"Don't move, and don't touch anything," yelled Werner's assailant, who had come through the open door to the hallway. "It's a good thing we decided to put you under surveillance." He was the Spanish-American with the heavy mustache and polyester suit Philips remembered seeing on the subway. "The idea is to hit either a major vessel or the heart, but this guy wasn't going to give me any time." The man leaned over and tried to pull his knife from Werner's neck. Werner had collapsed with his head against his right shoulder and the blade was trapped. The assailant stepped over the twitching diener to give himself a better purchase on the weapon.
Philips had recovered enough from the initial shock to react as the man bent down by the table. Swinging the beer bottle in a full arc, Martin brought it down on the intruder's head. The man had seen the blow coming and, at the last minute, had turned slightly away so some of the force was dissipated on his shoulder. Still, it sent him sprawling on top of his dying victim.
In the grip of utter panic, Philips started to run, still clutching the beer bottle. But, at the door, he thought he heard noises in the hallway below, making him afraid that the killer wasn't alone. (Stabbing the doorjamb to reverse his direction, he dashed back through Werner's apartment. He saw that the killer had regained his feet but was still stunned, holding his head with both hands.
Martin rushed to a rear window in the bedroom and threw up the sash. He tried to open the screen but couldn't, so he bashed it out with his foot. Once out on the fire escape, he plummeted down. It was miraculous he didn't stumble, because his exit was more like a controlled fall. On the ground, he had no choice of direction; he had to run east. Just beyond the neighboring building, he entered a vegetable garden in a vacant lot. To his right there was a hurricane fence that barred the way back to Hamilton Terrace.
The ground fell off sharply as he ran eastward and he found himself sliding and falling down a steep rock-strewn hill. The light was now behind him and he advanced into darkness. Soon he tumbled against a wire fence. Beyond it was a drop often feet into an automobile junkyard. Beyond that was the weakly illuminated expanse of St. Nicholas Avenue. Philips was about to scale the low fence when he realized it had been cut. He squeezed through the convenient opening and swung himself down the cement wall, dropping the last few feet blindly.
It wasn't a real junkyard. It was just a vacant area where abandoned cars had been left to rust. Carefully, Martin picked his way between twisted metal hulks toward the light on the avenue in front of him. At any second he expected to hear pursuers.
Once on the street, he could run more easily. He wanted to put as much distance as possible between himself and Werner's apartment. Vainly, he looked for a police cruiser. He saw no one. The buildings on either side of him had deteriorated, and as Philips looked from side to side, he realized that many of the structures were burned out and abandoned. The huge empty tenements looked like skeletons in the dark, misty night. The sidewalks were cluttered with trash and debris.
Suddenly, Philips realized where he was. He'd run directly into Harlem. The realization slowed his pace. The dark and deserted scene accentuated his terror. Two blocks farther on Martin saw a ragged group of street-tough blacks who were more than a little shocked at Philips' running figure. They paused in their drug-dealing to watch the crazy white fellow run past them, heading toward the center of Harlem.
Although he was in good shape, the strenuous pace soon exhausted him and Martin felt as if he was about to drop, each breath bringing a stabbing pain in his chest. Finally, in desperation, he ducked into a dark, doorless opening, his breath coming in harsh gasps while his feet stumbled over loose bricks. By holding on to the damp wall, he steadied himself. Immediately his nostrils were assaulted by the rank smell. But he ignored it. It was such a relief to stop running.
Cautiously, he leaned out and struggled to see if anyone had followed him. It was quiet, deathly quiet. Philips smelled the person before he felt the hand that reached out from the black depths of the building and grabbed his arm. A scream started in his throat, but when it escaped from his mouth it was more like the bleat of a baby lamb. He leaped out of the doorway, thrashing his arm as if it were in the grasp of a venomous insect. The owner of the hand was inadvertently pulled from the doorway and Martin found himself looking at a drug-sodden junkie, barely capable of standing upright. "Christ!" shouted Philips as he turned and fled back into the night.
Deciding not to stop again, Philips settled into his usual jogging pace. He was hopelessly lost, but he reasoned that if he kept going straight, he'd eventually have to run into some sort of populated area.
It had started to rain again, a fine mist that swirled around in the glow of the infrequent street lamps.
Two blocks farther Philips found his oasis. He'd reached a broad avenue and on the corner was an all-night bar with a garish neon Budweiser sign that blinked a blood-red wash over the intersection. A few figures huddled in nearby doorways as if the red sign offered some sort of haven from the decaying city.
Running a hand through his damp hair, Martin felt a stickiness. In the light of the Budweiser sign, he realized it was a splattering of Werner's blood. Not wishing to appear like he'd been in a brawl, he tried to wipe the blood off with his hand. After several passes, the stickiness disappeared and Philips pushed open the door.
The atmosphere in the bar was syrupy and thick with smoke. The deafening disco music vibrated so that Martin could feel each beat in his chest. There were about twelve people in the bar, all in a partial stupor, and all black. In addition to the disco music, a small color television was transmitting a 1930's gangland movie. The only person watching was the burly bartender who was wearing a dirty white apron.
The faces of the customers turned toward Philips and sudden tension filled the air like static electricity before a storm. Philips felt it instantly, even through his panic. Although Philips had lived in New York for almost twenty years, he'd shielded himself from the desperate poverty that characterized the city just as much as the ostentatious wealth.
Now advancing into the bar warily, he half-expected to be attacked at any moment. As he passed, the threatening faces swung around to follow his progress. Ahead of him, a bearded man turned on the bar stool and planted himself directly in Philips' path. He was a muscular black whose body glistened with sheer power in the muted light. "Come on, Whitey," he snarled.
"Flash," snapped the bartender. "Ease off." Then, to Philips, he said: "Mister, what the fuck are you doin' here. You want'a get killed?"
"I need a phone," managed Philips.
"In the back," said the bartender, shaking his head in disbelief.
Philips held his breath as he stepped around the man called Flash. Finding a dime in his pocket, he then searched for the phone. He found one near the toilets but it was occupied by a fellow who was having an argument with his girlfriend. "Look, baby, whatta' you going and crying for?"
Earlier, in his panic, Martin might have tried to wrest the phone from the man, but now he was at least partially in control and he walked back into the bar and stood at the very end to wait. The atmosphere had relaxed a degree and conversations had recommenced.
The bartender demanded cash up front, then served him his brandy. The fiery fluid soothed his jangled nerves and helped focus his thoughts. For the first time since the unbelievable event of Werner's death, Martin was able to consider what had happened. At the moment of the stabbing he'd thought that he'd been a coincidental accessory and that the fight was between Werner and his assailant. But then the assailant had said something that suggested he'd been following Philips. But that was absurd! Martin had been following Werner. And Martin had seen Werner's knife. Could the diener have been about to attack him? Trying to think about the episode made Philips feel more confused, especially when he remembered he'd seen the assailant on the subway that night. Philips downed his drink and paid for another. He asked the bartender where he was and the man told him. The names of the streets meant nothing to Philips.