Walter said, “Tom, for God’s sake!” and extended his wallet. The man grabbed it out of his hand, shoved it into the other slash pocket. He moved the knife slightly in front of Tom.
“Get it out,” he said.
“No,” Tom said, “I’ll be damned if I will.”
Walter knew then, instantly, what was going to happen next. Close as the two of them were, he was sensitive to Tom’s moods. He opened his mouth to shout at him, tell him not to do it; he tried to make himself grab onto Tom and stop him physically. But the muscles in his body seemed paralyzed.
Then it was too late. Tom struck the man’s wrist, knocked it and the knife to one side, and lunged forward.
Walter stood there, unable to move, and watched the mugger sidestep awkwardly, pulling the knife back. The coat collar fell away, the baseball cap flew off as Tom’s fist grazed the side of the man’s head — and Walter could see the mugger’s face clearly: beard-stubbled, jutting chin, flattened nose, wild blazing eyes.
The knife, glinting light from the overhead fluorescents, flashed between the mugger and Tom, and Tom stiffened and made a grunting, gasping noise. Walter looked on in horror as the man stepped back with the knife, blood on the blade now, blood on his hand. Tom turned and clutched at his stomach, eyes glazing, and then his knees buckled and he toppled over and lay still.
He killed him, Walter thought, he killed Tom — but he did not feel anything yet. Shock had given the whole thing a terrible dreamlike aspect. The mugger turned toward him, looked at him out of those burning eyes. Walter wanted to run, but there was nowhere to go with the tracks on both sides of the platform, the electrified rails down there, and the mugger blocking the escalators. And he could not make himself move now any more than he had been able to move when he realized Tom intended to fight.
The man in the overcoat took a step toward him, and in that moment, from inside the eastbound tunnel, there was the faint rumble of an approaching train. The suspended message board flashed CONCORD, and the mugger looked up there, looked back at Walter. The eyes burned into him an instant longer, holding him transfixed. Then the man turned sharply, scooped up his baseball cap, and ran up the escalator.
Seconds later he was gone, and the train was there instead, filling the station with a rush of sound that Walter could barely hear for the thunder of his heart.
The policeman was a short, thick-set man with a black mustache, and when Walter finished speaking he looked up gravely from his notebook. “And that’s everything that happened, Mr. Carpenter?”
“Yes,” Walter said, “that’s everything.”
He was sitting on one of the round tile-and-concrete benches in the center of the platform. He had been sitting there ever since it happened. When the eastbound train had braked to a halt, one of its disembarking passengers had been a BART security officer. One train too late, Walter remembered thinking dully at the time; he’s one train too late. The security officer had asked a couple of terse questions, then had draped his coat over Tom and gone upstairs to call the police.
“What can you tell me about the man who did it?” the policeman asked. “Can you give me a description of him?”
Walter’s eyes were wet; he took out his handkerchief and wiped them, shielding his face with the cloth, then closing his eyes behind it. When he did that he could see the face of the mugger: the stubbled cheeks, the jutting chin, the flat nose — and the eyes, above all those malignant eyes that had said as clearly as though the man had spoken the words aloud: I’ve got your wallet, I know where you live. If you say anything to the cops I’ll come after you and give you what I gave your friend.
Walter shuddered, opened his eyes, lowered the handkerchief, and looked over to where the group of police and laboratory personnel were working around the body. Tom Olivet’s body. Tom Olivet, lying there dead.
We were like brothers, Walter thought. We were just like brothers.
“I can’t tell you anything about the mugger,” he said to the policeman. “I didn’t get a good look at him. I can’t tell you anything at all.”
Prose Bowl
(with Barry N. Malzberg)
Standing there at midfield in the Coliseum, in front of a hundred thousand screaming New-Sport fans and a TriDim audience estimated at thirty million, I felt a lot of different emotions: excitement, pride, tension, and maybe just a touch of fear. I still couldn’t believe that I was here — Rex Sackett, the youngest ever to make it all the way through the playoffs to the Prose Bowl. But I’d done it, and if I cleared one more hurdle I would be the new world champion.
Just one more hurdle.
I looked across the Line at the old man. Leon Culp, better known as The Cranker. Fifty-seven years old, twenty-million words in a career spanning almost four decades. Twice defeated in the quarter-finals, once defeated in the semi-finals two years ago. His first time in the Prose Bowl too, and he was the sentimental favorite. I was just a kid, an upstart; by all rights, a lot of the scribes had been saying, I didn’t deserve to be here at my age. But the odds-makers had made me a 3–2 favorite because of my youth and stamina and the way I had handled my opponents in the playoffs. And because there were also a lot of people who felt The Cranker couldn’t win the big ones; that he depended too much on the Fuel now, that he was pretty near washed up and had made it this far only because of weak competition.
Maybe all of that was true, but I wasn’t so sure. Leon Culp had always been my idol; I had grown up reading and studying him, and in his time and despite his misfortune in past Prose Bowl races — he was the best there was. I’d been in awe of him when I was a wet-behind-the-ears kid in the Junior Creative Leagues, and I was still a little in awe of him now.
It wasn’t that I lacked confidence in myself. I had plenty of confidence, and plenty of desire too; I wanted to win not only for myself and the $100,000 championship prize, but for Sally, and for Mort Taylor, the best agent in the business, and most of all for Mom and Dad, who had supported me during those first five lean years when I was struggling in the semipros. Still, I couldn’t seem to shake that sense of nervous wonder. This wasn’t any ordinary pro I was about to go up against. This was The Cranker.
It was almost time for the Face-Off to begin. The PA announcer introduced me first, because as the youngest of the contestants I was wearing the visitor’s red, and I stepped out and waved at the packed stands. There was a chorus of cheers, particularly from over in G Section where Sally and Mort and the folks were sitting with the Sackett Boosters. The band struck up my old school song; I felt my eyes dampen as I listened.
When the announcer called out The Cranker’s name, the cheers were even louder — but there were a few catcalls mixed in too. He didn’t seem to pay any attention either way. He just stood without moving, his seamed old face set in stoic determination. In his blue uniform tunic, outlined against the hot New Year’s Day sky, he looked bigger than he really was — awesome, implacable. Unbeatable.
Everybody stood up for the National Anthem. Then there was another uproar from the fans — I’d never imagined how deafening it could get down here on the floor of the Prose Bowl — and finally the head Editor trotted out and called us over for the coin flip. I called Tails in the air, and the coin fell to the turf and came up Tails. The Head Editor moved over to me and patted my shoulders to indicate I’d won the toss; the Sackett Boosters bellowed their approval. Through all of this, Gulp remained motionless and aloof, not looking at me or the Head Editor or anything else, it seemed.
We went back to the Line and got ready. I was becoming more and more tense as the Face-Off neared; the palms of my hands were slick and my head seemed empty. What if I can’t think of a title? I thought. What if I can’t think of an opening sentence?