Caught Stealing

Part Two September 29, 2000 Three Regular Season Games Remaining

– Henry. Henry. Hen, wake up for just a sec, OK?

Henry, that’s me. Henry.

– Hen, doll, I have to go to work, OK? Are you with me, doll?

Henry is my name and baseball is my game.Was. Is? What the fuck?

– Henry, please, just for a sec, OK?

Henry, that’s me, but most people call me Hank. My mom, my mom calls me Henry.

– Ma?

– Henry, just open your eyes a sec, OK?

My eyes peel open. They feel gummy. It’s dark. The room is dark and through the corner of the window I can seeit’s dark outside. It’s dark out. It’s night. When is it? Where am I? I feel gummy. Every fucking thing feels gummy.

– Ma?

– No, Hen, it’s me.

Me? Well, that’s a big fucking…

– Yvonne.

– Yeah, babe. Howyafeelin ’, doll?

– Gummy.

She giggles, she actually giggles.

– Good, gummy is good.

– Crummy. I don’t feel gummy, I feel crummy.

I’m in a bed on my stomach and my body feels far away. She’s stroking the back of my head. I want to roll over and look at her, I want to ask her questions about things I don’t really remember, but I can’t. I just can’t seem to move and my eyes keep falling shut.

– Hen, I have to go out for a while. I’m leaving water and the phone right here and a note in case you forget where to call me, OK?

– Yeah, right.

– Henry?

– Yeah?

– What did I just say?

Oh,fuck, a quiz.

– Henry!

– What?

– What did I say?

– Water, note,call you.

– I’ll be back late, so just sleep, OK?

– No problem.

I feel her get up off the bed. I hear her grabbing keys and her bag. I hear the front door open and close and I hear her locking up. Then I hear her walking away down the hall.

I drift.

I wake.

I drift.

Henry, that’s me. I’m at Yvonne’s. She’s at work. I’m supposed to sleep. No problem. Sandbags fall on my head. I shake them off.

– Hey, baby, how’s Bud?

But no one is there to answer.

I wake up curled on my right side. The bed seems harder than it should be and that’s because it’s a futon instead of my mattress. There’s a morning kind of light coming in through the shades, a small digital clock next to the futon reads 11:48A.M. Next to the clock is a phone and, leaning against that, is a note:

Hen, I had to go to work. Sorry. Try to sleep and don’t move around. I took care of everything I could. I’ll be back in the morning sometime early. Call me at the bar if you need me. Y.

Well, it’s morning now. And that’s when I realize that the warm thing curled against my back must be Yvonne and the smaller warm thing curled against my stomach is Bud.

He’s asleep. His left front leg is stuck straight out from his body, wrapped in a hard cast. Some of the hair on his head has been shaved away and he has a few stitches and a big scab on his snout. He breathes slowly and regularly, and when I shift, he moves a little to press his body against mine. I look over my left shoulder at Yvonne, who is pressed against my back. She’s not under the covers and all she’s wearing is an oversizeKnicks jersey. Number thirty-three, Patrick Ewing. She loves that guy, cried the day theKnicks traded him.

I try to twist around to face her and the sudden flame in my side serves as a reminder that I was busy being tortured about twenty-four hours ago. I gasp at the burst of pain and tears spill out of my eyes. Yvonne’s eyes flip open and she gives me a grim little smile.

– Morning, sleepyhead.Ready for a doctor?

After I blacked out, she got me inside and tried to call 911. Apparently, I managed to convince her that was a bad idea and she did the best job she couldrebandaging me. She took Bud to a vet with emergency service, left him, and came home to check on me, but all I did was sleep. Eventually she went to work, and when she came home early this morning, she was able to pick up Bud. She told the vet Bud was hit by a car; he told her to be more careful and gave her some little kitty painkillers for him. The stitches are the dissolving kind, but he’s stuck with the cast for at least a few weeks. So all in all, it’s not such a bad morning.Especially the part about still being alive. But Yvonne’s patience with my loose-lips-sink-ships attitude is wearing thin and she wants some answers about what the hell is going on. Welcome to the club.

In the end we make a deal. I’m lying on the bed and Yvonne gently pulls the bandage away from my side.

– You know, I never went to college like you, Henry, but me? I’d say you’re pretty fucked up. So, now that you’re not all delirious with pain, I thought I might be able to get you to a doctor or something.

I grit my teeth as she wipes more blood away from the wound.

– No.

– Fuck you, Hank. Unless you have a better idea, I’m calling 911 and getting an ambulance over here before you ruin my bed with your fucking blood.

She stands and heads for the phone.

– Baby, wait.

– Don’t “baby” me, Hank.

She has the phone in her hand, waiting.

She’s right. I do need a doctor. I tell her the number to call.

Yvonne has her loft set up with her studio at one end and the living area at the other. Everything is open except for the curtained-off bathroom in one corner. In the middle she has a little kitchen built around an enormous antique oak table. She uses the table for counter space and dining, it bears innumerable burns and scars from both. She found it abandoned on the street a couple years back and me and some guys from the bar helped her to get it up here. We had to take the legs off and Wayne, this ex-marshal from the bar, tore his groin muscle getting it up the last flight. Yvonne sanded it down and refinished it, then promptly began abusing the hell out of it. I’m facedown on it right now because it’s the brightest spot in the room and Dr. Bob wanted as much light as possible to stitch up my side.

This is service above and beyond the call of duty even for the doc. A morning house call to sew up mysteriously brutal wounds on a surly and unforthcoming patient is not covered in the Hippocraticoath. However, ministering to the sick all measures that are required is. For that matter, there’s something in there about respecting the privacy of the patient, and the doc is doing a particularly good job on that one. Which makes a lot of sense, seeing as he’s made it clear he doesn’t want anyone to ever know he was here doing this.

– What I don’t want is some emergency room doctor asking for the name of the butcher who sutured you rather than sending you to the hospital. I don’t want to suddenly start receiving calls from lawyers regarding malpractice charges. I don’t want your buddies popping up at my door in the middle of the night with bullets they need taken out of their guts. I also don’t happen to want you slowly bleeding to death as you wander around the city.

He punctuates each statement by pulling the knots tight on each suture. He gave me a shot of Novocain, so all I feel are little tugs against the skin.A wild improvement over Red’s technique.

He applies a dressing and helps me to sit up.

– You were lucky the surgery was healing so well. I could probably take out the rest of the staples, but we may as well leave them in. You might need them. The real risk is infection. I’m going to give you some penicillin. Other than that, you need rest and pain management. You’ve already flunked out on getting rest. So what do you have for pain?

– Vicodin.

– Uh-huh. Take them. That thing is going to hurt like hell. Clean the wound once a day. Get some Advil for the swelling. Have the sutures and staples removed next week.

– Right. Thanks.Anything else?

He’s packing his stuff away. Yvonne grabs his coat from the bed and brings it over.

– Anything else. Yeah. Call the cops and stop fucking around. Whoever did this to you needs to be lockedup.Before they hurt someone who cares about their life.

I try to give him money.Bad call.

I’m sitting at the table now instead of lying on it, fingering a deep knife scar in the oak grain and watching Yvonne in herKnicks jersey while she makes me a waffle. She’s doing a great job of not asking questions, but the way she clunks down the waffle plate on the table in front of me is a good indication that the levee will soon break.

I tear into that waffle. She makes great waffles, warms up the real maple syrup and everything. Besides which, I really don’t want to see her sitting across the table from me, drinking her coffee and rolling up a Drum cigarette.Waiting. I finish the waffle and the half grapefruit she cut for me and my water and the O.J. and, man, was I hungry. I look at the empty plates and close my eyes for a second. I want to stay here. I want waffles three times a day and the smell of her cigarettes and the sound of her kiln roaring, firing a new piece, and Bud sleeping on her too-hard futon and just to stay here. I open my eyes, push back from the table and look at Yvonne. She’s leaning back in her chair, feet up on the table, staring across the room out one of the windows that looks toward the Hudson. Her jersey has slipped up her thigh just enough for me to see that she has no underwear on andI feel a little horny all of a sudden. She takes a sip of coffee and drags on the cigarette. I make a little throat-clearing noise and she turns her head slowly to look at me and hear what I have to say.

– Baby, I have to get out of here.

She takes another drag. She put a Leonard Cohen album on her old turntable earlier and now “Suzanne” is playing; such a beautiful song. She exhales a cloud of smoke and looks back out the window.

– Fair enough.

I stand up. It’s so nice in here, so warm.

– Do you, babe, do you know where my stuff is?

She looks at me.

– Sure.

She takes her feet off the table and the legs of her chair bang down on the floor. She gets up, takes a last drag off her smoke, drops the butt on the floor, and grinds it out with her bare foot. She walks over to the living area and digs around under the futon frame until she comes up with my bag and then sits on the bed and reaches over to stroke Bud where he lies still sleeping. I go sit on the bed too and start putting on my boots.

My body is sore as hell, but my head is pretty straight. A beer would help most of the aches. My boots are tied. I pull an old black sweater from my bag, stand up, and put it on. I’m looking around for my jacket, but I can’t find it. Yvonne reads my mind, gets off the futon and walks over to one of those rolling clothes racks you see in the garment district. It’s what she has instead of a closet. She pulls an old leather jacket off a hanger and holds it out to me.

– You didn’t have one when you showed up yesterday. Take this. It’ll fit.

I come over and take the jacket. It fits perfectly and has a nice lining.

– Thanks.

– Sure.

I go back to the bed, get my bag, and zip it up.

– Something else.

– The cat?

– Yeah.

– How long?

– I’m not sure.

– Fair enough. I’ll get his stuff from your place, OK?

I look at her. I look her in the eye.

– No. Don’t go there, OK? Don’t go there at all.

I reach into the bag and take out some cash.

– Don’t.Don’t even fucking try to give me money.

I toss it on the bed anyway.

– For Bud.For the vet. And he’ll need new stuff.

– Fine.

I walk over to her and put a hand on her head and we wrap our arms around each other. Her face is in my chest and her voice is muffled.

– You gonna be OK?

– Sure.

– You gonna be safe?

– Sure.

– You gonna call me if you need help?

– You know it.

She squeezes me and then pushes me away. I take a look at Bud sleeping,then I head for the door. She calls.

– Hey.

– What?

– I’ve been rooting for the Giants.

I stop with the door half-open.

– Yeah?

– Yeah.

– Well, they’ll choke in the clutch.

– I’ll keep rooting for them anyway.

– You always like the underdogs.

– Yep.

I leave and close the door behind me. I have to get the key. I have to get the key, get it to Roman and get lost before any of my friends get hurt. I repeat this to myself over and over as I go down the stairs, leaving that warm room farther and farther behind. It’s noteasy, none of it is easy, because she’s so cool.And me? I’m just a fucking idiot.

Out on the sidewalk in front of her building, someone grabs me from behind and someone else punches me in the crotch. They drag my doubled-over body to the curb, throw me in the trunk of a car, and close the lid. I hear the driver’s and the passenger’s doors open and shut. Then the engine starts and the car pulls away from the curb.

As it turns out, the small one is Ed and the big one is Paris. And I was right, they do wear cowboy boots. Matching black snakeskin boots with rattler heads on the toes.

I’m rolled up in a little ball, blinking up at them from the trunk they’ve just opened. After about an hour of me bouncing around in here, we stopped. I heard the doors open and close, then the lid popped open and there they were. The little one took off his hat and smiled.

– I’mEd, this is my brother, Paris. Sorry about the ride.

It’s bright out and I can see dozens and dozens of seagulls wheeling in the sky behind Ed’s and Paris’s heads. There is a terrific stink in the air. Ed puts his hat back on and reaches out his hand to me.

– Let’s get you out of there.

I blink. I take his hand and let him help me out. My legs are cramped up and I almost fall over, but Ed catches me and holds me steady while I get my balance. Paris just stands there a few feet away and watches. We’re in a landfill. We are way out in the middle of what must be a New Jersey landfill and there is no one in sight except ourselves and the seagulls. Paris reaches inside his vest, pulls out what looks like a vintage.45 Colt Peacemaker revolver and starts walking around the dunes of garbage, shooting rats.

– The Chinkdo that to you?

CRACK!

– Huh?

– Your face, the Chinkdo that to you?

CRACK!

– Uh, yeah.The guy with the red hair.

– Yeah, the Chink is a mean motherfucker. No doubt.

CRACK!

Every time Paris shoots a rat, his gun makes a nice firm crack that ripples across the landfill and sends any nearby seagulls leaping into the air. He’s emptied and reloaded the revolver twice now and doesn’t seem to be getting bored. Ed and I lean against the lip of the open trunk and converse.

– Paris and me, we met him, he was straight out ofjuvie.Crazy little fucker.

CRACK!

– Who?

– The Chink, the guy busted your nose there.

They know him.And why not? Why shouldn’t goons know each other?All members in the goon union, no doubt.

– You know him?

CRACK!

– All of ’em, we know all of ’em.

– All of them?

CRACK!

Paris flips the cylinder on the revolver and dumps the empty shells onto the ground. He feels around in his pockets and, not finding what he wants, walks back over toward the car. Ed reaches behind himself in the trunk, finds something and tosses it to Paris. It’s a full box of cartridges. Paris loads up and goes back to work.

CRACK!

– Sure, we know ’em. The Chink, Bolo, he’s the Hawaiian-lookin’ guy, those fucked-up Russian fags, and Roman. Nowhe’s one zombie motherfucker. Yeah, we know all those cats, but we’re really looking for our man Russ. You know Russ.

CRACK!

Ed is about five eight or so and has little bowling balls stuck in his arms where his biceps should be. He never turns his face toward me, just stares out in the direction of his brother, his eyes hidden behind his pitch-black sunglasses.

CRACK!

– I know Russ.

– Sure you do. No question ’bout that. But do you know where he is, where we might find him?

– He left a key.

CRACK!

The car is a Caddie. I’m not sure what year it is, but it’s from the tailfin era. It’s a black Caddie with monster fins and it rides like a dream. Paris has wheeled up out of the landfill and onto the road back to Manhattan. Ed sits in the backseat with me. He has the window on his side rolled down and the chill fall air blasts into the car as Paris winds it up past eighty on the speedometer.

– Nice ride.

Ed keeps his head turned toward the window.

– You want to drive it a little?

– No thanks. I don’t really drive.

– You from California, you don’t know how to drive?

– I know how, I just don’t.

Paris has tuned in a classic rock station on the radio andJimi is playing “Voodoo Chile.”

– Can’t argue with a man don’t want to drive, but she drives nice ifya change your mind.

– Thanks.

Ed rolls up the window. He leans back into the far corner of the big bench seat, looks at me, and takes off his sunglasses. He’s got sleepy brown bedroom eyes.Beautiful eyes.Crazy eyes. He exhales and gives a little grin.

– So the key was in the cat’s box?

– Right.

– And you found it?

– Yeah.

– And then you got drunk and lost it?

– Right.

– That’s pretty fucked up.

– Yep.

– And you didn’t give it to Roman?

– I did not give the key to Roman.

– He wants it, though,don’t he?

– Yep.

– You sure you don’t have it?

– Yep.

– Give us that fucking key, you fucking motherfucker!

Paris has suddenly twisted around in his seat to scream this at me. His left hand clutches the wheel while he reaches into the backseat and tries to grab me with his right. I’m pushed as far back into the seat as I can get and his hand flails at the air inches from my face as the car begins to swerve out of its lane.

– Give us that fucking key or we’re gonna kill yourmotherfucking ass, motherfucker! It’s fucking ours!That fucking Russ, piece of fucking, backstabbing fucking piece of shit.

The cars around us are blowing their horns and trying to get out of the way.

– Hey! Hey! Hey!

Ed has grabbed Paris ’s huge right arm and is keeping him from taking hold of my face.

– Keep your eyes on the damn road!

Paris snaps out of it. Ed lets go of his arm and Paris turns back in his seat and gets the car under control. The flow of traffic settles down around us. Ed leans back into his corner and smiles at me.

– We need that key.

They all know each other.

– See, Russ had a very simple job.

We’re seated at a booth in a diner just outside Jersey City. Ed and Paris are across from me, eating steak and eggs smothered in Tabasco sauce. I’m having ice water and staring at the sweating bottles of Heineken they both have in front of them. Ed is talking between mouthfuls of food and beer.

– All he was supposed to do was meet us somewhere with something. Instead he fucked around an’ got a bunch a people looking for him.

– Uh-huh.

– Yeah. An’ in the deal he also got you, his buddy, in some steep shit.

– Uh-huh.

Paris empties his beer, holds the bottle up in the air and waggles it at the waitress, signaling for two more. My mouth waters and I drink more water.

– What did Roman tell you?

– He said there was an object you all wanted and the key wasn’t it, but it would do.

– True enough. If the key is what Russ left, it’s what we want.

The waitress shows up with the new beers, sets them down, and leaves. Ed finishes his last bite of egg, pushes his plate aside, gets up and heads for the bathroom.

– I’ll be right back.

Paris takes a huge swallow of his new beer, pokes at the remains of his steak, looks around to check for eavesdroppers and leans toward me a bit.

– I had a dream last night. I shot my dad. The fucked-up thing, I mean, shooting him was fucked up enough, but the fucked-up thing? When I shot him, he was dressed like a Nazi, like a SS motherfucker. And I shot him in the back.

He drinks more beer.

– Anyway, sorry I lost it in the car. I’m not like that.Really.

– No problem.

He sticks his hand out across the table. I take it and we shake.

– Sure you don’t want a beer, something to eat?

– Yeah, but thanks.

– Sure.

Ed plops back down in the booth.

– Sorry about that. Whenya gotta,ya gotta.

The diner is mostly empty, just us and a mixed bag of travelers. Under the table I’m silently clicking my heels together while in my head I repeat to myself over and over, There’s no place like home. There’s no place like home. There’s no place like home.

We cruise around Manhattan, Paris at the wheel. Ed tells me a story.

– When we were kids, me an’ my brother, when we were kids we used to hang out at this Boys Club in Queens. We hatedgoin ’ there. Kids always wanted to fight, everybody,fightin ’ all the time. Me an’ Paris, we hatedfightin ’. Every day, we’d tell our mom we didn’t want to go, an’ every day she’d tell us to get the hell over to the Boys Club an’ let her get some damn work done. They had this wood shop; supposed to make things. All they got to make things with is wood an’ old tires. No shit. Not even real wood, scrap shitfulla knots an’ sap an’ nails an’ shit. You ever try to make somethingouta old tires an’ scrap wood?A birdhouse? Bullshit, nofuckin ’ way. Kids, what they did, they’d cut long strips of rubber from the tires an’ have whip fights up on the roof of the club. Go up there an’ whale the shit out of each other. One day this kid,Dex, he gets Paris up on the roof, but Paris, he don’t want trouble. Don’tfuckin ’ matter toDex. Him an’ his friends, they go after Paris, they pull down his pants an’ whip shit out of his rear end. Leave him up there cryin’, snotty, blood all over his butt. I get him home an’ our mom flips, wantsta call the club, call the cops. Tells us she’s sorry, we never have to go back. Next day, we go right back. We go to the wood shop an’ cut us some long-ass strips of steel-belted radial. Have to cut that shit with a hacksaw. Then we break off these little slivers of razor blade an’ stick ’em in the tips of our whips. I find thatDex kid an’ tell him I’ll see him on the roof. He shows up with his boys an’ before he can even open his mouth to start talking shit, I rake that whip across his eyes. Fucker went right downscreamin ’. His boys try to step up an’ I just startwhippin ’ all over ’em. Paris, he’s all calm an’ shit. He walks over to whereDex is on the ground holding his eyes in his head, yanks the boy’s trousers down, an’ cuts his ass up good.Dex’s crew freak out, can’t handle the action, so they bug out. But Paris just keeps the whip onDex till he’s pretty much dead. Once he stopped, we were both a little worked up, I guess, knew we were in trouble, but we didn’t really know what to do about it. So we just draggedDex over to the edge of the roof an’ rolled him off. Kid was so bloody, he actually splashed when he hit the ground. That’s how we ended up in Montana at one of those juvenile camps. Take troubled inner-city youths an’ put them in the great outdoors an’ make ’em work? That shit. But, man, was it beautiful.Plains, mountains, Big Sky Country.Couldaspent my whole life there. So look, Hank. It’s Hank, right?

– Yeah.

– So, what this is about, your role. When we didn’t find Russ at home, we decided to take a peek at Roman, see what he’s up to. An’ what he was up to was you. So we took a peek at you.Followed you to that place on the West Side. Thought we’d take you for a ride. Got it?

– Sure.

– So now, the thing is, Hank, we need that key. I figureRoman, he told you that he’d do something bad if he doesn’t get the key, right? Killyou, hurt your people, whatever, right?

– Right.

– But you get him thekey, he’ll just leave you alone, right?

– Right.

– Well, fuckthat, ’cause I guarantee you that zombie fucker’s gonna kill you key or no key. That sound about right?

– Yeah.

– So, me an’ Paris, this is the deal with us: We don’t get the key, we’re gonna kill your ass, no doubt.Kill your ass an’ your family an’ your ancestors, kill your fucking house plants an’ all that shit.Right?

– Right.

– But you give us the key, not only are we gonna leave you breathing, but we’re gonna give you a nice piece of change.Sweet, huh?

– Sure.

– Know why we’re gonna give you a nice piece of change?

– No.

– ’Cause after you give us the key, you’re gonna help us set up Roman and the rest of his fucking freak show. Then we kill ’em an’ they won’t beno trouble for us or you or no one ever again. Sound good?

– Good.

– Allright. Now you take my card, you get the key, wherever it is, and you call me. Do it quick, Hank, an’ everything goes back to normal. OK?

– OK.

– We let you off anywhere special?

– No. Anywhere’s fine.

– Good enough.

Ed taps Paris on the shoulder and he pulls the Caddie over to the curb. I try to open my door, but it’s jammed. Ed touches my knee.

– Sorry, that door’s all messed.Gotta get out on this side.

He gets out on the curb and I slide across the seat and climb out. He reaches back into the car, pulls out my bag, and hands it to me.

He gets into the front seat, closes his door, and gives me a little wave and they drive off. I look at the card in my hand:Ed, followed by a cell phone number. I’m on the corner of 49th and Ninth. I walk about twenty yards down the street and into the first bar I see.

The kidney is an organ. It removes wastes from the blood. If your kidneys, or in my case kidney, is damaged and can no longer perform this function, you die. And yet, many people live long healthy lives with only one kidney because they love and nurture and respect that kidney. One of the best ways to disrespect your last remaining kidney is to raise your blood pressure by engaging in any of a number of activities, including excessive drinking.

I sit on the bar stool andcomtemplate the bottle of Bud. The bartender offered me a glass, but I like to drink my beer out of the bottle. There’s sweat all over the brown glass and the lower right corner of the label is peeling. I make a deal with myself: If I can peel the label away in one piece, I get to drink the beer. I tease the label a bit,then strip it away in a single smooth swipe and it comes off in one piece. I get off my stool and walk to the back of the bar.

The phone booth is one of those old-fashioned wooden ones, a cabinet built into the wall. I step inside and close the door and a little light in the ceiling flips on. I dial a long series of numbers, listen to some instructions and dial more numbers. Finally there is a ringing at the other end of the line and I sit on the little bench in the booth. Someone picks up the phone at the other end.

– Hello?

– Hi, Mom.

– Oh! Oh, there you are.

– I’m sorry, Mom.

– No, no, we were just. I was worried when you didn’t call. Is everything OK? Did you decide to stay at the hospital a little longer?

– No, Ma. I just. They gave me these painkillers.

– Painkillers? Does it hurt a lot? Are you OK, Henry?

– I’m fine, Mom, it justaches a bit,ya know?

– But you’re OK?

– Yeah, I’m fine, but the pills they gave me really knocked me out and I kind of turned off the phone so I wouldn’t wake up. I should have called right away, but I just listened to your message.

– Well, Dad told me not to worry, but he was worried too and I just.

It’s quiet on the phone for a minute. I lean my head against the glass of the booth’s door. My mom missesme, she has missed me for ten years since I came to New York. She doesn’t understand my life. Neither doI. So I can’t help her much.

– Anyway, I was just worried.

– It’s OK, Mom. I’m really OK.

– Are you sure I can’t come out?

– No, Mom. There’s no reason. I’m fine. I’m taking it easy and everything is fine.

– Is someone there taking care of you?

– Yvonne gave me some help, but I can take care of myself.

– How is she?

– She’s fine, Ma, but she’s not really taking care of me. She just ran a few errands.

– She’s so sweet.

– Yes, she is.

– I just wish I could be there.

– I know.

– I can’t wait to see you at Christmas.

– Me too.

– Did you ever decide what you want?

– Anything, Mom. I always like what you get me, and besides, it’s still a ways off.

– Well, you know I like to get things done.

– I know. So is Dad around?

– He’s at the shop today. Do you want to call him there?

– No, I’m pretty tired, I think I’m gonna get some more sleep. Be sure to tell him I love him, OK?

– I know. Oh, did you get the package I sent?

– No, not yet.

– That’s OK. It’s just stupid stuff I know you like.

– Thanks, Ma. Look, I’m gonna go and I’m gonna probably keep the ringer off. I’m still really tired. So if you don’t get me right away, don’t worry. OK?

– OK. I love you, Henry.

– I love you, too, Ma.

– I’ll talk to you in a day or two, OK?

– Great. I love you, Mom.

– I love you, Henry.

– Good-bye.

– Bye.

I sit in the booth for a while after that.

I sit in the booth and look out at the bar, at my bottle of Bud still sitting in front of my stool and the little pile of bills, my change, sitting next to it. I pump coins into the phone and call United. They can change my ticket whenever I like for a seventy-five-dollar fee, plus the difference in ticket price. Would I like to make that change now? Yes, I would, very much. But I need to get the key first, decide who to hand it over to and stay in one piece while I’m doing it. I know where the key is. Now, who do I give it to? I dig out one of the cards I have in my pocket and dial. He picks up himself.

– Roman.

– I have it.

Pause.

– Where are you?

– I don’t have it, I know where it is.

– Where?

– I’m not. Look, I’m not going to tell you.

– And so the purpose of this call is?

– I’m not going to tell you where it is. I’ll get it and then give it to you.

– When?

– I. I want to leave. I want to leave New York. I’ll give you the key right before I go.

– When are you leaving?

– I don’t have a flight yet. I’ll get the key and I’ll call you. I’ll meet you, I’ll call you…

– Yes?

– I don’t know how any of this works.

– Well, there aren’t any actual rules. But may I make a suggestion?

– OK.

– Get the key. Book a flight. Call me and tell me the airport, but not the flight number, and tell me what time you want me there. Pick a time before your actual flight so that I won’t be able to make a guess about which plane you’re leaving on. At the last moment possible before you board, have me paged and tell me what gate you are at. I will meet you there, in full view of the public and you can give me the key.

Wow, good plan.

– OK.

– And you might want to book a flight to someplace other than your final destination and fly to… wherever, from there.To discourage pursuit.

– Right, that’s good.

– Well then.

– Yeah, OK, so, I’ll go…

– Get the key.

– Right.

I sit there holding the phone.

– Good-bye.

– Oh, yeah, good-bye.

I hang up. Then I walk straight to the beer and pick it up. Before I can take a drink, I catch a glimpse of the TV. I look again. The Mets game has just concluded: Atlanta 5, Mets 3. I put the beer back down. I don’t need it. Besides, I’m going to another bar right now.

Now that I’ve made a decision about what to do, I’m in a hurry. I flag a cab and tell the driver where to go. I close my eyes, try to ignore all the places my body hurts.

I’m glad I called Roman. Roman is definitely the one I want to deal with. I mean, he may scare me, but he doesn’t freak me out like Ed and Paris, who are obviously crazier than asackful of assholes.

The cabbie drives like all New York cabbies, which is to say he guns it flat out as soon as the light turns green and slams on the brakes at the last possible second when it goes red. I have my seat belt on, which keeps me from slapping my forehead against the Plexiglas sheet that separates the driver from the passenger. Our progress downtown is measured in a series of jumps and lurches. I take a quick look around at the cars behind us, but I don’t see any signs of a black Caddie. The cab pulls over and I pay the driver and hop out.

I walk into Paul’s. Lisa, the day bartender, takes one look at my face and lets out a little scream.

– Jesus fucking Christ, Hank, you look like yesterday’s shit on last week’s paper.

When I first came in here looking for a job ten years ago, Lisa was behind the bar. She was about thirty or so back then, six feet tall and built.Just big everywhere. She nailed me about a week or two after I started behind the bar. I never went back for more, but I never had any regrets. She’s a big, happy woman and about the only thing she does that pisses me off is getting shit-faced on the job when I’m working the shift after hers. Trying to pick up the pieces for a drunk-off-her-ass bartender is a pain. She’s sipping on a greyhound right now and I can see trouble ahead for whoever’s on tonight.

It’s just about 4:30, so it’s a light crowd at the bar. Happy hour starts at 5:00, and things will pick up then. For now it’s just a few of Lisa’s hard-core regulars. I don’t know this bunch too well, but Amtrak John and Cokehead Dan are in. Everybody in this fucking place has a nickname.

I plop down on a stool and put my bag on the floor. Lisa comes over and brushes her fingertips across my forehead.

– Oh, Hank! They told me those guys left your pretty face alone. I specifically asked and everybody told me those assholes didn’t touch your pretty face.

– They didn’t, this is brand new.

– New! Oh, shit, Hank, what are you up to? You’re a lover, baby, not a fighter.

– Just lucky this week.

– Well, shit, baby. Let me get you some medicine.

She reaches into the cooler, pulls out a Bud, pops the top and puts it in front of me before I can say no. But I don’t want to say no; I don’t want to say no at all. Lisa raises her glass to me and nods at the beer.

– Drink up, Sailor.

That’s my nickname here, Sailor.Sailor Hank. I don’t know how it got started. Edwin picks your name and it just sticks.

– Drink up.

– Not right now, babe. I really just need to see Edwin, is he around?

She tosses off the rest of her drink and shakes her head.

– Naw, he’s been picking up your shifts till he can find someone he likes. So he’stakin ’ a lot of naps to keep up with the hours.

– He’ll be in later?

– Should be, he’s beencomin ’ in around, say, six or seven to do the cash, gets behind the bar about nine.

Edwin trusts me. It took about a year for me to become his top bartender, we never used the wordmanager, but at some point, I just started helping with inventory, ordering stock, and training new employees. But with Edwin, trust is a matter of degrees. So my problem right now is that while I’m pretty sure he put the key in the floor safe in the office, I don’t know the fucking combination.

– So you gonna have a drink with me or not?

– Doctors say no, babe.

– No shit?

– No shit.

– Not even beer?

– Not even beer.

– Well, shit on that.

– Shit on that indeed, babe. Shit.On. That.

– Well, you mind if I carry on myself?

– Don’t mind me, babe, it is no longer my problem.

She laughs as she builds another greyhound. She puts it in a beer mug and reallylays on the vodka. I’ve got to give it to her, she may end up drunk as a monkey, but it takes her all day to get there. She takes a sip from her glass.

– Aaaaahhh! Still mother’s milk to me, Sailor.

– Well, thank God for that. Look, I’m gonna run out to the store for a few things. Can I grab you anything?

– Yeah, get me a pack of smokes, willya?Marlboro Lights.The hundreds.

– Yeah, I know.

She tries to hand me a couple bucks for the cigarettes, but I wave her off.

– Just keep an eye on my bag, willya?

– Sure.

I pass my bag over to her and she tucks it into one of the cupboards behind the bar. I’ve got the cash in my jeans, but everything else is still in there. I head for the door and she cruises back down the bar. I turn to take a quick look at her ass. Time has been kind to Lisa. But then, she really is built for the long haul, not the sprints. The beer is still on the bar where she put it and I just can’t believe this is the second one I’m gonna walk out on today.

– Sailor! Hey, Sailor!

It’s Amtrak, waving to me from down the bar.

– Hey, Sailor, youwatchin ’ this?

He’s pointing at the TV and I look up just in time to see the first-inning scores from the day games out west: Dodgers 9, Giants 0. Amtrak cackles and tips his Mets cap at me.

– One back with two to go; stick a fork in you, pal, you’re done.

I wave my middle finger at him and walk out the door.

I’m at the Love Stores at 14th and Third. The bandage Dr. Bob stuck on my side got rubbed half off during my ride in Ed and Paris ’s trunk and I want to fix it. I grab a basket from the pile next to the door and head down the first aisle. I get a bunch of gauze pads, some surgical tape,a bottle of hydrogen peroxide, Band-Aids, and some Advil. I take everything up to the counter and ask the girl there for a carton of Marlboro Light 100s. I figure I’ll get Lisa a little going-away present. The girl is ringing it all up and putting it into a bag and I’m just kind of letting my gaze drift around when I catch a bright flash of color through the window behind the counter and I just say it:

– Shit.

– What?

– Nothing, sorry. How much?

– Fifty-nine forty-nine, and you best watch your language in here.

– Sorry, I just remembered I forgot something.

– Fine, forget all you like, just watch your language.

– Sure. Look, I know this sounds fucked up.

– I said, watch your language.

– Right, sorry.

– Yeah, you’re sorry. Now that’s fifty-nine forty-nine.

I take three twenties and a hundred from my pocket and spread them on the counter.

– What I’m trying to ask, I know this is weird, but is there a back way out of this place, and can I use it?

I push the C-note toward her and look at it significantly. She looks at the bill and back at me.

– No, there ain’tno back door to this place and you couldn’t use it if we had it and can’t you read?

She gestures to a sign taped to the cash register.

Due to a recent wave of counterfeiting, we cannot accept bills over $20.00.

– That’s fifty-nine dollars and forty-nine cents. Please.

I take the hundred off the counter and slideher the three twenties and she passes me my change.

– Fifty-one cents. And next time, watch your language.

I’m at a loss for words, so I just take my money and watch my language. Besides, I’m busy looking out the window behind her to see if I can catch another glimpse of Red on the sidewalk across the street.

I am not a rocket scientist. And yet this does not explain why I didn’t realize that someone was bound to have Paul’s staked out. Then again, in my own defense, I’ve never really done this before and I’m playing with professionals. Although whoever it was that sent Red to spy on me could stand to brush up on the basics of subtlety. I can see him out there, same red hair, same flashy clothes, except the pants are now bright blue polyester and the shirt is gold. He’s also wearing an enormous pair of yellow-tinted goggles. So at this point I’m not overly concerned about losing sight of him.

– Hey,foulmouth, you mind making room for customers ain’t gotta swear to expressthemselves?

I’m still standing at the counter and the girl is staring at me and pointing to the older woman behind me patiently waiting her turn.

– Sorry.

– Man, you just full ofsorrys. Now get out the way.

I shuffle a few steps to the right. I don’t really have any options. I’ll just go out the door and try to lose him on the street. I start out the door and the security guard steps in front of me and puts a hand in my chest.

– Sir.

– Yes?

– Sir, may I see the bill you had at the counter?

– The bill?

– The hundred you had at the counter?

– You must. Look, it’s not. I’m not passing bad paper.

– May I see the bill, please.

I’m not scared. I mean, really, a drugstore security guard just doesn’t have much leverage with me today. But I want to get moving, so I pull out the hundred and hand it to him. He takes it, holds it up to the light, gives it a long look, then looks back at me.

– OK.

He tucks the bill into the breast pocket of his little security blazer and takes hold of my arm.

– What the fuck?

I jerk my arm back, but he’s got a pretty good grip on it and pulls me in close.

– Fuckin’ take it easy, man, and just come on with me.

And he starts leading me toward the back of the store. The girl at the counter stops in the middle of her transactions.

– Martin? Martin? Where yougoin ’ with thatfoulmouth?

– Cheryl, just mind your ownfuckin ’ business.

– Don’t curse me, don’t you curse me.

– Yeah, yeah,fuckin ’ yeah.

– Oh, oh!

– Just work the register, Cheryl. This is a security matter, so you just work the register.

– You busted, Martin.Yousoooo busted.

The rest is lost as Martin takes me back into the stockroom.

– OK, man, come on.

He lets go of my arm and starts leading me through a series of twists and turns, around piles of boxes, and through a couple very short hallways to a door with about eight locks. Martin stops and looks at me.

– OK, man, this is the stock entrance. I’m gonna open itquick, so you just jump out, ’cause I got to get back out there and chill Cheryl. OK?

– Sure.

The whole time, he’s twisting dead bolts and sticking keys from a big ring into locks until there is just one left to open.

– You ready?

– Ready.

He snaps the last lock open, pulls the door inward and I jump out. The door is exactly ten yards down the street from the store’s main entrance and, as I hear Martin relocking the locks, I look up and see Red, who has spotted me immediately and is waving at me, a big fucking smile on his sadistic little face. And I run away as fast as I can.

As alcoholics go, I’m really more of a dedicated amateur than a true professional. I tend to be more of a bingeing, life-of-my-own-party kind of drinker rather than a steady, dying-an-inch-at-a-time kind of drinker. And even in the middle of a bender, I still get myself over to the gym most days. It gets the heart started and sweats out the worst of the booze and helps me to hide from the hard core of desperation that has somehow become my life. I’ve jogged, lifted weights, and even sparred while still fully plowed from the night before.It’s part vanity, but mostly I’m fighting a holding action against my lifestyle, convincing my mind that I’m not really trying to kill myself. I stay in shape. But even at my best, stone cold sober, well rested, well fed, with two kidneys and no recent beatings, even at my best I am not a shadow of what I once was.

I’m running west on 14th Street. Two lanes of traffic running both east and west, the sidewalk crowded with pedestrians checking out the discount shops. The bag from the store is in my left hand and, as I run, it swings crazily and keeps bouncing off the wound in my side and it’s all I can think about. After the first twenty yards I drop it. With my hands free, I try to focus on my stride, try to find the point where I can slip my legs into gear and let them carry me along, but it’s hard because I keep snapping my head over to the right to catch a glimpse of Red, to see how far back he is. He’s not far back at all; in point of fact he’s just about parallel to me, but he’s sticking to the north side of the street and seems satisfied to just keep pace. I catch a break at Second Avenue, a green light that lets me shoot across the crosswalk and onto the next block.

These days when I run, it’s really just jogging. I’ll open it up a bit every now and then to work out the kinks, but I never really kick it. I don’t like to feel what I lost. They talk about burst: the ability to explode into full speed from a dead standstill. I had burst. Against the guys at school and in Little League, I stole at will, and when the scouts came to see me play, they just clicked their stopwatches and shook their heads.

I’m about halfway to Third Avenue. My stride is uneven, I’ve got a stitch starting beneath the real pain of my wound, and the muscle where my leg broke is a stiff little ball in my calf. I snatch a look at Red and, from the way he’s reading the traffic, I can tell he’s getting ready to cross over to my side of the street. I figure I need to make a move.

At Third the light is green for me, but I cut left and head downtown instead. I don’t look back, but the horns and brake squeals tell me all I need to know: Red is crossing 14th Street to stay behind me. I more than slightly hope to hear the dull thud of a car hitting a human body. No such luck.

Thirteenth Street comes up quick; these north-south blocks are much shorter than the cross-town blocks. The light is red for me, but there’s a big hole in the traffic and I plunge through it no problem. I race the length of another block and across 12th, just in front of a bicycle messenger going the wrong way down the street and, behindme, I hear a neat little collision and a lot of cursing.

I twist my head around to confirm it. Red is all jumbled up with this Jamaican dude and his bike. I dodge traffic to the north side of Third Avenue and down a block to the multiplex movie theater on the corner of 11th Street.

A ticket window is open just around the corner, off the avenue, and out of Red’s view. No one is waiting in line. I have a twenty in my hand. I shove it under the glass, panting.

– One.

The guy in the booth is reading a magazine and he doesn’t look up from it.

– For what?

– What?

– What movie do you want?

– Anything, I don’t care.

This time he looks up at me.

– Well,ya gotta pick something.

– I’m telling you, I don’t care, I just.Just anything, OK?

He puts down his magazine.

– Look, don’t give me a hard time, just pick a movie.

– Man!

I look at the movies. They’ve got eight screens and only three pictures playing on them and they all suck. The ticket booth is built into the corner of the theater with windows on both 11th and Third. Through the glass, behind the booth guy, I can see a block up the avenue where Red is getting untangled from the Jamaican and his bike.

– Just give me a ticket for anything you like, OK?

– Well, I likeShell Shock, but it started a half hour ago.

– I’ll take it.

– But it started a half hour ago, you missed the best part.

– One forShell Shock, please.

– OK, man, but it’s not my fault if you don’t like it or you don’t know what’s going on.

– One! Please!

– Yeah, yeah, cool it.

He punches out my ticket and pushes it through the glass along with my ten dollars change and three or four coupons for monster servings of soda and popcorn at the concession counter. I take the ticket and the change. Inside, I watch the street through the tinted glass of the lobby doors. Red is looking around for me, and the Jamaican is in his face; a few people are standing on the sidewalk watching the altercation. Red does something to the Jamaican. I can’t really see what he’s done, but the Jamaican drops straight to the asphalt and I think I see a few of the spectators flinch and they all suddenly find better things to do and start to walk away. Red takes one last look around and heads down the street in my direction, but still on the wrong side of the block. I give my ticket to the ticket guy and he looks at it.

– You know this started a half hour ago?

– I know.

– You want to wait? There’s another starting in twenty minutes.

– I’m in a hurry.

– OK.

He tears the ticket and passes my half back to me.

– Two levels down on the escalator, concessions on the right.

I step onto the down escalator.

– Thanks.

– Sure, but you already missed the best part.

I’ve seenShell Shock. I know that I have indeed already missed the best part, which speaks volumes about an action movie that runs over two hours. The bathroom is on the first level down, so that’s where I stop. It’s empty. I go into the stall, take off Yvonne’s jacket and my sweater and pull up my T-shirt and, sure enough, the peeling bandage is stained with a bit of fresh red. I take a seat on the toilet and rest my head in my hands.

I’m thirsty.

I get off the can, leave the jacket and sweater in the stall and go over to the sink. It’s one of those where you push the knob down and it turns itself off a moment later. I push it down and hold my cupped hands under the water and it shuts off before I can fill them up. I hold the knob down with one hand while I fill the other, but I can’t really get a proper drink that way. Finally, I just hold the knob down and stick my head in the sink and drink straight from the faucet. I’m really thirsty and I’m taking in huge gulps and the water is rushing right next to my ears, which is why I don’t hear it when the door opens and Red comes in.

I don’t even realize he’s there until he steps past me and into the stall. At which point he sees my jacket and sweater hanging off the hook on the back of the door and I guess he realizes that the bum in the T-shirt drinking from the faucet is actually the fuck he’s looking for.Which is the exact same moment that my eyes flick up to the mirror and see the back of his shocking red head in the open door of the stall.

The element of surprise is an amazing thing and, as has been documented many times, can be the decisive factor in even the most lopsided conflict. In this case, we get the drop on each other and it produces a kind of tableau. I straighten, water running down my chin and onto the front of my T-shirt, but I haven’t had time to turn, while he has spun neatly on his heels to face me. So I look at the mirror, straight through the yellow lenses of his goggles and into the reflection of his eyes. He stares back. There’s a cut on his chin and scuff marks on his otherwise flawless red jacket and, somehow, I just know that he’s more pissed about the condition of his vinyl than his face. I slowly wipe water from my mouth and chin. We are in a bathroom. Someone could walk in at any moment.

– I talked to Roman. I told him I was getting the key. I told him I’d call him.

He blinks behind those goggles.Slowly.

– Fuck Roman.

I spin and backpedal at the same time. I’m bigger than he is, but for it to do me any good I need room. He dances in toward me as I lift up onto the balls of my feet, tuck my chin, and bring my fists up. He skips back just a bit, keeping his hands loosely balled down by his hips. I want to stay mobile, but the boots I’m wearing slow my feet down, so I’m doing my dancing with my head and upper body,keep the target moving. The tight space plays to his size, but if I can keep some distance between us, I might have a chance. He darts in, trying to come inside my guard and I pop out a jab to keep him away. Before my arm is fully extended he hits me three times.

They’re tight little punches that pepper my lower ribs. And that’s about it for boxing. I flinch back, ducking and turning, and he just plants a good one right on my wound. I give a sound halfway between a scream and a gasp and my body twists back toward the pain, and he flattens his hand into a spear point and drives it into my solar plexus. I fold. He grabs me, puts me into some kind of hold, spins me and drives me back into the stall, kicking the door closed behind us.

– Fuck Roman.I want the key.

He’s got me pressed face first against the wall across from the stall door. He’s knotted the fingers of his right hand into the fingers of bothmine in some fuckingShaolin Super Death Grip. And as a bonus, he’s digging the thumb of his left hand into my wound, living up to all the clichés of the Asian torture master.

– I want the key.

– Yeah, I got that part.

He digs the thumb in a little harder and I bite my lip.

– The key.

– Yeah, look, I told Roman-

He gives me the thumb and does something to my hands and I swoon. My knees buckle and all the air goes out of me, my vision blackens and I only stay up because he keeps me there.

– I’m just gonna kill you right now. Right now, just kill you and find the key on my own. Now fuck Roman. I want the key.

– I don’t have it. I didn’t get it yet.

– Where is it?

– I gave it to a friend.

– What friend? We know all your friends. Which one?

They know all my friends.

My boxing instructor, he’s a badass. He also teaches street fighting. When I came to him to start boxing, he asked me why I wanted to study and I told him that I had trouble in the bar from time to time and wanted to be better equipped to handle it. He took me on for the boxing but suggested I take some of his other classes as well. He thought they might serve my needs better. And you know what? He was so right.

I shift against the wall and gasp like I’m trying to get room to breathe. Red moves his feet back a bit for better leverage and I lift my left foot and rake it down his shin and slam it onto his instep. His upper body lurches back, but he keeps his grip. I snap my head straight back. I’m too tall to plant it in his nose like I’d like to, but I catch him a good one on the forehead. And before I can think about the pain that shoots through my own skull, I crack him again. This time his face is turned up and something goes mushy against the back of my head and he lets go.

I lurch to the right and turn. He’s slumped against the stall door and his eyes have gone funny. I’ve evened the score on broken noses. His looks pretty munched and it’s streaming blood as he slides all the way down to the floor. I take a quick step across the stall and kick him once in the head to make sure he doesn’t get up and hurt me again.

I grab my sweater and jacket, push him aside and take off. On the escalator, I pull my clothes back on and then I’m in the lobby, heading for the door. I pass the ticket guy andhe waves at me.

– Hey! Hey, if you’re looking for your friend, he just went down looking for you.

And I’m through the door and back out on the street.

I feel great. I hurt. My wound hurts, my nose hurts, my ribs and gut hurt, my hands hurt, my feet hurt. Man, I hurt everywhere. But I feel fucking great. It’s close to 5:00 now, just starting to get a little dim here in the city and I bounce down the sidewalk, heading back to Paul’s. There’s some blood trickling down the back of my neck, but it’s not mine and that makes me feel even better. If Red was working solo today, then my plan with Roman still holds. And I’m gonna just assume that’s the case.Like I have a choice.

When I get to Second Avenue, I head up to 14th Street and then turn east toward Alphabet City.And how about this? There’s my Love Stores bag still on the sidewalk where I dropped it. I pick it up and everything is still inside. I stand there on the sidewalk with a big shit-eating grin on my face. Sometimes, baby, you just eat the bear.

I trot happily down the street to Avenue B, take a right and cruise into Paul’s. A few more folks have come in to warm up for happy hour and I get a nice chorus of greetings. I nod and smile as I head for the bathroom in the back and toss the carton of Marlboros to Lisa behind the bar, still sipping her drink.

– What took you so long, Sailor?

– Just had to stop in somewhere, baby.Just had to stop in.

– Hey, I only needed a pack, Hank.

– No problem, baby.

– Well, thanks. When you get out of the john, I’m gonna buy you a soda or something.

I smile at her and go into the bathroom and lock the door. Out in the bar the jukebox is playing Joe Cocker, his cover of “With a Little Help from My Friends.” I hum along while I check myself over. First, I clean Red’s blood off the back of my head. Then I strip the bandage from my nose and take out the little gauze plugs I’ve been using to prop it up. It looks stable at this point, so I just clean up the flakes of dried blood and leave it alone. My wound is another matter. It’s oozing blood again. I clean it and dry it off as best I can, slap some gauze over it and tape it down. I look at the bottle ofVicodin. I can have two an hour, but they’ll make my head foggy as hell. I take one out of the bottle, bite it in half and dry-swallow it. The adrenaline is wearing off and I’m starting to crash from the fight high, but I still feel pretty damn good. I look myself over in the mirror; no doubt about it, I’m a wreck. But I’ll hold together for now.

Back in the bar, the bell for happy hour has rung and things are starting to cook. Tim is down at the end of thebar, getting a quick one in before he does his evening deliveries. Some of my other regulars are around now, too. I get a lot of back pats and commentary about the nose.

– Ali! Hey, Ali!

– What’s the other guy look like?

– Did you get the license on that truck, Sailor?

I laugh it all off and pull up a stool next to Tim. He gives me the once-over and shakes his head.

– Jesus.

– Yeah.

– Jesus.

– I know.

– Man, you need to make some healthy life choices but soon.

– I’m making them, Timmy, my boy, I’m making them.

– Damn.

Lisa comes over and passes me my bag and I stuff all my new first-aid crap into it.

– Ready for a drink yet?

– Naw, just get me a…

– Yeah?

– Fuck. Get me a seltzer.

She chuckles and gets me my seltzer. Tim tosses back a shot ofTullamore Dew and shakes his head.

– Seltzer! Nowthat!That is what I call a healthy life choice.

Lisa plops the soda down in front of me and I pick it up and raise it in Tim’s direction.

– To healthy life choices.

He lifts another shot and clinks it against my glass.

– To health.

We drink. He slams his empty shot back down on the bar and Lisa tops it right off. With Tim you don’t have to ask, you just keep him full and put another mark on his tab. The seltzer’s not bad, not bad at all, kind of refreshing and I feel good, here in the bar with people I know and like, with friends. And in my head I hear a voice telling me,Weknow all your friends. Which one?

I don’t say good-bye. I just pick up my bag and leave.

It’s rush hour.Impossible to find an empty cab. I start jogging west. I could call, but if someone is there, it might freak them out or something. Fuck, I don’t know. I jog and keep looking at the traffic, searching for an in-service cab. At Third Avenue I strap the athletic bag on tight and start to run. I reach, I stretch for my stride and, this time, I find it. I blow down the street. It’s too far to keep this up all the way. Across Union Square, on University, a guy is just getting out of a cab and the cabbie is flicking on the off-duty light. I cram myself through the door and into the backseat. The cabbie starts yelling something at me in whatever his native tongue is. I push a big wad of cash through the Plexiglas shield and he shuts up.

– West Side Highway and Christopher.

He looks at the money I’ve dropped on the front seat. It’s well over a hundred dollars and he pulls away from the curb. We don’t talk. He looks at me from time to time in the rearview, but we don’t talk at all.

He stops on the highway where it meets Christopher, I climb out and he drives off. The traffic is too dense for me to try to cross, so I have to wait for the lights to change. When they do, I run over to the building, let myself in and run up the stairs. None of the locks to the apartment door are fastened.

Just inside there is a grocery bag full of cat stuff spilled out over the floor. I don’t want to look up from the mess, but I do. She’s all over the table, spread-eagle with her limbs strapped to its legs. Lying in the same space I occupied a few hours ago. They’ve done something horrible to her. The kiln is still on and the whole room smells like burning. I approach her with my head turned away. Then, with my eyes closed, I place my ear against her chest to hear that she is dead. I run to the futon for a blanket and cover her. Then I crawl under the table to hide.

In action movies, there is a moment where the hero is just pushed too far. The bad guys have stolen his money, taken his good name and beat him up and he’s swallowed it all. But then they go that one step too far: they kill his partner, his wife,his kid, whatever. This moment is indicated by the hero tilting his head back and releasing an agonized scream: NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO! Then he gets mad.

I don’t feel like that at all. I want to sleep. I want to roll over and die. I want to give up and lose. I don’t care. I just don’t care.

They followed me. They followed me from my apartment to Yvonne’s and then they waited. They watched her come and go and kept waiting until they saw me leave and saw the cowboys throw me in the trunk. Then maybe someone followed us, and Paris lost them or maybe fucking not. But they waited until she left again and they went up to look for the key and when she came back they asked her where it was and she didn’t know what the fuck they were talking about because I didn’t tell her anything that might have saved her life.

I hear a soft, regular thumping on the floor and look up to see Bud coming towards me.A cat walking in a cast. He manages to get into my lap and curls up there and promptly goes to sleep.

This is it, this would be the time to finally call the police and let them sort it out, take my chances with Roman, and have it over with. But I find that it really is too late for that because, just as I’m thinking about it, several officers of the NYPD come running in and stick their guns in my face.

They find I have no record in New York. They find I was once arrested as a juvenile in California for breaking and entering and burglary, that I pled the case, served a year of probation, and did over a hundred hours of community service. They find these things out without my help because I’m not talking.

My eyes have become little glass windows at the ends of two dark, narrow tunnels. I sit at the other end of the tunnels and look at all the things happening out there. People talk to me and it sounds like voices traveling betweenpaper cups tied together by long pieces of string. Deep inside, back behind the tunnels, I am aware that I am in shock. And at a deeper level I realize that I am also thoroughly fucked.

They have me in one of those little rooms with steel screens on the windows, where all the furniture is bolted to the floor and the wall opposite the door has a small one-way mirror. They think I’m atoughguy. They think I’m giving them the freaked-out-psycho-killer-silent-treatment. The fact is,I just can’t talk. Words form in my mind and I send them to my mouth, but they never get there. What I really wish they would do is take the pictures off the table in front of me because, no matter how hard I try not to look, my eyes keep getting dragged back. They beat her. They didn’t cut her or burn her or strangle her or rape her. They beat her until she was dead.

Yvonne shared the top floor of her building with a guy. He lives in a loft at the end of the hall. He came home and saw the door of her place wide open and, like a goodneighbor, he took a quick look to see if everything was OK. When he saw the covered thing on the table and me sitting under it, he crept back to his apartment and called 911. Nice guy. A lot of people wouldn’t have bothered. He told them I was a guy Yvonne saw sometimes and there I was, catatonic, holding a cat, all bruised up with blood still on my clothes from the fight with Red. It sounded perfect to the cops, some kind of freaked-out sex/violence jealousy crime. Case closed. Except I gather now that there’s a problem because people keep coming in here to whisper stuff to the cops who have been questioning me.

The two detectives in the room with me both drink coffee and smoke cigarettes. They areboth balding, paunchy, and ruddy and have matching mustaches. I can tell them apart because one has a terrible cold and keeps blowing his nose and hawking and spitting into the wastebasket. He’s clearly pissed at me because he wants to be home in bed. The other cop is pissed at me because he thinks I’m a “sick, murdering fuck.” They tried a little good cop, bad cop at first. Then they tried bad cop, bad cop. Now they’re really just Sick Cop, Bored Cop. They keep asking questions though and, through it all, I keep trying to say the same thing and stopping myself just before I say it because I just don’t know what will happen when I finally say the wordsRoman did it.

Sick Cop launches a lung oyster into the trash and Bored Cop stubs out his cigarette. Then they look at each other and have one of those cop telepathy moments and Bored Cop lights another smoke, looks at me and tells me what’s fucking up their case.

– So, OK, so we know something. We know that more than one person didthis. We have hairs, right. We have fibers and scuff marks and bruises on the body and we know this was two, maybe three people. We know you didn’t do this alone. So fine, so paint the picture: It wasn’t reallyyou, you were just there. OK? Something got out of hand with you and your girl and some friends. You were just there and you didn’t do anything. That’s fine, that’s OK,we can live with that. So paint that picture and tell us how it happened, how it wasn’t you, and tell us about the guys who did do it. Tell us about your friends.

The strings snap. I race down to the end of the tunnel and the glass over my eyes shatters. I reach out and flip the pictures over. I look directly at the one-way mirror because I know who’s on the other side.

– They’re not my fucking friends.

And Roman walks in.

Sick Cop and Bored Cop look over and nod at him. Sick Cop takes out a tissue from the little plastic pack in his shirt pocket and blows a hole in it.

– Lieutenant.

Roman makes a little grunt noise and waves the two detectives over to where he stands by the door. The three of them huddle up with their heads close together and suddenly burst into laughter. Sick Cop laughs and chokes on his own phlegm while Bored Cop guffaws and slaps his knee. Roman chuckles and pounds Sick Cop on the back andthey all settle down. Then Sick Cop and Bored Cop start picking up their stuff and getting ready to leave. Roman holds the door open for them and, as they exit, he says something else to them I can’t hear and they start laughing all over again. Roman closes the door. He walks over to the table, picks up the full ashtray, takes it to the wastebasket and dumps it out. He walks over to the intercom box next to the door and makes sure it’s off. Then he comes back to the table and sits across from me. He reaches out, scoops the pictures together, taps them into a neat stack, flips through them, places them facedown back on the table, looks me dead in the eye and nods at the pictures.

– I didn’t do this.

Roman is a very good driver. He obeys all traffic laws and, more than that, is courteous to a fault toward other motorists and pedestrians. I admire that. I sit in the passenger seat of his unmarked police car while he drives. My hands areuncuffed and Bud is in my lap. I have not been charged with murder.

I am being held for suspicion of murder, but no official charge has been made. In the meantime, Robbery/Homicide has put me in Detective Lieutenant Roman’s custody because of my connection to a case he is already working on. Any assistance I can give him will only help the disposition of my own situation.

Roman has driven into SoHo. He cruises around, turns onto one of the little cobbled streets, parks and shuts off the motor. The clock in the dash saysit’s 1:57A.M., about eight hours since the cops found me. Roman rolls his window down a bit. The street is very quiet and the loudest noise is Bud’s purring. The animal control people hadn’t arrived at the station to pick him up and, as we were leaving, I saw him curled up on a desk. Roman got him for me along with my personal belongings, which are now in my bag in the backseat. Roman loosens his tie a bit and undoes his top collar button.

– I have a “Contact Officer” attached to your name.

I look at him.

– Anytime your name, the name of one of your associates, or one of a few key addresses pops up on the computer, it’s tagged and they let me know.Same thing with Miner. That’s how I ended up at your apartment in the first place. Miner’s address came in associated with a disturbance and, eventually, someone let me know.

– Clever. I thought it was because you were the one who had just broken in there.

– That too, that too.

He reaches into his jacket, takes something out and hands it to me. It’s Ed’s business card. The one I had in my pocket when I was arrested.

– Did you tell them much?

– Everything.

– The key?

– What about it?

– Do they have the key? Did you give it to them?

It’s another beautiful fall night in Manhattan. The air is clean and there’s a lover’s moon in the sky. It’s Friday night or Saturday morning, depending on your point of view and people are out. Back on my street, things are probably in full swing right now. I like to go out alone on my nights off, play some pool, meet new people, have more than a few. This would be a great night for it.

I look at the empty backseat of the car.

– Where is everybody, Roman?

– The partnership has broken up.

– That sucks.

– It was never stable. Frankly, it doesn’t alter my own situation. But it does greatly increase the danger toyourself.

– How so?

– There is now a large number of rogue elements at large, all looking for the key and, thus, for you. And I assure you that to the extent any of those elements have ever been able to show restraint in their dealings, I have always been the one holding them back. They are violent men and you are going to need an ally against them.

– Yourself?

– I nominate myself. Events like these have a momentum. Brutality lends itself to greater brutality and without realizingit, one can be swept along in its wake. If you wait too long, you might find yourself someplace you never knew existed. Doing things you never thought possible. I can both protect you and help to return your life to normal. I would like to do that.

He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment and pinches one earlobe with the fingers of his right hand.

– I would like very much to do that.

All the running around has my feet hurting again. I stroke Bud and feel my feet throb in time to my heartbeat. Yvonne would rub my feet sometimes, not always, but every now and then. She always made me wash them first.

Roman reaches into his jacket again. He flips on the car’s interior dome light and shows me what he has. It’s one of the pictures.A close-up of a bruise pattern on her neck. Roman traces a finger over the bruises.

– Look here. See how the bruises are knobbed and distinct? The skin is abraded in each of the bruises.Torn. This kind of bruising you get when someone wears brass knuckles. Or sometimes, you see it if the perpetrator wears several rings.

I think about Ed and Paris in the hall outside my apartment. I think about them knocking on Russ’s door, knocking with their hands covered in silver rings.Naked women and skulls. Roman puts the picture in my hand. I look at it and think about Yvonne in herKnicks jersey, spooned against me on her futon.

– Your legal problems are significant, but not insurmountable. I can help you there. More importantly, you have enemies, enemies who are fierce. I can help you there as well.To get away or to get revenge.

I think about the first time I slept with Yvonne, how drunk we were, how we laughed. I think about her hands, callused, scarred and covered in small burns from her work. I look again at the picture of her sweet neck mottled, red, black and blue. Roman watches me.

– Did you give them the key?

– No.

– Did you tell them where it is?

– No.

– Where is it?

– It’s at the bar. It’s in the safe at the bar.

– Let’s go get it.

I’m staring at the picture, feeling the pain in my feet and listening to the rushing sound in my ears, and really, I’m just not that surprised when Bolo opens the car door, pushes me over and climbs in, wedging me tight between himself and Roman just like Red is now wedged into the backseat between the Russians, who are wearing their tracksuits again. In the rearview, I can see Red’s face, a huge gauze pad over his nose held in place by a big X of white tape. He looks at Roman, who is starting the car.

– I told you it was the bar.

Bolo adjusts himself in the seat to settle his bulk and looks down at Bud.

– Hey, man, how’s the cat?

– Spalding Gray.

– What the fuck, Spalding Gray? Who the fuck?

– Spalding Gray, he’s a, a,whaddayacallit, a performance, a monologist. He talks.

– Actors, fucking actors only.

– He is a fucking actor. He’s in movies, too.

– Bullshit.

Bolo and the Russians are playing Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon. Bolo is kicking their asses. Tempers are flaring. Bolo looks at his watch.

– Come on, man, Spalding Gray.

– I don’t know fucking Spalding. Fucking Spalding is a fucking ball.

– So forfeit the point.

– Fuck you.

Red is leaning forward against the back of the front seat. The Russians put their heads together behind him and whisper to each other. Bolo grins.

– Come on, forfeit, you don’t even know who the fuck he is.

– Fuck you.

Red flicks the back of my ear again. He’s been doing it for a few hours now but doesn’t seem to be getting bored. Sometimes he just moves like he’s going to do it so he can watch me flinch, then he laughs a little. The car smells like the coffee they keep getting from the grocery across the street and about a half hour ago someone started passing gas. Fortunately, Roman makes the Russians get out of the car when they want to smoke; otherwise it might be unbearable in here. Roman just sits there behind the wheel and keeps his eyes on the front door of Paul’s down the block and across the street.

– How much longer, do you think?

It’s getting close to 5:00A.M. and a handful of folks are still in the bar and Roman wants them out soon.

– I don’t know, sometimes Edwin will hang out partying till almost noon.

Roman runs his fingertips around the steering wheel and nods.

– Spalding Gray, Spalding Gray, Spalding Gray.

– Fuck you, fuck you,fuck you. Fucking, fuck, fuck, Spalding, fuck.

– Hey, man, is that your own rage you’re choking on or just bile?

– Forfeit, we fucking forfeit.Our turn.

Red also whispers into my ear from time to time, the same thing over and over.

– Pussy bitch, pussy bitch, pussy bitch.

– Christopher Lee!

Bolo laughs.

– Christopher Lee? Are you sure about that?

– Fucking Christopher Lee.

– OK. Lee to Peter Cushing inHorror of Dracula, Cushing to Carrie Fisher inStar Wars, Fisher to Billy Crystal inWhen Harry Met Sally, Crystal to Robin Williams inFather’s Day, Williams to John Lithgow inGarp, and, of course, Lithgow to Bacon inFootloose.

– Fuck! Fuck!

And again in my ear.

– Pussy bitch, pussy bitch,puuuuuuuussy bi-tch.

Bolo is still laughing.

– Christopher Lee! That your big gun, boys? Christopher Lee?

– Quit! Fucking fuck you, we fucking quit this fucking shit game.

– Yeah, fucking, yeah. Quit, you always fucking quit.

Right in my fucking ear.

– Pussy bitch, pussy bitch, pussy bitch.

I clear my throat.

– Hey, Roman, did Red mention that when he ran into me earlier today, not only did I kick his ass, but he tried to get the key for himself? “Fuck Roman,” is what he said. “Fuck Roman.” That was it, wasn’t it, Red? “Fuck Roman”?

The whispering in my ear stops and everything is really very quiet as Roman swivels around, crams the barrel of a small automatic in Red’s mouth, and pulls the trigger. There’s a muffled pop. A flashbulb goes off inside Red’s face and smoke shoots out his nose. The car is quiet and stinks and then I start screaming like a girl until Bolo clamps one of his hands over my mouth and shuts me up.

The Russians wrap what’s left of Red’s head in some old newspaper, dump him in the trunk and stay on the sidewalk to smoke as Bolo goes to the grocery. Me and Roman sit in the car with the windows rolled down to let out the stink of cordite, blood, and crap from Red’s bowels letting loose as he died.

5:23A.M. Saturday morning on Avenue B and the streets are empty; no witnesses, except maybe a junkie or a squatter, and who cares anyhow?

Roman looks at me and taps his upper lip. He points at my face and taps his lip again. I get the idea and wipe my lip with the back of my hand; it comes away bloody. Roman shakes his head and taps his lip again.

– No, there’s still some. Here.

He takes out a handkerchief and wipes it across my mouth and chin a couple times.

– There. Sorry about that.Messy.

He folds the bloody handkerchief and puts it back in his pocket.

– You’re sure you don’t know the combination?

– I’m sure.

– Well, I guess you’re going to have to go in and get the key.

The blood is still on the back of my hand, drying. I rub it against the seat to get it off.

– No. I don’t. I don’t want any more. I can’t do. I can’t. I’m so.

I’m trying to say something. Fear robs my voice and I gasp out half-finished words. Bud is getting squirrelly in my lap. All the action and noise and smells are riling him up and I’m trying to calm him, but it’s not working because he can feel how scared I am. Roman reaches over and takes him from me.

– Here, let me.

He holds Bud tight and starts scratching him behind the ears. Bud starts to settle and rubs his head against Roman’s chin.

– Give the cat back.

Roman stops and smiles a little.

– Sure.

He passes Bud back and I settle him in my lap. Roman leans forward, crosses his arms over the top of the steering wheel and rests his chin there.

– You see it happening, don’t you?Circumstances spinning out of control, out of your realm of experience. The world you know is receding. I know. I know that the further you travel down this road, the less likely it is you will ever return to home.So.

– So what, man? So fucking what?

– So, ifyou can’t go in to get the key, then I guesswe’ll have to go in and get the key.

Bolo opens the rear door and climbs in with a bottle of Formula 409 and a roll of paper towels and starts cleaning up Red’s brains.

The plan was that we would wait for everyone to leave the bar, then I would let us in with my key and one of Roman’s crew would open the safe. After that, things got vague about what happens to me. But I still thought it was a pretty good plan since it didn’t involve any more people I care about getting hurt. I liked the plan just fine until Roman blew his safecracker’s brain all over the backseat of the car.

Roman explains to me the relative advantages of my going in alone to get the key over him and his minions going in to get it.

– You have the advantage of being able to go in and simply ask your friend to get the key for you. If we go in, we’ll have to resort to threats and the use of violence.

I start to hyperventilate and Roman puts his hand on the back of my head and bends me forward until my face is between my knees.

– Just breathe.

I breathe while Bud squirms out of my lap and jumps down into the car’sfootwell. Roman gives my shoulder a little squeeze.

– Good. Now, I would just as soon not go in there. Too many variables, too many risks, and the most likely outcome would be bloody. But it’s getting light out and someone has to be going in there very soon. I need that key, I really do.

I sit up and look out at the graying sky. The dash clock is at 5:34. The street is still empty, but soon early morning stragglers will appear. In the backseat, Bolo is still cleaning, humming a song under his breath. I think it might be “Car Wash.” Roman stares out the front windshield, eyes still focused on the bar’s front door. I try to picture happy endings and all I get is the nightmare image of Yvonne. There is no happy ending anymore and all I want now is to go home. I want to leave NewYork, I want to be with my family and be safe again and forget.

– Will you help me?

Roman is silent.

– Will you still protect me from Ed and Paris and get me off the hook with the cops? Will you still protect me?

Roman scratches his earlobe and nods.

– Nothing changes. Get the key and bring it out and I will help you. But do it now and do it quickly. Dawdle, and we’ll have to come in.

I pet Bud, climb out of the car, and cross the street over to Paul’s.

They’re listening to Black Sabbath. Edwin loves Sabbath. He has all the CDs from the original lineup loaded into the jukebox. It’s his party music. I take a look through the little window set into the door and, sure enough, it’s a party.

Edwin and Lisa are on the bar. Edwin is doing push-ups and Lisa is sitting on his back. A small group of regulars is gathered around them, keeping count, shouting out the numbers as Edwin pumps up and down, showing no sign of strain or stopping. From the door I can see Wayne, the ex-marshal, and his hippie girlfriend, Sunday.Also Cokehead Dan and Amtrak John. It’s an after-hours party and, by the huge lines of coke Dan is cutting on the bar, I’d say it’s not ending anytime soon.

I look at Roman’s car. The Russians have gotten back in, and I can’t really see anyone. I give a little wave and the headlights flash back at me. I take out my key, unlock the door and go in.

Paul’s was a Thai restaurant until Edwin bought it. He gutted the whole thing and rebuilt from the floor up. The place is just a long hallway, about four yards wide and twenty deep, with a bar running down the right wall, an elbow-high ledge running down the left and thirty stools scattered between. The bar itself is an antique Edwin bought at an auction, as is the mirror behind it. He put in hardwood floors and an old-style tin ceiling with insulation and another plaster ceiling above it so the noise wouldn’t bother the landlady, who lives right upstairs. It works great.Master of Reality, Sabbath’s second album, is pounding at full volume and no one seems to be complaining. I close and lock the door behind me.

Edwin is a bit past fifty but still built like a tractor. I’ve watched him carry a full beer keg on his shoulder up and down the cellar stairs. He’s still grinding out push-ups as I walk down the bar, apparently going for a personal best. The crowd is reaching a crescendo with the count and Edwin is finally slowing down.

– Forty-three! Forty-four! Forty-five!

His record with Lisa on his back is fifty-three. He did around fifteen once with Amtrak on his back, but Amtrak weighs about 280. With nobody on his back Edwin can do push-ups until everyone just gets tired of counting.

– Forty-nine! Fifty! Fifty-one!

The natives are really whipped up. “Children of the Grave” has just started screaming out of the juke and Lisa is giggling uncontrollably on Edwin’s back. She tries to take a sip of her greyhound, spilling it down her chin. Edwin is now shaking and grunting. Sweat is racing down his face and arms.

– Fifty-two! Fifty-three!

Edwin gulps air and Lisa gets down a big slug of vodka and grapefruit juice as he ratchets himself up again and again and again.

– FIFTY-FOUR! FIFTY-FIVE! FIFTY-SIX!

The record is shattered and Edwin collapses on the bar. He rolls to his back, tumbling Lisa to the floor behind the bar, where she lands, still giggling. Edwin gasps and shouts.

– Reward me! My just due! Reward me!

The gang applauds and cheers. They pour beer into Edwin’s open mouth and dig bills from their pockets to throw at him.

It’s a good party.

Edwin spots me when he boosts himself back up on the bar.

– Sailor! Thereya are,yafuck!

Everyone turns to see me, and they send up a new cheer.

– SAILOR!

They all toast and take a drink.

– Sailor,how goes it?

– Hank. How’s ithangin ’, Hank?

– Did you see the fucking Giants game, man? Mets, man, it’s all about the Mets now.

Edwin vaults down from the bar and rushes me. He wraps his arms around my middle, lifts me from the floor and squeezes. All the air rushes out of me and I make little squealing noises.

– Yalittle girl,ya little fucking girl. Get the beat shitouttaya andya quit!Yalittle fucking girl.

His arms are locked around the wound and my arms are pinned to my sides and I can’t get enough air to tell him to let me the fuck down.

– What’s a matter, little girl? Looks like he’s gonna cry here.

Edwin starts to swing me around and around. Everyone is crazy, laughing. Amtrak shakes up his beer and sprays me with it while someone else pelts me with peanuts. Lisa picks herself up from behind the bar and sees the action.

– Edwin! Edwin, forchrissake, Edwin, put him down. EDWIN!

She walks over to the juke and pulls the plug.

– Edwin, for fuck sake put him down, he just had surgery.

Edwin stops spinning and sets me gently on my feet.

– Oh, fuck! Fuck, Hank, I’m fucking sorry, man. I wasn’t thinking, man, I’m just glad to see you, man.

– It’s cool, Edwin, I’m, man, I’m really glad to see you, too. It’s great to see all y’all.

This sets off another round of cheers and Edwin grabs me by the back of the neck and shakes me a little. He’s totally fucking loaded. He’s got booze-sweat pouring out of his skin and his pupils are pinned up tight from the coke and the whole place reeks of weed. He steers me over to the bar by my neck and waves to Lisa.

– Set ’em up,Leez. Gobblegobble, Wild Turkey all around, all around.

Lisa grabs the bottle of Wild Turkey 101 and starts filling shot glasses while everyone packs around us at the bar. Someone turns the music back on, but it’s not Sabbath anymore. There’s a wind sound and a bell and the opening organ notes to Elton John’s “Funeral for a Friend” fill the bar. I put my mouth close to Edwin’s ear.

– Edwin, man, I need a favor.

He looks at me and nods and smiles.

– Sure, sure, man, anything.

– No big deal, but that little envelope I gave you to put in the safe the other night, I need it now.

– What?

– The envelope, man, I need it.

– Here, drink. Drink!

He shoves a shot glass into my hand and pushes it toward my face.

– Edwin, man, I can’t really drink anymore.

– “Can’t really drink.”Hear that?Motherhumper was in here falling off his stool other night. Now he can’t drink.

– Seriously, Edwin, I need to get into the safe, man.

– Fucker quits on me without, I might fucking add, the traditional two weeks’ notice and he won’t have a drink with me.

The group is into it, egging him on and yelling for me to drink.

– Edwin, man! This is important and I’m kind of in a hurry.

Edwin looks to his audience.

– The man is in a hurry.A hurry! Well, you better hurry up and drink that drink, man.

Another cheer.Everyone is holding their shots aloft, chanting.

– DRINK! DRINK! DRINK! DRINK!

– Edwin, please.

– Drink first, then business.

I toss down the shot. Everyone hollers and knockstheir own back. It hits my stomach and I almost choke it back up. It stays down. And I wish for another. Edwin hugs me again, puts an arm around my shoulder and moves me a few feet down the bar away from the group.

– OK, man, OK. Now, what’s up, what do you need from the safe? Hope you don’t thinkya got any moneycomin ’ toya ’cause I’mdockin ’ all your pay tillyacome back.

– No, man.

– Seriously, though, you need cash? You need it, you can have it.

– No, Edwin, man, I need that envelope, that envelope I gave you the other night.

He looks at me.

– Envelope?

– The envelope I gave you to put in the safe. It has a key init, I need it right now, man, the envelope with the key, fast.

He puts a hand on my shoulder.

– Hank, man, I’m sorry, but you didn’t give me no envelope the other night, no envelope and no key.

The music segues into “Love Lies Bleeding.” How long have I been in here? Five minutes?Ten? Not ten, between five and ten. How long will Roman sit out there? How much time will be too much?

– Edwin, don’t fuck around, I know I gave you that key.

– And I know you didn’t give me shit that night except a pain in my ass from being so fucking drunk, which is why you can’t remember what you gave me or didn’t fucking give me. Your key is not in the safe.Period.

The bar hounds are all singing along to the jukebox, Lisa behind the bar leading them. Edwin and I are at the very back of the bar, where there are four doors. The two doors on the left are bathrooms, the one straight back is for the little box of an office where the safe is and the one on the right opens on a little courtyard. The yard is shared with most of the buildings around the block; it’s clogged with garbage and the only way in or out is through one of the other buildings’ back doors or up the collection of rickety fire escapes.

– Edwin, I’m in trouble.

– Yeah, Ikinda figured that.

– Big trouble, Edwin.

– What is it?

– Guys are looking for me, Edwin, coming for me.

– Those fucks that beat you up?

– Yeah, but worse. Edwin, they’re here, they’re coming here. Oh, God! Oh, fuck! Edwin, I’m sorry, man.Big trouble, Edwin. It’s big trouble.

– No problem.

His little coked-out eyes are shining. Edwin likes to fight. Back in the late sixties, early seventies, he rode with a gang in St. Louis called the Sable Slaves; picture a cross between theHell’s Angels and the Black Panthers. When he takes his shirt off, Edwin’s black skin is covered in a mixture of tattoos and scars. Tattoos of naked women, spiders, daggers, skeletons, dragons, and a big one on his back of a Klansman strapped to a burning cross. Scars from motorcycle timing chains, knives, baseball bats with nails driven into them, broken beer bottles, and at least one from a bullet. Edwin is the toughest fucker I’ve ever seen, and he likes to fight. He smells a good fight right now.

– Trouble’s no problem, Hank. Bring it on. Bring.It. On.

– Edwin, no, no. No!We, we, we. Listen, man, we need to go now, we need to take everyone out the back door and get the fuck out of here.

– The fuck you say. The fuck I’m gonnachase my friends out, get run out of my own bar.

I’ve started opening the locks on the back door. Edwin is trying to stop me, grabbing at my hands, but not wanting to hurt me.

– EDWIN! HEY, EDWIN!

Sunday is at the front door, looking out the little window. She yells over the music again, still looking out the window.

– EDWIN, THERE’S A BIG GUY OUT HERE WANTS IN. SHOULD I LET ’IM?

We stop wrestling with the locks and look at Sunday. There is only the sound of breaking glass as the window in the front door shatters. Sunday’s head snaps back and she drops to the floor with a little black hole drilled in her nose. Bolo’s huge brown hand smashes through what’s left of the window and starts groping around for the dead bolt. Edwin has started running in that direction as I flip the last lock and open the back door. Blackie and Whitey are standing there, their tracksuits dirty from coming over the rooftops. They’re holding the kind of pistol-size machine guns that look like toys but aren’t. Bolo gets the front door open and steps in and Edwin barrels into him sending the gun he used to kill Sunday spinning to the floor. Bolo does the easiest thing: he lets himself fall forward, pinning Edwin between his own enormous mass and Sunday’s corpse. Edwin can’t get a limb free to strike at him but keeps trying until Roman steps in, closes and locks the door, picks up the fallen pistol and sticks it in Edwin’s ear. “Love Lies Bleeding” ends. No more music plays on the jukebox.

– You have to jiggle it a little.

Roman is trying to open the safe. Edwin has repeated the combination to him several times backward and forward and from the middle, but Roman can’t get the safe open.

– I told you, you have to jiggle when you spin right. It’s fussy.

Roman tries again.

– No, don’t jiggle on the number, just between and not when you go back to nine.

Roman tries again.

– Jiggle, not shake. Jiggle.

Roman tries.

– Just, fuck, will you just let me fucking do it?

The safe is set in the floor under the desk that is against the wall opposite the door. A little panel in the floorboards flips up and you have to cram yourself half under the desk to reach over the trapdoor and spin the tumbler. Roman is squatting down there, sweating. Edwin and I are pressed against the wall next to the door and Bolo stands just outside, unable to squeeze into the room. The Russians have everybody else packed on the floor behind the bar, keeping them covered with their nasty little guns.

The sound of crying carries clearly into the office. I can hear Wayne saying Sunday’s name over and over and Lisa trying to shush him.

Roman tries again.

– Just. Let. Me. Do.It.

Roman looks at Edwin and wipes the sweat from his forehead. They came in about six minutes ago and it’s clearly five more than he intended to be here.

– You gave me the right combination?

– It’s fussy, I told you that. So just let me open it.

Roman unfolds from the tiny space.

– You will work the combination. You will open the safe. You will step away. You will not reach into the safe or I will kill you. Am I clear?

– Fuck, yeah. Now let me open the fucking thing.

Roman and Edwin swap places in the tiny room. Edwin fits much better under the desk. He reaches into the space hidden by the trapdoor and starts to spin the dial. Bolo leans in the open door, his gun in relaxed fingers at his side. Roman is between us, his own gun still holstered. He takes out the handkerchief he used to wipe the blood from my face and blots the sweat from his own. I don’t tell Roman the key isn’t in the safe. I don’t tell because I know what is in the safe and I want Edwin to have it.

– See, just jiggle and it opens right up.

There’s a little clank as Edwin turns the bolt and opens the safe. He moves to climb out from under the desk, bumps his head and ducks down from the impact.

– Fuck!

He grabs his head with his left hand, but his right is still hidden behind the trap. Roman starts to reach into his coat and Bolo shifts in the doorway.

– Yourhand, let me see your hand.

– Yeah, yeah.

The safe is a deep cylinder set in a concrete block. Edwin told me once that it took him a while to find one deep enough to fit the Remington 12-gauge, even with the sawed-off barrel and the pistol grip. He drops his left shoulder, rolling onto his back as his right hand arcs out of the safe with the shotgun. I jump as far to my left as I can and fall to the floor. Roman is trying to step back out of the room and stumbles against Bolo, who is trying to step forward for a clear shot. Edwin sprawls on his back with the stubby barrel of the.12 pointed up at them and pulls the trigger. It’s loaded with birdshot, but from a few feet away the load has little room to spread. Roman takes it in his upper chest and it shoves him back into Bolo and they both fall into the hall. From out in the bar I hear the sudden rattle of the Russians’ tiny guns. Bullets rake the office. Edwin twists on the floor, kicks the door shut and from his knees shoots the twin bolts, locking us in. The door is wrapped in steel, with a mail slot cut into it so you can make cash drops on late nights. Bullets ping against the door but don’t penetrate. Edwin stands up, crams the barrel of his gun through the mail slot and unloads several rounds.

The office is clogged with smoke and tears flood down my cheeks. Edwin grabs a box of shells from the desk and reloads.

– Cocksuckersmust die. Allcocksuckers must die. Gonna kill all thosecocksuckers.

The mail slot flips up and the barrel of one of the machine guns pops through. It waves around and makes a sound like aminibike and everything in the office explodes. We press against the door while wood splinters and shattered glass pepper us. A bullet ricochets and embeds itself in the wall next to Edwin’s head.

– Fuck!Cocksuckers die!

Edwin shoves the Remington through the slot and opens fire again. He empties the gun and starts once more to reload. We huddle against the door and wait, but the machine gun doesn’t come back.

– Fuck! OK, fuck! OK, we go. Fucking Butch and Sundance in Bolivia, OK, Hank? Let’s do it, let’s go.

He’s filling his pockets with extra shells.

– Edwin, man, the cops,wait for the fucking cops.

– Fuck that, man. Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, that’s us, man, that’s us. We’regoin ’. Go, let’s go!

There is no way I’m gonna go, no way I’m gonna run out there screaming to die. There is the rip of a machine gun again, but no bullets bang against the door. Instead we hear muffled screams from behind the bar.

– That’s our song, Hank. Open the door! Open the fucking door!

I do it.

I stand next to the door and we both scream at the top of our lungs as I pull the bolts and jerk the door open and Edwin’s body collapses in on itself as dozens of bullets seem to strike him at once.

I shove the door closed, shoot the bolts and huddle against it, trying not to sit in too much of Edwin’s blood. Outside the door, Roman starts talking.

– That didn’t go well at all, did it?

Not far away, there are sirens.

I wait as long as I can before I go out. The sirens are getting very close and I need to get out of here. Roman, Bolo and Whitey are gone. Blackie is just outside the door to the office, his head dangling from his torso, unprotected by the body armor I can now see beneath his shredded tracksuit. They must all be wearing it.

Everybody is behind the bar.All of them.In a big pile.

Amtrak John used to let me ride the train for free when I went upstate to see friends. Wayne helped to move that big table into Yvonne’s place, and Sunday would make me little herbal remedies whenever I was sick. Dan would bring his pirate cable box into the bar on big fight nights and we’d watch them for free,then spend the rest of the night watching porn.

Lisa.

Edwin.

The sirens are just up the street. I go out the back door and up one of the fire escapes. I cross over the rooftops to Avenue A, my street, just a block from the bar. I climb down and cross the street. Jason is up and digging through the pile of garbage on the sidewalk in front of my building. I walk past him and take out my keys to open the front door. I stop and look back at Jason. He’s carefully untying the bags, picking out the aluminum cans and retying the bags. I walk over to him and start looking through the piles. Jason looks at me resentfully but goes about his task undaunted. I toss aside several bags until I find the one that smells more like crap than the others. I open it up and pull out the jeans I shit in.It’s right there where I forgot it, stuffed in the back pocket, waiting for me to give it to Edwin to put in the safe, except I got drunk and forgot about it and all those people are dead because I couldn’t remember where it was. I take the key out of the envelope, put it in my pocket and let myself into my building, leaving Jason to his work.

My door has police tape sealed over the jamb, just like Russ’s. The cops must have been through here after they picked me up at Yvonne’s. I don’t want to cut the tape, so I go up to the roof. My laundry bag is still up there, so I take it with me down the fire escape. I have to climb over the rail again to get in the window. Once inside, I reach out and pull in the laundry.

The cops did a pretty good job on the place, but I don’t really care at this point. The light is blinking on my answering machine. Mom is there three times, but I don’t listen to any of her messages. I can’t. I sit on the couch and look at the key. It’s notched along both edges and the base is a big square of blue plastic with the number 413d cut into it. It’s for a storage locker. This is a key to a rented storage locker. I know because I keep stuff stored at one of the big warehouses on the West Side and have a pink key similar to this one right on my key ring. I sit there and stare straight ahead and suddenly realize what I’m staring at.It’s Bud’s carrying case. Bud is still in Roman’s car. Outside my door someone tears the police tape and starts picking the lock.

I get the aluminum bat from my closet and stand to the side of the door and wait. The lock snaps open, the knob turns and someone comes in.

It’s a man. I plant the bat in his gut and as he folds over I whip it up and clip him across the back of the head and he drops flat. I ram the door shut with my shoulder and lock it before anyone else can get in. No one tries. I look at the guy on the floor, shove my toe under him and flip him over. It’s Russ.

I tuck the bat under my arm and walk over to the sink. I take a big plastic cup from the dish rack. It’s an old souvenir cup from Candlestick Park. Willie Mays is on the side. I fill it with cold water, walk over to Russ and pour it out on his face. Some of it goes in his mouth and up his nose, making him choke, and that brings him around. He rolls onto his stomach and coughs and catches his breath. He reaches up and feels at the lump on his scalp where blood is slowly trickling out. He looks up and sees me for the first time.

– Hank! Oh, man, Hank! Good, good. Look, man, I need my cat.

I hit him with the bat until he’s unconscious again, but I stop before I kill him.