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　　Mahogany　wandered　into　the　bathroom　and　turned　on　the　shower。　As　he　stepped　in　he　looked　down　at　his　body。　The　small　paunch；　the　greying　hairs　on　his　sagging　chest；　the　scars；　and　pimples　that　littered　his　pale　skin。　He　was　getting　old。　Still；　tonight；　like　every　other　night；　he　had　a　job　to　do。
　　
　　Kaufman　hurried　back　into　the　lobby　with　his　sandwich；　turning　down　his　collar　and　brushing　rain　off　his　hair。　The　clock　above　the　elevator　read　seven…sixteen。　He　would　work　through　until　ten；　no　later。
　　The　elevator　took　him　up　to　the　twelfth　floor　and　to　the　Pappas　offices。　He　traipsed　unhappily　through　the　maze　of　empty　desks　and　hooded　machines　to　his　little　territory；　which　was　still　illuminated。　The　women　who　cleaned　the　offices　were　chatting　down　the　corridor：　otherwise　the　place　was　lifeless。
　　He　took　off　his　coat；　shook　the　rain　off　it　as　best　he　could；　and　hung　it　up。
　　Then　he　sat　down　in　front　of　the　piles　of　orders　he　had　been　tussling　with　for　the　best　part　of　three　days；　and　began　work。　It　would　only　take　one　more　night's　labour；　he　felt　sure；　to　break　the　back　of　the　job；　and　he　found　it　easier　to　concentrate　without　the　incessant　clatter　of　typists　and　typewriters　on　every　side。
　　He　unwrapped　his　ham　on　whole…wheat　with　extra　mayonnaise　and　settled　in　for　the　evening。
　　
　　It　was　nine　now。
　　Mahogany　was　dressed　for　the　nightshift。　He　had　his　usual　sober　suit　on；　with　his　brown　tie　neatly　knotted；　his　silver　cufflinks　（a　gift　from　his　first　wife）　placed　in　the　sleeves　of　his　immaculately　pressed　shirt；　his　thinning　hair　gleaming　with　oil；　his　nails　snipped　and　polished；　his　face　flushed　with　cologne。
　　His　bag　was　packed。　The　towels；　the　instruments；　his　chain…mail　apron。
　　He　checked　his　appearance　in　the　mirror。　He　could；　he　thought；　still　be　taken　for　a　man　of　forty…five；　fifty　at　the　outside。
　　As　he　surveyed　his　face　he　reminded　himself　of　his　duty。　Above　all；　he　must　be　careful。　There　would　be　eyes　on　him　every　step　of　the　way；　watching　his　performance　tonight；　and　judging　it。　He　must　walk　out　like　an　innocent；　arousing　no　suspicion。
　　If　they　only　knew；　he　thought。　The　people　who　walked；　ran　and　skipped　past　him　on　the　streets：　who　collided　with　him　without　apology：　who　met　his　gaze　with　contempt：　who　smiled　at　his　bulk；　looking　uneasy　in　his　ill…fitting　suit。　If　only　they　knew　what　he　did；　what　he　was　and　what　he　carried。
　　Caution；　he　said　to　himself；　and　turned　off　the　light。　The　apartment　was　dark。　He　went　to　the　door　and　opened　it；　used　to　walking　in　blackness。　Happy　in　it。
　　The　rain　clouds　had　cleared　entirely。　Mahogany　made　his　way　down　Amsterdam　towards　the　Subway　at　145th　Street。　Tonight　he'd　take　the　AVENUE　OF　THE　AMERICAS　again；　his　favourite　line；　and　often　the　most　productive。
　　Down　the　Subway　steps；　token　in　hand。　Through　the　automatic　gates。　The　smell　of　the　tunnels　was　in　his　nostrils　now。　Not　the　smell　of　the　deep　tunnels　of　course。　They　had　a　scent　all　of　their　own。　But　there　was　reassurance　even　in　the　stale　electric　air　of　this　shallow　line。　The　regurgitated　breath　of　a　million　travellers　circulated　in　this　warren；　mingling　with　the　breath　of　creatures　far　older；　things　with　voices　soft　like　clay；　whose　appetites　were　abominable。　How　he　loved　it。　The　scent；　the　dark；　the　thunder。
　　He　stood　on　the　platform　and　scanned　his　fellow…travellers　critically。　There　were　one　or　two　bodies　he　contemplated　following；　but　there　was　so　much　dross　amongst　them：　so　few　worth　the　chase。　The　physically　wasted；　the　obese；　the　ill；　the　weary。　Bodies　destroyed　by　excess　and　by　indifference。　As　a　professional　it　sickened　him；　though　he　understood　the　weakness　that　spoiled　the　best　of　men。
　　He　lingered　in　the　station　for　over　an　hour；　wandering　between　platforms　while　the　trains　came　and　went；　came　and　went；　and　the　people　with　them。　There　was　so　little　of　quality　around　it　was　dispiriting。　It　seemed　he　had　to　wait　longer　and　longer　every　day　to　find　flesh　worthy　of　use。
　　It　was　now　almost　half　past　ten　and　he　had　not　seen　a　single　creature　who　was　really　ideal　for　slaughter。
　　No　matter；　he　told　himself；　there　was　time　yet。　Very　soon　the　theatre　crowd　would　be　emerging。　They　were　always　good　for　a　sturdy　body　or　two。　The　well…fed　intelligentsia；　clutching　their　ticket…stubs　and　opining　on　the　diversions　of　art…oh　yes；　there'd　be　something　there。
　　If　not；　and　there　were　nights　when　it　seemed　he　would　never　find　something　suitable；　he'd　have　to　ride　downtown　and　corner　a　couple　of　lovers　out　late；　or　find　an　athlete　or　two；　fresh　from　one　of　the　gyms。　They　were　always　sure　to　offer　good　material；　except　that　with　such　healthy　specimens　there　was　always　the　risk　of　resistance。
　　He　remembered　catching　two　black　bucks　a　year　ago　or　more；　with　maybe　forty　years　between　them；　father　and　son　perhaps。　They'd　resisted　with　knives；　and　he'd　been　hospitalised　for　six　weeks。　It　had　been　a　close　fought　encounter　and　one　that　had　set　him　doubting　his　skills。　Worse；　it　had　made　him　wonder　what　his　masters　would　have　done　with　him　had　he　suffered　a　fatal　injury。　Would　he　have　been　delivered　to　his　family　in　New　Jersey；　and　given　a　decent　Christian　burial？　Or　would　his　carcass　have　been　thrown　into　the　dark；　for　their　own　use？
　　The　headline　of　the　New　York　Post；　discarded　on　the　seat　across　from　him　caught　Mahogany's　eye：　〃Police　All…Out　to　Catch　Killer〃。　He　couldn't　resist　a　smile。　Thoughts　of　failure；　weakness　and　death　evaporated。　After　all；　he　was　that　man；　that　killer；　and　tonight　the　thought　of　capture　was　laughable。　After　all；　wasn't　his　career　sanctioned　by　the　highest　possible　authorities？　No　policeman　could　hold　him；　no　court　pass　judgement　on　him。　The　very　forces　of　law　and　order　that　made　such　a　show　of　his　pursuit　served　his　masters　no　less　than　he；　he　almost　wished　some　two…bit　cop　would　catch　him；　take　him　in　triumph　before　the　judge；　just　to　see　the　looks　on　their　faces　when　the　word　came　up　from　the　dark　that　Mahogany　was　a　protected　man；　above　every　law　on　the　statute　books。
　　It　was　now　well　after　ten…thirty。　The　trickle　of　theatregoers　had　begun；　but　there　was　nothing　likely　so　far。　He'd　want　to　let　the　rush　pass　anyway：　just　follow　one　or　two　choice　pieces　to　the　end　of　the　line。　He　bided　his　time；　like　any　wise　hunter。
　　
　　Kaufman　was　not　finished　by　eleven；　an　hour　after　he'd　promised　himself　release。　But　exasperation　and　ennui　were　making　the　job　more　difficult；　and　the　sheets　of　figures　were　beginning　to　blur　in　front　of　him。　At　ten　past　eleven　he　threw　down　his　pen　and　admitted　defeat。　He　rubbed　his　hot　eyes　with　the　cushions　of　his　palms　till　his　head　filled　with　colours。
　　〃Fuck　it；〃　he　said。
　　He　never　swore　in　pany。　But　once　in　a　while　to　say　fuck　it　to　himself　was　a　great　consolation。　He　made　his　way　out　of　the　office；　damp　coat　over　his　arm；　and　headed　for　the　elevator。　His　limbs　felt　drugged　and　his　eyes　would　scarcely　stay　open。
　　It　was　colder　outside　than　he　had　anticipated；　and　the　air　brought　him　out　of　his　lethargy　a　little。　He　walked　towards　the　Subway　at　34th　Street。　Catch　an　Express　to　Far　Rockaway。　Home　in　an　hour。
　　
　　Neither　Kaufman　nor　Mahogany　knew　it；　but　at　96th　and　Broadway　the　Police　had　arrested　what　they　took　to　be　the　Subway　Killer；　having　trapped　him　in　one　of　the　up…town　trains。　A　small　man　of　European　extraction；　wielding　a　hammer　and　a　saw；　had　cornered　a　young　woman　in　the　second　car　and　threatened　to　cut　her　in　half　in　the　name　of　Jehovah。
　　Whether　he　was　capable　of　fulfilling　his　threat　was　doubtful。　As　it　was；　he　didn't　get　the　chance。　While　the　rest　of　the　passengers　（including　two　Marines）　looked　on；　the　intended　victim　landed　a　kick　to　the　man's　testicles。　He　dropped　the　hammer。　She　picked　it　up　and　broke　his　lower　jaw　and　right　cheek…bone　with　it　before　the　Marines　stepped　in。
　　When　the　train　halted　at　96th　the　Police　were　waiting　to　arrest　the　Subway　Butcher。　They　rushed　the　car　in　a　horde；　yelling　like　banshees　and　scared　as　shit。　The　Butcher　was　lying　in　one　corner　of　the　car　with　his　face　in　pieces。　They　carted　him　away；　triumphant。　The　woman；　after　questioning；　went　home　with　the　Marines。
　　It　was　to　be　a　useful　diversion；　though　Mahogany　couldn't　know　it　at　the　time。　It　took　the　Police　the　best　part　of　the　night　to　determine　the　identity　of　their　prisoner；　chiefly　because　he　couldn't　do　more　than　drool　through　his　shattered　jaw。　It　wasn't　until　three…thirty　in　the　morning　that　one　Captain　Davis；　ing　on　duty；　recognized　the　man　as　a　retired　flower　salesman　from　the　Bronx　called　Hank　Vasarely。　Hank；　it　seemed；　was　regularly　arrested　for　threatening　behaviour　and　indecent　exposure；　all　in　the　name　of　Jehovah。　Appearances　deceived：　he　was　about　as　dangerous　as　the　Easter　Bunny。　This　was　not　the　Subway　Slaughterer。　But　by　the　time　the　cops　had　worked　that　out；　Mahogany　had　been　about　his　business　a　long　while。
　　
　　It　was　eleven…fifteen　when　Kaufman　got　on　the　Express　through　to　Mott　Avenue。　He　shared　the　car　with　two　other　travellers。　One　was　a　middle…aged　black　woman　in　a　purple　coat；　the　other　a　pale；　acne…ridden　adolescent　who　was　staring　at　the　〃Kiss　My　White　Ass〃　graffiti　on　the　ceiling　with　spaced…out　eyes。
　　Kaufman　was　in　the　first　car。　He　had　a　journey　of　thirty…five　minutes〃　duration　ahead　of　him。　He　let　his　eyes　slide　closed；　reassured　by　the　rhythmical　rocking　of　the　train。　It　was　a　tedious　journey　and　he　was　tired。　He　didn't　see　Mahogany's　face；　either；　staring　through　the　door　between　the　cars；　looking　through　for　some　more　meat。
　　At　14th　Street　the　black　woman　got　out。　Nobody　got　in。　Kaufman　opened　his　eyes　briefly；　taking　in　the　empty　platform　at　14th；　then　shut　them　again。　The　doors　hissed　closed。　He　was　drifting　in　that　warm　somewhere　between　awareness　and　sleep　and　there　was　a　fluttering　of　nascent　dreams　in　his　head。　It　was　a　good　feeling。　The　train　was　off　again；　rattling　down　into　the　tunnels。
　　Maybe；　at　the　back　of　his　dozing　mind；　Kaufman　half…registered　that　the　doors　between　the　second　and　first　cars　had　been　slid　open。　Maybe　he　smelt　the　sudden　gush　of　tunnel…air；　and　registered　that　the　noise　of　wheels　was　momentarily　louder。　But　he　chose　to　ignore　it。
　　Maybe　he　even　heard　the　scuffle　as　Mahogany　subdued　the