I raised the knife and brought it down. Fast. The blade sliced through easily, doing what it was made to do. Looking down at the wooden cutting board, I saw that the carrot was neatly cut in two.

"You didn't get enough sleep last night, didn't you?"

I looked over my shoulder. Standing in the open doorway was a figure a head shorter than me. It was as if a magician had pulled the person out of a hat. At first they weren't there, but the next moment poof, a visitor was standing halfway in my apartment. 

The individual was dressed as a newsie. Felt cap, rolled up dress shirt sleeves, dusty vest, the whole attire. 

The figure tilted their cap and said, "Good morning." 

Taking off the cap, I saw the face of Dianne Whitfield. A twin set of her grassy green eyes gazed back at me. Her long mousy brown hair was well hidden underneath the newsie cap, rolled up in a discreet bun. She unfurled it as she walked into the kitchen. Dianne was in the profession of embodying the roles of many street folk, and apparently today she was in the newsie facade. 

Even though Miss Whitfield was of higher ranking status than I, she still insisted on wearing disguises while on errands. She reported to high command, and I was lucky to even see her. But thanks to my certain occupation, she and I had grown accustomed to one another. Dianne brushed at the loose strands of hair, smoothing and patting at them. I noticed that her customary milky complexion was dirtied by dust and soot, elements she had no doubt added to further solidify her character.

I grinned, turning back to the cutting board and said over my shoulder, "Miss Whitfield. To what do I owe this pleasure?"

Dianne scoffed. "It's no pleasure of mine, nor yours. You know that."

"So," I cleared my throat. "You finally took me up on my offer, then?"

She stepped forward, shaking her head and allowing her flowing locks of brown hair spill down. Scratching the top of her head where her bun had been wrapped and winced. 

"I'm not here for pleasantries, Emerson." She said. "You have another one."

"Another one?" I frowned. That makes two in one month. A little odd; two jobs so close together. I sighed and returned to julienning the carrot on the cutting board. Dianne sidled the table, looking around.

"You've certainly touched up the place since the last time I've been here," She said, eyeing the kitchen. It was neat and tidy. That was most likely due to the lack of kitchenware; every pot, pan, and dish pointed to the conclusion of a singular inhabitant. The apartment was small, and no less dingy than any other affordable unit in the Bronx. But it was the one I had been assigned, so it was the best and only option of residence for the next three months. 

Living arrangements were straightforward. One bedroom, a bathroom, and a kitchen area. Forty dollars a month, no newspaper subscription, no milk deliveries. I was real upset on that last one. I fancied milk with my coffee. It was sparse living conditions compared to some, but a home wasn't a home until you made it one. I tried my best to make the apartment look as accommodating as possible, but with the rent taking up most of the budget, I barely had enough reserved for buying groceries. I looked down at my meager snack on the cutting board. 

Picking up a slice from the segmented vegetable, I offered it to Dianne. She shook her head, saying, "No thanks. You need it more than I do."

I shrugged and popped it into my mouth. "I believe you have a letter for me."

Dianne nodded, reaching inside her vest. She withdrew a rectangular brown envelope. Of course, there was no address or addressee. No postage stamp. It was weathered and had dark splotches on the corners. It looked like it had seen some significant mileage. My friend handed it to me and I took it in between my thumb and forefinger.

"Been around lately?" I asked, waving the letter in the air. Dianne tried to hide a smile. She replied, "You know me. I come and go, once and awhile."

"It does look awfully beautiful out there," I said, and tore open the envelope. It was another one. Another vaguely written letter addressed to no one in particular. It was barely a paragraph. Just a few lines indicating a person, a place, and a time. Why use many words when few can do just as well? I read over the sentences one more time, committing them to memory, then put back the letter in the envelope.

"I wish you safe travels, Jacob." Dianne said. She was already tying her hair back in a bun.

"And many more to you too, Dianne." I replied, as I watched her move towards the door. I chewed on another slice of carrot, watching Dianne's small disappearing figure. 

I called after her, "Don't use your picks on my door next time. It ruins the lock." 

She gave a wave of her hand, as if physically deflecting my statement and closed the apartment door after her.

I sighed, and looked at the opened envelope next to the cutting board. I picked it up and walked over to my stove. Took out a matchbook and selected a single match. Struck it, and threw it into the stove. Threw in the letter after it. The smell of old rot and wet dew wafted up through the vents. I wrinkled my nose and went over to the window that overlooked the street and opened it. I looked out onto the street. 

It was unusually serene for a November morning in New York City. Curfew was coming to an end and the men in their black suits had scuttled off into their vans and disappeared. Couples and children were out for a morning stroll, with the occasional working man in a suit hurrying off to whatever job or appointment he had that day. The occasional enforcement officer paced a corner of the sidewalk before switching places with another officer.

Another day as usual. But more tranquil.

I looked to the sky and squinted. Black and gray storm clouds painted the horizon in the distance. I took one last whiff of fresh air and stepped away from the window. I looked down at the stove, the fire crackling, devouring the last remnants of the letter. I waited until the fire died down and took out the pan filled with ashes. I carried the pan and dumped it into the nearby sink, turned on the tap and watched the gray and brown soot mix with the water. It turned into a black sludge, being whisked away down into the drain and disappearing into darkness.

~~~

It's not so much the lightning that gets you, nor is it the thunder that rolls after. It's the moment in between. The waiting. The ready expectancy of the thunder that breaks the sky. It's that period in between that gets me every time. And it was like that right now. There was no rain tonight, but there was snow. A blanket of white encompassed the entirety of New York City. And down in the streets of the Bronx, everyone felt it. 

I hugged my jacket closer to me, hoping for some kind of relief from the wind that bit and scratched at my every corner. Pieces of snowflakes caught in my eyelashes every time I blinked, so I pulled my felt hat lower over my brow. But the snow kept coming. It was relentless. Despite the weather, I still had places to be. And tonight, I had urgent business. Curfew was on and I wasn't planning to be caught. But that was a possibility, considering I didn't play my cards right. If I hadn't memorized the routes of the enforcement vans and if I hadn't paid attention to the spotlight intervals, I would have been caught by now. 

But I wasn't. Not yet. The Night Watch may rule the town after sundown, but there was still some rabble that slipped through the system's cracks. In the early days, more people had been more defiant. Despite heavy patrolling of the city streets at night from the state's new enforcement officers, some stupid young gang of boys would occasionally defy the order of curfew for a night of fun.

The boys' night ended up being anything but fun for them. They wouldn't be seen for days on end, only to be found in a back alley, unable to speak because their tongues had been cut out and all their fingers broken. People sneaking out dwindled after that, but there were still some that slipped through, considering if they were sly enough.

I had mapped out all the alleyways that linked up with confusing corridors and back entrances. Fences that could be hopped or crawled through, and locks that could be jimmied. It was always good to know the city like the back of your hand. And then some. I stopped in my tracks as the end of an alley was being blocked by an officer. His back was turned to me, but there was no guarantee he would be like that forever. 

I slinked behind a trash can that was no higher than my waist and crouched down, becoming still. The wind blustered against me and the can, the only significantly large objects inside the hollow corridor. I peeked out from my hiding place and saw the officer. He too was dressed for the bleary weather. Instead of the signature black suit and felt fedora, the man wore a black trench coat that fluttered in the wind. The collar was popped out, hiding most of his face and neck. On his head he wore a regular seven point police cap slumped down on his forehead. He seemed to be looking down, avoiding the cascade of snow and wind that was picking up now.

I couldn't wait around. It was either him or me that was going to move tonight, and I preferred seeing myself moving farther along and out of this alleyway. I stepped out from behind the trashcan and stolidly padded towards the back of the officer. I pulled out the lengthy switchblade from my pants pocket and gripped it in my right hand. The wind was stronger than ever now, and it seemed like it would be picking up again soon. The closer I got to the entrance of the alley, the stronger the gusts of wind blew against me. It was so strong that I could no longer hear my own footsteps. 

I felt bits of snowflake and grit being flung into my face. I wiped it away with the back of my hand, blinking hard. I could feel my heart beat rapidly within my chest, each step I took seemingly added an extra beat. I charged the handle of the knife, but stopped the blade from whipping out all the way with my other hand, preventing the ubiquitous sound of a switchblade opening. I switched the knife to an overhand grip. The blade glinted in the subdued light, thanks to the storm.

I watched the officer pivot to the right. I wasn't sure if he was making a full about face, or if he was coughing to the side. I don't think I'll ever know. Once the officer moved, I reacted without hesitation. Planting my left foot forward, I reached out with my left hand. In a simultaneous motion, I pulled the officer by the collar backwards while moving myself forward and around his body. The second the officer knew what was happening, he turned around to face his aggressor. 

He faced me. I could see his face, despite the wind biting at me. 

His eyes were wide as oranges, and his mouth was half open, a yell already erupting in his throat. I plunged the blade down, and bit. And bit. And bit. 

It kept on biting until the knife was fully satiated. 

I stopped when the switchblade became slippery, and I cleaned it off the felt trenchcoat of the fallen officer. I breathed heavily, feeling the wind die down. But my heart was anything but settling down. In fact, it was racing so fast I thought I would fall over dead. But I didn't. I couldn't. There was still business to be done.

I set the Night Watchman's body inside the trash can. The lid wouldn't fully close, but it was still indiscernible whether a human was inside or not. I had repossessed the felt trenchcoat of the officer as well as his police cap. The man was two sizes bigger than I was, but more protection from the detection was better than none. Protection from the elements was a big plus as well. Where I was headed, I would need all the tools of subterfuge I could get.

The only weapon the man had on his person was a nightstick. In his back pocket I found his personal effects: a wallet and identification papers. The papers read Watchman Davis Underwood. Sandwiched in between his papers and a card to a barber's shop was a semi crumpled square picture of a woman. I assumed it was his mother, wife, or sister; I couldn't tell. I didn't care. I left the Night Watchman's belongings in the trash can.

Stepping off the curb and onto the street, I crossed on to the other side. With the storm letting up a bit, I could make out the urban scenery. Brick buildings and residential houses scattered the street. Walking to the right of the sidewalk, I eventually came upon a sign at a three way stop. I was on East 223rd Street and Carpenter Avenue. 

Just a few more blocks. 

I treaded along through the falling snow, my boots crunching loudly with every step. The time for silence had gone. Now was the time to assume the role of the image I had stolen: the role of a Night Watchman. I rounded a few corners and crossed a few streets, my eyes centered on a group of high rise apartment buildings a few blocks away. 

The letter. This was the place. 

The letter and its terse, yet succinct sentences burned in my mind's eye as I trudged through the ankle deep snow along the sidewalk. There were a few cars lining the side of the street. None of them owned by the Night Watchmen. As I stepped off the curb to cross the street, I saw the two blurry figures of men in trenchcoats rounding a corner. They came around the building, walking on the sidewalk I was crossing to. 

I faltered, but then I mentally screamed at my legs to move. I powered on, despite the pins and needles in my body constantly prodding me to run, to find cover. I had to trust the trenchcoat. Trust the snow. Trust that the weather and the wind, that it would cover up any small detail that would give me away as an impostor.

The two officers kept on walking. I could feel my heart running faster than a race horse. I kept my gaze lowered, but I didn't look at my feet. The wind had picked up suddenly, allowing no room for even simple discourse. Through the corner of my eye, I watched as the two officers nodded at me, and then passed by without a word. I blinked rapidly, the snow building up on my eyelashes sloughing off. 

I felt my right hand release its grip on the switchblade in my coat pocket. My hands felt sore after clenching the handle with such intensity. Despite the snowstorm, I wiped my sweaty palms on the front of my trench coat. I began to breathe a little easier. I looked behind me, making sure the two officers stayed their original course. I saw the two figures disappear as they crossed the street and trundled on to patrol another block.

After a few more turns I reached my destination. The apartment high rises. With the gentle snowfall and the wind biting less, the scene was almost tranquil. The face of the buildings were individually segmented into small squares of windows, indicating a room behind each two or three windows. The gentleman I was to meet was in one of those rooms. I entered the small entryway headed towards the front of the apartment. The entrance was built into the side of the wall of the building. If one was not looking for it, they would have never found it. 

The sight of the front door entrance was slightly blocked by a plywood board that was attached to a guard rail. Apparently it had been tacked up there before the snowstorm, to prevent unwanted gusts of wind into the lobby. In the haphazard partition between the building and snowfall, I could see my breath form in front of my face. Small clouds puffed out with every breath I made, and then floated away, vanishing into shadow. 

The door opened to the apartment entrance. Quickly I stood more erect, unsure of who exactly was coming out. First I saw a foot exit the door frame, then a hand as the person shoved aside the door. Then a face. A grizzled face. Worn and tired, framed by years of hard labor and a solid gaze to match. Most likely a construction worker, probably one of the men that helped build the skyscrapers in the more rich part of town.

"Oh. Didn't see you there." The man stared at me blankly. In his hand was a crudely paper rolled cigarette, in the other a lighter. His thumb was an inch away from flipping open the cap and igniting the wick. We just stood there, staring at each other, as if I were a parent catching a child with their hand in a cookie jar. Not only had this man stepped outside during curfew, he was about to light a cigarette. Smoking outside during curfew in the Bronx was punishable up to a three hundred dollar fine and a night in county jail. 

The man sighed, "Don't worry. I won't tell if you won't tell." 

I looked at the man, confused. There was a slight twinkle in his eye as he added a knowing wink. I tried to assume a more dominating stance, rolling my shoulders slightly and trying to appear more as an authority. 

I muttered, "What do you mean?" 

The man shrugged, closing the door behind him. Lit his cigarette, and walked past me. He called out over his shoulder, "Your boots. Those ain't the boots of a Night Watchman." 

I stood there, frozen. The wind picked up and snow swirled all about me. My mouth was dry. I released a pent up breath and closed my eyes. Looking down at my faded brown cap toe boots. The man was right. The Night Watchman dress code called for black, polished plain toe boots. Squeezing the bridge of my nose with my forefinger and thumb, I walked towards the entrance.

I entered the building, leaving the howling of the wind behind as I shut the door. It still battered against the door, wisps of air still managing to seep through the cracks at the bottom. Inside was much warmer than I had expected. The trench coat which had previously protected me from the bitter cold was now a damp, heavy blanking weighing me down. 

I shrugged the coat off me. If someone like a structural steel worker could see that I wasn't part of the Night Watch, there was no use in taking the chance that anyone else would. Snow and blustery winds wouldn't help hide the details now that I was inside a building. A toasty, warm building, in fact. I folded the bulky trench coat and tucked the bundle under one arm. I scanned the lobby.

The ceiling was no higher than five feet above my head. Not exactly the most spacious or welcoming apartment lobby, but then again, what building was in the Eastern Bronx? I was greeted by a low hanging chandelier. It appeared a bit crooked as it hung in the air, suspended like a wet towel on a sagging clothesline. It looked a little too low for my standards. Just a few feet lower and the top of my hair would skim the bottom of the dust covered light bulbs. 

There was a floor to ceiling wallpaper that was a dreary creme and beige color. It matched the overall mood of the lobby well. It was completely empty, save the bellboy and the desk attendant. The woman sat behind a wooden desk that covered the far end corner of the lobby. The receptionist was staring at her reflection in a pocket mirror. 

The bellboy was leaning against an open elevator over to my right, just a few feet away. He bobbed his head up and down listening to an imaginary song, his eyes focused on the lobby's chandelier. Then his gaze fell on me and he stopped bobbing. As if struck by a whip from behind, the bellboy jolted from his place near the elevator and immediately rushed over to me, eyes wide and alert.

I held up a hand and gave him a polite grin, acknowledging the boy's presence. He stopped a few feet in front of me, nodding. The bellboy's cap was slightly crooked, the chinstrap a little loose.

"Hello, sir," he said, his hushed voice accommodating the ambiance of the empty lobby. "Carry your coat for you?"

"No need," I replied, widening my collar. It still seemed too hot to be wearing even my own overcoat. The bellboy nodded and began to turn on his heel, but I stopped him.

"Do you happen to know where Room 104 is?" I said, also keeping my voice low.

The bellboy made a face. Looked down for a second, then back up at me. "Suppose I do?"

I sighed, looking down at the kid. "Suppose you could point me in that direction."

"Possibly. . ." The bellboy tilted his head forward, as well as his open palm that was now poking out from behind his back. It was like looking at a chicken sticking up its rear feathers. He looked like a skinny cherub on a bird bath, the way he was posturing.

"Gerald," The attendant behind the front desk spoke up. I could see her eyes were now fixated on me, instead of her mirror. She added, "Could you lead the man to Room 104, please?"

Gerald the bellboy sighed disappointedly, rolling his eyes. The woman behind the desk snapped her mirror closed, causing the bellboy to jump.

Gerald cleared his throat and said, "Yes sir. Room 104. This way, sir."

"Thank you, Gerald." The lady said, looking up from her desk. Then, she winked at me. I smiled back in response. The woman had shiny, wavy black hair that framed a set of sparkling blue eyes. Even though she was more than twenty yards away, I could tell she was a looker. But she was no Dianne. I waved a small goodbye at the woman, and she nodded back at me. 

I followed the bellboy into the elevator. I could still sense the woman's eyes on me. I began to feel my face get warm as the bellboy closed the shutters in the elevator. I heard Gerald snickering in the corner of the cabin and I looked down. His hand was on the third floor button, the other on his mouth, wiping a grin off his face. 

"What's so funny?" I asked. Gerald shook his head and coughed. I looked away, pushing down the sensation of chagrin that was now creeping up my neck. I stared at a random corner of the elevator and bit my tongue. The rest of the ride up was silent.

Moments later, a small high pitched bell rang inside the elevator. A solitary note that wasn't loud, nor soft. The bellboy stepped forward and ran the shutters back, and I stepped out of the elevator.

"Thanks, Gerald," I nodded at the young boy and turned around. I started walking away, but I heard a small coughing noise behind my back. I faced the bellboy and saw him in the same posture he had done in the lobby downstairs. His body half turned, open palm behind his back. Gerald coughed into his hand.

I raised an eyebrow at the kid and said, "If you're trying to be subtle about this, you're failing. Horribly."

"I know," the bellboy's shoulders slumped. His eyes became shiny and he averted his gaze from my stare. With the faintest hint of a tear streaming down his cheek, Gerald turned to the control panel. He raised his hand, finger going to push the button that would bring the elevator back down to the lobby. But before he did, I sighed and shoved a hand into my pocket, pulling out a coin.

"Here ya go, kid." I tossed him the quarter and he caught it in the center of his palm. Surprisingly fast reflexes. Almost as if he was expecting it. Gerald closed the shutter, and I thought I saw a small grin creep along his face before the elevator cabin descended.

Room 104 was at the end of a long hallway. The third floor for the most part was clear. Not a single person in sight. For now. I looked down at my watch. It was half past nine. Most of the residents must either be asleep or be getting ready for bed. I made one last scan, just to be sure. 

The hallway was bleak. What was once cream colored wallpaper now looked like curdled milk, brown and gray spots of mold could be seen in some corners of the wall. Glass light sconces traveled down the hall in off kilter lines. Several sconces were missing, only a darkened circle remained. The floor was a thin sublime green carpet. The welcome mats before each apartment door were heavily trodden. The doors to each ascending and descending room number seemed to have their own character. 

Room 104 ahead of me was bleak and old, some rot grazing the bottom part of the doorway. Poor maintenance and lack of caretaking. The room directly to the right, apartment 105, had a small sign with typed lettering hanging on the door frame at eye level that read NO SOLICITING. 

Rooms 102 and 103 seemed to be in good condition. Behind me I heard the sound of a latch releasing and the creaking of metal. 

The sound of a knob being turned. 

I spun around and saw the door to Room 100 swing open.