunner must have caught his eye this morning.

  They occupied their usual table near the front window of Moishe's kosher deli on Second Avenue. The kosher part didn't matter—they'd been raised Catholic—but Moishe's was convenient, the coffee free-flowing, and the bagels unbeatable.

  "What?"

  "You been reading about this guy on the train last night?"

  "Some."

  He'd skimmed the stories to see if the Times knew more than last night's TV news. It didn't. And the mystery about this "Savior" guy had the whole city buzzing. Moishe's was no exception: Didja hear? The Savior this, the savior that. Whatta y'think? Blah-blah-blah. The story wasn't a day old and already Stan was sick of it.

  "Yours say anything about his gun?"

  "No. Not that I recall. I—"

  "You guys figured out who he is yet?" said a squeaky voice with a Brooklyn accent sharp enough to cut steel.

  Sally, their usual waitress at this, their usual table, had returned with her usual pot of coffee. Seventy if she was a day and built like a hunchbacked bird, she dyed her hair flame orange and applied eye make-up with a trowel.

  Stan noticed how Joe slipped his scarred hand off the table and onto his lap. An automatic move. Seeing it caused something to twist inside Stan. Joe shouldn't have to hide any part of himself.

  Two years now since the accident…

  Accident, hell. He and Joe had called the fire an accident and stuck to the story so well that Stan caught himself every now and then believing it really was an accident. But the fire that had ruined their reputations and put them both out of business and scarred Joe for life had been no accident.

  Joe hadn't been the same since then. Before the fire he'd been Joe Koz, top torch in the Northeast, maybe the whole coast, and no slouch with C-4 either. Now… well, he was damaged goods, and his ruined hand was only the visible part; he'd been damaged inside as well. He'd stopped caring. He never worked out anymore. Must have put on forty pounds while Stan had maintained his fighting weight. He was four years younger but now looked a good ten years older.

  Stan looked up at Sally. "Who? This Savior guy? Why should we care?"

  "We might," Joe said. "We might care a lot."

  Something in his voice made Stan give his brother a closer look; he noticed that Joe's face was set in grimmer lines than usual.

  "Sure you do," Sally said, refilling their cups. "Especially if they offer a reward."

  "If the city doesn't," Joe said, "I just might offer one myself."

  Sally laughed. "You do that, Joe. You do that."

  As she moved on, Stan stared at his brother. "What's up, Joe?"

  "It doesn't say nothin' in the Times there about the kind of gun he used to whack the crazy?"

  "No."

  Joe smirked. "I guess bein' a college boy has its drawbacks. Even us lowbrow dropouts hit pay dirt once in a while."

  They'd had a long running rivalry about who read the better paper. Joe had never finished high school. Stan had gone to college after Nam, earned a B.A. in English from Pace, not that he ever used it. All he'd ever needed to know he'd learned in Nam.

  "Get to the point."

  "One of The Light's reporters was on that train last night—right in the car where it all went down—and he says here this Savior guy used a tiny little .45 that he pulled out of an ankle holster."

  Stan went cold. The Times articles had said the killer had used 9mm pistols with homemade silencers but hadn't mentioned a thing about the caliber of the Savior's gun or his holster.

  "That doesn't mean it's him," Stan said.

  "Yeah. I bet there's fucking thousands of guys running around with teeny-tiny .45s strapped to their ankles."

  For the first time in two years Stan saw that old spark in his brother's eyes. He didn't want to douse it.

  "You've got a point. It could be him. But don't get your hopes up."

  "Get them up?" Joe grinned, showing yellow teeth. He'd never been much for dentists. "They're already up—way up. I hope to God it's him, Stan. And I hope if he doesn't show himself they track him down and drag him into the spotlight. Because then we'll see him, and then we'll know if he's our guy, and if he is he's gonna die!"

  "Easy, Joe," Stan said. "You're getting loud."

  "Like I give a steaming wet brown cruller! Damn fuck right I'm getting loud!"

  He held up his left hand and waved it in Stan's face. Mottled shiny pink scar tissue gleamed under the ceiling fluorescents; it enveloped his index and middle fingers, fusing them into a single digit, and it swathed his ring and pinky fingers, joining them as well. The thumb too was scarred but remained separate.

  "We've got issues with this guy, Stan. Serious business issues. But for me it's personal too." He began pounding the table with his good hand. "I've been lookin' for him two years, and if this is him, he's gonna die! I'm gonna blow him off the face of the fucking earth!"

  Joe's final words echoed off the hammered tin ceiling of Moishe's kosher deli where patrons and staff alike stared at him in stunned silence.

  3

  I'm going to have to make some assumptions here, Sandy Palmer thought as he leaned over his subway map. He sat at his cluttered desk in the front room of his apartment and traced the Broadway line through the Upper West Side.

  One indisputable fact: the Savior had taken off at Seventy-second Street. But had that been his intended stop or had he been forced by the circumstances? Had he been heading home or heading to work or on his way to his girlfriend's? Trouble was, the Nine went all the way to Van Cortlandt Park up in the Bronx.

  Sandy stared at the face on the Identi-Kit printout propped up against the computer screen before him. Who are you, my man? Where do you live? Where do you hang? Where do I find you?

  He couldn't see much choice in where to search. He'd have to assume that the mystery man either lived on or frequented the West Side around Seventy-second Street or somewhere above that.

  He leaned back and rubbed his eyes. A lot of territory. Millions of people.

  Well, no one said fame and fortune would come easy. Good journalism sometimes required a lot of legwork. He was up for it. He just had to hope he got lucky and—

  The phone rang. Oh, no. Not his mother again. He'd called his folks last night to tell them about the shooting and his story in the morning edition. Bad move. Mom had lost it, crying for him to come back home where he'd be safe; Dad had kept his composure but agreed that Sandy should come home, at least for a few days. No way. He wasn't a college kid anymore. He was twenty-six and this was where he lived and worked. The conversation hadn't ended on a happy note.

  He debated letting the answering machine pick up but decided against it. He got out half a hello when a gruff voice cut him off.

  "That you, Palmer?"

  Sandy recognized McCann's voice. And he didn't sound happy. Oh, shit, he was going to come down on him for sneaking that photo.

  "Detective," he said. "Good to hear from you."

  "I thought we had an understanding about that gun, Palmer."

  "What gun?"

  "The second shooter's. We were gonna keep certain things out of the press."

  "I haven't breathed a word about it being a Semmerling."

  "Yeah but your piece mentions that he used 'a miniature .45.' That kind of narrows the field, don't it?"

  Shit. He hadn't spilled that on purpose. Sandy felt like saying, I thought you didn't read The L
ight, but he wanted to keep McCann on his side. He could be a valuable resource.

  "I'm sorry, Detective. I didn't know. I don't know anything about guns."

  "Well, you should start learning."

  "Look, I'm sorry. I'll be more careful in the future."

  "See that you are."

  And then he hung up, but Sandy thought he'd detected the slightest softening of the detective's tone before the connection broke. Good. He couldn't afford to burn any bridges. And McCann hadn't even mentioned the photo.

  The intercom buzzed. Someone calling from the foyer. What now?

  "Yeah," he said, depressing the button.

  "Is this Sandy Palmer?" said a woman's voice. Young, Tentative.

  "That's me. Who's this?"

  "Beth Abrams. From the… the train last night?"

  Oh, wow!

  "Beth! Come on up!"

  He buzzed her in, then surveyed his apartment. What a sty! He scrambled around picking up the dirty clothes and junk mail that littered the place. He tossed everything into the bedroom and closed the door on it. The place still looked a shambles.

  Should've showered, he thought. He gave each armpit a quick sniff. Not great, but not offensive.

  The printouts! Shit, he didn't want her seeing those. He slipped them into a manila envelope just as she knocked. He pulled the door open and she looked awful as she stood on the threshold, her pale face tear-streaked and shadowy half moons under her big dark eyes.

  "Beth," he said. "How in the world—?"

  And then she was tight against him, her arms locked around his back, sobbing her heart out. Oh, man, did that feel good. When had any woman, let alone an attractive one like Beth, thrown her arms around him? He closed the door and held her as she cried, absorbing her shaking sobs.

  It took her a good ten minutes to regain control. He wished she'd taken more time. He could have stood there all day.

  "I'm so sorry," she said, backing up a step and wiping her eyes on her sleeve. She was still all in black, dressed in the clothes she'd worn last night. "I didn't mean to do that, it's just that I'm such a wreck. I mean, I can't sleep, I can't eat, I wanted to go back to Atlanta last night but there were no flights that late and besides no one's home because my folks are touring Scandinavia and are somewhere in fucking Oslo right now and I tried to talk to my boyfriend about it and I thought he understood but after a while he let it slip that he thought it was awesome. Can you believe that? He thinks it would have been so awesome to have been there! So I just walked out and I need to talk to someone who understands what it was like, someone who was there too."

  "That's me," he said. "But how did you find me?"

  "I saw your picture in the paper and remembered you saying you'd graduated from Columbia so I called the alumni office as soon as it opened and they gave me your last address. I hope you don't mind."

  "Mind? Are you kidding? I was trying to figure out how to get in touch with you but I never got your last name."

  "And I realized I never really thanked you for what you did."

  "What I did?"

  "Stop being modest. You shielded me with your own body. I'll never forget that."

  "Oh, that," he said as guilt spiked him. "Let's not make too much of that."

  "How can you be so calm?" she said, staring at him. "How come you're handling this and I'm not?"

  He'd been asking himself that same question. "Maybe because I was able to write about it. I had to confront my terrors; maybe focusing and putting them down on paper was some sort of exorcism."

  Not to mention how my being there is going to make my career.

  "There's another way to look at it," he added—this had just occurred to him and it was pretty good. "You have to figure, with all the millions of people in this city and all the subway lines and trains that run every hour, what are the chances of being caught on a subway car with a gun-toting madman? A zillion to one, right?"

  Beth nodded. "I guess so."

  "So what are the chances of getting caught twice? Think about that. The odds of either of us ever having a gun pointed our way again has got to be eighty zillion to one. So the way I look at it, I just survived the worst moment of my whole life. Everything from here on is a cake-walk."

  "I never thought of it that way." She took a deep breath. "I can't believe this, but I think I feel better already. Just seeing you so together after going through the same thing I did makes it easier to handle."

  Did that mean she was going to leave? Hello, have a good cry, feel better, then back to the boyfriend? No way.

  "Want some coffee? Tea? I've got some good green tea."

  "You know," she said with a twist of her lips which, on a day like today, had to suffice for a full-fledged smile, "all of a sudden that sounds good."

  He started toward the kitchenette. "How about something to eat? I don't have much but—"

  "No. I still can't think of eating. Just some tea would be great."

  Good, he thought, because unless you're into chunky peanut butter and stale Ritz crackers, I'm afraid you're out of luck. The cupboard is bare, babe.

  "Have a seat on the couch there and I'll start the water boiling."

  What do I do now? he asked himself as he filled the kettle.

  He'd been planning to start canvassing the Upper West Side with his printout. He'd called in sick at work, telling them he was still too shaken up to make it in. They'd all been understanding, even going so far as to offer him stress counseling, which left him feeling guilty.

  But what he needed far more than stress counseling was a big follow-up story.

  Then George Meschke himself got on the line and went on about how sales of this week's issue were going through the roof. Lots of the outlets had squawked at first at the double shipments they received, but now they were calling to say thanks—they'd sold out.

  So Sandy was the man of the moment down at The Light, but that wasn't going to help him here at home. As much as he needed to find the Savior, he so wanted to make the most of this chance with Beth too. She'd come looking for him, damn it, so he'd be a real jerk to blow her off. Turn her away now and he might never see her again.

  Shit. Why couldn't anything be easy?

  "Do you take yours with sugar?" he called as he checked the bowl.

  He usually snagged a packet or two from the coffee shops and delis when he remembered to, but it looked like he hadn't remembered in too long. Just a few white granules speckling the bottom.

  Beth hadn't answered him so he headed back toward the front room.

  "I hope you don't need—"

  And as he moved, for a second, just a second, he had a vision of her lying on the couch, stripped of her clothing, her white skin stark against the dark fabric, open arms reaching for him as she offered herself in grateful repayment for what she considered an act of unparalleled bravery. After all, if he'd been willing to sacrifice his life for her safety, the least she could do was…

  And there she was, lying on the couch…

  … limbs akimbo…

  … fully dressed…

  … sound asleep.

  Got to hand it to you, Palmer, he thought. You sure do have a way with women. A real knack for riveting their interest.

  And then it hit him that this was perfect. She could sleep here while he started canvassing.

  Yes! Like having his cake and eating it too.

  He tiptoed into his bedroom and grabbed a pillow and blanket, then returned to the couch where he slipped the former under her head and tucked the latter around her body.

  He found a pad and scratched out a note.

  Beth—

  Had to go down to the paper. If you wake up before I'm back, please don't leave. We have LOTS to talk about! Sandy

  He placed the pad where she had to see it, then leaned over and kissed her on the cheek.

  "You're safe here," he whispered.

  He grabbed the envelope with the printouts, tucked them into his knapsack along with his note
pad, pens, and tape recorder—be prepared, as the Boy Scouts say—then eased himself out.

  Life hadn't been great before, but it was definitely getting better. Not a bowl of cherries yet, but on its way.

  4

  "All right already!" Abe said when he finally opened the door in response to Jack's insistent knocking. "My hundred-yard sprint days are long past."

  "It's known as the hundred-yard dash, Abe."

  "Dash, sprint, whatever—I can't do it anymore."

  Jack doubted that Abe Grossman, the balding proprietor of the Isher Sports Shop, whose belt length probably equaled his height, had ever sprinted or dashed a hundred consecutive yards in his life. He strode by him and headed down one of the narrow, canyonesque aisles teetering with hockey sticks and basketballs and safety helmets, heading for the counter in the rear. His nose started to itch from the dust that layered everything. Abe didn't do high volume in sporting goods. His real business was in the basement.

  "Got the morning papers?"

  Silly question, Jack knew. Abe read every issue of every local English language paper—morning, evening, weekly.

  Behind him he heard Abe's mocking tone, " 'Good morning, Abe, my good and dear friend.' And a very good morning to you, Jack. My, but it's early, even for you. 'Yes, Abe, so sorry to barge in on you like this—'"

  "Abe," Jack said. "I'm feeling just a bit frazzled this morning and I could use your help."

  He hadn't slept well. The combination of the subway mess and running into Kate on the same night had kept him turning and pounding his pillow until dawn.

  "'Frazzled,' says he; cranky, says I. But I should be one to quibble? He wants help but he asks for the morning papers."

  "Yeah. I need another pair of eyes to help me go through every article on last night's subway killings word by word and—"

  "For why? To see if the police got an accurate description of you?"

  Jack stopped and turned so fast he almost lost his balance. He felt his blood congealing as he stared at Abe.

  "You know?"

  "What's not to know?" Abe said, slipping his considerable bulk past Jack—no easy feat in these confines. He waddled on and led Jack back to the scarred counter where the morning papers lay scattered. "A gun-toting crazy gets blown away by this nondescript mensch with a .45 the size of a kreplach and I should think it's Senator Schumer? Or Bernie Goetz back on the job?" He grinned. "So where's your halo, Mr. Savior?"