He had a graceful gait to his walk that late evening along Dupont Circle, passing storefronts abandoned since the strikes of ’59. He hadn’t a care in the world, twenty-three and in love with Billy from New York, the toast of Carnegie Hall since his debut with the performance of Schubert’s Fantasie. Life couldn’t have been better for Merlin Atkins, walking home from the Metro Sunday night after his weekend in Manhattan.
Two men with moles on their cheeks and the stench of urine on their clothes had other plans for him. Across the street, they nodded to each other and moved in on Merlin. The squirrely one shifted behind Merlin and caught up with him, just six feet behind. The beefy one ran ahead and came from the opposite direction. He stood in front of Merlin and flashed a knife in front of his face.
“Gimme what you've got."
Merlin turned to run but the Squirrel assaulted him head on, pulled his arms behind him, and flung him around to face the Beef. The Beef frisked Merlin, tore his blue overcoat, ripped at his pockets, grabbed his wallet.
"Fifteen cents. The poof has no money."
The Squirrel goosed Merlin with his knee. The Beef kicked him in the groin, punched his face with his left, stabbed him in the abdomen with his right. The Squirrel twisted Merlin’s right arm until they heard the elbow snap, slammed his fist into the back of his head. Merlin fell to the ground. The Beef kicked him in his left ribs with all his force. The Squirrel did the same from the other side.
An hour later an ambulance delivered Brian to Bethesda General. Dr. Donahue, the only resident physician on duty that Sunday evening, received the man whose only gruff words were Billy, I want Billy. Merlin gasped for air and coughed up blood from his throat. Dr. Donahue strained to hear what the man had to say.
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