Excerpt
After   being   away   for   more   than   two   years,   I   was   glad   to   be   home.  I  considered  myself  a  New  Yorker  even  though  I  wasn’t   born   here.   I’ve   traveled   to   a   lot   of   different   cities   under   a   lot   of   names,  but  if  I  had  my  druthers,  I’d  take  my  last  breath  in  New  York   as  Frank  Baron.  So  many  different  kinds  of  people,  so  easy  to  blend   in.  A  million  places  to  go  and  always  something  new  to  see.
Tonight,   in   the   dark   of   a   winter   evening,   Central   Park   was   my   sanctuary  from  the  noise  and  chaos.  It’d  been  raining  on  and  off  all   day   and   the   icy   drizzle   felt   like   tiny   insects   bombarding   my   face.   Still,   I   needed   to   be   alone   with   my   thoughts   and   do   the   things   I   needed  to  do.
I  wiped  my  forehead  with  the  back  of  my  hand  and  let  the  lifeless   body   sink   to   the   cold   grass.   His   blood,   warm   and   thick,   slid   down   my  throat,  coating  my  insides.  I  dropped  back  onto  the  park  bench   and   closed  my  eyes.
The   taste   was   slightly   different   each   time.   Sometimes   sweeter,   sometimes  more  pungent,  but  always  satisfying.  It  both  excited  and   calmed  me,  making  me  feel  positively  reborn  with  every  swallow.  A  
The   shriveled   carcass   lay   in   a   fetal   heap   only   a   few   feet   from   the  old  man  he  and  his  long  gone  partner  had  robbed  and  murdered.   Oddly,   the   young   assailant   appeared   more   at   peace   than   his   prey.   The  murdered  man,  an  innocent,  lay  with  his  arms  and  legs  splayed,   clothes  disheveled,  and  bathed  in  blood  from  a  gaping  knife  wound   in  his  chest.  His  wrinkled  face  was  taut  with  the  violation.
In   contrast,   the   miscreant   lay   folded   in   a   childlike   repose.   His   dark   skin   was   smooth   and   relaxed;  half-­lidded   eyes   looked   more   tired   than   dead.   His   lower   lip   hung   in   a   languid   wilt   as   if   he   were about  to  speak.  A  gold  tooth  with  the  initial  “B”  glowed  dully  in  the   subdued   park   light.     Of   course,   he   hadn’t   suffered   the   indignity   of   having  his  life  stolen  as  torturously  as  his  victim.  Once  the  brain  has   been  deprived  of  a  pint  or  so  of  blood,  it  all  but  shuts  down,  leaving   its  owner  in  a  dreamlike  state.
He’d  slashed  me  with  the  same  switchblade  he  used  on  the  old   man.   The   slice   traveled   diagonally   down   my   face   from   forehead   to   chin.   The   bleeding   stopped   almost   immediately   and   the   blood   scar  would  be  gone  before  I  got  to  work.