Manhunt. Volume 9, Number 2, April 1961

The Knife by Glenn Canary

He was struck by the beauty of the knife, a switch-blade, simple and deadly effective. He bought it for six dollars. He bought with it a sense of power... and the need to prove it.

Paul Talent was cold and miserable. The weather had closed in over the city, shutting out even the false glamor of Times Square and leaving only the dirt to be seen. The wind came sharp down Broadway and little swirls of dirt and papers pyramided at intersections. The sky was grey and low, hanging below the tops of buildings.

The day depressed him. He put his hands into the pockets of his overcoat and bent his head as he walked. The wind reddened his face and made his lungs hurt. He was trembling with cold, trying not to think, trying to pull in on himself like an animal.

He came to a corner and stopped, waiting for the signal. Standing still, he was hurt even more by the wind. The light turned green and he hurried across the street with the crowd. On the sidewalk again, he walked close to the building, huddled in his coat. A man bumped against him and hurried on without looking at him or speaking to him. Talent looked after him, resenting him. A girl skittered by him, her hair whipped loose. He watched her, trying to think of anything except the cold.

He couldn’t stand it any longer. He had to be sheltered. It was a long way yet back to his office and he could not make it without being warmed first.

Without looking in the window to see what kind of store it was, he stepped off the sidewalk and into a small shop. Two clerks were standing in the rear. There were no customers. One of the men came to the front. “What can I do for you?” he asked.

Talent shuddered, breathing in the warmth. “I’m only looking,” he answered. “No. Just looking.”

The man seemed to understand. He looked past Talent, out the window at the street. “Cold out there,” he said.

“I’ll say it is.” Talent rubbed his hands together and blew on them.

“Paper says snow.”

“That right?” He wished the man would leave him alone. All he wanted was warmth.

“Yeah. That’s what it says.” He looked toward the other clerk in the back. “You see anything you want, let me know.” He walked away.

Talent looked down into a showcase, pretending to be interested. It was filled with watches. A small, hand-lettered sign on top said, FAMOUS MAKES $15 UP. He looked out the window. The sky was darker. He crossed the store and looked in another showcase. The top shelf was for leather change purses and key cases which were marked with pictures of the Empire State Building. The bottom shelf was filled with knives.

Talent bent to look at them. There was a hunting knife, he couldn’t see the blade, but the handle was carved wood. The top was made in the shape of a skull. There were some folding knives. One had the Boy Scout crest on it. Next to that one was a thin, black knife.

The salesman came back and said, “See anything you like?”

Talent looked up, startled. “No,” he said. “I was only looking at them. What’s that one though?”

The salesman walked around back of the case and slid the door open, “Which one?”

“That black one.”

The salesman lifted it out and laid it on top of the glass case. “That’s quite a knife,” he said.

Talent picked it up. “How’s it work?”

“Push that button.”

The blade came out, thin and shiney. Talent flinched, surprised, and grinned. “Really comes out of there, doesn’t it?”

The salesman looked at him and then out at the street.

“What’s a knife like this used for?”

“Cleaning fish,” the salesman said. “Something like that.”

“I thought a fish knife had a serrated edge.”

“This one’s good, too. It’s good for a guy who has to work with packages or something and only has one arm free. You know, you don’t have to open it like you do a regular knife.”

“How much is it?”

The man shrugged. “We can’t sell it,” he said. “It’s only for display.”

“Why’s that?”

“Kids. Kids buy them for fighting. Cops won’t let us sell them now.”

“It just sort of fascinates me. I’m not going to fight with it.”

“Yeah.”

“Come on, how much is it?”

“I told you. It ain’t for sale.”

“Sell him the knife,” the other man said, walking closer. “He’s all right.”

“It’s six dollars,” the first man said.

“Six dollars?”

“It’s a good knife,” the second man added. “Feel the spring in that blade. It’ll take a lot of shock.”

Talent closed his hand over the knife. The plastic handle had been cool, now it was warming to his hand. The blade was narrow, sharp all along one side, sharp halfway up the other edge. He closed it and opened it.

“Well,” the salesman said. “You want it or not?”

“Yes,” Talent said. “I’ll take it.”

In his office, later, he sat, staring at the half finished page of copy in his typewriter, thinking about the knife in his pocket. He was not used to carrying anything in his pocket but change and keys and he could feel the knife against his leg. He knew he had done a stupid thing, buying the knife. It was stupid to have paid six dollars for the thing and it was even worse to carry it in his pocket. At the top of the whole thing, he thought, it’s even illegal to carry such a knife.

It’s only a knife, he thought. Many men carry pocket knives. Only this knife wasn’t simply a pocket knife. It made him feel silly, melodramatic, but this knife was a weapon. For cleaning fish.

Paul Talent was a young man with sandy hair, brown eyes, and a nervous habit of biting his lips. He was of average size and, by standards, moderately good looking. That is, he was neat, even featured, his shoes were polished, and his clothes were inconspicuous. He had been married for four years and he and his wife, whose name was Helen, had no children. He was a copywriter for an advertising agency. Two weeks ago, he had been given a ten dollar a week raise. He had been faithful to his wife through his marriage although, only a week ago, he had asked Laura Singleton to have dinner and see a show with him. She had refused. He thought perhaps she had refused because she had not realized he was serious, but he hadn’t been able to ask her again. He had been born in Youngstown, Ohio. He had graduated from Kent State University. He lived in a four room apartment in Bronxville.

And now he had a knife.

He took it from his pocket and looked at it. He pressed the button on the side and it opened. Someone came into his office and he looked over his shoulder and saw Laura Singleton, standing in the doorway. She had the afternoon mail delivery. She was looking at the knife.

“What’s that?” she said.

“Come on in.”

“What’s that?”

“A knife.”

“What’s it for?”

“It’s not for anything. It’s just a knife.” He closed the blade. “Do you have the mail?”

She put an envelope on his desk. “It’s only an advertisement,” she said. “Why do you carry that thing?”

“Why not?”

“Isn’t it illegal?”

“Yes.”

She shook her head. “I think that’s silly,” she said uncertainly. “What do you need a thing like that for?”

He put the knife on the desk, not looking at her. He was angry. “What do you care?” he said.

She hurried out of the office. He looked after her and then picked up the knife and put it back in his pocket.

He didn’t much want to go out with her now. He didn’t need to.

That night, after dinner, he went into the living room of his apartment and sat down in front of the television set. Helen came to the doorway and looked in at him. “Will you clear off the table for me?” she asked.

“I’m tired tonight.”

“You always clear off the table for me.”

“Tonight I don’t want to.”

She looked at him for a few seconds more and then went back into the kitchen.

I wonder what she’d do if I showed her the knife, he thought. I wonder whether she’d be frightened.

He smiled to himself. Oddly, he liked the idea. He wanted to show her the knife, but not yet. He watched television and waited.

After a while, after she had finished washing the dishes, she came into the living room. She sat on the couch and watched the television, too, not speaking to him.

When the program ended, he stretched and lit a cigarette.

“Was everything all right today?” she asked.

“Fine. How was your day?”

She ignored his question. “You just seemed so moody tonight, I thought maybe you’d had a bad day at work.”

“I’m just tired.”

He started to tell her about the knife then, but he didn’t. He looked back at the television set.

After the news, they went to bed. While she was in the bathroom, he hid the knife in his drawer, under a stack of underwear. He undressed and took a shower. When he finished, she was in bed, almost asleep.

In the morning, he took the knife with him when he left home.

Harry Adams, his copy chief, came into his office at ten-thirty. He brought two cups of coffee in paper containers. “How about a break?” he said. He sat down and crossed his legs. “Nasty weather again today.”

“It’s cold.”

“February always seems like the longest month to me,” Adams said, “not the shortest.”

“I’m almost finished with the Alterace copy,” Talent said.

“We have plenty of time on that.”

“It’s almost finished.”

Adams lit a cigarette. “That’s not what I wanted to talk about,” he said. He smiled. “I don’t want you to take this the wrong way.”

“Take what the wrong way?”

“It’s about Laura Singleton.”

“I asked her to go out with me.”

“Not that. That’s none of my business. I mean yesterday.”

“Yesterday?”

“She was pretty upset.”

“What about?”

“Well.” Adams laughed. “You know how women are. She said you were waving a big knife around and she said you got awful nasty about it when she asked you what it was for.”

“I didn’t get nasty. I just said it wasn’t any of her business why I carried the knife. It wasn’t a big knife anyway.”

“I didn’t think it was.” Adams finished his coffee. “I didn’t mean to bring up anything about the knife. I only wanted to say that there’s no use in upsetting any of the girls. They’re hard enough to handle.” He laughed again.

“I didn’t upset her,” Talent said. “I only said for her to mind her own business.”

Adams stood up, nodding. “Well, take it easy,” he said. He dropped the coffee cup into the waste basket, starting to leave the room.

“Harry,” Talent said.

“What?”

“Would you like to see the knife?”

“I didn’t mean anything about the knife.”

Talent took it from his pocket, snapped open the blade, and put it on the desk. “There,” he said. “Sec. It’s not a very big knife.”

Adams stared at it. “No. No, it’s not very big.” He looked at it for a few more seconds and then walked out.

Talent picked up the knife and fingered the blade, wanting to laugh. With a sudden, violent gesture, he drove it into the top of his desk. It hung there, stuck three-quarters of an inch in the wood.

He told his wife that night. He stood in the kitchen, watching her prepare dinner. He took the knife from his pocket and laid it on the sink in front of her. “Look at what I bought,” he said.

“What is it?”

“A knife.” With one finger, he pressed the release and the blade flicked out. The spring made the knife quiver on the white porcelain. She made a noise in her throat and he laughed at her.

“Whatever possessed you to buy that?” she said.

He picked it up and closed it. “I wanted it,” he said. “I just wanted it so I bought it.”

She looked at it in his hand. “It’s ugly.”

“I don’t think so.”

“It is. It’s ugly.”

He opened the blade again and held the knife up, away from him, liking the way the light from the ceiling globe flashed on the steel.

“Why did you buy it?”

“I said I wanted it.”

“How much was it?”

“Not much.” He laughed. “I practically got a bargain.”

“How much?”

“I earned the money. I don’t have to make an accounting of it.”

She flushed and started to answer, but then turned back to the sink. “I still think it’s stupid,” she muttered.

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Money always matters. We don’t have that much.”

He laughed again. “I wasn’t talking about the money.”

She looked up at him uncomprehendingly and flushed again, but it was not a flush of anger. Her expression was uneasy, her lips were moving, making silent little formations, and she said nothing. He leaned against the refrigerator, cleaning his fingernails with the knife. He was amused. No, not amused. He was exultant. It was not that his thoughts were triumphant. That would imply an enemy defeated. It was his emotions that were triumphant. It was a strange feeling, one that he could not remember having had ever before. He wanted to laugh, but not at Helen. He wanted to laugh because, suddenly, for the first time since adolescence, there was something else to do besides wait for tomorrow.

He threw back his head and laughed.

“What’s the matter with you?” Helen asked.

He closed the knife and put it in his pocket. “Let’s go to bed,” he said.

“What?”

“Let’s go to bed.”

“It’s dinner time.”

“Now.”

“The dinner will burn.”

“We’ll go to a restaurant.”

“No. Don’t be silly.”

He stepped toward her and, putting one arm behind her knees, scooped her into his arms.

“Don’t be silly,” she repeated.

He kissed her and laughed again.

Later, in the Italian restaurant around the corner from their apartment, they ate spaghetti and drank chianti with it, and he talked while she listened, holding her head Dropped in her hands. Her hair was hanging loose around her face and she had put on a sweater to replace the blouse he tore in the bedroom. He wore a white shirt that was rumpled and open at the collar.

They drank chianti and he talked. He told her about how it was to work at an advertising agency. He told her that it wasn’t bad, but it wasn’t what he wanted to do. He said he wanted to write, really write, the way it could be done.

She listened silently. Her eyes were darker than usual and sleepy and she looked bedraggled, but she listened.

He told her about how he felt when he read good writing. He explained how he felt when he read a novel by a man younger than he. He said there were so many things he wanted to do.

After he had talked and after the chianti was gone, they went home and slept.

The next night he came home excited. They had dinner and then he said he wanted to go out.

“Why?” she asked.

“I just need to get out.”

“Where do you want to go?”

“Just out. Someplace wild.”

She looked down at her plate and didn’t answer.

“I want you to come with me,” he said.

“Where will we go?”

“Someplace wild. Someplace where people are.”

They went out together. They went on the subway and they didn’t dress well. He didn’t want to be watched, he wanted to watch.

They wandered. Finally there was a place, a bar, he liked. There was a name above the door, but he could not pronounce it. The windows were too dirty to see through. Inside, a juke box with broken glass was singing in Spanish. There were tables, to the left of the door, but no one sat there. They sat on stools at the bar, both men and women, and those who could not find stools, stood, leaning against the counter, drinking, talking to someone, or maybe just looking in the mirror that faced them.

When they went in, there was an almost imperceptible pause. They were seen, but Talent could not have pointed to anyone and said, “Why are you looking at me?”

The hum of conversation solidified and they were not being watched. They walked the length of the room and found one stool at the end. Helen sat on it and he stood beside her. The bartender drew two beers when they ordered, and cut the tops off with a spatula and slid them across. He stood there until Talent put a dollar on the bar and then he made change and went away.

“I’m afraid in here,” Helen whispered.

“Don’t be.” He sipped at his beer. “Just mind your own business and they’ll mind their’s. They just don’t like people who come slumming.” He didn’t know how he knew it, but he did.

There was a girl. She wore a blue rayon cocktail dress and plastic shoes that were meant to look like glass slippers. He thought about her, about the story of her. There were three men with her. He wondered whether they would fight for her, share her, or simply drift away because it was too much trouble.

He put down his glass and said he had to make a trip to the mens’ room. When he returned, a dark man who was handsome was talking to Helen. He was leaning with one elbow on the bar, talking quickly, smiling. Talent heard him say, “Come on. It won’t hurt you.”

“Please go away,” Helen said.

“You heard her,” Talent said.

The dark man leaned back flat against the bar and smiled. “Who are you?”

“I said to go away,” Talent said.

“Tell me who you are and we will talk about it.” The man spoke perfect English, but with a lilting accent.

“I’m with the lady.”

“She didn’t say so. She was alone.”

“I’m saying so. You heard me.”

The bartender pretended not to see them. People close to them began edging away, not looking at them directly.

“He’s my husband,” Helen said.

The dark man looked at her and then smiled. He seemed to bow even though he did not. “I’m sorry,” he said to Talent.

“Go on away,” Talent said.

“I said I am sorry. I did not know you were her husband.” He smiled again at Helen. “I did not know she was married.”

“I know what you said. Now get the hell away from us.”

The dark man smiled again, but he did not move.

“It’s all right, Paul,” Helen said.

“It’s not all right,” Talent said, looking at her. “I came back and found this punk trying to pick you up.”

“Punk,” the dark man said.

“You heard me,” Talent said.

The dark man stepped toward him. Talent took out the knife. The blade made a popping sound when it opened.

“Ah, no,” the bartender said.

“Now what?” the dark man said.

“Now you go,” Talent said.

The dark man smiled. “I don’t think so. I think you will go.”

“That’s what you think.”

“You have a knife.”

“Yes.”

The dark man had not moved after that first step. Now he reached into his back pocket and brought out a.gun. He smiled again. “Now compadre,” he said. “Now who will go?”

The knife blade was steady for another few seconds before it wavered and dropped. “Come on,” Talent said to Helen.

They walked the length of the room. Someone giggled quietly. Someone laughed out loud. By the time they reached the door, everyone was laughing. He turned, wanting to say something, but Helen took his hand. “Come on.”

They took a cab to the subway station at Times Square. While he was in the cab, Talent slipped the

knife from his pocket and stuffed it into the crack of the seat. He tried to hide what he was doing from Helen, but he thought she noticed it. She looked away and did not say anything.

When they got out of the cab, the wind was cold down Broadway and it burned his skin.