For his part, Gus, feeling angry and sore, and jittery now that his adrenaline was gone, grew wary of the old man looking over at him. "Got a problem?"
Others in the tank perked up, drawn by the prospect of a fight between a Mexican gangbanger and an aged Jew.
Setrakian said to him, "I have a very great problem indeed."
Gus looked at him darkly. "Don't we all, then."
Setrakian felt the others turning away, now that there would be no sport to interrupt their tedium. Setrakian took a closer look at the Mexican's curled-up friend. His arm lay over his face and neck, his knees were pulled up tight, almost into a fetal position.
Gus was looking over at Setrakian, recognizing him now. "I know you."
Setrakian nodded, used to this, saying, "118th Street."
"Knickerbocker Loan. Yeah-shit. You beat my brother's ass one time."
"He stole?"
"Tried to. A gold chain. He's a druggie shitbag now, nothing but a ghost. But back then, he was tough. Few years older than me."
"He should have known better."
"He did know better. Why he tried it. That gold chain was just a trophy, really. He wanted to defy the street. Everybody warned him, 'You don't f**k with the pawnbroker.'"
Setrakian said, "The first week I took over the shop, someone broke my front window. I replaced it-and then I watch, and I wait. Caught the next bunch who came to break it. I gave them something to think about, and something to tell their friends. That was more than thirty years ago. I haven't had a problem with my glass since."
Gus looked at the old man's crumpled fingers, outlined by wool gloves. "Your hands," he said. "What happened, you get caught stealing once?"
"Not stealing, no," said the old man, rubbing his hands through the wool. "An old injury. One I did not receive medical attention for until much too late."
Gus showed him the tattoo on his hand, making a fist so that the webbing between his thumb and forefinger swelled up. It showed three black circles. "Like the design on your shop sign."
"Three balls is an ancient symbol for a pawnbroker. But yours has a different meaning."
"Gang sign," said Gus, sitting back. "Means thief."
"But you never stole from me."
"Not that you knew, anyway," said Gus, smiling.
Setrakian looked at Gus's pants, the holes burned into the black fabric. "I hear you killed a man."
Gus's smile went away.
"You were not wounded? The cut on your face, you received from the police?"
Gus stared at him now, like the old man might be some kind of jailhouse informer. "What's it to you?"
Setrakian said, "Did you get a look inside his mouth?"
Gus turned to him. The old man was leaning forward, almost in prayer. Gus said, "What do you know about that?"
"I know," said the old man, without looking up, "that a plague has been loosed upon this city. And soon the world beyond."
"This wasn't no plague. This was some crazy psycho with kind of a...a crazy-ass tongue coming up out of his..." Gus felt ridiculous saying this aloud. "So what the f**k was that?"
Setrakian said, "What you fought was a dead man, possessed by a disease."
Gus remembered the look on the fat man's face, blank and hungry. His white blood. "What-like a pinche zombie?"
Setrakian said, "Think more along the lines of a man with a black cape. Fangs. Funny accent." He turned his head so that Gus could hear him better. "Now take away the cape and fangs. The funny accent. Take away anything funny about it."
Gus hung on the old man's words. He had to know. His somber voice, his melancholy dread, it was contagious.
"Listen to what I have to say," the old man continued. "Your friend here. He has been infected. You might say-bitten."
Gus looked over at unmoving Felix. "No. No, he's just...the cops, they knocked him out."
"He is changing. He is in the grip of something beyond your comprehension. A disease that changes human people into non people. This person is no longer your friend. He is turned."
Gus remembered seeing the fat man on top of Felix, their maniacal embrace, the man's mouth going at Felix's neck. And the look on Felix's face-a look of terror and awe.
"You feel how hot he is? His metabolism, racing. It takes great energy to change-painful, catastrophic changes are taking place inside his body now. The development of a parasitic organ system to accommodate his new state of being. He is metamorphosing into a feeding organism. Soon, twelve to thirty-six hours from the time of infection, but most likely tonight, he will arise. He will thirst. He will stop at nothing to satisfy his craving."
Gus stared at the old man as though in a state of suspended animation.
Setrakian said, "Do you love your friend?"
Gus said, "What?"
"By 'love,' I mean honor, respect. If you love your friend-you will destroy him before he is completely turned."
Gus's eyes darkened. "Destroy him?"
"Kill him. Or else he will turn you."
Gus shook his head in slow motion. "But...if you say he's already dead...how can I kill him?"
"There are ways," said Setrakian. "How did you kill the one who attacked you?"
"A knife. That thing coming out of his mouth-I cut up that shit."
"His throat?"
Gus nodded. "That too. Then a truck hit him, finished the job."
"Separating the head from the body is the surest way. Sunlight also works-direct sunlight. And there are other, more ancient methods."
Gus turned to look at Felix. Lying there, not moving. Barely breathing. "Why doesn't anybody know about this?" he said. He turned back to Setrakian, wondering which one of them was crazy. "Who are you really, old man?"
"Elizalde! Torrez!"
Gus was so absorbed in the conversation that he never saw the cops enter the cell. He looked up at hearing his and Felix's names and saw four policemen wearing latex gloves come forward, geared up for a struggle. Gus was pulled to his feet before he even knew what was happening.
They tapped Felix's shoulder, slapped at his knee. When that failed to rouse him, they lifted him up bodily, locking their arms underneath his. His head hung low and his feet dragged as they hauled him away.
"Listen, please." Setrakian got to his feet behind them. "This man-he is sick. Dangerously ill. He has a communicable disease."
"Why we wear these gloves, Pops," called back one cop. They wrenched up Felix's limp arms as they dragged him through the door. "We deal with STDs all the time."