Shaft [antikvár]

Chapter One SHAFT FELT Warm, loose, in step as he turned east at Thirty-ninth Street for the truncated block between Seventh Avenue and Broadway. It had been a long walk from her place in the far West Twenties. Long and good. The city was still fresh that early. Even the exhaust fans of the coffee shops along the way were blowing fresh smells, bacon, egg and toasted-bagel smells, into the faqt of the gray spring morning. He had been digging it all the way. Digging it, walking fast and thinking mostly about the girl. She was crazy. Freaky beautiful. Crazy. They went out to dinner and she was wearing a tangerine wig and a long purple coat that looked like a blanket on a Central Park plug pulling one of those creaky carriages. It was the mood she was in and he had become a part of it. He never got back to his apartment. She wanted a night like that. They had it and, then, about 7:30, she handed him a glass of cardboard-container orange juice and began pushing him out of the apartment. It was their night, but the maid's day. 'Please, John. Hurry.' Sitting on the edge of the bed, tying his shoes. 'Hey, you think that cleaning lady gives a shit about your morals? All she has in her head is twelve a day and tokens.' 'Just hurry. Go.' He hurried, he went. It gave him time to kill. There was no point in turning back toward the Village and his own place.