It wasn’t a real junkyard. It was just a vacant area where abandoned cars had been left to rust. Carefully, Martin picked his way between twisted metal hulks toward the light on the avenue in front of him. At any second he expected to hear pursuers.
Once on the street, he could run more easily. He wanted to put as much distance as possible between himself and Werner’s apartment. Vainly, he looked for a police cruiser. He saw no one. The buildings on either side of him had deteriorated, and as Philips looked from side to side, he realized that many of the structures were burned out and abandoned. The huge empty tenements looked like skeletons in the dark, misty night. The sidewalks were cluttered with trash and debris.
Suddenly, Philips realized where he was. He’d run directly into Harlem. The realization slowed his pace. The dark and deserted scene accentuated his terror. Two blocks farther on Martin saw a ragged group of street-tough blacks who were more than a little shocked at Philips’ running figure. They paused in their drug-dealing to watch the crazy white fellow run past them, heading toward the center of Harlem.
Although he was in good shape, the strenuous pace soon exhausted him and Martin felt as if he was about to drop, each breath bringing a stabbing pain in his chest. Finally, in desperation, he ducked into a dark, doorless opening, his breath coming in harsh gasps while his feet stumbled over loose bricks. By holding on to the damp wall, he steadied himself. Immediately his nostrils were assaulted by the rank smell. But he ignored it. It was such a relief to stop running.
Cautiously, he leaned out and struggled to see if anyone had followed him. It was quiet, deathly quiet. Philips smelled the person before he felt the hand that reached out from the black depths of the building and grabbed his arm. A scream started in his throat, but when it escaped from his mouth it was more like the bleat of a baby lamb. He leaped out of the doorway, thrashing his arm as if it were in the grasp of a venomous insect. The owner of the hand was inadvertently pulled from the doorway and Martin found himself looking at a drug-sodden junkie, barely capable of standing upright. “Christ!” shouted Philips as he turned and fled back into the night.
Deciding not to stop again, Philips settled into his usual jogging pace. He was hopelessly lost, but he reasoned that if he kept going straight, he’d eventually have to run into some sort of populated area.
It had started to rain again, a fine mist that swirled around in the glow of the infrequent street lamps.
Two blocks farther Philips found his oasis. He’d reached a broad avenue and on the corner was an all-night bar with a garish neon Budweiser sign that blinked a blood-red wash over the intersection. A few figures huddled in nearby doorways as if the red sign offered some sort of haven from the decaying city.
Running a hand through his damp hair, Martin felt a stickiness. In the light of the Budweiser sign, he realized it was a splattering of Werner’s blood. Not wishing to appear like he’d been in a brawl, he tried to wipe the blood off with his hand. After several passes, the stickiness disappeared and Philips pushed open the door.
The atmosphere in the bar was syrupy and thick with smoke. The deafening disco music vibrated so that Martin could feel each beat in his chest. There were about twelve people in the bar, all in a partial stupor, and all black. In addition to the disco music, a small color television was transmitting a 1930’s gangland movie. The only person watching was the burly bartender who was wearing a dirty white apron.
The faces of the customers turned toward Philips and sudden tension filled the air like static electricity before a storm. Philips felt it instantly, even through his panic. Although Philips had lived in New York for almost twenty years, he’d shielded himself from the desperate poverty that characterized the city just as much as the ostentatious wealth.