Warming my hands over the barrel fire, I spot him all the way down the street. It wasn't his bald head or the way he walked like he had a mission; he stood out because his clothes were not rags. He was not homeless like the rest of us under the bridge. I watch, careful not to make eye contact as he strides up to the other side of the barrel. He looks at the man and woman on either side of me.
"Leave," he speaks calmly.
They look at me, then at him and scurry away. It was a good thing I never considered them friends in the first place.
"I've spent a lot of time trying to find you," he tells me.
My stomach drops. How does he know who I am? Is he here to kill me? "Who are you?" I growl.
"A fan of your work."
"Um, thank you?" I don't know how to properly respond. "Who are you?"
"Victor Zsasz," he introduces himself. "I was hoping I could convince you to get off the streets."
I laugh so hard I snorted. "I'm from the city's most prominent family and I escaped a sanatorium for the criminally insane only a couple years ago. Sorry, but I like myself too much to just throw self-preservation to the wind."
"No one would touch you," he assures me. "I work for Falcone."
"Bastard's still kicking, huh?" I chuckle. "I appreciate this, but I'm happy out here. No one is looking at what the bums do or what bums go missing. No way I'm going to give that up for mob politics."
His face falls. I think that he wants to shout at me, maybe take me back with him anyway. "I understand," he says, disappointment ringing in his voice. "But if you ever need anything, anything at all, just come find me."
"Thanks, Vic."
