<strong>Valentine Marlar -- Scratchin' Out a Livin'</strong><br/><br/>There was some real hustle n bustle on the streets tonight. The sidewalks were even more crowded and traffic was even more aggressive than usual. And for New York, that was saying something. A lot of the video boards were showing conflicting local news reports, and clamoring reporters were speculating on the cause of a disturbance in Central Park. Everyone had a theory and they were all getting equal airtime, everything from ruptured exploding gas mains to gang riots to terrorist attacks.<br/><br/>The last set Valentine's teeth on edge; he hadn't been in New York for the first one, but after seven years he was as much a native as those born and raised, and the idea of someone attacking<em>his</em>city brought his blood near boiling. But from the various reports and the apparently low level of emergency response, whatever was going on couldn't have been that horrible. A few news and police choppers were visible on a couple of newsfeeds, and a couple of ambulances and a fire truck sat parked in the background of a few others.<br/><br/>And cops, of course. Wouldn't be a party without the city's finest. Val walked, casual but careful, upriver against the pedestrian traffic flow and away from the scene of whatever incident the media was so expertly whipping into a catastrophe. It had been a lousy day already, and he was in no rush to extend his malfortune into the evening hours.<br/><br/><em>'That fat prick. Like he never accidentally outed a mobster's nephew in print before,'</em>Val thought, irritated. That fat prick, of course, being his editor Walter, who'd spent nearly a full hour chewing him out after being 'persuaded' into printing a retraction of an article Valentine had written the week before concerning a scandal involving a recent spate of grave robberies, a surprisingly musical poodle named Zootzy, and an embezzling scam run by a pair of New York County employees who apparently enjoyed cross-dressing on weekends. Val had put in a lot of time on that piece and thought it was particularly solid, until someone mailed a box of severed cat heads, lined with copies of his aricle, to his editor's office day before yesterday.<br/><br/><em>'Besides, that's what retractions are <strong>for</strong>, for fuck's sake! And at least it was someone from the O'Hanlon organization; if it had been the Italians, it could have been his kids' heads in the box.'</em>Val shuddered at the notion and began walking a little faster. And as if that weren't enough, he'd gone home to find one of those charming little notes from his landlord, Mr. Sztrynzinsky, demanding the month's rent on time for once. At least, that's what Val thought the note said.<em>'Only man I know whose accent is thicker in ink than outta his mouth.'</em><br/><br/>As he reached downtown the foot traffic began to thin a bit, and Val fell into step a few feet behind an older man in a rather well cut suit. His instincts, honed by years of practice, throttled into overdrive, and his fingers began to itch familiarly. The lift was smooth, light as the air. The old man didn't feel a thing, didn't even break stride as Val expertly withdrew the man's wallet from his back pocket and deposited it into his jacket pocket. A few more steps, and he ducked into a side alley to examine his earnings.<br/><br/>The wallet was polished but worn, filled mostly with pictures of children in various states of play. Grandad was in several of the photos, along with a rather handsome woman and a younger couple; grandma and the family. Val took a moment and studied the pictures; it used to bother him, seeing such happy family pictures, being reminded of what he'd probably never have for himself. Now...well, it still bothered him, but he didn't allow it to distract him any longer. In two of the pockets Val found the usual AARP Visa and Mastercard, and in the main fold, $83 held in a sterling silver money clip. Not bad; at least he'd be eating for a few days. Val left the cards and checked out the I.D. In a couple days, he'd mail...Mr. Mullins' cash-lightened wallet and family photos back to him from an anonymous mail drop box.<br/><br/>Passing through the fashion district, Valentine felt a tingling sensation start to build in the base of his spine and climb up to settle in his brain. He hated these damn things; he'd been getting random headaches for years, almost since he left the orphanage back home. They never lasted more than a few minutes, but they could be hellaciously distracting. He spotted a couple leaving one of the higher-end boutiques up ahead, and suddenly the tingling spiked into a full-blown ringing. For a few seconds Val had to stop and lean against the side of a building until the feeling passed. Once it subsided, he broke into a half-jog to catch up to the pair as they walked ahead. The woman looked like high fashion all over, dressed in what looked to be a brand new outfit from the store they'd just left; the man on her arm poked and prodded at the ground ahead of them with a long, slender cane.<br/><br/><em>'A sugar kitty and a blind man. This one might actually be too easy,'</em>Val thought with a smile as he approached silently from behind, that familiar itch building once again in his fingertips.<em>'Ah, well. Their own fault for looking so damn loaded; Sztrynzinsky, you old codger, you'd better appreciate this. Here comes your damn rent...'</em>