Caught Stealing

Part Three September 29, 2000 Two Regular Season Games Remaining

They’re talking about me on TV. A block away, NY1 and all the other local stations are live on the scene of the worst massacre in recent New York history and, from time to time, they replay the official police statement.

A cop in a fancy uniform with a lot of medals on his chest for catching criminals stands in front of Paul’s and reads from a piece of paper.

– This is. Excuse me, please, I have a statement and I will read it just once. This is a very preliminary statement. As of now, we know, we believe, that a short while ago a gun battle took place between the owner of Paul’s Bar and an unknown number of assailants who appear to have been attempting to rob the establishment. We have… we have seven confirmed dead, including one of the assailants. We are asking that anyone in this area who may have seen or heard anything suspicious in the early morning here to please contact us. We are… we are also seeking a former employee of Paul’s for questioning in connection to this tragic crime. That is all.

The cops are not stupid. They arrived at my apartment a little over an hour ago, saw the broken seal, burst in with guns drawn and found it empty. Russ and I stayed very quiet in his place across the hall while they searched mine high and low and eventually taped it back up and split.

Russ sits on the couch with an ice bag on his head and watches the TV at very low volume while I shave my hair down to fuzz with his clippers. I’ve already shaved my face clean to get rid of the stubble I had when the police took my booking photo last night.

Sooner or later, the cops will have to bite the bullet. Some clever reporter will sniff around and the cops will have to explain how a man already in their custody in connection with one murder escaped and got involved in mass murder. Then my picture will be everywhere. I’m hoping for at least twenty-four hours’ grace.

Over on the couch, Russ is a little dopey from the shots he’s taken to the noggin, but I don’t think he’ll make any more trouble now that I have his gun.

When he came round the second time he was a bit confused.

– Fuck, Hank. What the fuck?

– Roman’s looking for you, Russ.

– Roman?

– Roman’s looking for you, Russ.

He touched the wound on his head and flinched.

– Fuck, Hank, I don’t know any fucking Roman. What the fuck, man, like, why’dya hit me, man?

– Red, the Chinese kid, he’s dead.So’s one of the Russians. Roman, Bolo, and the other Russian are looking for you and me and the key, Russ.

– Russians? Like, what the fuck, man?

– Russ, Ed and Paris are looking, too.

He looked at me, blood from his head running down his neck and staining the collar of his shirt.

– Ed and Paris?

– Yeah.

– Fuck! Oh fuck! Oh man, oh fuck, oh man. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

– Yeah Russ. Oh fuck indeed.

Around then I got my shit together enough to get us out through my window, onto the fire escape and into his place through his window before the cops could show. They came up the stairs pretty stealthily, but once they saw the ripped tape on my door they went in like gangbusters. I watched from Russ’s peephole until they left. When I turned around, Russ had a little chrome.22 stuck in my face.

– Sorry, man, but I gotta go. So just give me the key, OK?

I nodded at my jacket on his couch.

– In the pocket.

He glanced to the right and I swept my left hand up to slap the gun away from my face. I kept a hold on his wrist as I grabbed his shirt with my right hand, stepped in and kneed him in the crotch. He sank to the floor and I covered his mouth to make sure he wouldn’t groan too loud. I took his gun, flicked on the TV to check the news and, just like it happens in old gangster movies, they were talking about my “crimes” on the news. That’s when I went in the bathroom and started shaving.

I think I gave Russ a concussion when I nailed him with the bat the second time. I wouldn’t care except that I’m having trouble getting him to focus and make sense.

– I’m sorry, man, I’m so damn sorry.This never. Oh, God, I’m sorry.

– Russ, we need to talk now, man, I need to know things. Russ!

– No, man, no more, you don’t, like, want to. Oh, I’m so sorry. I’m such a sorry sack of shit.

– Russ. Russ, calm down and talk to me, OK?

He stays on the couch, holding the ice bag on his head, rocking back and forth and looking away whenever I try to catch his eye and get him to focus.

I’ve traded my jacket for one of his, a lined windbreaker with a Yankees patch on the back.Fucking Yankees. They think they own the world. Nothing else of his fits me, but I did find a pair of wraparound sunglasses that hide the bruises around my eyes pretty well. I also grabbed his little Walkman radio. I can stay up on the news and the headphones will help my disguise, such as it is.

– Russ, Russ! Come on, man, it’s time to go. Come on.

– No.No, man. I’m gonna stay here.

– Russ, the cops aren’t that dumb, they’ll be back and, if not, then Roman will.

– Fuck that, I don’t fucking care. Oh, I’m so fucked.

– Russ, Ed and Paris have already been here once.

He stops rocking and looks up at me.

– Shit, Hank, we gotta go.

We go out the window again.

We use the rooftops to avoid the cops on the streets below and circle the block to First Avenue. There’s a choppercruising the area, but it seems to be focused on the blocks east of Avenue A, over by the projects. We catch a big break when we see some guys working on one of the roofs. They’re patching holes in the tar paper, their backs to us. We just sneak in through the roof access door they’ve propped open with a piece of brick. Down the stairs and we exit onto First. We walk right past two of New York ’s finest, I flag a cab and we’re gone.So much for police gauntlets.

Russ slumps in the seat and lets his head loll back. He’s worse than I thought. I get him to look at me and I cover his right eye with my hand, then pull it away suddenly and watch how his pupil dilates, then do the same thing with his left eye. The right one is OK, but the left dilates irregularly. He must be pretty fucking scrambled in there. On top of that, blood is starting to leak out of his cap. I didn’t have time to patch him up at the apartment and all my first-aid stuff is in my bag in Roman’s car. I took a huge wad of toilet paper, soaked it in some vodka I found under his sink, stuck it on his head, and crammed a ski cap on him to hold it in place.

The cab is just cruising north and the driver wants a specific destination. I give Russ a little shake.

– Russ, hey, Russ. How about it, man? Why don’t you show me what it’s all about?

– What what’s about? What?

– Russ, where to, Russ?

The cabbie is getting testy just driving up First. I tell him to head for the West Side Highway. I shake the blue storage unit key in Russ’s face.

– How ’bout it, Russ? Let’s go take a look.

He focuses on the key.

– Hey, man, that’s my key.

– What’s it for, Russ? What’s it for?

– Fuck, man, how’d you get my key?

– What’s it for?

– It’s, like, my unit, man.

– Where?

– Mini Storage. Chelsea.

I tell the cabbie to take us to Chelsea Mini Storage. Russ flops back in his seat and I go through his pockets for cash so I’ll be able to pay for the cab when we arrive. Along with Bud, my money is in Roman’s car. I find seventy-eight bucks, some credit cards, the jimmy tools he used to pick my lock and a pack of Big Red. I take his wallet and the gum.

They want you to sign in before they’ll let you go up. Russ is still too shaky to trust with other people, so I sign his name and give the guy in the booth the unit number. He doesn’t ask for ID or anything, just gives me two passes, tells us to wear them at all times and points to the elevator.

The elevator operator asks for our pass numbers. I tell him both. Russ just stands there and shakes his head every now and then. The elevator guy keeps glancing at us. Between Russ’s lumpy head and my nearly bald white scalp, we look like we just escaped from the terminal cancer ward. The elevator stops on the fourth floor and we get out.

Corridors and corridors of doors, perfectly identical except for the numbers.Russ is no help showing the way, so we wander until we find 413d.

I have to rattle the lock to get it open and then the bolt sticks, but finally there we are, looking into a fifteen-by-fifteen cubicle with a huge black hockey bag sitting in the exact middle of the floor. I lead Russ in, turn on the fluorescent light, shut the door behind us, go over and unzip the bag.

When Roman told me they were all looking for an “object,” I had visions of jewel-encrusted black birds, little gold statuettes, or the Ark of the Covenant. Apparently, what he meant to say was that they were all looking for a bag stuffed full with bundles and bundles and bundles of cash.

I stare at all the twenties and fifties and hundreds and Russ gestures at the room.

– I could have gotten the five-by-five unit for cheaper, but I wanted the bigger one so I’d, like, have more room to count it in.

Russ counts the twenties and fifties while I handle the hundreds and it’s a good thing he got the extra floor space because once we start spreading out all this cash, it takes up a lot of fucking room. It’s the kind of money that makes a man stupid, very stupid. Russ, for instance, has been very stupid.

He met Ed and Paris at the youth camp in Montana.

– We hit it off, me and Ed and Paris,cuz we were all, like, into comic books, like, theX-Men andFantastic Four and theAvengers and shit. We got to go into town every now and then on, like, weekends and I was good at boosting stuff, so I’d, like, boost all these comics and share ’em with Ed and Paris. That shit, those comic books, they’re just more fun when you can talk to someone about ’em, so me and Ed and Paris, like, talked comics. We were all due to go home about the same time and we figured to hook up,cuz I was, like, planning a move to the city. But, like, one of the counselor guys, he took a shine to Ed and tried to, like, get over with him, like, tried to rape him and all and Ed and Paris cut his throat, so they ended up getting shipped out to do real time.

I hit five hundred thousand dollars and stop counting for a minute. The pile of uncounted money is still huge.

– Anyways, I went home, but, like, I kept sending comics to themcuz I felt sorry for ’em in thejuvie facility when all they fucking did was kill a fucking, like, child-molestingraper. We were, what, like twelve or thirteen when it all went down and they didn’t come back for a while until they were eighteen and by then they had gotten all into the weights and had studied and gotten their high school diplomas. But they were really grateful I had, like, stayed in touch and sent them the comics and shit. Their mom had written them off after they sliced the counselor guy, so they didn’t really have, like, a home anymore and I had a flop in Spanish Harlem. So they came and stayed with me.

At first I tried to count all the bills, but now I just rifle each pack to make sure they’re all hundreds, assume it’s a full ten grand and stack them up. I put another one on the stack and I take a break and chew a piece of Big Red while Russ talks and stacks the smaller bills.

– By that time, I was already boosting stuff pretty much left and right.Mmm. I was, like, into a little B and E, but mostly it was real harmless stuff. But Ed and Paris, they had, like, they had, like, got a higher education doing that hardjuvie time. They were, like, right into the strong-arm stuff: mugging, a little muscle for the loan sharks, carjacking, some hijacking, like, liquor and cigs and stuff. Then they moved into armed robbery.Mmm.

Little pauses start creeping into Russ’s story. From time to time, his eyes fuzz out for a moment then he shakes his head, gives a little “mmm,” and gets back on track. He’s still stacking bills, but he’s starting to have trouble keeping them in the right piles. I move over and begin straightening things out. He nods a little thanks and I point at the wall. He leans back and continues his story.

– So they get picked up again, this time it’s a pretty heavy beef. They pistol-whipped the security guard at this, like, ATM place.Mmm. Uh, then they were so convicted, but get this: They’re getting transferred out of town fromRikers to upstate and, like, the van they’re in, this is in winter, it slides on a patch of ice and flips.Now, the deputies.Mmm. The deputies, they were, like, required by law to put seat belts on the prisoners, but they didn’t wear their own. So the van flips, the deputies go flying, both DOA, and Ed and Paris, they unbuckle and walk away with bruises.

I’ve got the bills restacked properly now and I stop for a second and stare at them. I think about car accidents and seat belts and, in my mind, Rich flies past me and through the windshield. I start counting again.

– So this, like, Good Samaritan stops to check out the wreck and Ed and Paris, they clock the dude, take his keys and cash and they’rerollin ’ back to the city, still in chains and coveralls. They show up at my place and we get them all squared away. They jack another car and blow town.Mmm. We’re all still basically kids at this point. It’s, like, ’89 or ’90 or so and we’re all, like, twenty or so. They cruise down south to Florida, where they end up doing wicked shit for these Cuban gangsters. Me.Mmm. Me, I just go along doing my thing, except I catch that acting bug, so I start taking, like, these classes and shit.The fucking New School. I did,ya know, I did, like, day player stuff onAs the World Turns for a while and some downtown theater stuff, too. Hey, man, did you know I was in a Richard Foreman play? No shit, took my clothes off. But, like, I still stole an’ shit. That was my day job.Mmm.

The money is piling higher and higher. I think I’ve done the twenties and fifties. All that’s left are the hundreds.The many, many remaining hundreds. By looking at those counted piles and comparing them to what’s left in the bag, I’m starting to get a better idea of just how much money is here. My hands are shaking a bit and I make tight little fists until they stop.

– So they stayed down there in Florida for a few years, but they, like, got into some kind of beef with the Cubans and it ended pretty ugly. I’m not really up on all the details and such, but from what I gather, it was one of those, like, scenes with a bunch of guns, piles of coke, and a machete.Scarfacekind of shit.Mmmm.So they had to blow and some, like, time had passed and they decided to come home and headed back up here. They, like, gave me a call out of the blue and I helped ’em to get a pad.Mmmm. To get a pad and, like, all situated and stuff. They were cool for a bit, but then they started this gig doing stickups at, like, high-stakes poker games and drug deals. They figured they could keep a lower profile if they, like, restrained their activities to the criminal community. Like, who’s gonna give a fuck, right?

I keep counting.

– For a while I helped out a bit, being, like, a technical adviser on a few jobs. I’d, you know, pick a lock or whatever. But the action was really just too fucking hot for me. High returns, but the risks were, like.Mmmm. I didn’t like the odds. Normal crime, the cops catch you and you’re just busted. The kind of shit they were pulling, other cons catch you robbing them and they’re gonna just fuck you all up.Anyway.Mmmm. Anyway, that’s about when I hooked them up withLum.The Chinese kid.The one with the, like, red hair.

Russ is still sitting on the floor with his back against the wall, his eyes closed.

– I had metLum through friends of, like, friends, and he was this kind of kid criminal prodigy. He wanted to be getting into heavier shit, so I set him up with Ed and Paris and they took him under their wing, sort of.Mmmm. So, at some point it all had to get, like, fucked up, and sure enough, it did. What happened was people, people in the life, got wind of what they were up to and some disinformation was floated their way through, like, usually reliable channels. They went in and hit this card game, thinking it was a bunch of bookies. Turned out it was a cop game.

And counting.

– Ed and Paris don’t even, like, blink. They just pull the job likeit’s business as usual while all these cops are telling them how dead they are. Then, like, it gets messy,cuz one of the cops goes for his ankle piece. Ed and Paris aren’t fools. They, like, don’t want to kill any cops, but they bust the guy up bad and split with the kitty. Now they’re just red fucking hot and they’re trying to decide if they should blow town or, like, what, and that’s when Roman pops up.Mmmm. Roman, he was like this hotshot hero cop way back.Some kind ofSerpico with a real hard-on for the law. ’Cept, story is, he had a bad gamblingjones. So things happen, right? He makes a bet here and there, gets some debt, makes a couple small moves to clear it up and next thing you know, he’s a hard-core player. That’s the way the system works.Mmmmmm. At this stage, he’s a robbery dick and he’s already, like, dirty as hell. He tracks Ed and Paris down, I mean like a bloodhound. He just goes right to ’em. There’s this big Mexican face-off and he ends up showing all his cards. Turns out he’s been on to Ed and Paris for a while. Turns out he’s, like, this big fan, he’s, like, recognized their talents and wants to, like, manage them. And so that’s what he does. Takes over and makes them into stars.Mmmm.

Counting.

– First, he pins the card game heist and all their other jobs on these niggers up in the Bronx. Those chumps get theAmadouDiallo treatment, so they don’t dispute any claims made against them. Next, he starts picking gigs for them, using his scoop from being on the force and all. He starts local, then pretty soon he’s got Ed, Paris andLum working all over thetristate, right.Mmmm. I have my hand in, too, like, fence this or get that tool or ditch a car or whatever, nothing too big. Every now and then, Roman comes up with somethingsuperheavy and for those he sends in, like, his right-hand man.Bolo. Bolo was a longshoreman. Roman busted him for jacking cargo and then put him to work for the cause.Made Bolo his enforcer on the street.Mmmm. Tell you what. Seeing Ed, Paris,Lum and Bolo go into a room and work it over? That was, like, something else.Pure fear. Those boys all together just radiated fucking fear. People just gave them whatever the fuck and ifthey, like, got belligerent or some shit, then the hammer came down and that was that. Like,woe betide the motherfucker.

I look at what’s left uncounted in the bag. I’m in the home stretch.

– Mmmm. So, so, this goes for years, right. They work a handful of jobs a year, then lie low, then go at it again. All is well. Roman spots a potential job, does the research,sends in his team, they knock it down, he chills any possible heat and all the rest is profit. Roman, he still suffers from that gambling bug. So he’s, like, investing his share in Atlantic City stocks and bonds, ifya get me. Bolo andLum, they’re all about good times, so they just party down. Ed and Paris, they live like fucking monks; I mean, the duds and the wheels aside, these are very simple men. They go in for booze and whores, but no drugs, no gold, nobling, no fucking Lexus, no palace. Just that Caddie and the best guns money can buy. They stockpile their cash, like, not in a bank, but under a damn mattress or some shit.Mmmm.

I finish counting, lean against the wall next to Russ, stare at the money and chew more gum while he finishes the story.

– At some point, there’sa brouhaha. The boys are doing a chip heist.Silicon chips. The markup on that shit is, like, unreal. That tech shit, it’s, like, changed the whole economy. Anyway, turns out some other crew is already there making the same fucking heist.Gunfight, man.All hell and then some. Cops roll up on the scene and Ed, Paris, Bolo andLum end up shooting their way out and this time theykack three officers.Mmmm. Well, that’s the kind of mess even Roman can’t clean up, so it’s time for the gang to, like, disband. Roman keeps Bolo stashed in Jersey so he can still use him if he needs to, but he, like, cutsLum and the boys loose.Fine with Ed and Paris. They, like, pack their bags and head south again.Mmmm. They, like, stay mellow for a year, but then they get an idea and they give me a ring. See, Ed and Paris, they, like, want to retire, but they don’t figure they have quite enough put away, so they want to do a series of jobs, cash in their chips and head down to Mexico or someplace.

Mexico. I think about Mexican beer with a squeeze of lime.

– Mmmm.Mmmm. Ed, now Ed, he’s been, like, learning from Roman, so he’s got this plan. He wants to loop through the South and back up through the Midwest doing bank jobs. No major branches, he just wants to hit a wholeshitload of little, like, farmers’ and merchants’ banks in all those little towns. They hook back up withLum so he can be their wheelman and take care of any alarm action and technical issues. What they want from me is help with the cash.Mmmm. Bank cash is all dirty cash, so it has to be, like, cleaned off. They know I can’t really do that on my own, so that’s when they call Roman back in.Mmmm. Roman has all the connections, including, get this.Mmmm. Including the Russian Mafia,which is how those thugs Bert and Ernie got into this shit.Mmmm.

Bert and Ernie.I see Blackie on the floor in the bar almost headless. I wonder which one he was.

– The deal is, Ed and Paris, they, like, ship the bank money to me, just, like, Federal Express it, man, if you can believe that shit. I pass it on to Roman, who moves it through the Russians till it’s washed and he hands it back over to me, at like which point I put it in safekeeping. Ed and Paris getcaught, they don’t want to be holding the bag, right. For my services, I’m paid a flat fee. The Russians slice a big percentage out of the gross, Roman takes a cut of the, like, net and the boys andLum will split the rest. And it goes fucking perfectly.Mmmm. Ed and Paris go on a full-out crime spree, straight-out holdups, real, like, Dodge City shit. They are fully notorious and on the FBI Most Wanted, but they’re, like,uncatchable. Just so fast and mean they can’t be caught. They pull those hit-and-runs for almost two years and the money piles up and up and, well, man, look at it.

He opens his eyes and we both look at the money. There’s a lot.

– A couple weeks back they say, that’s it, they’re coming to town to pick up their jack. They send the dough from the last bank, I have it laundered, bring it here, pack it with the rest and I guess that’s when I, like, started getting, like, sick thoughts and, well, you know, things got all, like, fucked up. But, man, it’s just, it’s just, like, so much fucking money,ya know? It just, it just made me, like, stupid.Mmmm. Man, I don’t feel too good.

He passes out. I lay him out on the floor and check his eyes again. The left one is still kind of funky. I take off his ski cap. The toilet paper mostly falls right off, but some of it is sticking to the wound on his scalp. I try to pick it out, but he winces a few times in his sleep, so I just leave it as is. It needs to be cleaned out and stitched up, but for now the bleeding has stopped and that’s gonna have to be good enough.

I park myself in front of the door and stretch out with the Yankees jacket as a pillow. I haven’t slept since I first showed up at Yvonne’s, whenever that was. Once I’m still, I realize just how bad the pain my wound is and I have to take a full Vic.

I lie there and stare at the money as the fog rolls into my brain. It’s just over four and a half million and I know exactly what Russ is talking about. I’m starting to feel stupider by the second.

It comes as no surprise when the nightmare wakes me up. Cold has begun to creep up out of the floor and into mybones, I sit up slowly, stretching out the kinks and shrug my way into Russ’s Yankees jacket. He’s still asleep, his breathing is deep and even, I leave him alone. Sleep is certainly the best thing for his head right now. Looking at him, I realize for the first time the slight resemblance he bears to Rich. Same color of curly brown hair, though not nearly as long.A similar toothy grin. The same wiry build. They couldn’t be brothers, but perhaps cousins. I leave it alone and look at the cash instead.

I do some math in my head. Four and a half million divided by nine comes out to five hundred thousand. As far as I know, nine people have died for this money at a price of half a million each. I think about Yvonne’s family.Her crazy philosopher father and yoga-teaching mother. I think about Wayne ’s daughter and Amtrak’s ex-wife that he still lived with and loved. My stomach flops. I can’t want this money. And yet I do. I have the key and Russ and the money. For the first time since I was seventeen I have everything everybodywants, and I don’t want to lose it this time.

I close my eyes and, yet again, Rich shoots past me, through the exploding windshield and into the tree. The mediocre years of my life pile up around me. This money is not mine. It is not meant for me, but for someone either more deserving or more ruthless. For me, it is a tool that will allow me to rebuild what is left of my life. Iinhale, exhale, until my heart stops jumping and I feel I am myself again.

I open my eyes and see that Russ is awake. He’s looking at me with a little smile on his face.

– Makes it hard to think clearly, doesn’t it?

Russ packs the money back in the hockey bag while I find some news on the radio. His concentration is better, but the left eye is the same and he still phases out a bit in the middle of talking. I keep a close eye on him to see that he doesn’t start pocketing any of the cash.

Paul’s is all over the local stations. My name is still out of it, but they continue to mention the “former employee.” Then I hit NPR and they’re breaking the story nationally.

– A botched robbery attempt at a bar resulted in seven dead in New York City this morning.

I switch off the radio as sweat breaks out all over my body and tears try to well up behind my eyes. How could I be so fucking stupid not to see it coming?

– Russ, we gotta go.

– Wait a sec.Mmmm. I’m almost done.

– We gotta go now.

– Just a sec.

I grab him and pull him to his feet and push him toward the door.

– Now, fucking now!

– OK, man, OK.

I start to step out of the unit, then go back in. Most of the cash is in the bag, but some is still scattered on the floor. I grab a pack of twenties and a pack of hundreds and follow Russ out.

We stand by the elevator, waiting.

– What’s up, man?

– I have to make a call.

– What about the, like?Mmmm. What about the money, man?

The elevator is taking forever. I push the button again, leaning on it hard, and hear the bell ringing loud down the shaft.

– Man, what about the money?

I jam the button down and squeeze my eyes tight. What is taking so fucking long?

– MAN, LIKE, WHAT ABOUT THE MMMMONEY?

I take my hand off the button and put it on Russ’s throat and slam him back into the wall. His eyes spin around and the concrete scrapes part of the scab from his wound and it starts to bleed again.

– Fuck, man. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

I squeeze his neck and he stops cursing and starts gasping.

– There is no money, Russ. There is no fucking money! My friends are fucking dead, they’re fucking dead! There is no fucking money because my friends are dead because you gave me your fucking cat and now there is no fucking money!

His face is going from red to purple. I let him go. He slides down the wall to the floor and sits there gasping and holding his throat while I lean my forehead against the wall.

– Fuck, Hank. Fuck.

– Yeah, fuck.

We are quiet for a moment,then he slowly climbs back to his feet.

– Hey, Hank?

– Yeah.

– Where.Mmmm. Where is Bud, anyway?

I take my forehead from the wall and open my eyes.

– Roman has him.

– Shit.

– Yeah. Russ?

– Yeah?

– You’re bleeding again. Put your hat back on.

He puts the hat on, I push the button again, and the elevator doors open. The operator is standing there.

– Get the fuck off that button, man. I’m here.

On the way down, he takes our passes. I tell him we may be back later, but he says we’ll have to get new ones then. When we get to the ground floor, I trot right over to the pay phone and pick up the handset before I notice the littleOUT OF ORDER sign taped to the wall next to it.

It’s a typical day for New York pay phones. We work our way east, trying to find one that works. At Eighth Avenue, I pick up my fifth phone and get a dial tone this time, but when I try to punch in the number none of the buttons produce a tone of their own. I slam the handset against the phone over and over until the earpiece snaps off and dangles by a couple wires. I’m searching for the next one and Russ grabs my shoulder and points at the electronics store across the street. I nod and we cross over.

I pay for the phone itself with cash and open the service account with one of Russ’s credit cards. When he sees that I have his wallet, he starts to say something but stopshimself before it can get out. The sales guy keeps offering me this and that. To hurry it along I tell him to give me deluxe everything and never mind the cost. It takes about twenty minutes in all and I end up with one of those phones where the antenna is angled away from your head so you don’t get tumors from the signal.

Back on the street, I drag Russ to a quiet doorway off the avenue and make my call.

It’s Saturday. They’re both home.

– Hi, Mom.

– Henry! Oh, God, Henry! Oh, God! Oh, God!

– Mom.

– Henry. Oh, my God, Henry.

– Mom!Mom, I’m OK, Mom. I’m. Listen to me, I’m OK.

– Henry, We’re so, just so. People called, and the news, we saw the news, we saw the bar. Oh, Henry, the police and all those people.

– Mom, it’s OK, I’m OK.

– We’ve been so, so scared, Henry. Oh, God.

She cries and can’t get any more words out. I hear the phone being fumbled around and my dad comes on the line.

– Henry?

– Hey, Pop.

– Jesus, Hank,are you all right?

– Pop, oh,Pop.

– What’s going on, Hank? Thank God you’re OK, but we just need to know.

– I know, Dad.

– Oh, son. Jesus, I’m glad to hear your voice.

– Dad. I’m in some trouble here, Dad.

– What is it? What do you need us to do?

– Dad,it’s big trouble.

– The police called, we’re… They want to know where you are.

– Big trouble, Dad.

– Tell us.

– Dad, I can’t, but I was there, at the bar and the police, Dad, the police think I did it.

– What?

– Dad, they think I did it, but I didn’t and I needed to call to tell you I was OK and that I didn’t do that. I would never do that, Dad, I would never kill people. But they think I did.

– Why, what the hell is going on?

– I just, Dad, I just fell into some trouble.

– Well, let’s get you out.

– It’s, uh, it’s not that kind of trouble, Pop, and I need you and Mom to just be ready, because I’m not sure how I’m gonna work it all out.

– Ready for what?

– I may, I may need to go somewhere. I don’t know, but I may,it’s big trouble and I may need to go away and I don’t know.

I stop. I can see them standing next to the kitchencounter, my dad with the phone held away from his ear so my mom can listen, leaning against each other.

– What do you need us to do, Hank?

– Just, Dad, I just need you to know I didn’t do it. These people, they did it and, oh, fuck, they, they killed Yvonne, too, Dad.

– Jesus.

– And, Dad, I’m trying to do the right thing, Dad. I need you guys to know I didn’t hurt anybody, no matter what you hear.

– I know, Hank, I believe you.

– Thanks,Pop.

We both go silent for a moment.

– Hank, what about the police?

– Just don’t lie to them. If they ask, tell them you talked to me and tell them what I said, just don’t lie.

– Sure.

Russ is leaning in the doorway, trying not to look at me, but I know he can hear everything I’m saying.

– I got to go, Dad.

– Well, you better say good-bye to your mom first.

– Yeah. I love you, Dad.

– I love you, too, son.

He passes the phone to my mom.

– You getall that, Mom?

– Oh, Henry, how could anyone think you’d do something like that? How could they?

– I just. It’s just a mess, Mom, that’s all.

– I love you, Henry.

– I love you, Mom.

– Besafe, OK?

– I will and I’ll call very soon, just, just as soon as I can. OK?

– Besure you do. Don’t say you’re going to call and forget. You know I hate that.

– I know.

– We love you so much.

– I love you guys, too, Mom.

– Becareful.

– I will, Mom, I’ll be careful.

– OK. Good-bye, Henry.

– Good-bye, Mom.

The line is silent except for her breathing and I know she can’t hang up, so I take the phone from my ear and push the littleEND button and the light on the liquid crystal display goes dark.

At the funeral, Rich’s parents had slumped against each other, rocking back and forth. They were alone. They had no other children.Only Rich. And I’d killed him. They didn’t blame me. They didn’t have to. I blamed myself.

I picture my parents at my own funeral: alone, inconsolable.

I will not die. I will not die for money, or even for another man’s life.

I look at Russ and watch him stare at something fascinating on the ground.

– I’m gonna give up the money, Russ. I’m gonna give up the money and I’m gonna give you up, too.

He tilts his head up and looks me in the eye.

– That, like, sounds about right.

At a DuaneReade, I grab one of thoseprepacked first-aid kits and a couple Ace bandages. My stuff is still in Roman’s car. Russ gets a carton of Camel Lights. At a bodega, we fill two bags with fruit, snacks, cold cuts and soda. Russ wants a six-pack and I don’t argue. We walk a couple blocks to 23rd Street and check into the Chelsea Hotel. It may be hip now, but it’s still a flop. The desk clerk is so jaded that we don’t raise an eyebrow even when I pay with cash.

Russ is pretty quiet the whole time and once we’re in the room, all he wants to do is take a shower. I flip on the tube and check out the most recent updates. I don’t have to look far. It’s all over the dial. Someone’s been digging. All the stations are running breaking news about adishy new rumor. I catch a replay on NY1.

– The suspect most sought in connection to this morning’s barroom massacre had escaped from police custody just hours before the murders took place, according to a source within the New York City Police Department. Furthermore, the source claims that the suspect was in custody for another murder that had taken place just yesterday. As of now, there is no response from the NYPD, but a statement is expected at a press conference later today.

It’s not really good news, but it makes me just a little bit happy. If questions are being asked about me, then some heat must be getting close to Roman and the thought of Roman in the fire tickles me to no fucking end.

Russ comes out of the shower in his underpants with a towel around his shoulders. His head is bleeding yet again.

– Mmmm. Man, can you do something about this or what?

Russ sits in a chair and drinks tallboys of Coors Original while I take care of his wound. I use the scissors from the first-aid kit to cut away some of the hair, then I bathe the whole wound with hydrogen peroxide. Russ jumps a bit when the burning starts, but I push him back into the chair and he drains his beer and opens another. Once I blot away the blood and clip off some dead skin and scabs, I can see what we’re dealing with and it’s all fucked up. I tell Russ to keep drinking and get the needle and thread from the sewing kit that comes with the room.

He doesn’t like it much, but I convince him that the wound isn’t gonna close up on its own. The smell of the beer creeps right up my nose, but I keep my hands steady and focus on not hurting the poor bastard too much. It’s not easy. When I thought I might be an EMT, I took all these first-aid classes. Back then, we practiced this on pieces of steak. That was a long time ago and the steaks didn’t move around or bleed. It takes a while. Russ finishes his story.

– Once I, like, fuck! Watch that shit, man. Once I, like, disappeared, I knew all bets would be off and they’dall be after me. Not just Ed and Paris. Like, the way those other guys think, if I make off with the loot, then it’s up for grabs and let the best man win. I didn’t figure I’d, like, get too far with that damn.Mmmm. With that damn sack on my back. Plus which, if they caught me with the, like, cash, then they could just waste me and that’s that. But if the money is, like, stashed, then I’mthinkin ’ I might be able to bargain a little. I’ll blow town and, fuck!Oww! Fuck! Shit, man. I’ll, like, blow town, be mobile for a while, let things cool a bit,then slip back into town for the bag and split for good. So I rented that locker, left the cat and the key with you and took off.Mmmm. Sure enough, as soon as I dropped out, the boys heard about it and, like, sent inLum to scout for me, seeing as they were still too hot to break cover themselves. Way I put it together from there is that Roman hears I’ve lit out and thatLum is around, so he, like, makes an offer toLum to sell out Ed and Paris, hook up with him and take a bigger cut.

You have to stitch the live skintogether, otherwise it just won’t heal properly. It’s gory work, but what has me freaked out is the close-up look I’m getting at the dent I put in Russ’s skull. I can see and feel just how crushed the bone is and the picture I’m getting of what’s on the other side has my stomach flopping around. But there’s nothing I can do about it, so I wipe some sweat out of my eyes and keep going.

– Mmmm. Of course, the Russians catch wind of all this, so they send Bert and Ernie around to take a piece for the workers of the world and Roman fits them into the machine rather than having them out on the street goingbatshit. Me, I’m, like, taking it easy watching the fall colors upstate, moving around, but laying low.Oww!Oww!Oww. Not good, man. Not good! Watch it! Fuck!

I get him settled back in the chair. He cracks another brew and starts up again.

– Ed and Paris, once they got some info and started putting it together, they must have realized they were getting, like, sold out all over town and it was time to roll onto the scene and take care of some fucking business. About that same time, I, like, pulled into Rochester to check on my dad real quick,cuz,ya know,ya know, he really was sick back there for a while. And when I get there, turns out.Mmmm. Turns out he, like, really has taken a bad turn and how about fucking that for irony, right?

I’ve got the last stitch in. It’s ugly, but it should hold. I start cleaning it up and get a bandage ready.

– He’s, like, on his deathbed for, like, real and I.Mmmm. I haveto, I can’t just leave, so I stay. He’s only got, like, a couple days and my mom left the fucker years ago and I don’t have any, like, siblings, and there’s no one, so I stay.Mmmm. And that’s how the Russians get a bead on me. I’m there just two days and I step out of the hospital for a smoke and see these clowns in the parking lot and I know I’m fucked. They aren’t Bert and Ernie, but they, like, might as well be, the way they’re dressed. I ducked back inside and out the rear and figured the jig was up and if I was gonna get away with the cash, I better, like, make my move. So I, like, came back for my cat.

I finish wrapping the bandage and tape it into place.

– How’s your dad?

– Hank, I don’t fucking know.

He drinks more beer and falls asleep on the bed. I tend to my own wound. I clean it and dress it and take one of the Ace bandages I bought and wind it around my middle. I want to give Dr. Bob’s work a little extra protection seeing as more abuse is likely to be on the way. Dr. Bob. Shit.

He’s a good guy.A citizen. He’ll be on his way to the police to talk to them just as soon as my picture shows up on TV. “Hey, that guy on TV, the mass murderer? Well, I stitched him up yesterday.” He’ll be thinking he repaired me just in time for me to go kill a bunch of people.Something else for me to feel like an asshole about. Sorry, Doc.

In the room Russ makes soft snoring sounds while I make a sandwich and eat it. There’s one beer left and it keeps staring at me. I get tired of trying not to stare back so I put it in the john where I won’t see it or hear it. Russ may want it later.

I pull on my clothes. I’ve got the TV on with the sound off and the radio tuned to a station I like. Springsteen sings “ Atlantic City,” and I listen all the way through. Then I take out the cell phone and his card and make the call.

– Roman.

He sounds so normal and professional, no stress, no panic, nothing at all.Just a cop on the job.

– Hey, Roman. How’s the cat?

– Yes, well, it is difficult to talk here, right now. Maybe you could give me your number.

– Fuck that. Give me the number of your cell and I’ll call you back.

– It would be easier if.

– I have the key now, Roman. I have the key and I have the fucking four and a half million dollars, so give me the fucking number.

He gives me the number.

– I’ll call in five minutes, so getyourself somewhere private.

I hang up. I feel good, just like a regulartoughguy. I set the phone down, go in the can and stick my head in the toilet until I’m sure I’m not really gonna throw up. When I raise my head, I’m right on eye level with Russ’s last beer and that’s about all it takes. I guzzle it down and, I have to say, it makes me feel a hell of a lot better, except for the fact that I instantly want about twenty-five more. I splash water on my face and rinse out my mouth and go back in the room to make the call.

– Roman.

– So, how’s the cat?

He’s quiet for a moment.

– Actually, the cat’s fine. Bolo has taken a liking to him and is making sure he’s well fed, rested and groomed.

Fuck!

– Roman, let’s talk.

– Go ahead.

– I want out and I want to know if that is possible at this point. Can I be put in the clear?

– That would be pretty tough at this point.

– Tough, but possible?

He’s silent again. In the background I can hear traffic sounds. He must have stepped outside the precinct house.

– I’ve been watching the news. Did I mention that, Roman?

– No.

– Well, I have, and I have this theory. See, I think someone is connecting the dots. Connecting the bar to me to Yvonne to me to Russ to me and connecting all of it to you. I think you’re getting asked questions about what the fuck is going on. And I think pretty soon, your credibility is going to be shit and you’re gonna beneeding that money to get lost with. So you better find a way to help me out before I decide to just keep it for myself.

– It will be difficult, but not impossible to get you in the clear.

– What will it take?

– Beyond the money, it will take just one more thing.

I close my eyes.

– What’s that?

– We’ll need a fall guy.

On the bed, Russ turns in his sleep and makes a little sighing noise.

– Yeah, I’ve got one of those.

Roman is so very happy to hear that Russ is back in town. We hack out the details. Roman gets the money. I get some semblance of my life.And the cat. Russ gets plugged into the frame that puts both me and Roman in the clear. I have questions.

– What if the rest of the cops don’t buy it?

– They will. Miner has a criminal record, he is the subject of an existing investigation and he’s already involved in this case up to his neck. Now listen: Unbeknownst to you, he left the key. When he came back to get the key, it had already been stolen from you by persons unknown. He did not believe your story and so began to hunt you across the city in order to get the key and, in the process, murdered your girl and instigated the slaughter at the bar.

– What happens when Russ denies it?

– He won’t.

I think about the implications of those two words.

– I don’t want him dead, Roman. I won’t give him to you just to kill him.

– Not to worry, we need Miner alive to confess. And confess he will. He’ll see that extended police custody allows him his best chance of survival. It will keep him in good stead with me and away from the brothersDuRanté.

– The brothersDuRanté?

– Ed and Paris, Ed and Paris DuRanté.

Great names.I have to give it to these guys: they all have great names.

– And what about Ed and Paris, what happens to them?

– The brothers are the subject of a nationalmanhunt, they will soon be forced to flee the area. And if they are ever found by the police, they will go down in the hail of bullets that is waiting for them.

– What about me?

– You stay in hiding until the news breaks that Miner has been captured. At which point you turn yourself in and explain that you were hiding because you were confused and afraid. You turn yourself over to me and only me. I will then ease your passage through the criminal justice system with the aid of my good name and a considerable amount of cash. With luck, we’ll both be heroes. Just relax. Soon this will be over and they’ll make you into a movie of the week.

I’m not stupid. I don’t trust him.

– Henry?

– Don’t call me that.

– It’s your name, right?

– Don’t call me that. You want to use my name, you call me Hank.

– Very well. Hank, you must relax. It will all go fine if you do not panic. It’s not out of reach, Hank. Your old life, it’s not out of reach.

And with no other choice that I can see, I do it. I make the deal and I don’t panic. We set up a time and place to make the exchange. He wants me to bring the cash, I refuse and tell him he can have the key, but he’ll have to use it himself. He insists and I hang up the phone and let him wait a couple minutes before I call back. He agrees to accept Russ and the key. He tells me to stay hidden until after dark and he tells me to keep an eye on the news. I tell him to make sure that Bud is in one piece tonight and he says good-bye.

I hang up the phone and get some Advil from the first-aid kit. I want to call a grocery and have them deliver some more beer, but when I look at the TV, I realize I’m gonna have to live without. The long-awaited press conference has begun and they’re flashing my booking photo from the other night and talking about how dangerous I am.

I watch TV for a while and think about that beer I drank. The clock says 3:15 when I peter out again, tired. I’m so fucking tired. I take a pillow from the bed and toss it on the carpet in front of the door. Now that I have a little time to think, I’m remembering some important stuff. The Giants play at 4:05P.M. West Coast time and the Mets at 7:30P.M. EST. I set the alarm for 7:00P.M. The meet with Roman is at 10:00. We’ll have to leave by 9:00 to get set up, but I should be able to watch at least three or four innings. I lie down on the floor and you’d be surprised just how easy it is to fall asleep. No dreams.

My first thought when I wake up is that the alarm didn’t go off. I know I’m supposed to be up for something and I can’t remember if it’s work or a date or a doctor’s appointment or what the fuck. Then I see that I’m on the floor and the pieces fall back into place, including the empty bed.

In my sleep, I’ve rolled away from the door. Now I see that what woke me was the door bumping lightly into my side. It’s closing! The fucking door is being pulled closed from the outside right now! I’m awake.

Still on the floor, I grab the edge of the door before it can close all the way. My fingers get a little squashed, but he’s trying to be quiet and gentle, so it doesn’t hurt much. I have a good grip now and yank back as hard as I can. He resists for a moment,then thinks better of it. The door flies in at me as he changes his pull to a push. I catch most of it on my left shoulder. It knocks me all the way onto my back and he has a head start. Through the now open door, I see him taking his first big step down the hall toward the elevator.

I lunge up into a sitting position, throw myself into the hall and claw at his ankles. I hook a finger in the cuff of his right pants leg, but he kicks back, freeing himself and knocking me further off balance. I’m trying to go after him and get up at the same time and I end up in a ridiculous crawl crouch, stumbling behind him. I can see that he’s going to beat me to the elevators, but unless there’s one waiting for him, I should catch up to him there. I see a little flash of chrome in his right hand. He has the gun. He picked my pocket while I was asleep and he has his little.22 back. The sight of the gun slows me. I’m not sure I want to catch him if he has the gun. As I consider this, he suddenly and for no apparent reason turns to the left and plows straight into the wall.

He rebounds off the wall and pauses a moment to shake his head. I take two giant steps, throw myself at him and grab his right leg as he steps forward. He goes down full length, no time to use his arms to break his fall. The gun is bounced out of his hand and slides a few feet down the hall. I scramble up onto his back, pin his arms with my knees and grab him by the neck with my left hand. With my right, I reach out and scoop up the gun. I stick the barrel up against his cheek. His mouth is muffled by the carpet, but I hear him.

– Like, chill, man! Chill!

I dig the barrel in deeper.

– Yes, I get it, Hank! Chill, man!

I disentangle myself from him, keeping the gun in place. We stand up together.

– The room, Russ.

– Yeah, man, like, the room. No problem.

We walk the few yards back to our room and no doors open, no one looks out to see what the ruckus is about. I love this hotel. I close the door behind us and relock it, including the little chain. Russ is looking at his face in the mirror over the dresser, inspecting the carpet burn on his chin. I can’t help it; as I go past him, I give him a little shove in the back. He falls right into the mirror, banging his forehead hard enough to cause a small crack in the glass. He straightens and then slides down to the floor along the dresser drawers, which make little clunking noises as he goes. He sits there, holding his head.

– Forchrissake, Hank. Will you quit, like, hitting me on the fucking head!

I squat down and look at his eyes. Again, the left pupil is a little bigger than the right. No wonder he can’t walk a straight line. I check the clock: 7:49P.M. The fucker switched off the alarm. I climb up on the bed, grab the remote, switch to Channel 11 for the Mets game, and turn up the sound. Bottom of the first: zip, zip. I wait for them to flash a score from the Giants game. At the end of the inning, they tell me what I want to know: Giants 1, Dodgers 0, top of the third.

Russ gets himself up off the floor. He looks for something but can’t find it.

– Hey?

I watch TV.

– Hey, what happened to my last beer?

– I drank it.

– Fuck.

He digs in one of the grocery bags until he comes up with a six-pack of Coke, a bag of chips and a can of peanuts. He comes over to the bed and stands there, waiting. I look up at him,then scoot over to make room. He climbs onto the bed, hands me a soda, and puts the chips and nuts between us.

– So, what’s the score?

8:45P.M. I’m sitting on the bottom edge of the bed, two feet from the TV screen.Top of the fifth, still no score. The Mets and the Braves are locked in a pitchers’ duel. The starters have combined for fifteen strikeouts already and show no sign of slowing down. Out west in Dodger Stadium, they’re jammed in the bottom of the fourth, picking away at each other, the hitters going high into the counts and knocking foul balls all over the fucking place. The Giants are still up 1-0, but L.A. has the bases loaded andS.F.’s starter is already wearing out. The announcer for the Mets game keeps giving updates on what’s happening out in Los Angeles, but the fact that I can’t actually see the game is driving me up the fucking wall. And now it’s time to go, and I can’t bring myself to shut off the TV.

I’m going to wait until the end of the Dodgers’ fourth. I can’t doit, I just can’t go without knowing if the Dodgers take the lead. The Mets knock down the Braves in order, chalking up two more strikeouts and the coverage goes to a commercial.

– Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.

Russ is still reclined at the other end of the bed. He’s a Mets fan. Every time they notch another out, he pumps his fist and gives a little whoop. I’m trying to remember that it could beworse, he could be a Dodgers fan. It’s 8:56P.M. The game comes back on and we’re informed that the Giants are in the middle of a pitching change. Meanwhile, the Braves go to work on the Mets. I look again at the clock. Fuck! Fuck me! I turn off the TV. Russ jumps off the bed.

– Whoa! Like, what the fuck?

I collect the first-aid kit and cell phone and put on the Yankees jacket, sunglasses and headphones.

– Time to go, Russ.

– Oh, man. Oh, man!

– I know. Come on.

At the door, I turn and take a look at the room.Cans and crumbs and leftover food all over the place. I take a twenty from my pocket and toss it on the bed for the maid. We walk down the hall and push the button for the elevator. Russ is antsy.

– Where do we go?

– We need a car.

– A car?

– Yeah.

He looks atme, the elevator goes ding and the doors open. We step inside and wait for the doors to close.

– Hank?

– Yeah?

– Why dowe.Mmmm. Why do we, like, need a car?

The doors are still open. I realize that neither of us has pushed a button and I lean over and press my finger against the one labeledL.

– We need a car because I don’t want to risk any more cabs or subways and so we can listen to the game while we wait.

The elevator is very slow.

– I thought we were, like, going to the.Mmmm. Going to the cops. I thought you were turning me in.

I look at him as the elevator eases its way down to the lobby.

– I’m giving you to Roman.

– What?

– I’m giving you and the money to Roman. Roman will take you in.

– What the fuck?

– I can’t just take you to the police.

– Are youfucking.Mmmm. Are you, like, fucking nuts? You’re fucking crazy. Fucking Roman?ZOMBIE MOTHER FUCKING ROMAN?

– Russ!

– Fuck that!

The doors open on the lobby and a group ofultrahip European teenagers are standing there, waiting to go up. Russ spins away from me and takes a quick step out of the elevator and trips over nothing, tumbling into the crowd of tattoos,piercings and bleached hair. They catch him and keep him on his feet while I wrap an arm around his shoulders and take a firm grip on his right biceps.

– Thankyou. Thank you very much. He’s OK.

They cram into the elevator, making cracks in French aboutdrunk Americans.Fucking French classes. I wish I’d taken Spanish in high school. I start walking Russ toward the door.

– Take it easy, Russ. Just take it easy. It’s, it’s gonna be OK. You’re gonna take the fall, but you’re gonna get out of it alive. And. It’s gonna, you know, be fine.

He’s still shaking a bit, not because of his balance, but because of how hard he’s crying.

I would rather have rented a car, but I don’t want to go someplace where I’m gonna have to stand around and let people look at me for twenty minutes, and I don’t trust Russ to go in alone. It takes me a while to talk Russ into the backup plan, but eventually he gives in. Even woozy as he is, it takes him less than a minute to break into a locked car and hot-wire it. We sit there with the engine idling. I put a hand on his shoulder.

– OK, let’s go.

He kind of shrugs my hand from his shoulder.

– No.

– Why?

– Mmmm. Apart from, like, not wanting to drive myself to my own fucking execution, I’m not sure I should, like, be behind the wheel, feeling like this. I can barely, like, walk a fucking straight line thanks to you going all, like, Babe Ruth on my head.

– You have to drive, Russ.

– Mmmm. Why? Why the fuck do I have to drive?

– Because I don’t.

He looks at me.

– Are you.Mmmm. Are you, like, kidding, man? You’re from Cali, man. All you guys know how to drive.

– I know how to, I just don’t. So let’s get the fuck out of here before the owner of this fucking thing shows the fuck up.

– Let him! Let him.Mmmm. Let him show up and call the fucking cops. That would be, like, great, man. Save my fucking life.

I make a fist and lunge at him. He flinches back and I pull the punch before it makes contact. He keeps himself pressed against the driver’s-side door and I take deep breaths.

– Why me, Russ? Huh? Why the fuck did you pick me to give your goddamn cat?

He looks out the window at Ninth Avenue.

– I figured, you know, that you’d, like, take good care of him. I mean, Bud’s a great cat. I didn’t want to leave him with just anyone.

– Yeah.

We sit for another half minute.

– Just drive the car, Russ. Take it real easy and if you start to black out or feel funny, just say something.

– OK.

He takes the wheel and puts the Celica in first.

– Like, where to, man?

– Just get us out of here. I’ll tell you where to go once we’re moving.

He pulls away from the curb nice and slow and eases us into the downtown traffic. I turn on the radio and try to find the game.

We circle the block and take Broadway back downtown to Canal Street, then take East Broadway to Montgomery. We scoot across the FDR into the Pier 8 driveway right at the bottom of Manhattan. I point the way and Russ drives us slowly down the access road past theNO UNAUTHORIZED VEHICLES BEYOND THIS POINT sign. I jog out here a few times a week and I’ve never seen a single cop, just the occasional parks department truck. We cruise along nice and easy until we reach the Houston Street footbridge where it crosses over the FDR to the baseball diamonds of the East River Park.

We park on the access road next to a baseball diamond. Nearby, I can hear the traffic whizzing past on the FDR, but it’s not nearly loud enough to cover the sound of my cursing.Dodgers 3, Giants 1. New York and Atlanta are still scoreless and the starters are closing in on a new record for combined strikeouts in a single game. Russ has lost interest in the games. He stares out at the East River beyond the playing fields and smokes Camel Lights, one after another. The dash clock in the Celica is broken, but it’s 9:47P.M. by Russ’s watch. Roman should be here just about anytime.

Roman wanted to meet someplace secluded in Red Hook. I told him to fuck off and we settled on the East River Park. It doesn’t close until midnight, but at this hour and this time of year,there’s just a few joggers and dog walkers. A ways away, some kids in jackets are playing three-flys-up under the night-lights of another diamond. Russ takes a last hard drag on his cig and flicks the butt out the window. The Braves close out the bottom of the sixth and the broadcast goes to commercial. S.F. and L.A. raced through the fifth and are wading into the sixth themselves.

Russ keeps touching his bandage where it covers the stitches I put in. There’s a tiny pink stain there and every time he pokes it, he winces a little.

– Just stop fucking with it.

He touches it again.

– Really, Russ, you don’t want to fuck around with thatuntil a real doctor checks it out.

He looks at me out of the corner of his eye, then digs in his pocket for another smoke and lights it.

– I’m never gonna see a fucking doctor.

The game comes back on.

– The cops will take you to a doctor.

– I’m, like, never gonna see the fucking cops.

I’m trying to listen to the game with one ear and Russ with the other.

– He can’t kill you, man, you’re his fall guy. He needs you.

– You just.Mmmm. You just, like, don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.

Something’s going on. Atlanta got their lead-off hitter on first and the number two guy sacrificed him to second.Runner on second, one out, heart of the order coming up. No word from the announcer about the Giants.

– You’re gonna take the fall, Russ, because you fucked up. You’re gonna go to jail and youmay fucking die there, but Roman’s not gonna kill you.

The Braves’ number three hitter smacks one straight back to the pitcher for the second out. The pitcher spins and fires the ball to second, just missing the double play. The cleanup hitter steps in.Still nothing from L.A.

– You fucking idiot. You’re, like, such a fucking.Mmmm.

– Cool it.

– Such a fucking idiot.

– Don’t fucking pushme.

– Fuck you, you fucking idiot.

Two quick strikes followed by three straight balls and the catcheris going out to the mound to settle his pitcher. The announcer has mercy on me and gives an update from the West Coast: Top of the sixth and the Giants have the bases loaded with one out. The Dodgers pull their starter.

– Russ, this would be a good time for you to can it.

– Fucking idiot! Fucking idiot! Fucking idiot!

– Russ!

The Mets’ catcher settles in back behind the plate, the hitter is in the box and the pitcher steps up on the rubber.

On the other coast, the Giants counter the pitching change by bringing in a lefty to pinch-hit.

– Hey, by the way, fucking idiot, how is it you’re planning to get out of here after you send me to be killed, seeing as you don’t, like, drive or whatever?

Atlanta ’s man makes loud contact. The announcer is describing the ball’s arc toward deep left field. The color commentator goes bananas, screaming that the Giants’ hitter has just smashed a monster to deep center. On opposite coasts the balls soar toward the outfield walls.

Russ turns the radio off.

– Huh, fucking idiot, howya gonna get out?

– Fuck!

I grab his right hand with my left and try to pull it off the volume knob; he grabs my wrist with his left and I can’t pull free.

– Fucking idiot!Fucking.Mmmm. Idiot!

– Fuck, Russ! Fuck, Russ! Fuck!

Now I grab his left with my right and we tug-o’-war, grunting. The knob snaps off.

– Russ! Fuck! Russ!

I grab his throat with both hands and squeeze as hard as I can. He has a grip on my fingers, keeping them from closing completely, keeping him alive.

– Fucking murderer! Fucking all my friends! You fucking murderer!

Tears are boiling up around my eyes. I press my weight into him and force his body back against the door. I squeeze harder.

– Hank.

– Shut up!

– Hank.

– Shut the fuck up.

– Hank, he’s gonna-

– Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!

This bastard.This selfish fucking bastard.

– He’s gonna kill us both.He’s gonna fucking kill us both.

Somewhere beyond my crying and Russ’s gasping breath I register the sound of a car. Headlights flash three times, illuminating the interior of our stolen car. Russ’s face is purple, his eyes bugging out of his head.

– Kill. Kill us both.

Twenty yards away, Roman pulls up and parks his car. I look at my hands and what they’re doing, and I let go of Russ’s neck. He gasps and chokes and heaves up a little of his lunch onto the seat.

– Kill us both.Mmmm. Kill us both and put us both in the frame.Mmmm. And the cops will, like, seal it up tightcuz they, like, love a closed case.

The headlights flash again and Roman steps out of his car. He stands there, waiting for me.

Russ massages his neck.

– Jesus, Hank, it’s not like you couldn’t listen to the rest of the game on the Walkman.

We meet in the middle. He’s wearing a different black suit and there’s a nice collection of scratches on his neck and chin where he was raked by some of Edwin’s birdshot, but otherwise the guy still looks great.A fucking pro.

– Hank.

– Fuck you, Roman. Where’s the cat?

– Miner in the car?

– Yeah. Where’s the cat?

– The key?

– I have it here.The cat, Roman.

My hands are shoved deep in the pockets of my jeans, which I figure is a good idea since it keeps Roman from seeing how much they’re shaking. He watches me, flicks his eyes toward Russ in the Celica, then makes a little waving gesture back at his own car. Bolo gets out of the front passenger seat. He’s carrying my bag. It’s unzipped and as he walks toward us I can see that Bud is inside, nestled back in his little bed of towels. Bolo cradles the bag from underneath with one massive hand and with the other he scratches Bud behind the ears.

– Hey, man, this is a great cat.

I stare at him.

– Imean, me? I’m really a dog person, but a cat like this?This is a great cat.

Roman looks over his shoulder at his car and waves again. Whitey gets out of the backseat and stumbles just slightly. He shambles toward us. In his right hand he’s holding one of the machine pistols they used to kill myfriends, in his left he has a half-empty liter bottle of Smirnoff. He stops when he gets to our little group and sizes me up. His eyes are red and puffy from crying and drinking. He takes a huge mouthful of the vodka, swallows most of it and spits the rest on my shoes. Roman reaches out and rests a comforting hand on his shoulder.

– He’s just a bit worked up. That was his boyfriend got killed back there at the bar. They were planning a ring ceremony for the spring.

– That’s a real fucking tragedy.

Whitey goes for me, but Roman clamps down on the shoulder and pulls him back before he can get across the five feet that separate us. Me, I just keep my shaking hands in my pockets.

Roman gives Whitey a gentle shove toward my car.

– Go get Miner.

Whitey looks me over one more time and heads for the Celica. Roman gives a little grimace and sighs through his nose.

– You’re getting hard, Hank.

– You want the key?

– Yes, please.

Slowly I take my hands from my pockets, keeping them balled in fists to try to hide the shaking. But as soon as I open them, the keys start jingling. Roman looks at my hands and back up at my face. I can’t look away.

– Hank.

I find the right key by touch, never looking away from hiseyes, and start twisting it loose from the ring. I breathe deep, in and out, trying to settle my hands.

– Hank.

I have the key off the ring and I squeeze it in my palm, the jagged edges digging into the skin.

– You don’t have to be frightened any longer, Hank. You are safe now, I promise you.

I nod.

– Hand me the key.

I open my hand and hold the key out to him and he reaches for it slowly.

– So what does it open, Hank?

The keyjumps from my shaking palm and falls on the ground, its bright pink base easily visible in the dim light. Roman gives me an understanding little half-smile. I smile back.

– Sorry.

– It’s all right.

Behind me I hear a car door open.

– So, what does it open?

The pink key stays there on the ground between us.

– A unit at Manhattan Mini Storage. The number’s on the key.

He nods. I look at Bolo and Roman looks at him as well.

– Give him his cat, Bolo.

Behind me, I hear Whitey.

– Fuck-face, out of fucking car.Fuck-face, out.

Roman starts to bend to pick up the key and Bolo reaches over him from behind to pass me the bag with Bud inside.

– Makes me feel like shit about what I did. He’s such a great cat.

Behind me:

– Fucking car is for getting out of, fuck-face.

Bolo’s hand is hooked in the bag’s strap and we juggle the bag a little over Roman’s back as he starts to rise with the key. Bud gets pinched and lashes out with the claws of his right paw, catching Bolo on the thumb.

– Fuck!

I take hold of the bag as he jerks back his arm to stick the thumb in his mouth and his elbow clips Roman hard on the back of the neck.

– Fucking cat!

– Fuck-face, out!

Roman is knocked down, almost doubled over. He pulls himself quickly upright and something is jarred from his coat pocket and drops to the ground with a sound somewhere between a clank and a thump. We both stand there, staring down at the brass knuckles as if they were the ace of spades fallen from the sleeve of a gambler just as he was pushing away from the table with his winnings.

Those bruises on her neck.

Behind me, a balloon pops.

We all watch as Whitey walks back toward us still holding the bottle, but no longer carrying the gun. With his right hand, he points at a dark splotch on the collar of his shiny white Nike jacket. We are frozen. He reaches us, and we see that the finger is not pointing but is jammed up to the second knuckle in the hole Russ shot in his neck with the.22 I left for him on the cracked foam rubber front seat of the Celica.

Nobody moves except Whitey, who walks slowly to Roman’s car and climbs in the backseat. He sits there, plugging the hole in his neck with his finger, takes a long slug of vodka, and weeps silently.

Roman reaches inside his jacket for his gun. Bolo does the same with his free hand, keeping his injured thumb in his mouth. I turn back toward the Celica as Russ rises from the driver’s seat with the little chrome pistol in his right hand and Whitey’s machine pistol in his left. I am ten yards from the car. I start running, Bud clutched to my chest.

Russ pulls the trigger on the machine gun. He’s unprepared for the force of the blow-back and the gun leaps upward, dragging his hand in a high arc and spraying the sky with bullets. Behind me, I hear two scrambling thumps as Roman and Bolo hit the dirt. I’ve gone two yards.

Something explodes behind me and a mini shock wave hums past my right hip. A hole appears in the Celica’s left fender. Izig hard to the right, trying to clear Russ’s firing line as he brings the machine gun back to shoulder level. He pulls the trigger again. He’s ready this time and bullets rip up the tarmac just behind me. He fires a short burst and re-aims. I’m accelerating. Six yards covered.

I’m approaching the car from the driver’s side and Russ is blocking the door. Russ fires again and I can’t keep from looking back. Roman and Bolo are frozen, facedown on the road. A patch of chewed-up tarmac appears a few feet from them and stretches toward them and stops just short of their heads as the gun’s clip goes empty. Russ drops the machine pistol and takes aim with the.22.Ten yards.

I try to stop, and instead I skid on the gravel scattered over the road. I plow into Russ just as he squeezes off all five rounds left in the.22. He’s thrown sideways by my impact and the bullets fly into some bushes by the side of the road. There’s no time to circle the car. I start shoving him in through the driver’s-side door, pushing him all the way over to the passenger’s seat. I’m piling in behind him, trying to get Bud’s bag into his lap as I settle into the driver’s seat, reach to turn the key, and grab a handful of loose wires.

– FUCK, RUSS!

– What?

– THE CAR, HOW DO I START THE FUCKING CAR?

Out on the road, Roman and Bolo are peeking out from behind their hands, which are covering their faces. Russ reaches over to the steering column, grabs the two wires he exposed before and starts scraping them together. Roman and Bolo get to their feet. The Celica is making sounds like it wants to start, but it won’t turn over.

Roman looks around at his feet, bends over and picks up his gun from where he dropped it when Russ started shooting. Bolo walks slowly toward us, his left thumb in his mouth and a 9 mm dangling casually from his right hand. Behind him Roman is trying to aim at us, but Bolo is in his way.

The Celica goes WAH-WAH-WAH!

Bolo walks up to the front of the car and starts to raise his pistol. Roman is moving a few steps to his right, looking for a clean shot. The engine catches, but the clutch is out.

The Celica leaps forward in little hops and slams Bolo in the knees, folding him over the hood. I stomp on the floor, trying to find the clutch. Russ holds Bud, pressed tightly against his neck. Roman gets off a shot, but our motion spoils it and he takes out the side window behind me. I get my foot on the clutch pedal. The engine coughs andrecatches. Bolo is on the hood.

I let the clutch out and hammer down on the gas. Gravel spits out behind us and the rear end fishtails and Bolo slides off the hood. The tires catch traction and we jet forward. I cram it into second and aim for Roman, ten yards away. He doesn’t bother with another shot but dives out of the way as I crash through the bushes and around his car. I jump us back onto the access road and put it in third as we race down the road toward the pier and the FDR on-ramp.

I spare a glance to check Russ. He’s sideways in the seat and getting himself straightened out, all the while holding Bud close. I look back at the road.

– Russ.

– Yeah?

– Put on your seat belt.

– Sure.

In the rearview, I see Roman getting his car turned around to come after us.

Driving, itseems, is like riding a bike: you never forget. The wheel feels good in my hands, my feet find the pedals with ease and I flip the shift knob from gear to gear until it’s in fourth. I cannot deny my true nature. I am a Californian. And just like every true Californian, I like to drive. Christ, I love to drive.

The Celica is a beige hatchback about fifteen or twenty years old. It has some problems. The wheel has an inch of play in either direction, the alignment pulls slightly to the right, it has no power or acceleration, the tires are bald and the brakes are mushy. Still, it should be much quicker in the corners than Roman’s big-block cop sedan. That would help if there were any corners here. The access road is just one long straightaway back to the gate and Roman is already right behind me, trying to stick his car’s nose up my ass and nudge me off the road.

The kids on the diamond are lining up at the chain link to watch as we blow past. Most of the pedestrians are along the water side of the park, but a few are scattered on the road. I shift my right hand toward the center of thewheel, jam my thumb down on the horn. My high beams are on and ahead of me it looks like clear sailing. The car lurches as Roman slams into the rear bumper.

The wheel jumps a bit in my hand and we swerve to the left. We glance off a park bench and bounce back to the center of the road. I get control and slam the gas pedal back to the floor. Roman drops back for a second to see what will happen,then he’s right back on us. Next to me, Russ has his legs jacked out straight in from of him like he’s trying to hit an imaginary brake pedal. His right hand is frozen around the “Oh, my God!” strap and he’s holding Bud with his left.

– Hank?

I keep my eyes on the road.

– Yeah?

– I don’t want to be a backseat driver, butya know this thing does, like, have a fifth gear.

Shit!

I hit fifth and we pull away smoothly. It won’t last. Just ahead the Williamsburg Bridge cuts the sky above us. Below it, running parallel to the big bridge, the DelanceyStreet footbridge crosses the FDR and drops its ramp smack into the middle of the access road. There’s space to go around on either side, but it looks a lot smaller going out at seventy than it did coming in at fifteen.

Roman taps us again and I veer slightly left. He guns it and pushes up alongside us on the right. I edge farther to the left, trying to line up with the thin space between the foot ramp and the row of lampposts along the road there. I’d like to spare a look for Roman, but the play in the wheel is giving me fits. Never fear. He reminds me of his presence by giving us another shove before peeling off right to line up with the gap on that side of the ramp. The shove takes us over too far and the driver’s-side rearview snaps off against a lamppost. It ricochets into my window. The window shatters instantly, and hundreds of little pebbles of glass collapse into my lap while the rearview flies past my left ear and into the backseat.

I flinch and blink. When I open my eyes, we’re at the gap. I have to jerk the wheel to get us back on line. We swerve through the narrow space and I think I feel the bumper clip something as the rear end gives a slight tug. We’re through but come out veering to the right. I try to put us straight on the road. It’s too late. We broadside Roman’s car as he comes through on the other side of the ramp. His car is much bigger than ours and we rebound back to the center of the road. He loses the wheel for a moment and scrapes the side of his car down the iron fence on that side of the road. A fountain of sparksroostertails into the sky and we pull away again.

The road takes a nice easy arc to the right, passing Corlears Hook Park on our left. Just ahead it narrows down to one car’s width as it passes the pier’s storage yard. Roman is just about on us as I gear down andbrace myself.

– Russ, hold on to Bud.

I catch his rapid nodding out of the corner of my eye as we hit the eighteen-inch speed bumps at just over forty miles per hour. The front end springs up and, as it starts to drop, the rear hits the bump and pops up, driving the front down at an even steeper angle. I pump the brakes and try to keep the wheels pointed straight ahead. We bounce and skitter to the next one and hit it hard. We come down skidding to the left. I try to steer into the skid and goose the gas. We get traction and I straighten us out for the last bump and ease over it at twenty. Just behind us, Roman hits the first bump at top speed.

He just about flips but hangs on. The second one pops him off the road and into the chain link of the storage yard. His car plows to a sudden stop against the fence and we’re in the parking lot. I cut the wheel hard right, heading for the exit, jump the light at the intersection there and hairpin us straight up the FDR on-ramp, picking up speed. We pass Roman’s car, still pointed the opposite direction on the access road. He’s already moving, headed for the FDR.

I try to get lost in the traffic. I mix in and slow down to match the flow. We pass under the Williamsburg Bridge again, going north this time. Russ is nuzzling the back of Bud’s neck and whispering to him and Roman drives right up on us.

We’re in the far right lane and he pulls up on our left. I look out the window. Bolo is there, just a few feet away, sucking his scratched thumb. Roman doesn’t spare me a look, just keeps his eyes on the traffic. I can see Whitey still in the backseat, but I can’t tell if he’s alive or dead. I’ll never lose them as long as this is a race about speed. I need to slow the chase down. I pull onto the Houston Street exit ramp.Roman brakes fast and veers over to follow us. At the top of the ramp, I ignore the stop sign and blaring horns of the other cars and take us halfway around the traffic circle and onto Houston headed west. Roman trails.

Traffic is heavy and Roman stays right with us. From the middle lane, I take a right off Houston onto Avenue A. I cut in front of several cars and the drivers all lean on their horns. Roman gets tangled in the mess and I take a lead down the avenue.

The weekend traffic has us slowed way down by the time we get to 9th Street, Roman is back with us. But that’s OK, because I can already see the lights up ahead.

It looks like a movie set up on my block: cop cars, news vans, barricades andrubberneckers galore. Roman has caught on and he’s dropping back. It might be worth it tome to drive through and chance being recognized, but not even Roman can get through all those cops with a dying Russian gangster in his backseat. He turns off at 12th Street, heading east. He’ll have to detour a few blocks. Otherwise he’ll no doubt end up at a similar mess a block away outside Paul’s. Russ takes his face out of Bud’s neck, looks up and registers the scene.

– Hey, Hank, like, what the fuck?Mmmm.

– Just take it easy, man.

– Mmmm.

– Easy.

He rubs his nose against Bud’s face.

– Hear that, Buddy? Take it easy.Mmmm. Easy.Mmmm.

I look at him. He keeps his face close to Bud’s.

The cops wave cars through the intersection at A and 13th one at a time and they creep past my apartment building. We get to the front of the line and the cop holds us there for a second with an upraised palm ascrosstown traffic passes by. I spot a few people I know from the block mixed in with the reporters and sightseers. I pull up the collar on my jacket and hunch down a little in the seat.

The cop waves us through and never once looks in the car. The cops have been forced to use barricades to create room for a narrow lane in the middle of the street. We edge along and I picture a similar scene in front of my parents’ house.Reporters on the front lawn, strangers driving by to gawk and neighbors on porches pointing their fingers and shaking their heads. Russ never looks up from Bud’s neck. We’re held up at 14th by another traffic cop and I look east down the street, trying to see if Roman has circled around. I can’t see him, but now this car has become a target and I want out of it. The cop gives us the OK and I turn left just as the Celica starts to cough and shiver.

We wobble across the intersection and I pull us over to the curb just past the bus stop on the right-hand side of the street. I look out the window and the traffic cop is pointing from himself to us, signing, asking if we need any help. I smile and wave “no thanks” back to him. He nods and turns back to his job.

– Russ.

– Mmmm.

– Russ!

– Mmmm. What?

– The car died.

– Mmmm.

– Russ?

– Yeah?

– Are you OK?

He takes his face from Bud and looks at me. His left pupil has swollen, almost eclipsing the entire iris.

– Like, I don’t know, Hank. I don’t feel too good.

We have to get out of this car.

– It’s good to see you, Buddy.Mmmm.

We have to get out of this car.

– Good to see you.Mmmm. Sorry, I’m sorry I, like, left you for so long, Buddy.

We have to get out of this fucking car. The cop back at the intersection keeps glancing over at us. A few blocks away, Roman and Bolo are dumping Whitey or stuffing him in the trunk and coming after us. The left side of Russ’s face is sagging and frozen and he keeps rubbing it against Bud and whispering to him. We have to get out of this car before that cop comes walking over here to see what’s up, but I don’t know where to go next.

The cell phone rings.

– Buddy, Buddy, Buddy. I missed you, Buddy.Mmmm.

It rings again.

– Buuuuddy.

I take it out of my pocket and stare at it as it rings a third time.

– I’m sorry you, like, got hurt, Buddy.Mmmm. That was, that was really my fault.

It starts to ring again and I flip it open.

– Hello?

– Hello?

– Hello?

– Is this Russ Miner?

Fuck!

– Uh, yes.

– Mr. Miner, this is Detective Craig Williams of the New York City Police Department.

Oh, fuck.

– Yes?

– Mr. Miner, are you alone? Are you free to speak?

– Yes.

The cop is looking over at us again.

– Mr. Miner, we’ve been tracking your credit card transactions and found you had opened this account in the last twenty-four hours.

– Uh-huh.

– That’s how we got this number.

– Uh-huh.

– Mr. Miner, we believe that you are in great danger.

– Uh, why?

– Mr. Miner, do you know Henry Thompson? His parents were called from this number earlier today.

Oh, oh, fuck.

– Uh.

– Are you with Henry Thompson? Is he holding you against your will?

Are you fucking kidding me?

– Uh.

– If you’re not free to speak, just answer yes or no. Do you understand?

– Uh.

The cop is now openly staring at us. I keep my face well inside the shadowed interior of the car.

– Mr. Miner? Russ? Russ, this is a very dangerous man. Mr. Thompson is a very dangerous man. We know you’re in trouble, but if you’re with Henry Thompson, you are in worse danger than you know. We can help. Do you understand?

– Uh.

– Russ, we want to help you. Russ, are you still there?

I turn the phone off and toss it in the backseat. Russ takes his face away from Bud again and looks at me with his crooked stare.

– Who was that? Anybody I know?

I get out of the car, walk around to Russ’s side and start to help him out. The cop waves one of his buddies over to take control of the traffic and strolls toward us.

I have Russ out of the car and we’re moving away. I’m counting seconds. I’m counting seconds until I get to thirty so I can look back and see if the cop has stuck his head in the car to gander at all the broken glass and the hot-wired ignition. I make it to twenty before I turn.

He’s not looking in thecar, he’s got his back to the car. He’s got his back to the car so he can talk to Roman, who has just pulled up in his now Russian gangster-free sedan and who is, no doubt, asking about the two guys in the beige Celica. I hustle Russ down the steps of the L train station at the end of the block.

Getting the fucking tokens takes for-fucking-ever.Russ leans against me while I dig out one of the twenties. The guy in the booth wants to know how many we need and I blank out for a second, trying to figure if I should get more than one token each, just in case. Then I get a grip on where I am and how close Roman and Bolo are and I tell him to just give me a couple and please hurry. He slides the tokens through the slot and starts counting out my seventeen dollars in change, all in singles. Then I feel the breeze from the tunnel that means the train is coming. The token guy stuffs the bills at me and I grab them and drag Russ to the turnstiles. It’s another project just to get the two of us through and then down the next set of steps. The train is pulling in, but it’s on the opposite track, heading into Brooklyn. I start moving Russ down the platform toward the far end, away from the entrance and the turnstiles.

– What do you say, Russ?

– Mmmm. I don’t know, Hank.

We’re moving along OK now. I’m on his left side, helping him, but he does seem to have some control over the left leg and all I really have to do is keep him balanced.

– Youfeelin ’ any better?

– Hank?

– Yeah?

– Whatthe hell are youdoin ’, man?

– Well, Russ, I’m trying to get us out of here.

– But, like, all those cops back there, man. Let’s just.Mmmm. Let’s just, man, just hand me over,cuz, like, I think I’m pretty fucked up.

We’re getting close to the end of the platform and I can see the tunnel brightening ahead of us as a train approaches the station. I look back up the platform in the opposite direction.Still no Roman. We get to the end and I lean Russ against the wall. He has Bud’s bag hanging from his neck and Bud is trying to squirm out. I push him back in and zip the bag all the way shut as the train comes rocketing into the station.

– The thing is, Russ, I thought we might go pick up the money. Then I thought we might go see a doctor and get you fixed up. Then I thought we might take off someplace and hide out. What doya say, man, sound good?

– Yeah, that’s, like, cool and all, but you, like, gave fucking Roman the key.Mmmm. You gave him the key, man.

I pull Russ to the edge of the platform as the train comes to a stop. The doors slide open with a little sound.Ding-dong! We stand aside while a load of young artist poseurs from Williamsburg pile off to go drinking in the East Village.

– I gave him the wrong key.

– Huh?

– I gave him the key tomy storage unit, Russ. We still have the money.

As we step into the last car of the train, I catch some action at the other end of the platform: Roman and Bolo plunging down the stairs and through the crowd, trying to make it into the first car.

– We, like, still have the money?

– That’s right, man, we still have it. So just relax and everything’s gonna be OK.

Ding-dong!The doors slide halfway shut, stop, and slide back open the way they do when someone is blocking a door somewhere on the train.Ding-dong! They slide shut all the way. Me? I’d say Roman made it onto the train.

The train will make three stops before it reaches the end of the line at Eighth Avenue. I’m trying to figure how long it will take Roman and Bolo to work their way back through the whole train to us. The trains are eight cars long. Every other car has a locked door; they’ll have to jump cars at each station to get around the locked doors. I’m thinking about the layout of the stations between here and the end of the line, thinking about where to make our break. We pull into the Third Avenue station.

Ding-dong!The doors open and a few people get on and off. I’ve got Russ parked in a seat. I go to the door and stick my head out. At the far end of the train, in the second car, Bolo is doing the same thing. He sees me. I duck back into the car.Ding-dong! And we’re off again. Next stop: Union Square. When the train pulls in we’ll be near the stairs at the back of the platform. We can make a run for it, hope they don’t see us get off, and catch another train or hit the street.

I grab Russ’s arm and start to lift him off the seat, but he’s just deadweight. I look around the car. No one is paying the slightest attention to us. New Yorkers: God forbid you should look up, you might see something. I sit next to him and feel his wrist. There’s a pulse. Hopefully he’s just blacked out and not in a coma. We’re hitting Union Square.

– Russ, come on, man.Time to go. Let’s go.

No response. The train is stopping. I can leave him here. There is no reason not to leave him here.Except, of course, that Roman and Bolo will kill him if they find him.

– Russ.

I slap his cheek lightly.Nothing. In his lap, the bag shifts slightly as Bud moves around.Ding-dong! People are pouring off the train, on the train. I step to the door and look out. Bolo is there, still in the second car. He waves. I wave back and step off the train. He says something to someone inside the train and he and Roman both step off. I step back on. They step on. I step back off. Roman stays on the train. Bolo jumps onto the platform and starts heading toward me.Ding-dong! I dive back on as the doors slide shut. The doors stop and slide back open.Ding-dong! They close all the way. He made it back on. But it was worth it to watch him dance. Next stop: Sixth Avenue.

Russ won’t come around. We pull into the Sixth Avenue station.Ding-dong! I look out the door again. Bolo and Roman duck out of the second car and into the first door of the third car. They’re gone from view for a moment. I pray for the doors to close before they can get any closer. No luck. They pop out the doors at the near end of the fourth car and jump into the fifth car.Ding-dong! They’ll hit another locked door between the six and seven cars. That’s as close as they can get until we pull into Eighth Avenue.The end of the line. I sit on the seat next to Russ and take his hand as we start to move.

– Wow.

I look at Russ.

– Wow, man, I just, like, went out there.

He shakes his head and looks around.

– So yeah, man, let’s, like, get that money.

We pull in at Eighth Avenue, standing in front of the door, waiting for it to open. It takes forever.Ding-dong! The stairs are right in front of us. Russ holds on to me and we rush ahead of the other passengers and up the stairs into the station proper. Two cars behind us, Roman and Bolo get pinned in the thick of the crowd trying to cram up the one stairway.

We hit the top of the ramp that leads into the heart of the station and I pause to look back. Roman and Bolo are at the bottom of the ramp. They’re moving quickly through the crowd, Bolo cutting a path for them. I look at the turnstiles, but Russ is just moving too slow for us to make a break for it on the street. I turn right, deeper into the station, heading for the A train platform.

We pass two down staircases, both closed for repairs. Russ has his left arm draped over my shoulder and is doing a little hop-skip to keep up. I hear a train pulling into the station on the A-C-E tracks, but I can’t tell if it’s on the uptown or downtown platform. I make a guess and drag Russ to the left and down the stairs to the downtown platform, with Roman and Bolo breathing down our necks. If there’s no train we’ll be pinned down here.

There’s a C local right there, doors open, and an A express that’s just pulling to a stop on the other side of the same platform. At the bottom of the stairs, I look back. They’re at the top, looking right at us and coming down fast. The A stops.Ding-dong! People dash back and forth across the platform, transferring from train to train. I take us to the right toward the A train, making sure Roman and Bolo see us heading that way before we disappear from their line of sight. The crowd is thick and I use my elbow to make some room for us as we loop around the backside of the staircase Roman and Bolo are on.Around and toward the C train.

We circle the stairs and, as we come around the other side, I see the back of Bolo’s head towering above the crowd. He and Roman stand at the foot of the stairs for a second, looking for us on the A.Ding-dong! The doors of the C train are closing just ahead of us. I kick out with my right foot and the doors smash against it.Ding-dong! They pop back open and we jump inside onto the C. And so do Roman and Bolo, ducking in through the next door in the car, about ten yards away. Bolo holds up his scratched thumb and gives a little grin like he’s the fuckingFonz.

We pull out of the station. Russ is spent and leans against me, resting his head on my chest while I lean on one of the floor-to-ceiling poles. Behind me, I hear the voices of bridge and tunnel teens whispering, calling us faggots. Roman and Bolo just stand there at the other end of the car, watching us, close enough to have a conversation if we raised our voices a bit. They seem happy to be close to us and to stay close until we get away from the crowds. The Jersey boys behind us are getting brave, talking louder.

– Fucking faggots.

– Yeah, fucking ass-fucking faggots.

– Look at them. They have AIDS and theystill act like faggots.

Their voices are loud enough to be heard by most of the people in the car and I can feel tension building. Bolo is trying not to laugh and Roman is shooting little laser beams out of his eyes into mine.

– Ass-fucking, disease-spreading, sick, fucking faggots.

I take Russ’s arm from my shoulder, lean him against the pole and turn toward the voices. People observe this out of the deliberate corners of their eyes and the tension in the car jumps. Everyone is watching and listening now, but pretending not to. I stare down at the five boys on the bench seat.

– Hey, faggot’s atoughguy.

The train is slowing as it approaches the station.

– Got a problem, butt stuffer?

They all look the same. They all have the same too short hair, too big muscles, too small eyes,the same pin-fucking-heads. This will be easy. This will almost be fun. The biggest one gets up as we pull into the station.

– What about it, shit-dick, you got something to say?

The train is coming to a stop. I look over at Roman, smile at him,then turn back to the boy. He’s still talking.

– Come on, you fucking child molester. Say what’s on your fucking mind.

The train stops and I pucker up and make a littlekissy face at the boy. We’re two feet from each other. He grabs at me and I kick him hard in the shin. He yelps and I swing my right elbow up and into the hollow just below his chin. He falls back gasping as his friends jump up off the bench and come at me. And all the queers on this train in the heart of the West Village just a few blocks from the Stonewall Inn, where the gay rights movement was born in a transvestite riot, gobatshit.Ding-dong!

The doors open. I grab Russ as we are pulled with the tide of the brawl pouring out of the train. TheA express we saw at Eighth Avenue is on the other side of the platform.Ding-dong! We plow through the small riot and safely into the A train. The doors don’t close. I watch as Roman and Bolo brutally force their way through the melee toward our train. The doors don’t close. They step aboard at the far end of the car again. Across the platform, the C train still hasn’t moved. I hold Russ tight against me and duck out the door and right back onto the A train. Roman and Bolo don’t bite. I do it again. They don’t bite. The C is still there, across the platform. The fight is still there, going strong as the city works out a little of its sexual tension. We dodge out the door again and keep going this time. They don’t bite.Ding-dong! And I drag us through the closing doors of the C train.

Roman and Bolo jump off the A.Ding-dong! And back onto the A as the doors slide shut and their train pulls out.Right behind ours.

The trains run on parallel tracks. For a while our C local has a bit of a lead. But then the A express carrying Roman and Bolo picks up speed and soon it’s running right alongside us. I watch through the scratched Plexiglas window while, just a few feet away on the other train Bolo mouths curses at us and Roman shakes his head. Then they are speeding away, ahead of us on the express track, racing toward Canal Street, as we slow to make our first local stop at Spring Street. I ease Russ down into a seat and try to remember how to breathe.

Russ sits there slumped against me. Bud rustles around in the bag and I unzip it a bit to see how he is. He sticks his head out through the hole and forces it open so he can stretch up and rub his head against Russ’s chin. The train is entering the station.

– Let’s go, guys.

I take Russ’s arm andit’s deadweight. He’s blacked out again. I sit back down. The car is quiet, almost empty, just the few people who didn’t get off to join or watch the fight. There’s a little drool at the corner of Russ’s mouth and Bud is licking at it. I feel his wrist, then alongside his throat and then I put my ear against his chest.

His eyes are open. I slide them closed. He looks asleep. I have to force Bud back into the bag. The train pulls to a stop. I take the bag from around Russ’s shoulder and drape it around my own. I stand up. The doors open, I step out. And all my bridges are burned, because now I really am a murderer.

Ding-dong!