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　　The　bearded　man　threw　his　money　on　the　counter　and　got　up；　sliding　his　fat　bottom　off　the　stained　plastic　stool。
　　〃Probably　a　fucking　cop；〃　he　said；　as　his　parting　shot。　〃Tried　to　make　a　fucking　hero；　made　a　fucking　monster　instead。〃　He　grinned　grotesquely。　〃Lay　you　anything；〃　he　continued　and　lumbered　out　without　another　word。
　　Kaufman　slowly　exhaled　through　his　nose；　feeling　the　tension　in　his　body　abate。
　　He　hated　that　sort　of　confrontation：　it　made　him　feel　tongue…tied　and　ineffectual。　e　to　think　of　it；　he　hated　that　kind　of　man：　the　opinionated　brute　that　New　York　bred　so　well。
　　
　　It　was　ing　up　to　six　when　Mahogany　woke。　The　morning　rain　had　turned　into　a　light　drizzle　by　twilight。　The　air　was　about　as　clear…smelling　as　it　ever　got　in　Manhattan。　He　stretched　on　his　bed；　threw　off　the　dirty　blanket　and　got　up　for　work。
　　In　the　bathroom　the　rain　was　dripping　on　the　box　of　the　air…conditioner；　filling　the　apartment　with　a　rhythmical　slapping　sound。　Mahogany　turned　on　the　television　to　cover　the　noise；　uninterested　in　anything　it　had　to　offer。
　　He　went　to　the　window。　The　street　six　floors　below　was　thick　with　traffic　and　people。
　　After　a　hard　day's　work　New　York　was　on　its　way　home：　to　play；　to　make　love。　People　were　streaming　out　of　their　offices　and　into　their　automobiles。　Some　would　be　testy　after　a　day's　sweaty　labour　in　a　badly…aired　office；　others；　benign　as　sheep；　would　be　wandering　home　down　the　Avenues；　ushered　along　by　a　ceaseless　current　of　bodies。　Still　others　would　even　now　be　cramming　on　to　the　subway；　blind　to　the　graffiti　on　every　wall；　deaf　to　the　babble　of　their　own　voices；　and　to　the　cold　thunder　of　the　tunnels。
　　It　pleased　Mahogany　to　think　of　that。　He　was；　after　all；　not　one　of　the　mon　herd。　He　could　stand　at　his　window　and　look　down　on　a　thousand　heads　below　him；　and　know　he　was　a　chosen　man。
　　He　had　deadlines　to　meet；　of　course；　like　the　people　in　the　street。　But　his　work　was　not　their　senseless　labour；　it　was　more　like　a　sacred　duty。
　　He　needed　to　live；　and　sleep；　and　shit　like　them；　too。　But　it　was　not　financial　necessity　that　drove　him；　but　the　demands　of　history。
　　He　was　in　a　great　tradition；　that　stretched　further　back　than　America。　He　was　a　night…stalker：　like　Jack　the　Ripper；　like　Gilles　de　Rais；　a　living　embodiment　of　death；　a　wraith　with　a　human　face。　He　was　a　haunter　of　sleep；　and　an　awakener　of　terrors。
　　The　people　below　him　could　not　know　his　face；　nor　would　care　to　look　twice　at　him。　But　his　stare　caught　them；　and　weighed　them　up；　selecting　only　the　ripest　from　the　passing　parade；　choosing　only　the　healthy　and　the　young　to　fall　under　his　sanctified　knife。
　　Sometimes　Mahogany　longed　to　announce　his　identity　to　the　world；　but　he　had　responsibilities　and　they　bore　on　him　heavily。　He　couldn't　expect　fame。　His　was　a　secret　life；　and　it　was　merely　pride　that　longed　for　recognition。
　　After　all；　he　thought；　does　the　beef　salute　the　butcher　as　it　throbs　to　its　knees？
　　All　in　all；　he　was　content。　To　be　part　of　that　great　tradition　was　enough；　would　always　have　to　remain　enough。
　　Recently；　however；　there　had　been　discoveries。　They　weren't　his　fault　of　course。　Nobody　could　possibly　blame　him。　But　it　was　a　bad　time。　Life　was　not　as　easy　as　it　had　been　ten　years　ago。　He　was　that　much　older；　of　course；　and　that　made　the　job　more　exhausting；　and　more　and　more　the　obligations　weighed　on　his　shoulders。　He　was　a　chosen　man；　and　that　was　a　difficult　privilege　to　live　with。
　　He　wondered；　now　and　then；　if　it　wasn't　time　to　think　about　training　a　younger　man　for　his　duties。　There　would　need　to　be　consultations　with　the　Fathers；　but　sooner　or　later　a　replacement　would　have　to　be　found；　and　it　would　be；　he　felt；　a　criminal　waste　of　his　experience　not　to　take　on　an　apprentice。
　　There　were　so　many　felicities　he　could　pass　on。　The　tricks　of　his　extraordinary　trade。　The　best　way　to　stalk；　to　cut；　to　strip；　to　bleed。　The　best　meat　for　the　purpose。　The　simplest　way　to　dispose　of　the　remains。　So　much　detail；　so　much　accumulated　expertise。
　　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　Ch