Everyone who's lived in New York for any length of time has his or her own particular nasty story about the place. In the 42 years I've lived there, I've got my fair share of nasty stories. I've been mugged twice, had my car stolen three times. My apartment's been broken into five times, once while I was there in bed. That's not to mention the bad moments I've had while working; Abuse, threats, sometimes physical violence; on several occasions I've had to call the paramedics and, a few times, the cops.
But they're just the kind of stories that any average New Yorker will tell you. Some more disturbing than others. Scary, sure. But genuinely wake-up screaming in the middle of the night frightening? No. No, the only time I was ever truly afraid, was the night I met the Devil in Dan Ryan's bar.
Dan Ryan's is less than a block from my apartment. It isn't much of a place, just another low-rent, low-light basement all-nighter frequented by the usual array of street lowlifes, rummies, and the odd insomniac - like me. As the years passed, I found it less and less easy to go to sleep at night. When you're listening, day-in day out, to all the problems and woes, either psychological or otherwise, of some of New York's most screwed up citizens, it isn't easy to put it out of your head, switch off those voices and just get on with your own life just like that. Now I was never a big drinker, and I'm still not, but there were times when even the biggest, longest, dullest psychiatry textbook wouldn't put me to sleep, nor the late-night movie, nor the deck of cards and my seemingly never ending quest to find a way of winning solitaire without cheating.
So Dan Ryan's became something of a haven on those long, slow late night into early morning drags. I became something of a regular, though no one there ever acknowledged it, because Dan Ryan's wasn't the kind of place you were proud to acknowledge being a member. Don't get me wrong, it wasn't a bad place; criminals, at least no one of any repute, or drug-dealers, or gangsters, or whatever didn't frequent it. It was just a low-life dive, a place to get off the street and get drunk cheap, quick, and out of public view. Or in my case, it was the perfect place to forget about sleeping.
On the night I met the Devil, there were only me and Dan in the place. Dan was always there, tending bar. Only rarely did he have help, because he didn't need it, and rarer still was he not there altogether. Dan was a melancholy third-generation Irish-American who spoke very little. He wasn't one of those barmen philosophers you saw on TV. He poured the drinks and that was it. Sometimes you'd shoot the breeze about the weather, or the traffic downtown, or maybe a fight. But conversation was not Dan's premium, and I guess I appreciated that more than anything else in that place. He didn't want to tell me his troubles, and I was glad of it.
So there we were, Dan at one end of the bar under the big old TV he had bolted in the corner, bent over either his tax papers or the racing page, I never saw which. Me at the other, slowly killing a bourbon on the rocks. Two or three usually did me, then I could go home and sleep a couple of hours before going in to work, where I'd usually catch an hour or so's shut-eye in the afternoon between patients. We had the place to ourselves, until the door banged open and in he walked. The Devil.
At first, judging from the way he was dressed anyway, I took him to be somebody's driver or chauffeur who'd maybe called in for a pack of smokes or a carryout, or maybe even just directions to somewhere better. Expensive dark suit, with one of those what they call Nehru collars. Swarthy, middle aged, neat little beard, definitely foreign, I judged maybe Middle East or Central European. Odd accent, almost English, but spoken so perfectly that you just knew it wasn't his native tongue.
But it was his eyes ... I didn't see them well until later, but had I seen them straight out from the moment he walked in I'd have picked up my hat and coat, bid Dan a good night, and rushed home as fast as I could. And then put a chair under the door handle. They were ... bad. I can't think of any other way to describe them. I don't think I could. I don't think I want to.
He went up to the bar and studied the bottles on the shelf for a moment, then snapped his fingers. I'd not seen anyone do that for a while, but if Dan was aggrieved in any way, he didn't show it. Maybe he'd been in the trade long enough to ignore such displays of rudeness, or just maybe he'd spotted from the off that this guy was not a man with whom you messed with. I'd known a few bartenders through work who had this sixth sense when it came to spotting potential troublemakers.
"Brandy," he snapped. Dan poured him one. He knocked it back in one, grimaced at the taste and shuddered. "Another," he rasped, and Dan complied. "Leave the bottle," he commanded. Dan did, and went back to his papers without a backwards glance.
All the while I was watching this. It was my second drink, so I was feeling a little bolder than usual, so I decided to talk to him. Sometimes I liked to try to chat to the other barflies, but such conversations didn't last long and usually ended with me buying them another drink and then excusing myself to go to the bathroom. By the time I'd get back, they would have forgotten me. But this guy intrigued me. He was looking at the label on the bottle and muttering to himself.
"Not exactly Napoleon's finest, huh buddy?" I ventured.
For a moment, I thought he wasn't even going to look at me, let alone acknowledge me. But he did look round, and for a moment when his eyes touched mine I had an impression of what it was like to be a frog on a vivisectionist's slab. The utter lack of feeling towards me, the complete sense of inferiority ... it bordered on the contemptuous. I felt something icy slide down my spine.
"Indeed not," he replied, and though the voice was deep and authoritative it was as cold as a tomb.
"Can't sleep? Naw, me neither." Despite myself, I got off my stool and went down towards him. I proffered my hand and after a hesitation he took it. He was wearing supple black leather gloves and the fingers felt lean and powerful beneath them. This guy was no chauffeur. He reminded me more of a mob hit man I had as a patient for a month or two a few years back. Of course, I didn't know he was a hit man really until I saw pictures of him at his trial in the newspapers. But you don't spend time, no matter how short, inside a guy's head without knowing a little of what they're really like - or really do, no matter how hard they tried to keep the truth from you. He was a killer, and I knew this guy had killed too. Many, many times.
But did I get out of there and leave him to it? No, I had to stay. I wanted to find out more. It's always been my nature, and I knew one day it would land me in serious trouble. I smiled as best I could. "Dr Allen Kretshmeyer, at your service."
He didn't introduce himself, but he started to look vaguely interested in me as more than just a lab specimen. "Oh, a doctor, eh? In what field?"
"Psychiatry. I'm part of a little practice downtown. Do some work for the hospital too."
"A doctor of the mind ... well, well!" He chuckled with grim good humour. "It's been a long time since I've had any contact with someone of your profession. I've never found much use for it, myself. Though I do find the mind to be a most stimulating topic. With the exception of the human mind, of course!" He started laughing, and I joined in, uneasily. Somehow I felt he wasn't kidding.
"You're a student of the subject yourself, then?" I asked.
"No mere student, Dr Kretshmeyer. More of a ... master, if you may."
"Master, eh?" Very probably delusional, I thought, with a definite superiority complex. He'd make someone a great paper. But not me. I didn't like dealing with psychotic cases as a rule. But I decided to play along. "Have you, er, published anything?"
He threw his head back and roared with laughter, and even Dan looked up briefly to see what was up. "Oh no, Dr. Kretshmeyer, at least nothing you've possibly read anyway. Dear me, no ..." He shook his head, amused, and took a sip from his drink.
Frankly, I was spooked enough by then to leave it at that, but as I turned to go he took my arm.
"Forgive my rather twisted sense of humour, Doctor ... please, sit with me a moment. I seldom feel the need to want to talk to anyone else, but it's been so long since I've had a ... normal conversation ..."
I bet, I nearly said, but I was struck by the sheer loneliness in his voice, and maybe I felt a little sorry for him, so I stayed, though every instinct was telling me to get the heck out of there. I sat down on the stool beside him and said:
"Well, I've always believed that you can work out any problem by talking it through ... and, if you don't mind me saying so, you look like you have some problems, my friend,"
He chuckled ruefully. "You wouldn't even begin to comprehend the half of them!"
"I think I can believe that! But what exactly brings you out to this place in the middle of the night? Having trouble sleeping?"
"Exactly."
"Well, alcohol sometimes help you sleep, but - "
He interrupted. "Doctor, you misunderstand. I don't need help sleeping. That's my problem. I've been sleeping!"
I was puzzled to say the least. "What's the problem with that?"
He spoke very slowly, as if I were a child. "Sleep, to me, is normally completely unnecessary. I use meditation and mental exercises to keep my mind and body fresh, and, sometimes if I feel the need, I might take a nap for a brief time. But sleep, as you understand it ..." he shook his head. "It shouldn't be happening. And now it is ..." he finished off what was in his glass and poured himself another stiff shot. He took a long gulp and continued. "I've started dreaming again."
"I see ... bad dreams, would that be?"
"One singular dream. Every time."
"Want to tell me about it?"
He paused for a moment, as if debating whether or not to continue, then he spoke very quietly:
"I'm standing outside of a shop. It's right at the end of a street on top of a steep hill. I'm waiting for something, but I'm not certain what it is. A young woman comes up the hill towards me, pushing a pram ... it's a hot day, and she's struggling a little. She pauses outside the shop. We exchange pleasantries. She wants to go into the shop, but she cannot take the pram inside because it is too big, it will not fit through the doorway. She asks me to watch it for a moment; she will only be inside for a minute or two. I agree ..." he licked his lips and took another long sip from his drink before continuing, and this time his voice sounded dryer, hoarser.
"She goes into the shop and I stay with the pram. I look inside the pram at the child ..." he paused, and I was suddenly aware of how shockingly silent it was in the bar. " ... And I step up behind the pram and I shove it with all my might back down the hill, straight into the busy traffic at the base of it. Then," and he snapped his fingers again, the pistol-shot sound lingering in the still air. "I awaken."
"Wow," was all I could croak. "That's some dream. And ... you say you get it every time?"
"Yes." He closed his eyes. "Every time."
I considered for a moment. "Do you recognise the place, or the woman and child?"
"I do. And ... it's not so much as a dream as a ..." he trailed off.
"As a what?"
"As a bad memory ..." and he gave me the first proper look with those terrible eyes, and brother, I almost believed it then. But I still couldn't believe anyone could do such a thing.
"Do you know why you felt the compulsion to push the pram down the hill?"
"Yes, I do. I knew that that child would grow up to represent a menace to me."
"I see ... I've come across situations like this before. People feeling threatened by younger siblings in some way - not often physically, but maybe in status."
He chuckled wearily and shook his head. "We're not related!"
"Well, okay ... it does sound like an old problem we used to bat around in college. Say if you went back in time and someone pointed out to you a kid in the street and said, that boy is Adolf Hitler, and he's going to grow up to murder millions of people. If you killed him there, before he had a chance to grow up, you'd stop all that death and destruction."
"I've heard that one. It doesn't work. Someone else would merely take his place. Time, like nature, abhors a vacuum."
"So how do you know this guy won't be replaced in the same way?"
He gazed down at the counter, fingers tracing a pattern on the pitted surface, his face grim. The bitterness in his voice as he spoke was palpable. "Because I've seen the future. I won't waste our time explaining how. Take my word for it; I've seen how different it is with him, and without him. With him, I've seen how he'll grow up to be a noble and respected leader of men, someone who will become a scourge of evil and wickedness. A legendary figure, whose name will be used as a rallying cry for fighters against tyranny and suffering throughout the cosmos."
I almost laughed. It sounded so nonsensical and yet, every instinct was telling me what he was saying was true. I struggled to understand his reasoning. "And you want him dead? He sounds like he's going to be an OK guy! All right then ... what happens if you don't kill him?"
He smiled slowly, but didn't answer. He finished his drink, stood up and tossed a fifty-dollar bill onto the counter. He nodded to Dan and called: "I think that should be more than sufficient." He shook my hand again. "Thank you for you company, Doctor. It's been a pleasure. And almost helpful."
I held onto his hand. "Wait! Come on, tell me ... what if you don't push the pram down the hill?"
He looked at me levelly, eyes glittering in the dim neon light of the bar. "Then the boy would grow up to destroy me. Goodnight, Doctor." He turned to leave, then paused and looked back at me. "But do you know what really bothers me? It bothers me that ... it bothers me. Do you see?"
"Of course it bothers you!" I burst out. "It's wrong, bad, immoral, killing a child! A mere baby at that!" I was almost pleading with him now. "There has to be another solution! You say you can see the future, even change it ... well, can't you change it in such a way that you or he doesn't have to die?"
He looked away towards the door, into the darkness of the night. "It's already done," he replied quietly.
I was shaking my head, horrified. "No ... listen to yourself ... listen to what you've been telling me. Have you no conscience, man?"
He swung round to face me and then I saw completely what kind of light it was that burnt in this eyes: it came from the fires of madness. "Conscience? Conscience! My dear doctor, if only you could have seen some of the things I've seen ... some of the people I've met in the course of my travels. Why, the death of one infant is nothing! I've seen whole star systems wiped out for more trivial reasons!" He thrust his face close to mine, features contorted into an unreasoning snarl of hatred and rage. "Conscience? You ought to see it out there some time, doctor. The universe is as uncaring as it is vast. It has no conscience. It survives. As will I!" He burst into laughter, deep and mocking with a jagged hysterical edge to it. I'd heard laughter like that before, from several patients. The kind of patients who told me they were considering suicide.
Or worse.
In that instant, as I sat there, chilled to the marrow, watching him howl with this laughter, I knew that he was the Devil. Or at very least, someone - something - close. I shrank back against the bar, hoping - praying - he would just disappear and erase himself completely from my memory. And just as I thought I could not take it any longer and that I was going to join him in that hideous insane braying he spun round, threw open the door and disappeared into the night. But that laughter echoed on, and not only in the bar. In my soul, too.
Dan's voice drifted from the other end of the bar, catching me unaware. "Brother, we sure get some weirdoes in this place sometimes."
I almost screamed.
The next morning I did some investigating at the public library. I have a news clipping on my desk, from one of the local New York papers. It was dated from the previous day.
