"Caught Stealing" - читать интересную книгу автора (Huston Charlie)Part Four SEPTEMBER 30, 2000 Final DayOf The Regular Season – Hello? – I love you, Mom. – Henry. – TellDad I love him, too. – Oh, Henry. – I got to go, Mom. Bye. I stand there on the corner of Prince and Mercer, holding the pay phone receiver. It’s about 10:30, half an hour since we met Roman in the park. I can’t stop shaking and it’s making it hard to get change in the slot to make my next call. All around me, kids from NYU and weekenders from Jersey are walking the streets of SoHo, asking for directions to Balthazar. I bite down hard on my tongue until I taste blood and the shaking eases up. The card is in my back pocket where I put it when I changed clothes at my apartment. It’s folded inside the police photo of Yvonne’s bruises. I fold the picture back up, put it away and dial the number. It rings once. – Yes? – It’s me. – ’Bout time. – Yeah. – That’s some fucking mess you got over there, boy. – Yeah. – Shouldacalled me like I said. – Yeah. – Got anything to say ’bout that? – Sorry. – Yeah, well. So you ready to work together now? – Yeah. – Good, glad to hear it. Ed can’t come for me right away. He tells me I’ll have to wait and lie low until tomorrow evening. He tells me where and when to be, then hangs up. Every time I get a chance to stand still, I realize how much everything hurts and how tired I am. The wound in my side burns, my face throbs, all my bruises ache and my feet are cramped beyond belief. I stand here on the corner and look around at the normal people who aren’t being hunted by psychotics and the police, and I hate them. I stink of sweat and my clothes are a mess. I’m a wreck and I look it and I need a place to lie low and to not be noticed until morning. I eat twoVics and try to sleep on a sheet of cardboard spread out on the sidewalk under a construction scaffold outside theAngelika movie theater and no one bothers me at all. I’m now homeless in New York and, just like all the other homeless, I have become conveniently invisible. It’s not good sleep. I’m cold, the ground is hard and when I do manage to drift off, some pain or other fights through the chemicals and wakes me soon after. Mostly I lie on my right side with my back pressed up against the building and watch people’s feet walk past. I have Bud’s bag half-open and I keep one hand tucked in there, feeling him breathe and purr. I think about Russ, dead and alone on a downtown local. I think about my aluminum bat, the murder weapon, splotched with blood and covered with my fingerprints. I can’t remember if I left it in my apartment or his. No matter. The cops will have it soon, if not already. I wonder if Roman and Bolo grabbed an uptown train back to Spring Street or if they got off at Canal to wait for our train. What will they do if they find Russ? My head is clogged with mud. I wish I had a beer. I can’t tell if I’m falling asleep or just blacking out. Yes, I have the nightmare. Yes, it’s changed. Yes, Russ is in there now. I don’t want to think about it. At some point, while I sleep, Bud crawls out of his bag and curls up under my chin. When I wake he’s still there, trying to keep me warm. It’s light out, but Ed and Paris won’t pick me up for many hours. Bud is making a pained sound and I dig in the bag until I find his little bottle of pills. I hold him tight and force his jaws open and push one of the pills to the back of his throat. I hold his mouth shut until I feel him swallow. I look at the label. He’s supposed to take them with food. Fuck.Food. When was the last time he ate? I tuck him back in the bag, trying not to hurt his leg, and zip him in. Gettingmyself off the ground takes a couple of minutes. I can’t catalog the pains; everything hurts. I take a look around. It’s early Sunday morning.Little traffic, no people. I love Sunday in New York. The city exhales at the end of the weekend. It’s nice. I walk up the block to the grocery at the corner of Mercer andBleecker. I keep my Yankees jacket zipped way up and I have on my sunglasses and headphones. I try to get some news on the radio, but the batteries are dead. The store is empty except for the kid at the cash register looking at a martial arts magazine. He gives mea once-over, but I think it’s just because I look broke. I grab a couple cans of 9Lives, some AA batteries and a bagel with cream cheese wrapped in cellophane. I look at the beer; the coolers are locked until noon on Sundays. I get a bottle of water. The kid rings it up and I pay with the singles I got in change when I bought the tokens. On my way out of the store, I see the papers and remember the games. I want to check the scores, but I look at the headlines instead. The The All feature large reproductions of my booking photo. I glance at the kid. He reads his magazine, not bothering with me now that I’ve paid. I flip the The clock next to the register says 8:22A.M. I have almost nine hours to kill and I need to stay out of sight until then. I shuffle my way over to Broadway and Prince, just another stinky bum with a bad haircut and a cat in a bag. The token booth in the station for the N and R trains has a photocopy of a Wanted poster taped to the window. Guess who? I give the girl one of my twenties and ask for a fifteen-dollarMetroCard. It’s a great deal: they give you one extra ride free. She slides me the card and the five bucks change and never once looks at me. I walk down the stairs to the platform and wait about fifteen minutes for the N and take it out to Coney Island. Where else am I gonna kill the day? SPANG! There was no one on the train, so I opened a can of 9Lives, unzipped the bag and let Bud out. He went right through that first can. When it was empty I filled it with water from my bottle so he could have a drink, then opened the second can and watched him eat all of it. SPANG! Iunwrapped my bagel and had my own breakfast. It didn’t taste like anything at all, but I ate it in about thirty seconds and wished I’d had another. I drained my water bottle and put all the garbage back in the grocery sack and stared at the advertisements in the train. Dr. Z: dermatologist extraordinaire. Learn English!Jews for Jesus. Get your high school diploma now! It took about forty minutes to get to Coney Island, so I read them all a few times. SPANG! I got off the train at the end of the line, crossed over Surf Avenue and walked along the edge of the midway. The season is over and most of the stuff is closed for the rest of the year. SPANG! I stood by a fence and looked at the original Cyclone, half-collapsed and overgrown with weeds and ivy. On the other side of the midway the “new” Cyclone teeters, looking like it might fall to pieces any second itself. SPANG! I climbed the stairs up to the boardwalk. A few of the snack shacks were open and I thought about grabbing a dog.Maybe later. I crossed the wood planks to the sand and walked over the beach to the edge of the water and sat down. SPANG! I sat there for a good long while, trying to clear my head, to think. No luck. I got up and headed back to the boardwalk for that dog. And that’s when I saw the guy tinkering around with one of the pitching machines. SPANG! He wasn’t planning to open, so I had to talk him into it. Finally I gave him a twenty and he showed me a cage I could use.A softball cage. I gave him another twenty and he said I could use the fastball cage. I bought some tokens, grabbed a bat and stepped into the cage. SPANG! I put Bud down out of the line of fire, slipped off my headphones and sunglasses and dropped a token in the slot. SPANG! The machines pitchSpaldings. A light flashes on the front of the pitching machine to let you know when the next one is coming. SPANG! I let the first couple whiz past to get the timing and placement,then I stepped into the box. The balls came in just a little high and outside. I let another one by,then got myself hunkered down. I balanced myself just back of center, so I could lift my lead foot before throwing my weight forward. I kept my elbows in and circled my bat. The light flashed. The ball came to the top of the machine and shot toward me. I stepped into it, rotating my hips and shoulders, extending my arms and pulling the bat through the strike zone, letting my whole body do the work, not just my arms. The ball was huge, brilliant white and moving about eighty miles per hour. I haven’t swung at a ball since the day I broke my leg. The bat makes contact. The impact makes a noise. It echoes around inside the hollow aluminum cylinder and sounds like this: SPANG! If it weren’t for the fucking net, the ball would have gone over the Cyclone. And so would the next coupledozen I hit. Now the torque I’m putting on my wound is starting to hurt like hell. SPANG! Jimmy crack corn. SPANG! ’Cause I don’t care. SPANG! The balls jump off the bat like they’re scared and I groove homer after homer. My body relaxes. My mind clears. SPANG! I do the one thing I have ever been truly great at. SPANG! And for the first time I can remember, I look back at the road that led me here. SPANG! The long slide of my life from teenage superstar to alcoholic bartender. SPANG! The break in my leg that ended my baseball career before it started. SPANG! The calf that wandered out on the road and sent me and Rich crashing into a tree. SPANG! That sent Rich crashing into a tree. SPANG! The girl who dumped me and left me alone in New York. SPANG! The booze I poured down my throat. SPANG! The nowhere job that ruined my feet. SPANG! The cat Russ left me. SPANG! The bad guys chasing me around. SPANG! Mom and Dad scared and confused. SPANG! The friends who have died. SPANG! Been murdered. SPANG! The friend I have murdered. SPANG! All because I’ve spent my time waiting for things to work out for the best. SPANG! Like I fucking deserve it or something. SPANG! SPANG! SPANG! SPANG! SPANG! And something is certain. The past is over. My life will never be what it was. And considering what I’ve made of my life so far, that may not be such a bad thing after all. It’s time to stop hoping things are going to work out and start giving myself a chance to get out of this alive. Because I’m tired of being everybody’s stupid fucking patsy. It’s 11:00A.M. and I have a friend to see back in town. SPANG! I get off the N train at 8th and Broadway. The streets are filling now with shoppers andbrunchers. I duck my head down, walk along the edge of the sidewalk and mutter to myself. People stay out of my way and make a point of avoiding eye contact in case I might ask for change or help of any kind. On 9th Street I stop in front of an old tenement building, just around the corner from Sixth Avenue. I could buzz his apartment, but he might freak and call the cops. So I’m gonna have to try something else. I walk up the steps to the intercom box. There are four apartments on the top floor. I push the button for the first one, wait,get no answer. I push the second one. – – Uh… – – Uh, – – – Fucking French classes.I push the third button. – Yes? – UPS. – UPS? – Yeah. – You guys deliver on Sunday? Shit. – Sure, seven days a week. – Wow, never knew that. – Twenty-four, seven. – Wow. – So you want to buzz me in? – What is it? Uh. – It’s a box, how do I know what it is? – Well, who’s it. – Look, you got a package. You want it, buzz me in. BUZZZZ. I run up the stairs to the second floor and the apartment at the end of the hall. I knock loudly on the door. I hear a door open up on the top floor. I knock again and I hear someone moving around inside the apartment. Upstairs, the guy is waiting for his package. – Hey, UPS?You down there? – Comin’ up. I knock again.A sleepy voice from inside. – Yeah. Hang on. Tim opens the door a crack and looks out. When he sees me his face goes pale and he tries to slam the door shut, but I’ve already got my foot jammed in the opening. – Let me in, Tim. – Oh, fuck. Fuck. – Let me in. Please let me in. The guy from the top floor is coming down the stairs. – UPS? Timmy is trying to hold the door closed against me, his skinny arms shaking. – Help. Help. He wants it to be a scream, but he’s so scared that it just wheezes out with no force at all. – Please, Tim. I need help. – Help. Help. The guy from the intercom is getting close. – Hey! U! P! S! Tim’s face is red with strain. I put my weight into it and shove him back into his apartment. I’m through the door and closing it behind me and he’s trying to run away, but it’s a studio and there’s no fucking place to go. I lock the door and look out the peephole and see the back of a guy in boxers and a T-shirt standing on the landing and looking down the stairwell. I turn back to the room. Tim is scrambling up the ladder to his loft bed. I can see the wire to the phone leading up there. I grab the wire and give it a yank and the phone flies off the loft to the floor and lands on a bunch of dirty clothes. Tim makes a scared sound, looks at me and climbs the rest of the way up onto the bed. I can see him up there, huddled in the corner, rocking back and forth and making a quiet keening sound. I take Bud’s bag from my shoulder and put it on the floor. I walk across the room to the ladder and climb it until my head sticks up over the edge. Tim pushes himself farther back against the wall and grabs a pillow and points it at me as if it were a weapon. – Don’t you hurtme. Don’t hurt me. Don’t hurt me. I want to leave. I want to leave him alone and out of all this, but I can’t. – Tim. – No. – Tim! – Oh, God. – Tim! I didn’t. I swear I didn’t. I. I. I. Slowly I climb the rest of the way onto the bed and crawl over to him. I take the pillow out of his shaking hands and put it in his lap and put my head on it and wrap my arms around his waist. – Oh, Jesus, Tim. I. I. I. After a while he climbs down, gets a pint bottle ofTullamore Dew from a shelf and drinks it. The truth is,Tim’s connections to the underworld aren’t much more extensive than mine. But he knows a guy and makes a call. We’re gonna have to go out to Brooklyn, to Williamsburg and that’s got me a little nervous. I’ve been burning up a lot of luck walking the streets. Tim tells me not to worry, makes a call to another guy he knows. We sit in his apartment waiting and Tim alternates sips of his Dew with huge bong rips. He offers me both. I pass. As it is, I’m getting pretty baked just sitting here breathing the secondhand smoke. His phone rings once. He puts the bong aside and drags a Levi’s jacket from the laundry pile. I collect Bud, get him in the bag and head for the door. Tim stops me before I can open it. – So check it out. Both these guys I called aresupercool, but they expect to be paid. – No problem. – Sure, but just check it out.The guy out front? Getting him up on a Sunday, that costs extra, so he’s gonna want a couple hundred. – No problem. – Yeah, but check it out.The other guy? His stuff usually runs a couple grand. Now, with the rush job and the hazardous nature of the duty, that could go up to five or six. – No problem. – CuzI have a relationship with these guys. I reach inside my jacket and pull out the bundle of hundreds I took from the big bag. I peel off ten and hand them to Tim. – I’ll get you more. Tim looks at the cash in his hand and the cash in my hand and nods. – No problem. Outside, a Lincoln Town Car with tinted windows is parked at the curb. We climb in the back. The driver is Puerto Rican, not too tall, big square shoulders, perfectly groomed hair, wearing a nice suit. He’s got Barry White on the CD player: “I’m Gonna Love You Just a Little More, Baby.” Tim pulls the door closed and the guy turns in the seat and puts out his hand. Tim gives him some skin and points a thumb at me. – Mario, this is Billy. He’s learning the trade. Mario offers his hand and I give him skin. He smiles. – Good to know you, Billy. You guys got a joint? Timmy smiles and whips out a bone and passes it to Mario, who twirls it under his nose and sniffs it like a cigar. He nods and smiles. – Sweet. Where to, guys? Timmy leans back in his seat. – Williamsburg.Metropolitan, off Graham. – You got it. Mario puts the Lincoln in drive and pulls away. He pushes in the dashboard lighter and slips on a pair of huge blue-tinted sunglasses. The lighter pops out. He uses it to spark the joint and takes a massive hit. He grins and exhales the smoke between his clenched teeth. – Sweet.Super sweet. He offers the joint to us and Tim shakes his head. – No, man, enjoy. But can we get some privacy back here? – You got it. Mario touches a button on the dash and a polarized glass screen rolls up between us. Tim tells me more about the guy we’re going to see and I watch the streets reel past as Mario drives us to the bridge, over the river, into Brooklyn and to a small yellow duplex in the heart of Williamsburg. Tim points at the front door. – Check it out. There’s two doors and neither one is marked. Push the bell for the one on the right and he’ll let you into the hall. There’s an intercom in the hall and when he asks you who you are, tell him you’re Billy.Right? – Sure. – So, you sure I can’t wait or come get you later? – No, but you can do me a favor. – Sure. – Stay away from home for the next twenty-four or so. Tim scratches his nose and rubs his eyes. – Sure. Why? – Check it out, Timmy. The cops got to be looking up all the regulars from the bar, so they’ll be calling sooner or later. – No problem. I know how to talk to cops. – Sure, but some other guys might call, too. – Oh. – Yeah. So just go hang out somewhere. Don’t go home at all today. – What about tomorrow? I drape the strap of Bud’s bag over my shoulder and put my hand on the door latch. – Tomorrow they won’t be around. – Cool. – Yeah. Cool. I open the door and climb out. The driver’s window zips down, weed smoke and Barry waft out. Mario smiles at me from behind his glasses. I take three hundreds from my pocket and hand them to him. He nods his head. – Sweet. He reaches inside his jacket, takes out a card and hands it to me. It’s glossy black and has – You need a lift, call me. I nod. His window zips back up and the Lincoln pulls away smoothly and disappears around a corner. There’s a White Castle just up the street and my mouth actually waters at the thought of steam-grilledminiburgers, but it’s just another public place where I could be spotted. The duplex in front of me is a two-story wood job, exactly the kind of building they don’t have in Manhattan. In fact, the tallest buildings around here are no more than six stories. The sky seems huge and open and I can see storm clouds moving in from the south. I walk up to the right-hand door and push the little black button set into the door frame. I hear a chime and then a loud buzz and a click as the door unlatches for me. I step quickly inside and the buzz stops. I close the door and I’m standing in a small entryway with a linoleum floor and Sheetrock walls and an old steel factory door in front of me. There’s an intercom unit set into the wall next to the door with the Plexiglas-shielded lens of avideocamera above it. I push the talk button. – I’m Billy. A moment’s pause, then another buzz and click and I push the steel door open and step through. It’s not really a duplex. The interior of the ground floor has been gutted to make a single large space. It looks like a living area. I can see a couch and a TV and, off in a corner, a bed. But I can’t see much more because of the guy standing in front of me, holding the big gun. The gun is a Desert Eagle.45. I know because I have seen it waved around by so many bad guys on TV. The dude on the other side of the gun is in his twenties, has black hair with bleached tips, is wearing a vintage – Get the fuck out,Maddog. Clearly there has been a misunderstanding. – I’m Billy. The gun is pointed at my face. – You’re a fucking mad dog killer. Get the fuck out. Oh. – No, I’m. – Get the fuck out so I don’t have to figure out a way to get rid of your fucking corpse. – Tim sent me. – No shit. If you see him before the cops gun you down, you can tell him I’m pissed. Get.The. Fuck. Out. – Can I show you something? I start to move my hand toward my jacket pocket. – Don’t put your hand in that pocket. My fingertips are inside my jacket. He jabs the barrel of the gun an inch closer to my face. – Don’t put your hand in that pocket. My fingers are all the way inside. The gun moves closer still and the end of the barrel nowlooks big enough for me to stick my head inside. My hand is in the pocket. – Leave it there. Leave your hand in that fucking pocket. I start to take my hand out. – Don’t! Don’t! He has the barrel of the gun stuck up against my right eyebrow. He’s got his arm stretched out to the limit. Trying to keep as far from me as possible so he won’t be splashed by too much of my blood when he shoots me, I suppose. My hand is out of my pocket. His pretty eyes are locked on mine. – Drop it. Fucking drop it. I drop it and it hits the floor with a soft flap. We stand there. Then he takes three quick steps straight back away from me and looks down at the bundle of hundreds on the floor. – It’s about nine grand. I have a bit more on me, but I might need it. I can get more to you later. I didn’t kill any of those people they say I did. He looks from the cash to me and back again. – How much more? – Alot, but it may take a while. He looks down again, the gun still on me, and then backs up. – Fuck it. Nine’s good for now. He stuffs the gun in his waistband. – He turns and heads for a spiral steel staircase over by the bed. I pick up the cash and follow. Billy has an awesome stereo. Most of the components are exotic German stuff I’ve never heard of, the speakers wired throughout his workshop to provide virtually flawless surround sound no matter where you stand. We’re listening to the Psychedelic Furs’ – These guys really never got their due,ya know? There was so much crap being ground out in the early eighties that they just kind of fell through the gap, except for “Pretty in Pink.” And that was more a hit because of the movie, which I do love, don’t get me wrong. But listen. I listen. – This stuff holds up. Try listening to fucking ABC or Flock of Seagulls now, or even DuranDuran and it just sounds dated.Totally dated. The second floor has been gutted just like the first, but up here it’s all shop space. Billy sets stuff out on a bench next to his drafting table and a custom desktopcomputer, that looks to be based around a couple Power Mac G4s. He waves me a bit closer and switches on a set of lamps and shines them in my face. – Come here. Let me get a good look at you,Maddog. I step closer and he takes hold of my chin and tilts my face this way and that in the light. – I’m not a mad dog. He lets go of my face and takes a step back to look me over. – I didn’t kill those people. I’m not a mad dog. He sits down in front of his computer. – At this point, man, I don’t really give a fuck. – I do. He looks at me over his shoulder. – Fair enough,Maddog. As long as you’re paying, you didn’t kill anybody. But like I said, I really don’t give a fuck. So can it and I’ll try and get some work done. I sit on a folding metal chair, unzip Bud and take him out. He’s awake, but a little dopey I think. Those pills kind of knock him out. I put him on the floor and he curls up under my chair. Billy starts doing things with the computer and pieces of paper and plastic and pens and razor blades and ink. I stay out of the way. – I’m gonna give you some hair. Hours have passed. Billy sent out to the White Castle and had a sack of burgers and fries delivered. It was really good. Bud is walking around, checking stuff out. I’ve been watching Billy, doing what he tells me to. – It will be better if the passport and the driver’s license show you with some hair, especially if it’s two different styles. That way everything doesn’t look like it was done at the same time. Thing is, I don’t want to give you your natural color,cuz then you’ll just look like the Wanted posters. So you’re gonna be blond, OK? – Sure. – OK. He took a few photos of me earlier and scanned them into the computer. He’s already digitally removed the bruises and cuts from my face and now he starts laying in various styles and shades of blond hair. I’ve moved my chair close so I can peek over his shoulder. He is good. He’s really fucking good. – So, for the passport, I’m giving you a little buzz thing and how about thismoppy thing for the license? I just watch while he moves things around with his mouse and occasionally pushes a button. He gets up and goes over to a set of large printers. He feeds a small sheet of plasticized cardboard into one. – Those will burn for a while. So, let’s do some work on you. He leads me to a corner of the shop concealed behind a heavy rubber drape on ceiling tracks, like in a hospital. He pulls back the drape to reveal a bathroom. He switches on more lights and looks at me again. – You’re stuck with the bruises. I could put some makeup on them, but it wouldn’t last very long. Leave them alone and if anyone asks, tell them you were in a car accident. Tell them you got rear-ended and smacked the steering wheel with your face. The hair I want to change. That fuzz is too dark for the blond I gave you in the photos. We can’t match the color exactly, but we can bleach it so it looks like you’re trying to be hip or something. You ever bleach your hair before? – No. – It hurts, gonna burn your scalp like hell. It does hurt.Quite a bit. My name is John. John Peter Carlyle. Billy made me write it out a couple hundred times before he’d let me sign it on the documents. He said I needed to work at it to make it look natural. And it does, it looks great, it all looks great. Billy has everything laid out on a table and he explains it all to me while he takes sips of Dr Pepper from a two-liter bottle. – The passport and the license should get you through any kind of airport thing and past any border. I put stamps for Mexico, Canada and France in the passport to give you a little travel history, backdated everything and distressed it all so it looks like you’ve had it for a while. The problem is,there’s no backup identity in any of the official computers. If a cop or someone actually runs your name through a computer or tries to zip that driver’s license, it’s gonna come up blank and the jig will be up, so don’t let it happen. Got that? Bud is back in my lap. I scratch his ears and nod. – OK.Now, the credit cards? Those are different. I do most of my business in high-end plastic. Carlyle is a fake identity, but he has an actual credit history. You could use those cards and as long as you paid the bills, you could just hang on to them. Don’t. Use them for plane ticketscuz they look for people booking last-minute trips in cash. Use them for the tickets,then get rid of them. You got a wallet? – No. He digs in a crate under the table and pulls out two cardboard boxes. One is filled with used wallets, the other with photos. – Take a wallet. Bend it around, twist it up a bit. Also take a couple pictures. Don’t go crazy,cuz if someone asks you who’s in the picture, you need to be able to answer. Carlyle is single according to his credit applications, so take a girlfriend and maybe a nice middle-aged couple to be your folks, but no kids. I sift through the photos in the box. I find one of a pretty brunette leaning against a tree. I find another of a couple in their early sixties standing in a kitchen somewhere, looking happy. – And give meall your old ID. Carry that shit around and you’ll end up giving it to some teller, she asks for a second piece of ID to cash a check. I hand himall my ID, everything that says Henry Thompson. – Don’t talk to people, but don’t be rude. If they ask you where you’re from, say New York. Keep the details to a minimum and don’t improvise. You get on a plane, tell some hag in the next seat you live on West Eighty-second, next thing you know, she lives there, too. Give her a bogus address, turns out it’s hers. Then you got to kill the bitch or something. Best bet, wear that Walkman and don’t play it too loud and no one will fuck with you. And don’t try to fly in those clothes; they reek. I tell him thank you and collect the papers and plastic: passport, driver’s license, Social Security, gym membership, bank card, library card, Blockbuster membership. I put Bud in the bag and head for the door, followed by Billy. He stands aside to let me into the little exit hall. – You should get rid of the cat. I stare at him. – You’re carrying around a cat, man. I can give you papers and bleach the hair, but you’re still a dude walking around with a cat and that’s a pretty big fucking identifying feature. “Did you notice anything unusual about the man?” “Weeelll… He was carrying a cat, if that’s any help, Officer.” Get what I mean? Leave the cat here. I’ll take care ofit, I know a chick who digs cats. – I can’t. He looks me over like I’m just about the stupidest sack of shit he’s ever seen. – Some mad dog. OK, look: It’s dark out and it’s supposed to rain some. Plus, with the big game, there shouldn’t be a lot of people out tonight. You try to stay away from bright public places and, uh, keep the cat in the bag. – Great. I open the outer door. Sure enough, it smells like rain and I can feel the muscles in my damaged calf starting to cramp. I scratch at my head; it itches and burns from the bleach job. – I’ll send you more cash when the dust clears. – Whatever. Look, don’t scratch like that or it’ll scab up, look like shit and feel even worse. I stop scratching. – Thanks. – No problem. Well, you go get ’em,Maddog. I let the door fall closed behind me. John Peter Carlyle and I head for the L train back to Manhattan.Me, myself and my cat. The asshole in the seat across from mine won’t stop looking at me. He’s got a goddamn magazine. Why doesn’t he just fucking read it? He’ll look at it for a couple seconds, then glance up and check me out again. Fuck! I’ve got my Walkman and my sunglasses and my new blond hair and myreeky clothes and this guy just can’t take his eyes off of me. He looks at me again and I stare right back at him. He puts his eyes in his magazine,then glances back up to find me still staring at him. He looks back down. – Hey. He keeps his face in the magazine, I think it’s – Hey! Man, he can really read that magazine when he wants to. – Hey, you.Scorsese. He looks up a little. – Yeah, you. You got a problem? He looks back at his magazine. – Hey. I said, “Do you have a problem?” He doesn’t look up, but he mumbles something. – What was that? I didn’t hear that. – I don’t have a problem. – So then mind your own business and don’t stare at people. It’s rude. He gives a tiny nod and keeps his eyes locked on the page in front of him. I stare at him for a few more seconds,then take a quick look around the car. Passengers with something to look at are doing so and the ones without are either staring off into space or have their eyes closed. No one will look at me or that other guy for the rest of the trip. My heart goes BANG-BANG-BANG! The train passes under the East River and stops at First Avenue in the heart of my neighborhood. The guy with the magazine and several other passengers get off, but I see him and a few of the others board the next car down.Trying to get away from the smelly freak. I watch the people getting on the train, fearing a familiar face, but I don’t recognize anyone. Most of the new passengers are wet. The rain must have started up. The train moves on. I think about the chase last night, on this train, through these same stops. I still don’t know what happened to Russ. He must have been found by now. I looked at a little news on the TV back at Billy’s, but they didn’t say anything about Russ. It was all about the murders and the search for me. I turned it off before I could get too freaked out. At Union Square, some yahoos wearing head-to-toe Mets gear get on. They’re mouthing off to one another and talking real fucking big for a bunch of fans whose team is skidding hard. I want to say something and put them in their places, but I keep my head down and my mouth shut. If I ever had any good karma, it’s been cashed in and then some. The train stops at Eighth Avenue, end of the line. The Mets fans pile out in a herd, jostling their way to their favorite sports bar. I trace the path I took with Russ last night, up the stairs and the ramp. This time I take the turnstiles out of the station and go up to the street. There’s a nice soft shower falling. I left Billy’s around 6:30, so it must be just about 7:00. The Mets game starts at 7:30 if this rain doesn’t cause a delay and fuck things up. I walk west on 14th into the meat-packing district. Past the actual meat markets and the underground sex clubs and the new chichi restaurants, 14th Street runs into Tenth Avenue. The street is half cobbles and half ripped-up tarmac here, crosshatched by old train tracks and shadowed by an industrial skyway that links two warehouses. I wait in a patch of darkness, leaning against a billboard’s support pillar. Up the way is a gas station for cabs and the street is dotted with Yellows waiting to be retrieved by drivers on coffee and piss breaks. The Metro buses do driver swaps here as well, so there’s a short line of buses parked along the block. But the real trade is still the hookers. The area is essentially devoid of residential housing or retail, so no one has bothered to clear out the whores, which is good news for all the businessmen who stop here in their SUVs on weekdays to get a quick hum job before they split back to their families in Connecticut. Most of the trade is pretty bent, not the little-boy hustlers you find on Christopher Street so much as transvestites and transsexuals. I wave off a couple offers. All and all, things are pretty slow, what with it being a Sunday and the rain and the big game. Come by here after the game if the Mets win and the place will be hopping. I think about these things and they mostly keep me from thinking about Yvonne’s apartment being a short walk away and that helps me not to think about Yvonne and that helps me not to think about Paul’s and that helps me not to think about Russ and how I really did fucking kill him. Shit, oh, shit. The Caddie glides to a stop at the curb several feet away and the rear passenger door swings open. I walk over and stick my head inside. Paris is behind the wheel, not looking at me, Ed reclines at the far side of the backseat. It’s dark inside the car and looks even darker because of the sunglasses I’m wearing. The sunglasses, I now realize, that are just like the ones Ed and Paris sport. Ed is looking at me from over his glasses and below the brim of his cowboy hat. He pats the seat next to him. I look at the street around me and let a few more drops of rain fall on the back of my neck, then climb in and close the door. Paris puts the Caddie in drive and Ed shakes his head. – Christ, you stink. I crack the window to let some of the smell out and take off my headphones. – Look at you. Man, Paris, take a look at the boy. Paris turns his head to take a look at me. – Looks like crap. He turns back to the road. – No, nah, man. He looks tough.Youlookin ’ tough, Hank. – Thanks. – Sure, sure. So, not to be rude, but where the fuck’s our money? I take off the sunglasses. – Drive over to Twelfth and Twenty-eighth.Chelsea Mini Storage. – No shit? – No shit. Paris makes a turn at 23rd and takes us to Twelfth, then heads north. Ed is watching me and smiling. – Really, man, I can’t get over it. Couple days ago, you were just some cat with the shit beat out of him, but now you got something. You look like a player now, son. Focused, determined. Look at me. I look at him. – No, man, look me in the eyes. He takes off his sunglasses. – That’s it, stare right in there. I stare into his sleepy, bent eyes for a couple seconds, then fear crawls all over me and I look away. He slips his glasses back on. – That’s all right, man. That is all right. You definitely got a little Eastwood going on in there.Without a doubt. Way to go. I unzip the bag. Bud sticks his head up and forces the zipper the rest of the way open so he can slide out. He stretches and starts to groom. Ed frowns. – A cat, huh? – Yeah. – That’s cool, I guess. Just don’t let it fuck up the upholstery. The Caddie pulls to a stop and Paris turns off the engine. – We’re here. It’s closed. I look out the window and see the sign posted on the office door, which very clearly sets out the weekly hours for Chelsea Mini Storage. I take special note of the fact that they are open until 8:00P.M. every night of the week except for Sunday, when they close at 7:00P.M. I freak. – Fuck! Shit! Piss! Tits! Motherfucker! Shit! I pound my head against the back of the front seat and Bud hops from my lap down to the floor. – Un-fucking-believable! One, just one fucking fucked-up fucking thing can’tfucking work. FUCK! Fuck me! Fucking God! I. I. I. I wrap my arms around myself and rock back and forth. – Why doesn’t anything work? Ed puts a hand on my shoulder. – Take it easy, man. No sweat. We got it covered. I look up and he gives my shoulder a little squeeze. Paris reaches under the front seat and pulls out a double-barreled shotgun, sawed off to about twelve inches. – Yeah, man, we got it covered. The drizzle is starting to turn to real rain. I stand outside the office door with my headphones and sunglasses on and knock on the glass. It’s 7:37P.M. There’s one guy inside, trying to get things settled for the night so he can go home and watch the game. I knock again. The guy looks over at me and I wave. He shakes his head and goes back to work. I take out the key to Russ’s unit and tap on the glass with it. He looks up again and I wave the key at him. He points at the sign with the posted hours and then at the clock on the office wall, shakes his head and goes back to work. I start rapping on the glass with the key. The guy tries not to look up, then finally does and I wave for him to come over. He points at the clock, flips me off and goes back to work. I start knocking as hard as I can without breaking the glass. He looks at me, then turns and walks out of the office through a door at the back. I keep knocking. He comes back into the office followed by a big guy in a security guard uniform. The boss guy sits back at his desk and the security guard walks over to the door. I stop knocking and he yells through the locked door. – We’re closed. – Yeah, I know, but I have to get some stuff from my unit. – We’re closed. – Yeah, but I really need my stuff. – We’re closed. He turns his back to walk away and I start banging on the glass again. He turns back. – Knock it off. I bang harder. – You best knock it off or you gonna get it. Bang, bang, bang. – OK. You want it, you got it. He takes the keys from the clip on his belt, unlocks the door and pushes it open. As I move back, Paris steps from the shadows next to the door. He presses the barrels of the shotgun against the guard’s face and marches him right back into the office, followed by me and Ed. The boss guy sees us come in and stands up and puts his hands on his head. Ed locks the door and I take the bandanna he gave me back in the car out of my pocket and tie it around my face. It’s black, just like the ones worn by the brothersDuRant#233;. I’m an outlaw. Every now and then, if you’re lucky, you get to see someone capable of true excellence do what it is they are best at. As a boy I got to see Willie Mays play baseball. He never got credit for half of what he did because he made it look so easy. I don’t know how hard armed robbery is, but Ed and Paris make it look easy. They work fast and I try to keep up. They force the guard and the boss out of the office and into the loading area, near the elevators. Paris keeps the shotgun where they can see it, while Ed does all the talking and occasionally points at them with a Colt that looks identical to the one Paris used to shoot rats at the dump. – Who else is in the building? The boss shakes his head. – No one. – Bullshit! Who else? – No one. Ed steps over and slaps him lightly on the cheek, like he’s a stubborn child. – No one? – They all split fast so they could watch the Mets game. – Are the elevators still on? – Yes. – Are the alarms armed for the upper floors? – No. Ed reaches out and gives him that little loving slap again. – I will kill you. I will kill you. – Off, they’re all off. Ed turns to me. – Where to? – Fourth floor. Paris stays behind in case of trouble and the rest of us get on the elevator. Ed makes the guard and the boss stand at the far end of the elevator so he can cover them, while I operate the controls and take us to the fourth floor. I pull the doors open and Ed and I step out, followed by the others. I tell them the unit number and they lead the way. At the door, Ed covers them and I open the lock and pull the door open. Ed takes a quick look inside. – Cleanthat shit up and bring the bag out. I go inside and stuff the cash Russ and I left scattered on the floor back into the hockey bag,then I zip it up and drag it into the hall. It’s heavy.Really heavy. Ed steps away from the door and waves the guys into the unit. He steps inside the unit, close to the boss. – Where’s the alarm pad? The boss nods. – Right next to the office door in a locked case. – Where’s the key? – On the ring in my pocket. It’s the small silver round one. Ed slips his hand in the boss’s pocket and pulls out the keys. – How do we activate the alarm? – Eight-four-five-one. Then press “cycle.” You have thirty seconds to leave and lock the door with the biggest key on the ring before the alarm goes off. Ed walks very close to him. – Tell me again. – Eight-four-five-one.Cycle. Thirty seconds. The boss tries to cower away from Ed, but Ed slips an arm around his shoulders and pulls him close. – I’ll kill you both. I’ll come back from the dead and kill you both. – Eight-four-five-onecycle thirty. Ed backs out of the room and I close the door and lock it. He helps me carry the money to the elevator. We go down, get Paris, activate the alarm, lock the door behind us, throw the money in the trunk, get in the Caddie and drive away. Ed pulls the bandanna from his face and looks at me. – See, we got it covered. We’re in the apartment they grew up in. – Roman got the Chink, and your boss got Bert, and Russ got Ernie. So who got Russ? Their mother died some years back, never having reconciled with her hoodlum sons. A cousin got the lease and the brothers arranged for the apartment to be maintained as a hideout. Ed told me about it as we drove out here to Queens. Paris listened and added nothing of his own. I watch Bud lap milk from a little blue bowl on the linoleum kitchen floor. Paris is sitting at the Formica-topped kitchen table, surrounded by the cash, tapping out numbers on a calculator and scribbling them down in a yellow legal pad. Ed and I sit on a beat-up couch with plastic covers. He’s drinking a Heineken. I’m drinking ginger ale. – I got Russ. Paris looks up from his figures and Ed nods his head. – No shit? – No shit. – What’d you get ’imwith? – A baseball bat. – Fuck. I’m squeezing little dents into my soda can,then popping them out. Pop, pop, pop, pop. – Well, Russ wasa OK cat, but I guess he kind of screwed us all. Damn, a baseball bat? – Uh-huh. – I’m tellin’ you, Hank,watchin ’you, it’s likewatchin ’ a egg get all hard-boiled. No shit. Paris clears his throat and Ed looks over at him. – Well? – Four million five hundred twenty-eight thousand. – No shit? – Yep. – How ’bout that?Only twenty-two K short. Let’s hear it for Russ keeping his fingers out of the till. I take a swig of my soda. – Exceptfor trying to rob it all. – Well, yeah, but the man wasn’t exactly made of steel,ya know? – I know. – Great thief, though.Great fucking thief. He and Paris raise their beers and drink a toast. My stomach churns as I think about the pulpy dent I put in the side of Russ’s head. I sip more ginger ale and look out the tiny slit window, which lets no light into the basement apartment. I get up off the couch. – I need to use the can. Ed has gone over to the fridge for another beer. – Down the hall on the right. Hold the lever down for a second or it won’t flush all the way. I put my soda can on the coffee table, grab my bag and walk down the shag-carpeted hallway. – Don’t take forever. I want to make that call. The walls of the hallway are lined with photographs, each one marking the passage of another year. The first is of a handsome young couple with their newborn, a chubby little Paris. The next one is the same: the couple is on the plastic-covered couch, Paris between them getting bigger. Ed arrives in the third photo and sits in his big brother’s little lap. They grow, Paris a shy beanpole and Ed, small and intense, always wearing the outfit his brother wore a few photos back. At the tenth picture, the father disappears. There are six more. In each the boys edge toward one end of the couch and their mother toward the other, until in the final picture they sit at opposite ends, staring into the camera, unsmiling. Soon after this point, these small, beautiful boys will whip another child to death. I look at the eyes in the photos: Paris looks afraid, Ed looks hurt. I go into the bathroom. The toilet has one of those fuzzy covers and a cushy seat. I sit to pee just because it looks so comfy, and it is. I hold the handle down and keep it there while the toilet flushes. I take off my jacket and grimy sweatshirt and crusty T-shirt and unwind my bandage. I dig the first-aid stuff out of my bag and clean my wound again and rewrap it. Then I find an extra T-shirt and a heavy flannel in the bag and put them on. There’s a wicker laundry hamper in the corner and I toss my dirty stuff inside. When I packed the bag, I didn’t bother with pants. Way to think ahead, asshole. I look in the mirror and John Carlyle looks out. He looks like he’d like to kick my ass. I open the door and go back down the hall so I can use Ed’s phone to set up Roman and Bolo to be murdered. I feel pretty good about it. Does that make me a bad person? Ed tells me what to say. – You’re a shit eater, Roman. Great lines. – And you aren’t too fucking smart, either. Fucking Shakespeare. – Isn’t that right, Roman; you’re a shit eater and you aren’t too fucking smart? He’s not talking yet, so I improvise a little. – Use that key yet, Roman? Go and open that storage unit yet? By the way, you can have any of my old stuff. I’m gonna buy new stuff with my four and a half million fucking dollars. Just don’t take the beanbag chair. I love that fucking chair. It speaks. – You’re making a mistake. – The only mistake I’m making is not calling the papers and telling them about you. The only mistake I’m making is not spending a few grand of my money on making you dead. Ed is twirling a finger at me, telling me to get on with it. – Instead, I’m gonna give you four million. Do you want to know why I’m gonna give you four million and keep only a half million for myself? – Yes. – I’m gonna give you four million to help me get out of town and to help keep the Russian fucking Mafia from coming after me. I’m gonna give you that money to get you out of my fucking life forever. And then I want to go away. Sound reasonable? – Yes. – Good. Paris is out front getting something from the car. Ed sits right across the little kitchen table from me. I try not to look at him too much while I’m talking because he has his sunglasses off and those fucking eyes arecreeping me out. – At ten, I want you and Bolo to walk over to Astor Place and stand out on the traffic island, the one with the big cube. – And? – And just stand there, stand there and stand there with cars passing by until I feel safe and then I’ll walk over from wherever the fuck I am and I’ll give you a very big bag full of money. – And? – And then I will go away and I will trust that you won’t shoot me in front of a city full of witnesses. I will trust that you understand it is in your best interest that the police do not catch me, because I will tell them all about you. I will trust you understand that if the Russians find me, I will tell them it was you that killed their boys. Which may be a fucking lie, but who’s counting? I hear the front door open and close as Paris comes back in. Ed is gesturing for me to wrap it up. – Are we all together on this, Roman? – Sure. – See you at ten. – Too bad about Russ. – Yeah, too bad. – I mean, his dying at your hands. That pretty much screwed you and your chances of being Mr. InnocentIn Over My Head. That was your point of no return, Hank. No going back now. No normal life for you. – Yeah, pretty much.Your point? – Don’t fuck with me too much, Hank. I’ve got a temper. I’m known for it. And you’re a murderer now. No one will miss you when you’re gone. – Good point, Roman, I am a murderer. Don’t forget that. OK? I push the power stud on the phone and break the connection. Ed is nodding his head and smiling. – Nowthat’s the shit, right there, that’s the shit.Very slick. “I am a murderer. Don’t forget that.” And just, click. Just hang up.Very slick. What do you think, Paris? Pretty slick, huh? Paris is standing in the doorway of the kitchen, holding a large black alloy attach#233; case. A little grin slides along his lips. – Yeah, slick. He hefts the case and points at the table. – Why don’t you clean that off and I’ll show you something real slick, Mr. Bad-Ass. The town I grew up in was a gun town. We never had them in my family, but most of the kids I knew grew up shooting and hunting. I’d go up in the hills with them or out to the Rod and Gun Club and plug away for a few hours. I’d flip through their back issues of Paris sets the case on the table, works the little combination locks, flips the catches and opens it up. The interior of the case is lined with black foam rubber. Nestled in this lining are eight very beautiful tools designed for the single purpose of ending human life. Ed reaches into the case and runs his fingertips over all the steel. – So how ’bout it, Hank? Youwanna carry a piece on this or what? When I was a kid, my mom would let me go to R-rated films as long as they were rated R because of sex and cursing, not violence. I got to see Ed takes a small gun from the case and holds it out to me. – This is perfect for you, a real classic. I know this gun. It’s a.32 Colt Detective Special. It’s a narrow snub-nose revolver with the hammer filed down to a nubbin so it won’t snag on anything as you whip it out of your shoulder holster. It has no safety, minimum recoil, is designed for concealment and very short range combat. I take the gun from Ed. – Careful, it’s loaded. I keep my finger off the trigger and keep the barrel of the weapon pointed at the floor. I thumb the catch and flip the cylinder open: full load, five rounds. I empty the bullets into the palm of my left hand, flip the cylinder closed, place my finger on the trigger, raise the weapon, point it at the wall, inhale and, in the pause just before I exhale, I squeeze the trigger in a single smooth motion. The action is just a bit tight, so that it gives you a real sense of control at the firing point. The hammer pulls back as the cylinder rotates and then snaps down hard with the sound unique to an empty gun. – Hey, Paris, looks like our boy knows what he’s doing here. Paris nods. – Just full of hidden talents, ain’t he? I hand the gun and the bullets back to Ed. – I’ll pass. My mom wouldn’t like it. I nod in the direction of a little black-and-white TV, with rabbit ears on top of it, that sits on the kitchen counter underneath a picture of a black Jesus. – Any chance we might get a look at the game on that thing? The brothersDuRant#233; look at each other and you’d think those boys might never stop laughing. Mets vs. Braves: top of the third, no score, rain delay. The Giants game won’t start for a couple hours yet. We flip on the news. They’ve found Russ. Some do-gooder got concerned when Russ’s body tumbled to the floor of the C train and lay there without moving for about five minutes. She waited until she got out at the JFK stop and told the station manager that there was a guy on the train who looked pretty sick. The train had pulled out of the station by then, but he radioed ahead. A couple stops down the line, some cops checked it out and things moved pretty quickly after that. They’re calling him one of my “known associates” and have added his murder to the list of crimes for which I am being sought. Paris has been taking the guns and the money to the Caddie, along with a few odds and ends from the house, while Ed and I flip through the few channels that come in clearly on this relic TV. – How’s it feel, Hank? – What’s that? – Being wanted? I think about that. I think about it for a while. – OK, I guess. I haven’t really been wanted for a long time. – Infamous. – Yeah. – Kinda cool, isn’t it? – Kinda. – Got no past, nowhere to go back to. – Yeah. – Just today and maybe tomorrow. – Yeah. – ’Cept, course, you got people out there still.Right? – Yeah. – That’s tough, man, very tough. Me and Paris, we only got each other, so we just roll. Be tough to have folks out there worrying after you. – Yeah. – Best way to deal with that? Know what it is? – What? – Just don’t think about them. Justdon’t fucking think about them at all. Paris comes back in, walks over to the TV and switches it off. – Fuckin’ thing will rot your brain. Let’s go. Once again, Paris drives while Ed and I ride in the back. Bud sits in my lap, being mellow. The Caddie is vintage prime, so there’s no tape deck, but Paris grabbed an oldboombox back at the apartment and he has it up in the front seat with him. He drives with one hand and, with the other, he sorts through a shoebox full of old cassettes, some store-bought, some homemade, none with cases. He pulls them out one after another, checks them out and tosses them back in the box. He pulls one out, reads the hand-lettered label on its front and sticks it in the player. – Check it out. He hits play. It’s Curtis Mayfield, “Keep on Keeping On.” Ed leans forward. – Oh yeah, baby, oh yeah. You know this, Hank? – Sure. – Curtis. Wow. He reaches into the front seat and turns it up. He and Paris sing along a little. They start laughing and Ed squeezes his brother’s shoulder and leans back next to me. – That was our mom’s shit, all the classic soul, all the funky stuff.Talkin’ all the time about the music of our people and a “positive black self-image.” Up front, Paris is still singing along under his breath. Ed leans his head close to mine and whispers. – That’skinda why she washed her hands of us. Far as she was concerned, we turned out just another couple a nigger hoodlums and she raised us for better. I wrote her off years before, but Paris took it pretty hard,bein ’ cast out and never talkin’ to her before she died. He’s my big brother, but We’re on the Queensboro Bridge, heading back into Manhattan. Ed points straight ahead. – Take the scenic route. All goes well, none of us will see this place again, ’least not for a long-ass time. Paris takes us west on 59th, along Central Park South, past the Plaza and the Ritz, to Columbus Circle and down Broadway. Someone visited me from California once and said he thought of Times Square as the pumping heart of New York. I told him it was more like the running asshole. But it is something to see, at night, in the rain. By the time we reach Broadway and Astor, “The Underground” is playing. It’s all fucked up, distorted guitar and Curtis growling “the underground” over and over. Paris stops at the curb. I open the door and step out into pouring rain. I want to bring Bud, but Ed is afraid he’ll get in my way, so he’s making me leave him behind. Ed sticks his head out the door. Rainwater streams off the brim of his hat. He’s holding Bud, keeping him from leaping out of the car after me. – Now just do as you’re told this time, no fucking improvisation. We took you in this once. Fuck up again, I’m gonna take off the leashes an’ put the fucking dogs on your ass. Got it? – Got it. – Becool, Hank. In an hour, you’re gonna be on your way to a new an’ better life. He ducks back into the car with Bud. The door slams shut, the Caddie rolls off. They gave me an old ball cap with an eight ball inexplicably embroidered on the front. I pull the cap down tighter on my head and walk around the block to my post. I sit in the window at Starbucks, the one on Astor Place as opposed to the one a block away on Third Avenue. New Yorkers like to complain about the proliferation of Starbucks and Barnes amp; Noble shops in their great city. They bitch about the “malling” of Manhattan.But me? I’m all in favor of anyplace in this city that has a public bathroom. The rain is keeping people at home. A few of the tables in here are occupied by NYU students or street people with enough change for a cup ofjoe. Based on appearances, I could belong to either group. Outside, the streets are wet and empty. Rainy Sunday night, plus folks are probably waiting at home for play to restart out atShea. I look up at the sky. There’s a good wind blowing and the clouds are moving along pretty damn fast. They should get it in. The pain from my wound is growing, spreading. I could take a pill. Shit, I could take a dozen pills. I need to stay sharp. The pain will help me to stay sharp. I sip my decaf herbal tea and look out the window at the cube. Astor Place, St. Mark’s, Fourth Avenue, Bowery and Lafayette all collide in an impossible knot of an intersection out there, and in the middle is a sliver of a traffic island. And in the middle of the island is the cube. Black steel, maybe eight feet to a side, it sits there balanced on one of its corners. It’s mounted on some kind of pivot so that if you give it just a little shove, it rotates. It is a prime example of ugly fucking municipal art. The tea doesn’t really taste like tea and it tastes nothing at all like beer, but it has no caffeine or alcohol, so it’s good for my surviving kidney. I also got a croissant, but I don’t have an appetite just now because it’s a few minutes to ten and I really want to see Roman and Bolo walk out onto that traffic island and stand there in the rain. Then I will get up and go to the pay phone by the bathroom (which I already checked to be sure it works) and I will call Ed and Paris and they will drive over from where they are parked nearby and, while I watch, they will shoot down Roman and Bolo in the street. After that, I will step outside, Ed and Paris will pick me up and we will speed away. I don’t see much point in trying to imagine what might happen after that. Out in the rain, Roman and Bolo cross over to the traffic island from the direction of St. Mark’s. They’re both carrying the kind of cheap umbrellas that vendors hawk for five bucks a pop when the rain starts up. Roman is wearing a long raincoat over his suit. Bolo is out there in just his leather pants and motorcycle jacket. He has his left hand pressed down on his head, trying to keep the wind from blowing his long hair around. I watch them getting wet for a moment. A gust of wind comes along and blows the cheap umbrellas inside out. Roman turns his to face the wind and it flops back into shape. Bolo takes his hand from his head to fix his own and all that black hair flies off in the wind and lands in the gutter a few feet away. I turn to run for the phone and bounce off the real Bolo, who is standing right behind me with a Band-Aid on his thumb where Bud clawed him. He points out the window. – Fucking Russians got nothing but shit for brains. – I can understand you thinking We’re sitting at my table. Bolo picks at my croissant, keeps one eye on me and another out the window on the decoys. – Asshole. You had Ed’s fucking card on you when the cops picked you up. We knew you’d been talking to him. “Meet me at ten and just wait.” Come on. You get away with the money and then you call us to give it back? That had fucking bushwhack written all over it. I nod toward the fake Bolo, adjusting his wig in the rain. – New friends? – Shut the fuck up. I will tell you when to talk.Fuckin’shithead Russians. I told him to pin thatfuckin ’ thing down, but he wanted to use fucking spirit gum.In the rain.Idiot. Now talk about pissed? I’m pretty flamed. And Roman, well, imagine.But the Russians? Shit. We tell them youkacked two of their top ex-Red Army special forces guys, and not only that, but you also took all the loot. They started talking about black market nuclear weapons and shit. Roman tells them we need two more guys, we’re lucky they didn’t send some fucking Cossack militia riding through the streets on horseback. Roman talked them down, though, explained the whole deal was too loud as it is. Once you get them settled, those guys understand terms like – When I call them. He throws a piece of croissant on the table. – And when were you gonnafuckin ’ tell me that? – When you told me I could talk. Man, you really are kind of the stupid one. – Watch it. – Seriously. I mean, I thought Ed and Paris had mastered the whole He holds up a giant finger and presses it against my lips and keeps it there for a second. – OK?Enough. Where are you supposed to call them? He takes the finger away. – They’re nearby. I don’t know where. I’m supposed to call Ed’s cell from the pay phone. He looks over at the pay phone and the few customers scattered through the caf#233; and takes out his own cell phone. – Does Ed have caller ID? – Don’t know. He puts the cell away. – OK. Let’s walk over there and make that call. You go first and go easy. – Where’s Roman? He just looks at me, gestures for me to get up. I stand. He stands. I turn and start toward the phone. He follows. Halfway to the phone I stumble and break my fall by grabbing one of the little caf#233; tables. I freeze like that, getting my balance and taking a good grip on the edges of the table,then I speak loudly and clearly. – I AM HENRY THOMPSON. I AM WANTED FOR MULTIPLEHOMICIDE. It works great. There isn’t a beat or a moment of frozen silence. I say my name and people just freak and scatter. I lean back, lifting the table high off the floor, swinging it to my left. I spin around, the table building velocity. Bolo revolves into my line of sight, standing motionless, more stunned by my announcement than anyone else in the place. Frozen, he does nothing to dodge the table. The impact jolts the table from my hands. It flips and a corner clips me on the chin. I flinch back and the table drops and lands on my toes. I stumble back, crashing through several chairs until I hit the wall ten feet away. Bolo is standing perfectly still in the middle of the room. A little hole has been punched into his left temple by the triangular base of the table. Blood wells up and gushes out of the gap and floods down the side of his face like it’s running from an open faucet. He puts his hands out as if trying to find his balance, his eyes locked on mine. Hewobbles, rights himself and picks up his left foot to step forward. Immediately he’s out of true and his arms windmill and after that, it’s all about the bigger they are and the harder they fall. He goes down face first, sending chairs and tables skittering and crashing across the floor. Then he lies there and quickly bleeds to death while I feel at the cut on my chin and massage my throbbing toes. The decoys must have seen people scrambling from the Starbucks. I run out the door on one side of the place and the decoy dressed like Bolo goes in on the other side. I spare a glance through the windows that line the street and see one Bolo standing over the corpse of the other Bolo,then I’m crossing the street toward the cube sculpture and the fake Roman standing there. I’m worrying about where the fuck the real Roman is, and thinking maybe that’s really him, when he lifts his arm and points it at me and it goes BANG and the bullet buzzes past me and that’s not Roman. He wouldn’t shoot me without knowing where the money is. The Russian Roman is to the right of the cube. I run to the left and put it between us before he can take another shot. He dodges to his left and I go to my right, listening to his skipping feet as he tries to juke me into the open for a clear shot. I back away from the cube until I can see his shoes. He’s edging around to his right now, letting the sound of the rain cover his creeping steps. I move in close to the cube, put my shoulder against it, and push it counterclockwise. It’s big and doesn’t move very fast, but has tremendous mass. I feel the softest of thuds vibrate through its bulk and step back to get a look. He’s laid out on the pavement with a gash on the back of his head, his gun on the ground a few feet from his grasping hand. I dive down on the slick cement under the edges of the balanced cube and my cap bounces from my head. I put my hand on top of his just as he grabs the gun with his right hand. I look at him. He could be Blackie or Whitey, whatever their fucking names were. I use both my hands to keep his right pinned on the gun and the gun pinned to the ground. He’s trying to pry my fingers loose with his free hand. I drag myself forward on my elbows, open my mouth wide and bite down hard on his fingers. There’s blood and rainwater in my mouth. He screams. I get the gun and hit him in the head with it. A bullet strikes the pavement next to us, skips once, peppering me with little cement chips and hits him in the face. I hear Russian behind me. I let go of the gun and flip over onto my back. The Russian Bolo, minus his wig, stands on the edge of the traffic island, pointing his gun at me. – Freeze and give us our money! – I don’t have it. – Freeze and give us the fucking money! Sirens somewhere.I lie there next to the dead fake Roman and shake my head. – Get up! Get the fuck up! I stand up and behind him I see Roman come up the steps of the 4-5-6 subway station just outside the Starbucks.Guns blazing.One in each hand. Just like in a John Woo movie. He shoots the Russian Bolo in the back. He shoots him and shoots him and shoots him as he walks over. Then he stands over the dead body and shoots it some more until his guns are empty. – I told them not to hurt you till we had the money. I point at the corpse at his feet. – Well, I guess he learned his lesson. – I told you, Hank. I told you I have a fucking temper. He starts to reload. I start to run. I take two steps, see the gun at my feet, stop, pick it up and turn to do I don’t know what the fuck. He’s finished reloading. I go back to running. Running is something I know how to do. The sirens are very loud and, down Bowery, I can see flashing lights heading for the intersection. I run east on St. Mark’s, cut north on Third Avenue and east again onto Stuyvesant. I shout as I run. – I know where the money is! Don’t shoot me, Roman! I know where the money is! DON’T SHOOT ME! He doesn’t shoot me. Behind me, I hear sirens and screeching tires and bullhorn voices and Roman yelling. I run through the rain and the shadows and into the little square outside St. Mark’s Church at Stuyvesant and Second Avenue. I look back up the street to the intersection at Third Avenue. Roman is showing his badge to a bunch of cops and pointing in various directions. I see flashing lights coming up Second Avenue. I hop over the cast-iron fence and into the small churchyard and hide in the bushes. The cop cars drive past. I can hear sirens and megaphones at Astor Place.And the chop of helicopter blades from above. I peek out from the bushes but can’t see much beyond the square. I scuttle to my left, hop another fence and dodge behind the pillars that support the church portico. St. Mark’s Church is the oldest place of Christian worship on the island of Manhattan. It says so on a plaque next to the door. Lots of important people are buried in its small graveyard. The plaque says that as well. I read these facts over and over while I hunch behind the pillar, holding a gun and waiting to be found. I get tired of waiting. I shift around until I’m squatting with my left shoulder pressed against the base of the pillar. I flick the safety off the gun, but I keep my finger away from the trigger because I can’t keep it from clenching over and over again. I take a few breaths. I can’t hear anything nearby. I peek out and see Roman’s knee right in front of me and bump my head into the barrel of his gun. The rain is still pouring and little beads of it run down the barrel of his gun onto my forehead and drip right into my eye. I try not to blink because he told me not to move and I think he really means it. No one else is on the street, the civilians are hiding inside and Roman has the uniforms he ran into working the other streets. He presses the gun a little harder against my head and I know it must be making a little white circle there. – Do you have the money, Hank? – No. He’s standing right over me. – Do Ed and Paris have the money? – Yes. The rain is starting to taste salty, but that’s just because I’m crying. It’s difficult to cry so hard and not move. – Do you have any way of getting the money at this point? – No. Standing over me, looking down at my crouched and curled body. – The mistake you made, Hank, was in thinking of it as simply money. Four and a half million dollars in cash is not the same as four and a half million in the bank. In fact, you would be hard-pressed to find a bank with resources like those on hand. Four and a half million in cash is more a symbol than actual money. For Ed and Paris, it represents their life’s work. For the Russians, it is an investment, which they can use to expand into markets that only accept cash payment. And formyself, it represents freedom, a chance to regain a life I gave up long ago. Bolo and the rest just saw the money. Like you. And they’re all dead. Do you see the connection I’m making? Looking down at me.Looking down at me from an angle that keeps him from seeing the gun pointed at his knee. I pull the trigger. He falls back. His gun goes off. The world explodes and starts ringing. The bullet vibrates my skull as it passes by and I feel the muzzle flash sear and blister my scalp. I lurch upright as Roman tumbles down onto the steps of the church, his gun flying out of his hand. He sprawls there, the lower half of his right leg semidetached and pumping blood into the rain. He’s reaching inside his coat and, as he pulls out his other gun, I step forward and bring my foot down on his wrist, pinning it to the ground. I point my gun at him. He opens his mouth and spits out a little rain. – You… you really are making a mistake. You don’t know what it is, but… Christ, that hurts. But this is a mistake. Trust me. I nod. – I trust you, Roman. – Well. OK, then. I shoot him in the chest. He convulses when the round hits the bulletproof vest. He spits out more rain. – Oh, forchrissake, Hank. – Sorry, I forgot. I point the gun at his face and pull the trigger again. He dies this time. When I was about eleven or twelve, I was over at a friend’s house and we were messing around with his BB gun. We plunked away at cans and little green army men for a while and then we started shooting leaves off trees and stuff and then a bird came along. My friend took a shot at the bird and missed and gave me the gun to take my turn. I aimed very carefully and tried my damnedest to hit that bird, believing deep in my heart that I could never hit it.Bull’s-eye.Knocked it right off the branch.But didn’t kill it. It sat on the ground and kind of flopped around in pain and we watched it, not really knowing what to do, and my friend said we should kill it and put it out of its misery. I couldn’t do it, so he took the gun, pumped it up, put the barrel right next to the bird’s head and killed it for me. Shooting that bird felt pretty fuckingbad. I tuck the gun into the front of my pants and walk around the corner. Withall the ruckus they’re making, the cops may or may not have heard my shots. I walk as far as 10th Street, sort of heading home maybe, and some headlights switch on and I stand there as the Caddie pulls up from where the brothers had it parked, waiting for my call. Ed opens the rear door and steps out. – What the fuck, man? I told you, no fucking improvisation. I walk past him and collapse into the car. He climbs in behind me and closes the door. – Like I said, what the fuck, man? Where are the bad guys? I scoop up Bud from the seat and put him on my lap. – I’m the bad guy here. I’m the fucking bad guy. Get me the fuck out of here. – I’ll give it to you,Hank, that is one cool cat.An’ you? Well, shit. I’m down on the floorboards in theback, Bud curled up on my stomach. Ed is up on the seat. He talks to me without looking at me. He doesn’t want the cops at the roadblock to know there’s anyone besides two black guys in the car. Both he and Paris have removed their sunglasses and cowboy hats. In this car, they look like a record producer and his driver/bodyguard. Paris has switched tapes and we’re listening to – Hey, Ed? – Yeah? – Aren’t you guys kind of wanted yourselves? – Sure. – So? – See, Hank, all these cats are thinking about is you. I mean, your ass was just in a gunfight a few blocks from here. So they’re on the lookout for a skinny white dude, not a couple of black hard-asses wanted forrobbin ’ banks in the Midwest. Follow? – Sure. But this car is kind of distinct. – You think we robbed in this baby?No way, man. This thing has been in storage in Jersey awaiting our return. We used a wholeshitload a cars to do our jobs. This honey is clean. – Yeah, but. – Shut the fuck up. It’s our turn. They’ve got the traffic blocked up at Union Square. Anything heading south is being diverted. Anything going north, west or east that might have come from the vicinity of Astor is being checked out. Paris pulls us forward and stops. The beam from a flashlight dances over the interior. Ed turns his head and nods. We pull forward. Ed glances down at me and winks. – First timebein ’ black kept me fromgettin ’ hassled by the cops. We drive west. From thefootwell I look up through the windows and the buildings swerve by overhead as Paris turns left on Seventh Avenue, taking us downtown toward the Holland Tunnel. We drive. Ed reaches forward and taps his brother on the shoulder. – Here. From my angle, I can just see the back of Paris ’s head as he nods. He pulls the car over and stops. Through the window behind Ed I can see part of a tenement and an old warehouse. I think we’re somewhere below Houston, inTribeca. I start to pull myself up onto the seat, but Ed puts his hand on my chest and gently pushes me back. – Just stay there for now. I settle back into my spot. My wound is throbbing.Throbbing. It feels like someone is stabbing me in the side. My feet hurt. Funkadelicswings into “Maggot Brain,” their endless guitar solo from hell. Ed picks his hat up from the seat and holds it in his lap, fiddling with the shape of the brim. – I’ll tell you, Hank.Me and Paris are torn. – How’s that? Paris swivels around in his seat so he can look down and see me. It’s the first time I’ve seen his eyes. They look anxious. – Well, what you did back there, that’s some pretty wicked shit.Very impressive. – But? Ed rubs the top of his head. – Truth is,the smart play for us would be to just bump you and dump you. Bud purrs, sleeping on my stomach, rising and falling with my breath. I scratch him behind the ears with my left hand. – See, the heat on you is gonna be pretty fucking intense. Combine that with the heat on us and things could get sultry. – Yeah? – So, another option, we could just drop you off and let you do for yourself. Give you some scratch and shake hands. – Fair enough. – Sure, that’s fair enough, but is it the right play?The smart play? Follow? – Sure, I follow. I scratch Bud with my left hand. My right hand is tucked under his belly. Ed looks at his brother and Paris nods. – Thing is, people out of the life, they always talk about “honor among thieves.” But it ain’t really like that. See, honor ain’t much of an issue, but trust is. Trust is definitely an issue. Now, all this that just happened, this whole mess, it went down because of misplaced trust. Now, we never trusted Roman or his cronies, an’ least of all the fucking Russians.But Russ?Known him since we were kids. You bet we trusted him. When he went south on us? Well, color us shocked. But more than that, color us hurt.Deeply. Something like that happens an’ a man is likely to question things, things he thinks he can believe in. Questionhis own judgment. That’s bad. Lose trust in yourself, that’s the final blow. You follow? – Sure. I scratch Bud some more. I want to keep him mellow. I want to keep him mellow because I don’t want him to jump up. Because then Ed and Paris would see the gun tucked in my waistband. The gun my right hand is resting on. – What I told you before, about having no past, no connections. No family. That’s all well and good, as far as it goes. But the truth is that it only goes so far. Me an’ Paris, we beat the odds more than our fair share. Know why? – No. – Because we are greater than the sum of our parts. That greatness comes out of three things: faith, love and trust. He offers his hand to Paris. – I love you, brother. Paris takes the hand. – I love you, Ed. They unclasp hands and look at me. – Roman, Bolo, Russ? Truth is,you didn’t kill those guys. They killed themselves.Them, the Russians, the Chink? They’d be alive an’ have the money, if only they could have trusted each other. Trust is a feeling, Hank. It’s something you feel for another person, like love or hate. It comes about because you see what a man does, who he is. A man does what he says he’s gonna do, values his friends, his family, an’ tries to do right by them? You can’t help but trust a man like that. You can’t help but feel trust for that man.A man like you. He quits playing with his hat and puts it on. – So your call. We can dump you here with a couple hundred grand for a job welldone, you can make a run, try to start over someplace. Take your chances with the Russians that way,cuz they’ll belookin ’ for all of us. Maybe you can go to the cops, try to spell it all out, take your chances with the truth. Get to see your mom an’ dad again that way. Or, come with us. Have a new life.A new family. Be trusted. An’ I think that maybe, that’s what might be best for you.Cuz the truth is, Hank, whoever you were a week ago, you’re not him anymore. Really, it’s not as hard a choice to make as you might think. Because after all, he’s right, I’m not the man I was a week ago. I’m not half that man. I stop scratching Bud and uncurl the fingers of my right hand from around the pistol. – I’m in. They smile.Beautiful smiles, just beautiful. Ed reaches down and pats me on the knee. – Cool, very cool. Paris? – Cool. – Allright. Hank, stay down on the floor in case they got something set up at the tunnel entrance. Once we get into Jersey it should be cool. We’ll head south, got something set up at a county airport down by A.C. Gonna take a trip. Sound good? – Yeah.Yeah, that all sounds great. – All right, let’s roll. Paris starts the Caddie. Ed leans back in his seat. – You know, Hank, we’re prettyfuckin ’ sorry about the way we did your girl like that. Truth is,we went a little hard. Roman did such a good jobmessin ’ you up andgettin ’ you scared, we felt we had to send a strong message so you wouldn’t miss the point. Fact is, when you didn’t call us right away, I thought we might not have gone hard enough. Anyway, we’ll make it up. An’ we appreciate youtakin ’ it like a pro. It’s always best not to let a twist get in the way of friendship. I take Bud by the scruff of his neck and pull him off to the side. This is a fucked angle to be shooting from and the first bullet takes Ed high in his right shoulder, instead of his ear like I wanted. It throws him into the corner of the seat and I work on Paris before he can get the car moving. I can only see a sliver of his head, so I throw four rounds through the back of the seat where his body should be. His head flies forward, the car lurches twice, and the volume on the music goes through the roof. Ed starts stomping his cowboy boots down on my thighs, trying to stick his heel in my balls, but I get my knees up in the way. The bullet in his shoulder has killed his right arm and he’s trying to get at the gun in his shoulder holster with his left. I shoot him in the right thigh and he stops kicking at me. I raise the gun and shoot him in the stomach. Raise it again.And in the chest.Again. And the last bullet takes off his hat. I scramble and pull myself up and look into the front seat. Paris is sprawled, half on the seat and half in thefootwell. It looks like all four bullets hit, but it’s hard to be sure because his chest is so ripped up. He’s opening and closing his mouth. – Ed? I’m hurt. Ed? He dies.Without me having to shoot him again. I drop the gun on the seat, reach forward, grab the keys from the ignition and hit the stop button on theboombox. Bud has crawled into his bag to hide. I zip him up and pull on the door handle. It’s the one that doesn’t open from the inside. I don’t think I can get past Ed’s body, so I crawl into the front seat and out the passenger’s-side door. The Caddie is at an angle, half in the street. The rain has stopped. The street is empty for now. Down the block, a car alarm is sounding. I walk around the car and open the trunk. I’m thinking about the suitcases Ed and Paris put in the car back at the apartment. I’m thinking about clothes without blood on them. But there it is, right on top.A big fucking bag, full of money. I open a suitcase and grab a few things and stuff them in with Bud. He tries to jump out, but I push him back in and zip up. I close the trunk and walk away. I get about five feet before I go back and take all the money. Then I run as fast as the four and a half mil will let me. I’m walking up Seventh Avenue, out in the open. I hide behind a Dumpster and strip off the bloody Yankees jacket and pull on a black sweatshirt that hangs on me like a sheet.Must have been Paris ’s. I have no idea where to go next and this bag is fucking heavy. At James J. Walker Park, I see a homeless guy with a shopping cart loaded with garbage bags full of bottles and cans, along with the rest of his life and belongings. He’s sitting on a wet bench, trying to light a wet cigarette butt with a wet match. I sit at the opposite end of the bench. He glances at me,then goes back to the smoke. I dig around in my pockets. I gave all my hundreds to Billy, but I’ve still got a bunch of twenties. I pull out five and hold them out to the guy. He looks at them,then he looks at me. – Want to sell your home? Hehaggles me up to one forty and I let him keep most of the stuff. I pile some crap around the duffel bag and pull on his old overcoat and head back up the avenue. Behind me, the bum finally gets his cig lit and sits there smoking it like he’s Nelson fucking Rockefeller. What was I thinking giving him twenties? I’ve got four and a half mil in this bag. Oh well, next time, old-timer. I’m heading right into Greenwich Village. There are more people out now that the rain has stopped, but there is definitely a mood on the street. The city is afraid of me. I push my cart. Past Sheridan Square, I see the Riviera Sports Bar. It’s packed. I push my cart past and, on the 10th Street side, I see a little window level with the sidewalk.It’s set right on top of a heating grate and through it I can see clearly into the basement bar and all the TVs in there with baseball on them. It looks like the game has restarted atShea, and the Giants game is on as well. I pull the cart over to the wall. I dig out a blanket, spread it on the grate and sit down with Bud’s bag on my lap. When I unzip the bag, he pushes away from me. I put my hand inside and tickle him between the eyes. He likes that. It takes a while, but he’s settling down. I reach under him for the bottle ofVics and swallow a couple. I don’t need to be sharp anymore. Bud has some blood drying in his fur. I spit on the edge of Paris ’s huge sweatshirt and work at the blood. Through the window I watch both games. The Braves and the Dodgers are taking it easy, resting their best players for the postseason, trying not to let anyone get injured. The Giants and Mets go all out, pitching their aces and fielding all their starters, even if they have to play hurt. I watch both games through the window right up to the last outs, long past the point where it is clear that both the Mets and Giants are being creamed and will be forced into a one-game playoff tomorrow to decide the wild card. They’ll play here in New York.My Giants in town. God, I’d like to see that game. I stay on the grate with Bud. It’s pretty warm. When the bar closes, some of the guys toss me their spare quarters as they pass by on the way home. That’s pretty cool because I need to make some calls and I don’t have any small change. The bum had fragments of the Sunday Fucking Giants.Fucking Giants.Fucking Giants. I don’t think I sleep, not really, but the sun comes up quickly. Time flies when you’re thinking about all the people you’ve killed. I get myself up and moving. I have things to do. More headlines at the newsstands. I end up back on 14th Street, the axis of my life.Krazy Fashions is right there off of Sixth Avenue. I slip a pack of fifties into my pocket, leave the cart on the street and go into the store, hauling the big money bag and the little cat bag. Do they think I’m a criminal? I walk in off the street, stinking and beaten and start passing out fifties. Of course I’m a criminal. But they just don’t care and they sure as shit don’t think I’m I slide into the back of the Town Car. Mario holds out his hand and I give him skin. He’s listening to the – Newark International. – Sweet. He put us on the road and turns his head to look back at me. – Got a joint on you, man? – Sorry. – No sweat. He reaches into his breast pocket, whips out a bone and sparks it. He tokes and holds it up for me. – Bro? – Thanks. I take the joint and rip off a lungful. It burns like shit and, as I pass the number back, I start hacking. Mario takes the joint and hands me a bottle of water. I take a couple swallows between coughs. – Thanks. – No sweat. Take another? He offers the joint again. I pass. The one hit is mellowing me out, mellowing me and helping me not to think too much. The cops are in evidence at the airport.Heavily. Mario drives us to thedropoff curb for American departures. He hops out, opens my door and fetches my bag from the trunk. I put the bag on the ground and kneel next to it. I open it about six inches, reach in,pull out three packs of hundreds and wave Mario down to my level. I give him the cash. – One for you. Give two to Tim and tell him one is for Billy. OK? – Very. – You know who I am? – Undoubtedly. – Stay cool, Mario. – Very. He takes the cash and gives me skin. I let a skycap carry my bag to the counter and tip him twenty. – Aisle or window? – Aisle, please. And if you can get me next to an empty seat, that would be great. – No problem. My reservation is all in order. I pass the ticket girl John Carlyle’s Visa card and passport. She looks from me to the picture, twice,then slides it back. Her eyes flick to my face a few times as she does the paperwork. – Got rear-ended. – Oh, my God. Was anybody hurt? – Not badly.Just me. I have a thought. – Uh, is there any room in first class? – Sure. – Would you mind, I think I need the, uh, I’d like to upgrade. – No problem. It costs a lot. – Bags? – One to check, one carry-on. I fill out the tag, she attaches it to the big black bag and I watchall that money slide away on the conveyor. Nothing ventured… – You’re all set, Mr. Carlyle. You might want to hurry a bit, that flight is getting ready to board. Have a nice trip. I take my ticket and head toward my gate. I pass about five or six cops standing in a circle, talking about the Mets. My picture is still on the front page of all the papers, and I am unseen. I feel powerful. Then I get to the X-ray machines and remember I have a cat in my bag and no papers to take him on board. The bathrooms are off to the left. I go in and take the first stall. I put the bag on my lap and unzip. Bud pokes his head out and I give him a little rub. I should have left him with Billy. He would have given him to the chickwho digs cats.Now? I dig around in the bag until I find his pill bottle. I read the label very carefully. I’m supposed to give him two a day, one in the morning and one at night. I chuck Bud under the chin and shake three of the pills into my hand. I feed them to him one after another,then hold him until he’s still. I stand and set Bud down on the floor. I take off my jacket and shirt and pull up my T-shirt. I sit back on the toilet, unwind the Ace bandage from my middle and pick Bud back up. It’s hard, but I manage to hold him against me and wrap the bandage around him at the same time, making a kind of sling for his body. I look in the bag and find the spare bandage and use it as well. I stand up and he stays put, bound to my stomach by the double bandage. I tuck the T-shirt back in, button and tuck in my Yves, put the jacket back on and do up all three buttons. I open the stall door and step out. In the mirror it doesn’t look bad, a beer belly. I get to the checkpoint. I set the bag on the conveyor and watch it slide through. I walk through the metal detector and set off no alarms. I don’t sweat, I don’t tremor,my eyes are not shifty. I am a criminal mastermind. I am cold as ice. The cops and the airport security are barely looking. I have already become a myth to them. No one so wanted could ever make it this far, so they sip their coffee and bitch about their jobs and I stroll past. I stop at the pay phones. When she picks up, I hear a series of clicks and voices in the background. – It’s me, Mom. – Are you all right, Henry? Are you all right? – I’m OK, Mom. I’m going away. – Where? – I can’t say. – Oh. They’re here, Henry. They want to talk to you. – I love you, Mom. – Oh, Henry. – TellDad I love him. – Henry. – I love you. – I love you, Henry. First class is nice. They give me a hot towel and I put it over my face to hide all the tears. When the seat belt light goes off, I go to the can with my bag andunwrap Bud. His breathing is shallow. I hope he’s OK. I pad myself with some towels from the bag so I still look fat and put Bud back in. I leave it a tiny bit unzipped so he can breathe easier. The whole flight, they offer me cocktails. I take a coupleVics instead. We land inCanc#250;n. I’ve never been to Mexico before, but I’ve heard customs is very easy here. When I go to claim my luggage, the money bag is already there, revolving on the carousel. The customs agent looks at my face and at my passport. He grimaces a little and looks inquisitive. I smile ruefully. – Car accident. – – He laughs and stamps my papers. – Have a nice visit, sir. – Thankyou. I’m walking toward the exit. Up ahead there is a small traffic light. As passengers arrive at the light, they push a little button. If the light flashes green, they exit the airport. Red, and they and their bags are subjected to a random search. I push the button. It’s a very Christmassy kind of green. |
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