Manhunt. Volume 9, Number 2, April 1961

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?”