It was him. Roy was sure of it. And it was a great relief to see that the killer wasn’t looking his way.

 

Halfway between 124th and 125th streets, a taxi pulled up to the curb to let off a party of three. They scurried across the sidewalk and into the Lenox Lounge somewhat cowering from the cold. As if to read the guy’s mind, Roy assumed that the killer would hop into that same cab and disappear into the night. At least, that’s what he would’ve done. But that’s not what he did. The man slipped in the door of the lounge right behind the others, he even helped hold open the door for them.

 

Roy’s mind was volleying thoughts.

 

Just a few blocks away he took a man’s life . . . smoked ’em without even blinking. And now he wants a drink?

 

There was no getting enough of the impression that this guy projected. How cool, calm and collected, to so casually transform himself into a clubgoer. A courteous one, nonetheless.

 

Spinning his steering wheel and navigating the Mercedes into a parking space close to the corner of 124th, Roy was twisted between both fear and curiosity. He had no idea why he was doing this.

 

Yes, he did. There was no fooling himself about something so obvious. What it was, was that Roy never had such heart. He could never be the violent beast . . . the extraordinarily smooth operator this stranger was just minutes earlier. This guy was that type of man who men such as Roy wanted to be like, dreamed and craved about it even. To just rub elbows with a man like this; maybe they would get to know each other better. Maybe some of those superpowers would change hands.

 

And because a man didn’t mind imposing violence or shooting a gun didn’t necessarily mean he had heart. It was just that certain something that a person like Roy—slick-ass, fast-talkin’ coward that he was—was attracted to. A man with heart. A man with the courage and a strong will, who could carry out such a significant feat, And when it came to significant feats, taking another man’s life was certainly a top contender.

 

Inhale . . . exhale . . .

 

Roy stuck his cell phone under the car seat and grabbed his leather pouch where he kept his black book, a 2nd cell phone and a pen. There were also some business cards in a rubber band:

 

Roy Washington

 

Under his name was his Harlem phone number (a voicemail) and there was also a dollar sign. Roy Washington, jack of all trades.

 

Copyright © 2007 by Relentless Aaron. All rights reserved.