The Shadow Box Read Online Free PDF

the cops pulied the smaller man free and threatened to arrest her. The man bolted for the stairs but another subway rider tripped him, and the woman pounced on him again. The transit cops then seized her, pulled her off, and cuffed her hands behind her back. Other riders, most of them black, tried to intervene and were threatened with arrest. The drunk, the man who caused it all, disappeared in the confusion.
    Fallon knew that the woman had tried to help him, but he was too dazed, in too much pain, to make himself clear. He was taken to the emergency ward at St. Vincent's Hospital, where he spent most of the night waiting for a lull between stabbing and shooting victims so that his arm could be treated. But his head had cleared and he used the time to find out where the woman had been taken. He was reluctant to wake Brendan Doyle over a broken arm. A hospital orderly told him how to post bail, by phone and credit card, for the woman who had probably saved his life. Her name, he learned, was Lena Mayfield, forty- six, a widow. She worked part-time at four different jobs.
    He called Doyle the next morning. A week later, they went to court with her. Fallon spoke before the judge, and the charges were summarily dismissed. Fallon wrote out a check and asked Mrs. Mayfield to take it. She whistled when she saw the amount but shook her head.
    ‘Taking money for doin' right,” she told him, “crosses out the doin' of it.”
    He was determined to find some way to thank her, to at least make up for the clothing she ruined and for any lost earnings. But he didn't get the chance. New York wasn't finished with him yet.
     
     
    Chapter 5
    Only three days after the hearing, while his fore arm was in a cast, two muggers decided that Michael looked easy.
He had gone to see a movie near Lincoln Center. The weather had turned milder and he chose to walk home. It was just after ten, not late; Columbus Avenue was well lit and he could see other people out walking. By the time he reached the mid-seventies, however, there was no one within two blocks of him except two approaching black males. They had crossed from the other side of the street and came toward him from the opposite direction.
    Fallon tried to believe that they meant him no harm. They were black, but so was the woman who had saved his life. Nor did these two look especially dangerous. They were not young kids on a prowl. These two seemed close to Fallon's own age and they looked too healthy to be junkies. He'd be damned if he would cross the street like some frightened tourist from Toledo.
But as they neared, he realized that he was probably in trouble. The one on the curb side, his hair worn in dread locks, was looking around, glancing over his shoulder as they walked. The other, his head bald or shaven, thick mustache, would be nearer to Fallon when they passed. That one kept his eyes straight ahead, both hands in his pockets. His skin was the lighter of the two. Perhaps not a black man after all. But not Hispanic either.
    The bald one, Fallon knew, would walk past and then suddenly turn. He would aim a sap or a fist at the back of Fallon's neck and then throw him to the pavement. He would ask, “You okay?” as if speaking to a fallen drunk. He would strip him of his wallet, search for any separate cash, and then look in vain for a watch. The other would be waiting, standing lookout, ready to kick him if he re sisted. They would be finished and on their way within ten seconds.
    Fallon didn't wait. The bald one was abreast of him when Fallon wheeled, his left arm out ready to parry, and swung the cast on his right. The bald one had indeed been turning. The rough plaster cast thudded high against his cheek. It tore the flesh open. He yelped and raised both hands to his face. The right hand held no sap or weighted glove. It held a knife. The long thin blade glistened at his ear. Fallon lashed at it with a downward backhand blow of his cast, driving it into his assailant's face. It