"Umbrellas imported from the South American rain forests, five dollars," Dexter called over the rain and voices. "Ponchos from Central America that defy rain, three dollars."

He shrugged inside his poncho to demonstrate how the water flew off. Customers nearby took a step back and then moved forward again. Ten-and twenty-dollar bills were held out.

"Umbrella." "Poncho." "Umbrella and a poncho, ten dollars. I need change, single dollar bills."

Hands were still reaching. Dexter shoved bills in his pockets. The Bloomingdale's bags grew lighter.

"That's it," said Dexter, giving out change for a twenty to a man who reeked of wet tobacco.

His bags empty, Dexter was considering a run back to the garage on 101st for more goods. Few wanted the rain to continue, but Dexter was one of the few.

"What the hell?" came a man's voice.

"Oh my God," said a woman.

"What is it?" said another woman. "What?"

They were looking over Dexter's shoulder. He turned and saw red rain gush through the tear in the awning.

Dexter could smell it. He had smelled it in two wars. Blood. He knew the look of blood in water, the dark, languid look.

The people in the deli and outside of it under the awning were talking. He sensed that Achmed had made his way through the crowd.

Dexter stepped out into the rain, avoiding the bloody stream. He looked up, blinking through the downpour.

Three stories above him, Dexter could see a man standing at the edge of the roof, something in his hand. The man was wearing a dark GI raincoat. The man's eyes met Dexter's. A torrent of blood and water poured from a drainage spout on the roof just beneath the man, who slowly straightened and turned. Then the man was gone.

Dexter wouldn't be going back to pick up more umbrellas and ponchos and he wouldn't be waiting around for the police. He had had more than enough encounters with the police, thank you.