“You have to help me! Those things got Carla! You gotta; you're a cop!" Pat had just stepped out of Convenient Willard's, where'd he'd stopped for some bait. Willard's was a little nook a few blocks from Chelsea Park, where Pat liked to go fishing for striped bass. Right near midnight was about the only time he had available with his shift schedule. Fortunately, that meant the park wasn't terribly crowded. When he caught a good one, he treated himself to a dinner at the brewing company near ...Pier 59. Which wouldn't happen tonight, it seemed. Pat estimated the young man was near twenty, of Middle Eastern descent and wearing jeans and a NYU sweatshirt. In deference to the cool of the night, he had a brown scarf wrapped around his neck. And naked panic splashed all over his face, made stark by the glare of the neon. "Whoa, slow down, my friend. Who are you, who's Carla, what things," Pat asked. Then his eyes narrowed and he continued, "and what makes you think I'm a cop?" "Uh, uh," the kid stammered, black eyes wide and glazed.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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