He looked, but saw little. In this gloom and especially in the foul water choked with debris, his eyes served little use. More important were the tastes and smells, the tiny particles that told him both what lay in the distance meals to seek patiently-and of the immediate satisfactions that hovered, unsuspecting, just beyond the length of his snout.
He could hear the vibrations: the powerful, slow movements from side to side as his tail muscled through the water; the crushing, but distant waves beating down from the city above; the myriad tiny actions of food scurrying about in the darkness.
The filthy water broke around his wide, flat snout, the current streaming to either side of the raised nostrils. Occasionally the transparent membranes would slide down across the protruding eyes, then slip up again.
As large as he was-barely able to fit through some of the tunnels he had traversed during this time of feeding-he made very little noise. Tonight most of the sounds that accompanied him came from the prey, were cried out during the devouring. His nostrils gave him the first inkling of the feast to come, but was shortly followed by messages from his ears. Although he hated to leave this sanctuary that covered nearly all of his body, he knew he must go where the food was. The mouth of another tunnel loomed to one side. There was barely enough room in the passageway for even so flexible a body as his to turn and enter the new watercourse. The water became shallower and ended altogether within two body-lengths of the entrance.
It didn't matter. His legs worked well enough, and he could move almost as silently as before. He could still smell the prey waiting for him somewhere ahead. Nearer. Near. Very close. He could hear sounds: squeaks, squeals, the scurrying of feet, the brush of furry bodies against stone.
They wouldn't expect him; there were few predators in these tunnels deep down. He was upon them in an instant, the first one crushed between his jaws, its death-cry warning the others. The prey scattered in panic. Except for those without escape routes, there was no attempt to fight back. They ran. Most who lived longest scurried away from the monster in their midst-and encountered the bricked-up end of the tunnel. Others tried to s Tint around him-one even daring to leap across his scaly back-but the lashing tail smashed them against the unyielding walls. Still others ran directly into his mouth, cowering only in the split second before the great teeth came together.
The agonized squeals peaked and subsided. The blood flowed deliciously. The meat and hair and bones lay satisfyingly in his stomach. A few among the prey still lived. They crawled away from the slaughter as best they could. The hunter started to follow, but his meal sat heavily. For now he was too sated to follow, or to care. He made it as far as the edge of the water and then stopped. Now he wanted to sleep.
First he would break the silence. It was allowed. This was his territory. It was all his territory. The great jaws opened and he issued a penetrating, rumbling roar that echoed for many seconds through the seemingly endless labyrinth of tunnels and ducts, passageways and stone corridors.
When the echoes finally died, the predator slept. But he was the only one.
Rosemary said hello to Alfredo, who was on security duty tonight. He smiled at her as she signed in, and shook his head when he saw the stack of books she carried.
"I can get you help with that, Miss Maria."
"No thanks, Alfredo. I can manage just fine."
"I remember carrying your books for you when you were just a bambina, Miss Maria. You used to say you wanted to marry me when you grew up. No more, eh?"
"Sorry, Alfredo, I'm just fickle." Rosemary smiled and batted her eyes. It wasn't easy to joke or even be pleasant. She wanted this evening, this day, to end.
She was alone in the elevator and took the opportunity to rest her head against the side of the car for a moment. She indeed remembered Alfredo carrying her books to school. It had been during one of the wars in her childhood. What a family.
When the elevator doors opened, the two men in front of the entry to the penthouse came to attention. They relaxed as she approached, but each looked unusually solemn.
"Max. What's happened?" Rosemary looked questioningly at the taller of the two identically black-suited men.
Max shook his head and opened the door for her. Rosemary walked between the oppressive, dark oakpaneled walls toward the library. The ancient oil paintings did nothing to relieve the gloom.
At the door of the library, she started to knock, but the heavy, carved doors swung inward before she struck them. Her father stood in the doorway, his silhouette illuminated by the lamp on his desk.
He took both her hands and held them tightly. "Maria, it's Lombardo. He's no longer with us."
"What happened?" She stared at her father's face. The areas beneath his eyes were dark. His jowls sagged even more than she remembered.
Her father gestured. "These young men brought the news. "
Frankie, Joey, and Little Renaldo stood clumped together. Joey literally held his hat in his hands.
"We told Don Carlos, Maria. Lucky Lum-er, Lombardo was coming right over here but he stopped for a minute in the subway."
"He wanted to get some gum, I think." Frankie volunteered the information as if it had some significance.
"Yeah, anyway. He didn't come out. We were just hanging around," said Joey, "so we decided to find out what was going on when we heard about… disturbance in the station. When we got there, we found out what happened."
"Yeah, they found him in about two dozen-"
"Frankie!"
"Yes, Don Carlo."
"That will be all for tonight, boys. I will see you in the morning."
The three young men nodded and touched their foreheads in Rosemary's direction as they left.
"I'm sorry, Maria," said her father.
"I don't understand. Who would have done this?"
"Maria, you know Lombardo worked with our family business. Others knew that. And they knew he was about to become my son. We think it may have been someone trying to hurt me." Don Carlo's voice sounded sad. "There have been other incidents lately. There are those who want to take away what we have worked for a lifetime to achieve." His voice hardened again. "We won't let them get away with this. I promise, Maria!"
"Maria, I have some nice lasagna. Your favorite. Please, try to eat." Rosemary's mother spoke from out of the shadows. She rose to take Rosemary to the kitchen, escorting her with an arm around her shoulders.
"Mama, you shouldn't have held supper for me."
"I didn't. I knew you would be late and so I saved some for you. "
Rosemary said to her mother, "Mama, I didn't love him."
"Ssh. I know." She touched her daughter's lips. "But you would have grown to care for him. I could see how well you got along."
"Mama, you don't-" Rosemary was interrupted by her father's voice following them from the library.
"It has to be melanzanes, blacks! Who else would be attacking us now? They have to be coming down from Harlem through the tunnels. They've wanted our territories for years."
"Especially they want a susina like Jokertown. No, jokers would never dare do this on their own, but the blacks could be using them as a distraction."
Rosemary heard silence, followed by tinny squeaks from the telephone. Her mother tugged at her arm.
Don Carlo said, "They must be stopped now or they will threaten all the Families. They're savages."
Another pause.
"I do not exaggerate."
"Maria…" said her mother.
"Tomorrow morning, then," said Don Carlo. "Early. Good."
"See, Maria. Your father will take care of it." Her mother led Rosemary into the harvest-gold kitchen with all its bright appliances, the walls lined with framed samplers of old country homilies. She thought of telling her mother about C.C. and the subway, but it seemed impossible now. It had to have been her imagination. She just wanted to sleep. She didn't want to eat. She couldn't take anything else tonight.