The October List

wife popping out kids? Shit, didn’t she know he was doing the best he could? His life wasn’t like everybody else’s. Who, for instance, would understand his obsession?
    The knives, the fighting, the blood …
    Also, another thing: the practicality. Given his line of work, he didn’t meet many women.
    Besides, he was holding out for one particular person.
    Ah, Gabriela …
    Tuesday, sure.
    Her words, punctuated with a smile.
    Frank was presently striding briskly back from Penn Station at Madison Square Garden. This was a pretty good walk, and guaranteed to burn off maybe a hundred calories, particularly in the chill autumn air. He’d purposefully taken off his jacket so his body would drop fat, burning calories in the chill – even though he didn’t like looking at his round figure in the storefront windows as he passed them. He shouldn’t have worn the knit shirt. It was clinging, revealing.
    Well, don’t look, he told himself.
    But he did.
    Still, he kept the jacket off. Cold weather made you burn up to 50 percent more calories than in the heat. In the Arctic you could eat whatever you wanted and still lose weight. He’d researched it. Six thousand calories a day. He should spend a year there.
    Frank glanced around again and noted that Mr Overcoat was now on the same side of the street as he was, and the man’s pace continued to match Frank’s.
    Stalking, attacking, killing …
    Still, had to be paranoia.
    What would this guy be interested in me for? And even if he is, how could he have found me here, on the street, striding south from Penn Station?
    But, of course, Frank Walsh knew computers cold – the good side of machines, and the bad. He was well aware of phone tapping and datamining. He’d bought his ticket back to the city this morning with a credit card. He’d phoned his mother to tell her he’d made the train. If somebody wanted to, he could’ve found out what train Frank was on, when he’d be arriving at the station, even what he looked like – from the Motor Vehicle picture (even if the depiction was thirty pounds lighter than presently).
    He then turned the corner onto his street in the Village and risked a fast look back, his hand on the knife in his pocket.
    The curly haired guy was gone.
    Frank continued up the block and approached his eight-story apartment building. As he got to the door he stepped in quickly and looked around but the quiet, tree-lined street was deserted of pedestrians.
    He stepped into the lobby and finally relaxed.
    ‘Hi, Arthur.’
    The doorman was old and when he walked he shuffled and he smelled of Old Spice. ‘Package for you, Mr Walsh.’
    ‘FedEx?’ He was expecting the knife, the kukri. Those Nepalese were far more deadly than people thought.
    Cheery Sherpas, my ass.
    ‘No, it was a hand delivery. Some Hispanic fellow dropped it off yesterday.’
    It was a plastic bag containing something rectangular and heavy. He took it.
    ‘Thanks.’ He hadn’t planned to give him a tip. Frank was plenty generous around Christmas. He looked into the bag and his heart thudded and he laughed as he read the note that accompanied it.
    He handed Arthur five dollars.
    The old man took it without thanks but with a raised hand that Frank chose to interpret as undying gratitude.
     
    Frank unlocked his door and walked inside, tossing his jacket on his armchair in front of the big-screen TV.
    The apartment, consisting of three rooms, was this: Dark and insanely cluttered, yet comforting – if claustrophobic at times, depending on his mood. A kitchenette with a two-burner gas stove and oven big enough for a TV dinner or two. His microwave sat atop a table, sharing the space with books and magazines. But back in the day, in this locale of glorious bohemian art, you created your poetry or paintings, you smoked pot, you slept with as many women as you could and you drank to oblivion; cooking was secondary, if not wholly unnecessary.
    Frank walked to the window and looked out at Westbeth, the famous artists’ community. He had a view of the very room where Diane Arbus had slashed her wrists in ’71.
    At least that was what the real estate broker, sensing a hooked fish, had said. As if it would make this dive more appealing to be able to look out over the space where a very weird photographer had offed herself.
    Then he shifted his gaze and scanned for men in black overcoats.
    Not a single Matrix killer with slick, curly blonde hair. He closed the curtain.
    Frank then