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Ever had an itch you couldn't scratch? One that watches you from the shadows, that stalks you through your worst nightmares?
Everyone in New York gets them at one time or another – usually on a daily basis – but, for me, it's a lot more than perfectly normal paranoia. And when that itch never goes away, where do you look? When the shadows are home to more than just roaches and rats; when the rats are six feet tall and make it their mission to stalk you day and night; when, just for once, you let the itch go and the next thing you see is a blade being thrust at your face?
Where do you look?
Soon, you find that you're walking in the shadows yourself. You shun the open spaces during the day, the bright lights at night, the crowded sidewalks — the even more crowded subways.
No sane person can live in the shadows — at least, not the shadows where I stray. Usually there's something dead – or wanting you dead – in them. Not some one, but some thing. Occasionally the something used to be a someone – this is New York – but my luck doesn't normally stretch that far.
I could cross the divide completely, from my world to theirs, but not safely. It's easier to stare down the threats on your own terms, to meet them head-on, face to face. It would have been so easy for me to crush every creature that crawled there, indiscriminately, even joyfully, but then... I would be nothing. Even with the shadows, respect works both ways. Those were the rules, even for the likes of me. Or, perhaps, especially for the likes of me. If I lose my own respect, I'd be no better than one of them.
Of course, it was tempting, but... But, I'd sworn an oath on my honor. And then there was the other, much greater oath, that I'd never actually sworn on my life, but at times it was like I had anyway. The first was a matter of dignity. The second... I'd seen first hand – I'd lived first-hand – that life, and I wasn't yet prepared to be consumed by those fires.
And I've lived with my itch for so long now that it's almost too easy to take it for granted. I know all the back streets, all the alleyways, and most of the darker holes on my patch better than anyone. Well, almost anyone. Some nights it's like I know all the stray cats and most of the rats, too. It becomes second nature to trust your instincts because if you don't, you die. And you can trust me on that score, too: I know what it is to die.
By all means, get to know the shadows, try to learn, try to understand their secrets, but don't make them your home. Cultivate a healthy respect for fear and cautious disdain for complacency. Take your pick of all the clichés, expect the unexpected, the only thing to fear is fear itself, and she who hesitates... At least, when that knife gets jabbed into your face, you don't think twice before pulling your own midnight special and taking the perp's head off — if they haven't fainted dead away first.
Naturally, it helps to have one or two secrets of your own. Word spreads pretty quick that you're not one to be messed with. I know my territory, and it knows me. Of course, while the bigger fools only see me and dream of getting laid, there'll always be the few crazed souls who'll take a pop at you, but they soon get the message. At best, you get left alone; at worst, well, I can live with the catcalls and the wolf-whistles.
And me? Well, I can't afford to dream. I can't let anything mess with my head, it's in a bad enough way as it is.
There's this gap between when I crawl out of bed and get to work. It starts with a few moments of dull not-quite happiness. The coffee's cold and always too bitter, but the first cigarette of the day at least jars my lungs into burning wakefulness. The frequently cold shower doesn't help much, and then it's downhill all the way. If it isn't what went wrong the day or night before, it's what I have to look forward to that brings on the real downer.
And the best thing about work – before hitting the streets – is getting yelled at for no reason other than everyone either despises me or... let's face it, they're just plain scared of me. Still, it reminds me of who I am — and why I'm so much better than they are. At least, until I actually hit the streets.
New York's actually not that bad.
I've lived there practically all my life. I know most of its secrets. I know how the people live, how they think. The city is a remarkable place — it's just some of the people who crawl there who are downright scum. Sometimes I think I know it better than I know myself. And because I'd always lived there, because of who I am, and what I possess, only once had I succumbed to the pain and madness in my head that I'd left New York. But never again — I knew that I would die there.
And yet, even for someone like me, there was no way in any kind of hell that I could have guessed.
There's an old coffee shop, part of an even older deli, back of Tribeca that does a French Drip to die for — and not a donut in sight. It's routine that gets me there if there's nothing going down. Which isn't as often as I'd like.
Late at night, the deli is usually empty. I'll get a coffee and sit with my back to the door — after all, if I can't live dangerously there, where can I? Anyway, there's enough glass and one of those big curved mirrors, so no one can really take me by surprise. And I always sit at the same table, in my own comfort zone.
No one would dare sit at my table. The old man — probably even older than the deli – wouldn't let anyone else sit there. We know each other. Or, anyway, he knows me. Or, he thinks he does. Or, he knows that when the little bell clatters way too loud it's not going to be his night for a big tip.
Except, on that night, there was no itch. My shoulders were pulling, and I was leaning back a bit more than usual, but that's only because the straps were too tight. It'll be years before I have to worry which way they point, but let me tell you, breaking in a new bra as often as I have to is no fun.
And worse, someone was sitting at my table. I looked up at the bell before I opened the door and thought, one of these nights, I know I'm gonna rip the thing right out. And I would have, too, but...
The little bell tinkled as I opened the door.
That night the little bell tinkled just once, and like a fool the old man showed his face, took one look at me, and ran out the back. Of all the shadows, he was probably the kindest, but his own good-natured, good-will-to-all-men attitude would be his death.
So I let go of the door and it creaked slowly shut. I didn't even hear the bell, I was so surprised. Not only was someone at my table – and sitting in my chair – but there was a second cup of coffee. I could smell it, I could taste the hint of chicory.
I let my eyes wander across all the reflections in the windows before I walked around the table, and only then really saw the delicate-looking blonde in the starched uniform buried in a heavy topcoat. Even the old man couldn't contain his curiosity. He'd glanced across quickly before he'd ran away, yet already he was back, watching me furtively, but safe in his own shadows. I smiled to myself and even winked wickedly at him — if his old heart gave up on him, it could hardly be my fault.
So I sat down, pulled the cup closer, leaned back, wincing ever so slightly, and there was still no itch. For one small moment that I'd never dared dream of, there was the most perfect stillness, complete and utter peace. Apart from the nagging bra, that is, but even that discomfort faded away.
I couldn't have looked around more casually if I'd tried, but for the sudden chill that ran the length of my spine. I was used to playing cat and mouse – not that I was ever sure which of the two I was – but this was totally different. The woman waited patiently for me to get comfortable and take a long sip of the coffee before she said anything.
That moment barely lasted a heartbeat, but it was my lucky night that I had the time to enjoy it — and too much time later to reflect on it. That's the thing with an itch: it lets you know when something's wrong, but it never tells you what. And as subtle hints went, this one wasn't at all — and the whole spine-tingling thing just meant it was really big. It was the singular, most unnerving moment of my life. Well, for that week, anyway.
But the coffee was good.
And what she said?
I'll tell you the first part now, because you're not gonna believe the rest. At the time, I thought she was just another crank, but since then...
"My name is Carter," she said. "Lieutenant Colonel Samantha Carter." She flashed her ID at me, but I didn't have to look to know she was telling the truth. And she knew that, too. The next thing she said was: "If you don't mind?" And before I could say or do anything, she'd reached out and pushed back my right sleeve.
Even I looked down. I had to look down, my wrist was on fire at her touch and the craziest thing...
"Detective Pezzini," she said, "Do you know what you have on your wrist?"
... I stared at the tiny snake squirming in the air above the bracelet, and for the life of me – and not for the first time – I began to wonder.