One
Elijah rocked back on the heels of his Brunello Cucinelli wingtips. He drew his collar up and fixed his gaze on the weathered sign hanging slightly askew above the door: Don’t Judge a Book …
By what? By its cover, the saying went.
His mind replaced the ellipsis with something more fitting: by the neighborhood it’s sold in. This was an abysmal borough, and the buildings—this one in particular—ought to be condemned. The structures were grimy shades of gray, separated here and there by darker charcoal smudges of alleys. Despite the cold wind that deadened his senses he smelled grease and dirt and the biting odor of piss.
Elijah couldn’t remember when, if ever, he’d been in a part of the city so beat down.
A siren’s wail sliced through the air. Always he could hear sirens in the city. It just seemed a little louder here, more desperate. There were other traffic sounds, too, but from beyond his line of sight—the constant shush of tires against pavement oddly snowless for the middle of January, the blat of horns. There’d been only a couple of cars trundling along in this block, more rust than paint, their occupants eyeing him, necks craning as they drifted past. Not a single cab. He’d taken one from Hudson Street, but it dropped him off five blocks to the south. He’d written the address of this bookseller wrong, transposing the first two numbers, and so he’d had to hoof it for a stretch.
Don’t judge a book by the absolute utter dump it sits in, he mused. After several minutes he had made no move to step inside.
Elijah shuddered when three teenagers swaggered past, one purposefully elbowing him to set him off balance.
“’Scuse me,” the youth laughed.
The trio stopped a few doors down and huddled in conversation; the one who’d bumped him had a flat, angry face and gave him a serious up and down. Elijah knew they were talking about him.
With any luck they’d mug him. His appearance practically screamed: Come and get me! Middle-aged white man in a sheepskin-lined overcoat, designer shoes, thick leather briefcase at his side that looked a few decades out of date, but by its bulk promising something interesting inside. He looked down at the briefcase and sneered.
Elijah wore a Rolex. He worked his arm so the coat sleeve came up to show the watch. It was 5:45. According to a placard nailed to the door, the bookseller closed in fifteen minutes.
Please come and get me! he silently begged. Dear, God, let them come and get me.
He’d been mugged a few times this month and emerged with only a handful of stitches and bruises that he’d hid beneath his expensive clothes and that had cleared up quickly. Just last week he tarried at a Brownsville subway stop in the early morning hours when some homeless man took the bait and beat him up. Didn’t take the watch, or the briefcase, only his wallet and the virgin wool Armani jacket he’d been wearing at the time.
He didn’t file a report with the police, not then or the times before. The hoods were only after his cash on all those occasions, and he never carried more than a few hundred. No serious damage done, no lingering wounds or scars. Didn’t muggers recognize a Rolex?
He’d tried the ploy again just two nights ago, this time braving one of the subway stops in Washington Heights. Two muscle-bound gang members with matching tats had been intent on taking him up on his unspoken offer: Come and get me. But a cop appeared on the steps, and they veered away. Tired, Elijah had called it a night.
This trio? They might prove his salvation and negate the need to enter the bookseller and shell out a considerable amount of cash. He could weather one more beating, couldn’t he?
“Come and get me you sons of bitches,” he whispered. “Come and fuckin’ get me. Come and take it all, assholes.”
The one who’d bumped him had a gun. Elijah saw the grip of it when the kid adjusted his hoodie. His stomach twisted. He just wanted them to mug him, to rob him blind. Take everything and thereby save his soul. But the gun had escalated the threat; he did not want to die.
The tallest said something loudly in Spanish: something something idioto rico something else.
Elijah recognized “idiot” and figured they were talking about him.
“El necio se quede parado alli,” the tall one said. “Idioto.” A pause. “Ahora!”
They all faced Elijah. The gun he’d spotted was drawn, along with a second that was waved proudly like a flag. More Spanish was uttered; they rushed at him, and …
Elijah propelled himself forward and into the bookshop, closing the door behind him and exhaling loudly.
“Más tarde!” The tall one called through the glass. He tapped on the door with the gun for effect. “Vamos a esperar para usted.”
Elijah didn’t know a lick of Spanish, but the threat was clear enough. He expected them to follow him inside, but that didn’t happen.
“Come and get me. Yeah, right,” he mumbled. “Come and fuckin’ get me.”
***