Martin tried moving his stiff legs. He gradually realized that the dead body out in the playground was a new threat. Someone would soon call the police and after last night Martin was understandably terrified of them.
Heaving himself to his feet, he steadied himself against the wall until his circulation returned. His body ached as he cautiously made his way back up the cement stairs, scanning the area. He could see the path down which he’d made his terrified plunge just hours before. Way off he could see someone walking his dog. It wouldn’t be long before the body in the playground was discovered.
He descended the stairs and hurried toward the far corner of the park, passing close to the body of the derelict. The pigeons were feasting on bits of organic matter that had been sprayed by the bullet. Martin looked away.
Emerging from the park, he turned up the narrow lapels of the tramp’s overcoat and crossed the street, which he saw was Broadway. There was a subway entrance on the corner but Martin was frightened of being trapped below the ground. He had no idea if the people who were after him were still in the area.
He stepped into a doorway and scanned the street. It was getting lighter every minute and the traffic was beginning to pick up. That made Philips feel better. The more people, the safer he should be, and he didn’t see any men loitering suspiciously or sitting in any of the parked cars.
A taxi stopped at the traffic light directly in front of him. Martin dashed from the doorway and tried to open the rear door It was locked. The driver turned around to look at Philips, then accelerated despite the red light.
Martin stood in the street bewildered, watching the cab speed into the distance. It was only as he walked back to the doorway and caught sight of his reflection in the glass that he realized why the cabby had pulled away. Martin appeared to be a veritable tramp. His hair was hopelessly disheveled, matted on the side with dried blood and bits of leaves. His face was dirty and sported a twenty-four-hour growth of whiskers. The tattered chesterfield coat completed the derelict image.
Reaching for his wallet, Philips was relieved to feel its familiar form in his back pocket. He took it out and counted the cash. He had thirty-one dollars. His credit cards would be useless under the circumstances. He kept out one of the fives and replaced the wallet.
About five minutes later another cab pulled up. This time Philips approached from the front so the cabby could see him. He’d made his hair as presentable as possible and opened the overcoat so that it’s shabby condition wasn’t immediately apparent. Most important, he held up the five-dollar bill. The cabby waved him in. “Where to, Mister?”
“Straight,” said Philips. “Just go straight.” Although the cabby eyed Martin a little suspiciously in the rear-view mirror, he put the car in gear when the light changed, and drove down Broadway.
Philips twisted in the seat and looked out the back window. Fort Tryon Park and the small playground receded rapidly. Martin still wasn’t sure where to go, but he knew he’d feel safer in a crowd.
“I want to go to Forty-second Street,” he said finally. “Why didn’t you tell me before,” complained the driver. “We could have turned on Riverside Drive.”
“No,” said Philips. “I don’t want to go that way. I want to go down the East Side.”
“That’s going to cost about ten bucks, mister.”
“It’s okay!” said Martin. He took out his wallet and showed ten dollars to the driver, who was watching in the rear-view mirror.
When the car began to move again Martin let himself relax. He still could not believe what had happened in the last twelve hours. It was as if his whole world had collapsed. He had to keep stifling his natural impulse to go to the police for help. Why had they turned him over to the FBI? And why on earth would the Bureau want to annihilate him, no questions asked? As the car flashed down Second Avenue his sense of terror returned.