York's finest just short of six months. As they approached the edge of the lake, McCafferty cleared his throat in nervous tension and Officer Bullins blinked the sweat out of his eyes. The beams of their powerful flashlights crisscrossed the body which lay face down three feet from the water's edge.
"Jesus," muttered McCafferty. "Do you think he's been mugged?"
"Let's turn him over and find out," replied Bullins.
There was a sudden flapping sound. "Oh, my God. What's that?" groaned McCafferty.
"Settle down, for Christ's sake. It's only the ducks."
Bullins knelt down and in a quick movement rolled the body over. The policeman leaned a little closer and the odor of alcohol struck him in the face like a fist. Bullins sighed with relief. "He's alive. Not mugged, not killed, just Goddamn drunk."
McCafferty ran the flashlight up and down the man's body. "Look, he's barefoot. Do you suppose somebody swiped his shoes?"
"That would be a new one." Bullins began shaking the man. "Come on, buddy, wake up. The party's over." The man didn't budge. Using his hands as cups, McCafferty carried some water from the lake and dumped it on the drunk's face. The man's eyes snapped open. They were light grey and flecked with gold, and at the moment completely uncomprehending. "Get up, buddy. You can't sleep it off here," growled Bullins and nudged the man's shoulder with his night stick.
The man groaned and sat up. The two policemen appraised him. He was about thirty-two years old and very handsome. Thick black hair, a ruddy complexion and an athletic physique gave him the appearance of someone in the peak of physical health. He rubbed his eyes with the back of his hands and stared at the uniformed men until they came into focus. Then he glanced at his surroundings and asked, in a tone which was apologetic and arrogant at the same time, "How the hell did I get here?"
"You better tell us," Bullins said softly. His voice had lost some of its strident quality. "Hell, you're lucky to be alive. Central Park at three A.M. Hey, have you got your wallet?"
The young man slapped his hand against his chest, felt the familiar outline and withdrew a slender leather billfold. "Credit cards O.K. And what money I didn't spend is here."
"Let me see that," Bullins held out a broad and somewhat battered hand. He quickly checked the identification. "You're Joshua Allen Holman? 200 West Seventy-Seventh Street?"
"What's left of him," the man replied dully.
"What's your line of work, Mr. Holman?"
"Anthropology. I work at the New York Institute of Anthropology."
"How did you get here?"
Josh closed his eyes and winced. His recollections were embarrassing, "I had a fight with my girlfriend. We were at the Krypton Klub. I left her there and - well, hit a couple of bars."
"Why did you end up in Central Park?"
"I like to run," he replied matter-of-factly. "I run here every morning."
"Do you always run barefoot?"
Josh shook his head and was immediately sorry. A jolting pain caused him to wince. "No, of course not. I have several pairs of running shoes."
"Well, you either removed jour shoes yourself or some bum came along and removed them for you. I opt for the first. If somebody took your shoes, they probably would have taken a good deal more than that."
Josh stared forlornly at his bare feet. This was a new low - even for him. Why did he have blackouts when he drank? Why could he not remember his actions? And how long would it be before it happened again?
The cops discussed Josh as if he weren't there. "What do you think we ought to do with him?" asked McCafferty.
Bullins dug a thick finger beneath the collar of his uniform and ran it around the full circumference of his neck. Wiping the perspiration on his trouser leg, he replied, "He's harmless enough. No point in taking the poor son of a bitch to the station house. Come on, we'll drive him home."
They pulled Josh unceremoniously to his feet. "I really appreciate this," Josh grunted. "I'm going to be
"Jesus," muttered McCafferty. "Do you think he's been mugged?"
"Let's turn him over and find out," replied Bullins.
There was a sudden flapping sound. "Oh, my God. What's that?" groaned McCafferty.
"Settle down, for Christ's sake. It's only the ducks."
Bullins knelt down and in a quick movement rolled the body over. The policeman leaned a little closer and the odor of alcohol struck him in the face like a fist. Bullins sighed with relief. "He's alive. Not mugged, not killed, just Goddamn drunk."
McCafferty ran the flashlight up and down the man's body. "Look, he's barefoot. Do you suppose somebody swiped his shoes?"
"That would be a new one." Bullins began shaking the man. "Come on, buddy, wake up. The party's over." The man didn't budge. Using his hands as cups, McCafferty carried some water from the lake and dumped it on the drunk's face. The man's eyes snapped open. They were light grey and flecked with gold, and at the moment completely uncomprehending. "Get up, buddy. You can't sleep it off here," growled Bullins and nudged the man's shoulder with his night stick.
The man groaned and sat up. The two policemen appraised him. He was about thirty-two years old and very handsome. Thick black hair, a ruddy complexion and an athletic physique gave him the appearance of someone in the peak of physical health. He rubbed his eyes with the back of his hands and stared at the uniformed men until they came into focus. Then he glanced at his surroundings and asked, in a tone which was apologetic and arrogant at the same time, "How the hell did I get here?"
"You better tell us," Bullins said softly. His voice had lost some of its strident quality. "Hell, you're lucky to be alive. Central Park at three A.M. Hey, have you got your wallet?"
The young man slapped his hand against his chest, felt the familiar outline and withdrew a slender leather billfold. "Credit cards O.K. And what money I didn't spend is here."
"Let me see that," Bullins held out a broad and somewhat battered hand. He quickly checked the identification. "You're Joshua Allen Holman? 200 West Seventy-Seventh Street?"
"What's left of him," the man replied dully.
"What's your line of work, Mr. Holman?"
"Anthropology. I work at the New York Institute of Anthropology."
"How did you get here?"
Josh closed his eyes and winced. His recollections were embarrassing, "I had a fight with my girlfriend. We were at the Krypton Klub. I left her there and - well, hit a couple of bars."
"Why did you end up in Central Park?"
"I like to run," he replied matter-of-factly. "I run here every morning."
"Do you always run barefoot?"
Josh shook his head and was immediately sorry. A jolting pain caused him to wince. "No, of course not. I have several pairs of running shoes."
"Well, you either removed jour shoes yourself or some bum came along and removed them for you. I opt for the first. If somebody took your shoes, they probably would have taken a good deal more than that."
Josh stared forlornly at his bare feet. This was a new low - even for him. Why did he have blackouts when he drank? Why could he not remember his actions? And how long would it be before it happened again?
The cops discussed Josh as if he weren't there. "What do you think we ought to do with him?" asked McCafferty.
Bullins dug a thick finger beneath the collar of his uniform and ran it around the full circumference of his neck. Wiping the perspiration on his trouser leg, he replied, "He's harmless enough. No point in taking the poor son of a bitch to the station house. Come on, we'll drive him home."
They pulled Josh unceremoniously to his feet. "I really appreciate this," Josh grunted. "I'm going to be
Similar Books
Under the Bridge
Autumn Dawn
Words With Fiends
Ali Brandon
Dance of the Red Death (Masque of the Red Death)
Bethany Griffin
Dangerously Dark
Colette London
Desolate
A.M. Guilliams
In the Fifth at Malory Towers
Enid Blyton
Adders on the Heath
Gladys Mitchell
The Kuthun
S.A. Carter
Soul Harvest: The World Takes Sides
Tim Lahaye, Jerry B. Jenkins