The Blue Light Read online

Saturday night’.

  “Go Tigers. Just don’t stop me, and ask me to play, I have other business to attend to.”

  He realized he was talking to his manuscript that had slid up against his leg when he swerved. He drove on toward the big apple, the place where great manuscripts are turned into money.

  There would be book signings after the book was published, and maybe he would find him a woman that would love him. Someone who could appreciate the art of writing.

  When he began coming into the outskirts of New York, the big apple was silent, cars parked askew, and it looked dirtier than he had ever seen it, with no one on the streets. His goal was the offices of Goldman, and Bernstein, where Donald Fuhrman, his agent leased an office. He looked at his watch, 3 pm, plenty of time. The offices were located on 179th street, and nothing, but nothing was going to waylay him from seeing Donald Fuhrman today.

  He hunkered behind the wheel as he dodged around stalled cars, and occasional dogs. There was even one stray horse that came meandering down the street. “Get out of the way horsie, gitty up there boy. “ He yelled out the window. He drove until he came to 176th and Alder where the street was completely blocked by an over turned semi-trailer. Crap, I guess I can walk three blocks. He see sawed the car over to the curb, got out with the two thick envelopes. He laid them on the hood while he locked the car. He patted the hood, picked up his manuscript and walked on.

  Without the sound of the motor in the car, things began to seem just a little eerie around him as his shoes made a clacking sound in the silence. He hunkered down with his shoulders lower, a tight grip on the manuscript tucked under his arm. Just a block and a half to go, and I’ll ask Donald what the hell is going on, are the Yankees playing a special game? He hadn’t listened to any sports broadcast since he left New York. Maybe the Yankees were in an end game? New Yorkers had a love affair with their team, money passed hands to winning bets like confetti during a Yankee game. Some betters would bet on a turd on the off chance the Yankees might lose a game. Those were the hard luck gamblers that were in every town in America, and sometimes they made out like a fat rat on a game. He breathed a sigh of relief when he turned the corner, and saw the gold of the windows on Goldman Bernstein shining in the late evening sun. Soon the other buildings would steal their sun, and the offices would go back to looking like crap.

  He pulled on the glass doors, half expecting them to be locked, but they weren’t locked at all. It was only four PM, so where was the sweetie who always occupied the round desk that sat in the center of the floor? Maybe her kids had the croup or something?

  He didn’t bother to call out as he headed for the elevator that would take him to the 5th floor. He mashed the button, but nothing happened. He looked overhead at the arrows that would tell him where the car was, but there was no light.

  “Crap, crap, crap I hate stairs!” He complained as he opened the door that led up. He was out of breath by the time he got to the third floor. He stopped, and rested his hand on the rail, huffing and puffing like a seventy year old smoker.

  “Geez, I gotta get more exercise!” After a minute he made the 4th, and 5th floor. He opened the door to Fuhrman’s office, expecting to see him at his desk smoking his cigar, but what greeted him was a manuscript that had fallen off the piled desk onto the floor. He walked over to the desk to ring the little bell Furman kept there in case he had the runs or some other calamity only Fuhrman could guess at.

  When he stopped at the desk, and laid the heavy manuscript down, he could almost hear his own heart beating it was so quiet. “Where the hell is everybody at?” His voice sounded overly loud in the absolute still of an office five stories above the street. The next thing he noticed was the thin pall of dust that lay on the black office chair. “What the hell?”

  He walked over to the window that looked down on the streets, and it began to sink in. There were no people. His mind came out of tunnel mode to real world mode, a thing which he couldn’t handle just yet, what his eyes told him. He remembered the willy wonk parked cars with no one in them. What he should have seen before, he saw now, the lone horse ambling up the street, a stray horse on the streets of New York doing as he pleased, going where he pleased. Giddy up Pepper old boy!

  He looked back at Fuhrman’s desk, “Donald, where are you you sum bitch? Have you lost your way Donald old hoss? Well, I’m not leaving my million best seller manuscript on your desk, you useless lazy bastard…nosiree Bob.”

  He walked over, and picked up the heavy envelopes, “I never knew just how heavy a few hundred pages really is.” He walked to the elevator and waited, and when it didn’t come he resolutely headed for the stairs. Down, down, down. Wasn’t it just five floors? He thought he counted seven at least, how can a building get taller?

  He eventually came back out on the street. Shouldn’t he at least hear one bird singing in the potted trees? No, I guess not, where shall I go? To the publishing house on Vine? Sure, why not? Can’t get any worse than this can it? Furhman would be pissed that he had side stepped his agent. He wouldn’t get a penny of the royalties on the book. Serves you right Donald.

  A potted tree by the side of the road, the side of the road, the side of the road. A potted tree by the side of the road, and no bird to sit in it. He hummed, Gitty up Nick old boy, do something, go somewhere.

  He walked two blocks in the general direction he thought Vine street to be, before he spied a pair of legs sticking out between two parked cars. The signs said no parking, but who, in all of New York ever paid attention to a sign? You had to knock a New Yorker in the head with a lamp post to even get their attention.

  When the body that belonged to the legs came into view, he saw that it was a New York policeman, and there was dried blood on the front of his jacket. He had been shot; it was plain to Nick as he knelt by the officer. He had never really had any business with the police, but for some reason this one made him sad. Just go ahead and sleep old boy, you deserve the rest. He patted the sleeve of the dead officer. I think I’ll take your pistol old chum, as you see, I might need it. No, I don’t hardly reckon you do see. He got up and looked around at the silent streets.

  He tucked the pistol in his coat pocket, picked up his heavy manuscript, and walked on. He hadn’t gone far when he heard and awful scream. He stopped, trying to decide, fight or flight. He didn’t recollect having ever done anything for a complete stranger, and thought this might be a good time to start. At least the stranger in distress was another human. He began running toward the sound, and determined it came from an ally, and when he came around the corner he saw a man with a woman bent over a garbage can. The man had a knife to the woman’s throat.

  He felt for the gun in his coat, took it out and pointed it at the man, “Stop that, or I’ll shoot!”

  The man looked up, and he looked afraid of Nick. The gun gave him a feeling of power. The man fled down the ally, and into the shadows. The woman straightened herself, and looked at him, “Thank you, I thought he was going to kill me.”

  “What were you doing on the streets at night?” He asked.

  “I was looking for my dog, what were you doing?”

  “I was heading over to my publishing house, well…not my publishing house, it doesn’t belong to me…you see I am a writer.”

  “Do you want to come to my place Mr. writer? I have some coffee.”

  “Oh, I would love some, but how are you cooking it with the power off?”

  “Its gas silly.”

  “Oh.” He felt taken aback a bit at her reference to being silly.

  “Well, come along then writer.”

  She led him from one street to the next, until his sense of direction was completely turned around. She finally led him to an old brownstone building. She climbed the stairs to the door, “You coming?”

  He looked down, and saw that he was till on the sidewalk, “Oh, silly me, yes, I’m coming.”

  She led him into a lighted room, and in the candle glow, the place had an air of old A
merican charm. She took his coat, and noticed the heavy sag the pistol made, she took it out, and handed it to him. “You won’t shoot me with that will you? It would make me awful unhappy if you did.”

  “Of course I won’t shoot you with it. Why should I?”

  “I don’t know; maybe a reason will pop into your head to shoot me.”

  “Don’t be silly, I wouldn’t do that.” There’s that word again.

  “You would probably have a hard time of it anyway. It doesn’t have bullets in it.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I can see through the cylinder holes. There’s no bullets in there.”

  “Oh.” Now he did feel silly. He didn’t know so much about guns.

  She lit a gas burner, and then set a pot to boil on it. The coffee smelled like heaven. “Coffee boiled in a pot always tastes the best.”

  When she sat down he had a chance to study her features. She had a rather sharp face with a single mole on her cheek. She suddenly reminded him of Patty Sue Hammond from college lit classes. Now that was a girl, that Patty Sue Hammond. She knew how to show a fellow a good time. Good