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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'