The Animal Hour by Andrew Klavan Page A

to—without wanting to—she took hold of it. She brought it up. Up from the bottom of the purse on her lap. Past her compact, past her Kleenex, past her lipstick, past her keys. All her relief was gone. The sickly chill of her fear, the tight twist of her fear, had come back redoubled. The sweat dropped off her as she looked down, onto her hands. She stared at what she held.
    A pistol?
    It was a .38 caliber revolver. A nasty-looking little piece. Snub-nosed, black, ugly. Its compact shape seemed coiled on her palm somehow. As if it were ready to spring out, to strike. Her hand shook as she held it. Her lips moved silently as she stared at it.
    What the hell …? A pistol?
    Why don’t you just shoot him?
    She shook her head slowly. She raised her eyes.
    The beggar stood there before her, blotting out the sky. His large, dark shape hung over her. His hot white eyes burned down into her. The smell of him, the gutter smell, the sour, living smell, snaked its way into the freshness of the October air and turned it rancid.
    Nancy stared up at him, clutching the gun just inside her purse. The beggar smiled. His lips cracked open. His teeth showed, yellow and skewed. He held his hand out to her. Nancy caught her breath. She wanted to call out, but couldn’t. The cry stuck in her throat.
    â€œDon’t forget now,” the beggar said. His voice was a long, slow screak. He leaned down toward her. “Don’t forget: eight o’clock.” He winked. “That’s the Animal Hour.”

    â€œI find it very discouraging,” said the old woman slowly.
    â€œWhen I was a little girl, I was always such a nervous Nell. Always worrying about this and that. About getting sick, about growing old. I used to wish I was old. So I could stop worrying about it. So I would be calmer. And look at me.”
    Perkins looked away from the window. Smiled at his grandmother over his shoulder. She sat slack and shapeless in her satin bergère. Her hands—all twigs and blue veins—trembled atop the pink blanket on her knees. Her watery eyes were lifted to him.
    â€œI’m a catastrophe,” she complained.
    â€œHey,” Perkins said. “Am I gonna have to throw you down the stairs again?”
    â€œOh, just hush.” Nana’s voice was soft and quaky. “You know it’s true. A little crisis and I’m crumbling practically in front of our very eyes.”
    â€œThere’s no crisis. And you’ll still be here crumbling when I’ve died of old age.” He turned back to the window. Elegant in its walnut frame, wide and ceiling-high. He gazed through it at a broad view of West Twelfth Street. “Who will you complain to then?” he said.
    â€œI don’t know,” Nana murmured behind him. “It is going to be a problem.”
    Perkins laughed—then grimaced. A bolt of pain had shot up his temple. He touched the spot with his fingertips. Avis’s breakfast of scrambled eggs and coffee had settled his stomach somewhat. Woken him up a little. But his hangover was still beating at his forehead, a living pulse inside his skull. O for a draught of vintage! he thought, that hath been cool’d a long age in the deep-delved earth. Or maybe just a really cold beer and a babe with a soapy washcloth … He massaged his head, squinting out the window.
    Out there, five stories below, a woman pushed a stroller under the frail elms that lined the sidewalk. A student in a sweatshirt hauled his books past the brick apartments. And there was another mother, Perkins noticed, tugging her son along by the hand. The dawdling boy was dressed in a black cape. His face was whitened with makeup. Red droplets were painted around his lips. And Perkins thought: That’s right. Today is Halloween …
    â€œWhy are you rubbing your temple, dear? Do you have a hangover?” Nana asked him.
    â€œThat depends,” he said. “Are you gonna nag me about