8 Chapter 8:"Three quarters"

It was a chilly night.

Lampposts lit the streets of the city, giving them a gloomy and eerie appearance. A thick layer of fog hung low in the sky, giving the quieter roads and alleys a whole new definition of "spooky". The shadows lay in the dark, in small corners and areas, almost as if they were waiting, waiting for the right moment to pounce like a predator on its prey.

But in one particular street, things were different. The lighting was so poor that said shadows ruled all round. Most of the lampposts were out of power, but a few still flickered in the surrounding darkness, like sailors clinging to the lost cause of their sinking ship. The place was silent, with barely a sound to be heard apart from the murmur of distant traffic on a far-away avenue. 

But out of the blue, a taxi approached the location, the noise of its engine getting louder and louder, before the vehicle stopped completely. A tall man then got out from the passenger seat, and after paying the man at the wheel in cash, the car drove off the way it had come, leaving the other individual alone. The driver wondered what on earth the guy would want in such a place, but he dared not to ask any questions.

Patrick had never been afraid of the dark. Even as a little boy, unlike plenty of his fellow classmates, he had never feared it. In fact, his relationship with it had somewhat evolved into the opposite. Over the years, he had learnt to like it, to feel comfortable around it. Back in his teenage years, he had used the dark to his advantage; it always came in handy when escaping from bullies at school. The poor brightness in his neighbourhood at night made him capable of disappearing whenever he felt necessary. There was that, and also his fondness of DC's "The Batman" comics, for the character had always been (and still was, even though he rarely admitted it) his favourite superhero. The dark was no foe for Patrick Darren.

After about a minute of impatient waiting, another fellow appeared from the shadows. 

He was short but well-built, in the sense that he was sturdy. Black scruffy hair protected his head, curling down until way past his ears, although most of it was covered by a backwards NY Yankees cap. A silver chain lay around his thick neck, partially hidden by his over-sized Reebok  t-shirt. He also wore a black Adidas tracksuit and white sneakers covered in dirt.

"Hey, hey, hey. Long time no see, brother, am I right or am I right?" he said, reaching out his hand for a fist bump.

Patrick ignored the gesture. "Have you found what I'm looking for? Or should I say who?"

"Jeez, why so fast? No need to hurry, man."

"Uh-huh. Well, the faster we get this over with, the better."

The other guy lifted up the palms of his hands. "Alright, whatever you say, boss."

"I'm not your boss. C'mon, show me."

A snigger. "Whatever."

The pair then proceeded to walk off toward the left side of the street. Soon, they entered an ally, which seemed to be the way the fellow had come. They walked for a while, through a whole maze of streets and alleys, constantly, in a no-nonsense manner. At one point, the guy leading Patrick stopped and turned round to face him.

"What?" inquired Patrick.

"Umm, I was just gonna say... you might want to stick close to me for this next bit of the path, brother. It's just a bit... well, you'll see."

The other man raised an eyebrow. "Yes, mum. I know perfectly well where we are going, and trust me, I can defend myself."

"Good, then. No problemo."

So they continued. After about a minute they arrived at a passing under a bridge. The structure had been made for train tracks, and the engine of such a machine roared high above their heads. It was as dark as ever up ahead, but Patrick could see little sources of light scattered about here and there. Once they got closer, he realised what they were: campfires for the homeless.

Little groups of people huddled around the flames, shivering and rubbing their arms frantically. As the pair passed by, a few faces looked up at them, while others couldn't even be bothered. Both men and women stuck around, attracted by the shelter of the bridge and the fire. They sat on stools and boxes, stood or simply lay on the ground. Patrick caught site of a particularly startling individual, who sat nearby watching them as they walked. The man was smiling in a strange way, almost as if he were high (which he very well could have been), but the creepiest factor was that beside him lay a machete, about the size of a grown adult's forearm. The weapon gleamed in the orange light of the flames, untouched. 

But to Patrick's secret horror, his guide approached the man, and so he could do no more but follow close behind.

"Hey, Seth, my man!" said his companion.

The man's features lit up. "Nickels! I thought that was you! What brings you here?"

"You see, my companion here, he's looking for someone."

"Right, say no more. And you are...?" Seth looked expectantly at Patrick.

"Call me Patrick."

Seth nodded. "Alright. Who are you lookin' for?"

Nickels was the one to respond. "Bradbury."

"Bradbury..." repeated Seth, scratching his unshaved beard. "Yes, yes, I know that name. Okay, try over by the river. Guys like him, well, that's usually where they hang around."

Patrick just couldn't ignore the machete. It seemed so out of place, and randomly left there, like any other object. Also, he was sure that if he tried to grab it, he would reach it before old Seth would be even close. But there was one thing: he noticed several pairs of eyes watching the whole conversation. There was one big man off to the right, and two more on their left, by one of the campfires. Were they his bodyguards? There was no need to find out, but Patrick casually reached inside his jacket pocket and gripped the handle of his Smith & Wesson tight.

Nickels stood up straight. "Great, we have our heading."

"Uh-huh." affirmed Seth, holding out his hand. "That will be three quarters, please."

The guide looked at Patrick. The journalist scoffed.

"You're kidding!" he said, but no-one moved. 

Suddenly, he noticed the men he had spotted earlier getting closer. Nickels elbowed him in the ribs, and so Patrick ceased and reluctantly took out his wallet.

"I don't have much." he blabbered. 

This was true. Whenever he went out on expeditions like these, he was always careful to go practically empty-handed. But he finally found the right quantity and handed it to Seth, who in return smiled the way he had done earlier once more. Without waiting any sort of response, the journalist set off, leaving them behind

Nickels hurriedly caught up with him.

"What on earth was that?" he asked.

"I should ask you the same question." responded Patrick.

"What? The man asked you for money, so you give it to him, simple."

"Oh, and I suppose you forgot to tell me he wanted cash in exchange for information."

"I supposed you already guessed that, you being so smart and all."

"I'm smart am I? I'll take that as a compliment, but don't be expecting any in return."

Nickels rolled his eyes. "Come, it's down this way."

Patrick let him lead the way, while he spoke.

"So, Nickels, eh? That's what they all call you round here."

"Yep."

"Let me guess, short for Nicholas. You changed your name because it sounded too posh. You felt that you needed to sound more tough, more apt for the streets."

"Pff. Nice try, brother. Do you want to hear the story behind it?"

"Nope. Don't know, don't care. I was just making conversation like an idiot."

"Right. Well, I'm just gonna say that having a nickname kinda hides my true identity, you know."

Patrick stopped. "Who are you, Clark Kent?"

"Huh?"

"Never mind." They continued walking. "You do know that I only need one police file to know who you are, right?"

Nickels gave him a confusing look. "I thought you were a journalist, not a cop."

"I am a journalist. But I have contacts. Advantages of this position, I guess."

"Oh. Jeez."

"Keep your hair on. You can hide your identity from me as long as you want, you're mistaking me for someone who cares about who you really are. Seriously, I don't give a hoot."

At this, Patrick noticed Nickels' face light up ever so slightly.

They walked a few more minutes in silence until they arrived at the East River. 

"We're close." said Nickels. "I know a place close by, it's probably where he's hanging about. C'mon."

The two of them walked along the front for a while, until they arrived at one of the piers. They then proceeded on through it, until arriving at the smallest rocky beach Patrick had ever seen. At the far side, there was a group of people at another campfire, just like the ones they had seen before. The pair looked at each other.

"I guess this is it." shrugged Nickels, so they approached the little cluster. "Evening, fellas. I was wondering if any of you guys know the whereabouts of Bradbury. I can't give you a first name, but does this surname ring any bells?"

There was a silence as about a dozen pair of eyes observed them, their faces lit by the flames. Suddenly, a man burst out of the cluster and sprinted off toward Patrick's left. In a matter of seconds, the individual had reached a ladder, and so he started climbing it, ending up at a higher level than the beach.

"Hey, hey, hey!" shouted Patrick. "Wait! Nickels, circle back round the way we came, I'll take the ladder!"

The two of them set into action. Patrick raced up the ladder, surprising himself with his own agility. When he arrived at the top, he saw the man sprinting back towards the mainland. So he did the same.

"Stop!" he shouted after Bradbury, but his prey didn't do so. 

One after the other, they arrived back at the front, and both ran up into the city. Patrick was fast, but Bradbury was faster. From what he saw, the journalist guessed the man was fairly young, no more than in his early thirties.

Through the streets they sped, darting left and right. A feeling of frustration invaded Patrick as he realised the gap between them was widening with every turn. Soon, if things didn't change, he was going to lose him.

Finally, to Patrick's delight, Bradbury made a wrong turn, ending up in a dead end. His victim scanned the rooftops, looking for a way up and out, but the walls were unclimbable, and so he accepted his defeat, turning round.

The journalist now got a good look at the man's face. His facial hair was fair and outgrown, but not as long as Seth's. He had dark eyes, the colour of his clothing. Overall, Bradbury looked like a scared child. His eyes and mouth were open wide in shock.

"Alright." said Patrick, panting like an exhausted greyhound. "I think it's about time you and me have a talk."