cb.booksofblood-第5章
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he cover…up had failed。 Some greedy cop had leaked the salient details to a reporter from The Times。 Everyone in New York now knew the horrible story of the slaughters。 It was a topic of conversation in every Deli and bar； and； of course； on the subway。
But Loretta Dyer was only the first。
Now three more bodies had been found in identical circumstances； though the work had clearly been interrupted on this occasion。 Not all the bodies had been shaved； and the jugulars had not been severed to bleed them。 There was another； more significant difference in the discovery： it was not a tourist who had stumbled on the sight； it was a reporter from The New York Times。
Kaufman surveyed the report that sprawled across the front page of the newspaper。 He had no prurient interest in the story； unlike his elbow mate along the counter of the Deli。 All he felt was a mild disgust； that made him push his plate of over…cooked eggs aside。 It was simply further proof of his city's decadence。 He could take no pleasure in her sickness。
Nevertheless； being human； he could not entirely ignore the gory details on the page in front of him。 The article was unsensationally written； but the simple clarity of the style made the subject seem more appalling。 He couldn't help wondering； too； about the man behind the atrocities。 Was there one psychotic loose； or several； each inspired to copy the original murder？ Perhaps this was only the beginning of the horror。 Maybe more murders would follow； until at last the murderer； in his exhilaration or exhaustion； would step beyond caution and be taken。 Until then the city； Kaufman's adored city； would live in a state somewhere between hysteria and ecstasy。
At his elbow a bearded man knocked over Kaufman's coffee。
〃Shit！〃 he said。
Kaufman shifted on his stool to avoid the dribble of coffee running off the counter。
〃Shit；〃 the man said again。
No harm done；〃 said Kaufman。
He looked at the man with a slightly disdainful expression on his face。 The clumsy bastard was attempting to soak up the coffee with a napkin； which was turning to mush as he did so。
Kaufman found himself wondering if this oaf； with his florid cheeks and his uncultivated beard； was capable of murder。 Was there any sign on that over…fed face； any clue in the shape of his head or the turn of his small eyes that gave his true nature away？
The man spoke。
〃Wannanother？〃 Kaufman shook his head。
〃Coffee。 Regular。 Dark；〃 the oaf said to the girl behind the counter。 She looked up from cleaning the grill of cold fat。
〃Huh？〃
〃Coffee。 You deaf？〃 The man grinned at Kaufman。
〃Deaf；〃 he said。
Kaufman noticed he had three teeth missing from his lower jaw。
〃Looks bad； huh？〃 he said。
What did he mean？ The coffee？ The absence of his teeth？
〃Three people like that。 Carved up。〃 Kaufman nodded。
〃Makes you think；〃 he said。 〃Sure。〃
〃I mean； it's a cover…up isn't it？ They know who did it。〃 This conversation's ridiculous； thought Kaufman。 He took off his spectacles and pocketed them： the bearded face was no longer in focus。 That was some improvement at least。
〃Bastards；〃 he said。 〃Fucking bastards； all of them。 I'll lay you anything it's a cover…up。〃
〃Of what？〃
〃They got the evidence： they're just keeping us in the fucking dark。 There's something out there that's not human。〃 Kaufman understood。 It was a conspiracy theory the oaf was trotting out。 He'd heard them so often； a panacea。
〃See； they do all this cloning stuff and it gets out of hand。
They could be growing fucking monsters for all we know。
There's something down there they won't tell us about。
Cover…up； like I say。 Lay you anything。〃 Kaufman found the man's certainty attractive。 Monsters； on the prowl。 Six heads： a dozen eyes。 Why not？
He knew why not。 Because that excused his city： that let her off the hook。 And Kaufman believed in his heart that the monsters to be found in the tunnels were perfectly human。
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
