Fake I.D.

Seventeen

At seven A.M. I was standing in front of the mirror on my closet door. I was wearing my white suit with my black shirt, shiny black shoes, a black tie, and my lucky gold barbell chain. My hair was slicked back and my beard was trimmed. I would’ve looked perfect if it weren’t for my black eye. I hadn’t put ice on it and it had swelled up overnight.

The gates to the racetrack didn’t open until eleven o’clock, but I wanted to leave early. Sunshine Brandy was running in the second race and I was afraid that if something happened, like my car broke down, I’d miss it. But leaving six hours before the race went off I’d definitely get there with time to spare.

On my way out, I checked the kitchen counter. Last night, when I came home from the bar, I’d noticed more cheese was gone and there were some more droppings. Now there were only two chunks of cheese left and the whole counter was covered with mouse shit. I took the rest of the cheese out of the fridge, spread it around the counter for the mice to feast on, and then I got the show on the road.

My car started right away and it made it on to the FDR Drive without stalling. One of the first things I was going to do when I got rich was buy a new car—probably a bright red Ferrari. Or maybe I’d have a few cars, just to mix things up.

There was no traffic so I made it to the track in about an hour. I thought about going to a diner to kill time and grab something to eat, but I didn’t have an appetite. I was too excited to eat and, besides, I remembered how I’d promised myself that my diner days were over. I’d only go to expensive restaurants to eat from now on, but I didn’t figure there were too many nice restaurants in Ozone Park, Queens, near the racetrack—especially not ones that were open at eight in the morning.

You might think that time would go by slowly, sitting in a parked car with nothing to do, but the next time I checked my watch it was eleven o’clock.

I pulled into the parking lot, paying the extra buck for preferred parking, and then I sat there for a minute, letting it all soak in. I realized how much my life had improved in the past two weeks. That day at the jai-alai fronton I was a struggling actor with no prospects, but now everything was working out. No doubt about it—Pete Logan getting into my car was probably the best thing that had ever happened to me.

Walking slowly so I wouldn’t sweat up my suit, I headed toward the entrance to the clubhouse. The old guy at the admission window didn’t even look at me as he took my three bucks. When I was a famous horse owner I knew things would be a lot different. I’d probably have a pass, go through a special entrance, and the guy at the door would say “Good morning, Mr. Russo,” and if he was lucky I’d look at him or say good morning back.

Going into the track, I felt like I was stepping into my new life. Outside was the old Tommy Russo, and I wasn’t sad to see him go.

I went to the bathroom to piss and to make sure I still looked great. A few hairs had come loose, but I slicked them back into place with some water and my little black comb, and then I went back into the clubhouse. I decided to go out to the stands and take a look at the owners’ boxes—see where I’d be sitting someday. But on my way out a tall, skinny black usher, said, “You got a pass?”

“No. I mean not yet,” I said.

“Then you can’t go out there.”

“It’s all right. I just wanted to look.”

“Sorry. You can’t go out there if you don’t got a pass.”

“But I just wanted to take a look, that’s all.”

I started to walk by him. He stood in my way.

“Those are the owners’ boxes,” he said. “They’re only for authorized personnel.”

“I’m gonna be authorized personnel. I’m claiming a horse today.”

“Sorry,” he said, “if you’re not authorized personnel you can’t go out there.”

“I just wanna go take a look,” I said. “What’s the big deal?”

I walked past him and he grabbed the back of my shoulder.

“Hey,” I said. “What’s your problem?”

Or maybe I yelled it because a security guard came running over.

“What’s going on here?” he asked. He was a little old Irish guy with gray hair and square shoulders. He reminded me of Frank.

“Ask this guy,” I said. “He just grabbed me.”

“I just told him he can’t go out there without a pass and he tried to get by me,” the usher said.

“Forget about it,” I said. “The guy’s crazy.”

“Just take it easy,” the security guard said. “I don’t want any trouble here.”

“You talking to me or him?” I said.

“You,” he said.

I walked away, shaking my head.

I spotted Pete, sitting on a bench against the wall, reading the Racing Form. At first I thought it couldn’t possibly be him. Not because he looked different, because he looked the same. He was wearing sneakers, old jeans, a hooded sweatshirt, and the same beige winter jacket he’d been wearing at the jai-alai fronton. He wasn’t even dressed up as good as he was at the Chinese restaurant. Maybe I got the day screwed up—maybe we were supposed to claim the horse tomorrow or some other time. I couldn’t think of any other reason why Pete wasn’t wearing a suit.

When I walked over to him he looked up at me like he was surprised. I was probably giving him the same look.

“Look at you,” he said, “all decked out. What’s the special occasion?”

Maybe I did get the date mixed up.

“What do you mean?” I said. “I got a call from Alan the other day. We’re claiming the horse today, right?”

“If he doesn’t get scratched,” Pete said. “But I just checked the board downstairs and he’s still in. No, I meant are you doing something after the races? Going to a wedding or something?”

“No,” I said.

“Then what’s with the outfit?”

“I was gonna ask you the same question,” I said.

“What do you mean? I always dress like this to go to the track.”

“That’s what I mean,” I said.

We stared at each other for a couple of seconds.

“I get it,” Pete said. “You’re trying to be funny.”

“Do I look like I’m trying to be funny?” I said. “I don’t understand—why did you dress like that today?”

“Because I felt like it,” he said.

“Yeah, well you’re a horse owner now—you should dress like one. Is this how you’re gonna look when you’re down there in the winner’s circle, getting your picture taken? I mean come on—”

“Are you feeling all right?” Pete asked.

“Are you?”

“Maybe you should sit down—relax.”

I turned around and started to walk away. Then I stopped, realizing this wouldn’t do me any good. Pete was part of the syndicate and I had to stick with him no matter what he looked like.

I stood with my back to Pete for twenty seconds, maybe longer, then I turned back around.

“Forget about it,” I said. “It’s not important.”

“You scared me there for a second,” Pete said. “I really thought you were losing it. Come on, why don’t you sit down? Take a load off.”

I sat down on the bench next to Pete. I noticed that he was wearing cologne today, probably to cover up his B.O., but he’d put on so much of it he smelled as bad as he always did—maybe worse.

“I think I get what’s going on,” Pete said. “You think I was making fun of you. Well, I wasn’t. I think you look great in that suit and with those sunglasses on—like a movie star. I also think it’s good that you got dressed up today. It shows you’re serious about this. That’s what I wanted when I got into this thing—not just to be with guys who wanted to fuck around, for a tax write-off. I wanted to be with guys who wanted to get into the horse business to win. Come on, no hard feelings, right?”

I looked over. Pete was holding out his hand, waiting for me to shake it.

“No hard feelings,” I said. I shook his sweaty hand, but I still hated him.

“I’ll tell you what—when the horse is ours, when we come for the first time he races, I promise I’ll wear a suit too. How’s that?”

“Whatever,” I said.

I was looking away again, hoping Pete would go back to reading his Form and forget about me.

“By the way, I wanted to ask you, where did you get those shoes?”

“Macy’s,” I said.

“Macy’s?” He said. “You should’ve come by my store, I would’ve gotten you those shoes for a quarter of the price. Eh, it doesn’t matter. Next time.”

Pete was trying to make some more conversation. I stopped paying attention, but he didn’t get the message. He kept talking to me, not caring if I was listening to him or not. I didn’t know why Pete got to me so much. Yeah, he smelled and, yeah, he dressed like a slob, but there was more to it than that. Then it hit me—he was low class. I was sick of low-class people.

A few minutes passed, then Alan, Steve and Rob came up the escalator together. I guess I should’ve expected it, but I didn’t. They were all wearing suits at the Chinese restaurant so I figured they’d look at least as good today. Steve and Rob looked about as slobby as Pete—in jeans, sneakers, and sweatshirts. The only one who looked halfway decent was Alan, but even he didn’t look as good as he did the other day. He had a black shirt tucked into chinos and he was wearing shoes, but he wasn’t wearing a tie or a jacket.

As soon as the horse started making money I was going to take my share of the profits and buy my own horses. Then it was going to be sayonara to these losers. We all shook hands. Then Alan said, “Let’s all congratulate Pete for putting on some cologne today.” Everybody laughed except me.

Steve said to me, “So what are you, getting married today?”

“No,” I said.

“Then what’s with the ice-cream man outfit?” he asked smiling.

Everybody laughed again.

“This isn’t an ice-cream outfit,” I said. “It’s a five-hundred-fuckin’-dollar suit.”

“I was just busting on you,” Steve said. “You look great. I mean I’m going to my nephew’s Bar Mitzvah later and look how I’m dressed?” He waited a second then said, “Nah, I was just kidding. I got a suit in the car. I just figured I’d put it on in the bathroom at the temple.”

I couldn’t believe it. He had a suit in his car and he wasn’t wearing it now? Some kid’s Bar Mitzvah was more important than his first day as a horse owner? Was the guy out of his mind?

I was so shocked I had nothing to say. I just stood there staring.

Everybody stood around for a while, bullshitting. I didn’t say anything until Steve turned to me and said, “You’re not Jewish, are you, Tommy?”

“No,” I said.

“I didn’t think so,” he said, “I mean with a name like Tommy Russo. What are you, Catholic?”

I nodded.

“Me too,” he said. “So you got any plans for Christmas?”

“Christmas? When’s Christmas?”

“In two days,” he said

“Oh yeah, I forgot,” I said. “I’ll probably just hang out in the city.”

“That’s cool. Yeah, my wife and me are gonna head up to Massachusetts, to her sister’s house. Bores the hell out of me—not Christmas, just being up there in the sticks, you know? It’s up near Amherst, not far from New Hampshire. They have a dog track up there so I figure the day after Christmas I’ll—man, what the hell happened to you?”

I’d taken off my sunglasses to pick off the crust in the corners of my eyes. The other guys were looking over now too.

“I had to break up a fight at the bar last night,” I said.

“That’s a pretty nice shiner you got there,” Pete said.

“You should see what the other guy looks like,” I said.

I wasn’t trying to be funny, but everybody laughed.

I put my sunglasses back on. Alan, Pete and Steve started talking, and Rob said to me, “I was meaning to ask you—what’s the name of the bar you work at on the Upper East Side?”

“Blake’s Tavern,” I lied. Blake’s Tavern was a bar on First Avenue in the East Eighties, about twenty blocks away from O’Reilley’s.

“Oh,” Rob said. “The only reason I asked is because I heard that story on the news—you know, how that guy’s wife was killed. He owns some bar called O’Reilley’s.”

“I heard about that too,” I said.

“It was pretty fucked up,” Rob said. “They said the Super Bowl pool at the bar was robbed a few days before. Guy got away with fourteen grand.”

“I guess it’s a good thing I didn’t buy one of those boxes.”

“You can say that again.”

I interrupted whatever Alan was saying to Pete and said, “Don’t we gotta go up to the Steward’s office and put the slip in the claiming box?”

“Bill Tucker’s taking care of that,” he said.

“But shouldn’t we go up there anyway,” I said. “I mean what if he forgets to put it in?”

“He won’t,” Alan said, and he started talking to the other guys again.

I went to the bathroom. When I came out I saw a tall thin guy with curly gray hair standing with the other guys. I figured this was Bill Tucker.

When I came over Alan said, “And this is the fifth member of our little syndicate—Tommy Russo.”

“Pleasure to meet you,” I said, shaking his hand.

“Same here,” he said. He had a strong Southern accent and, I was happy to see, he was wearing a gray suit.

“I think you’re one of the best trainers in the business,” I said. “I know a lot of people probably tell you that, but I really mean it.”

I realized I was still shaking his hand, maybe harder than I should have. I let go.

“It’s great to meet you,” Tucker said, flexing his fingers. “Nice to have some fresh blood injected into the racing industry.”

It was five minutes to post time for the first race. Rob, Steve and Pete went to bet, so it was just me, Alan, and Bill Tucker. I didn’t like the way Alan was trying to hog the conversation, talking to Tucker about shit I knew Tucker didn’t care about. So I cut him off and said, “So tell me, Bill—you don’t mind if I call you Bill, do you?”

“Bill’s fine.”

“So tell me, Bill. You ever had horses run at Hollywood Park?”

“Sure. Once in a while I ship to the California tracks.”

“What’s it like there? I mean behind the scenes. You go to parties a lot, I bet.”

“Sometimes,” Bill said. “But I spend most of my time up to my ankles in mud.”

“Yeah, but I’m sure you go to a lot of Hollywood-type parties.”

“Once in a while...I guess.”

“Yeah? You think I can go with you sometime?” I said.

“I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t see why not.”

The other guys came back from the betting window and Bill started talking to them. I wished Bill and I were alone, so I could get to know the guy.

Then Bill said, “Come on, I’ll take you folks out to my box to watch the race.”

We went in past the same usher who’d given me a hard time before. I gave him a big smile as I walked by and I could tell he felt stupid.

It was a nice day—sunny and warmer than it had been lately, probably about forty degrees. I probably needed a coat, but I didn’t wear one to the track. It didn’t matter—I was so excited there could’ve been a blizzard and I wouldn’t’ve noticed.

I sat in the seat next to Bill and the other guys sat on the other side of him.

“So you think your horse has a chance?” my actress-girlfriend asked me.

“As good as any of the other horses, sweetheart,” I said, puffing on a hundred-dollar cigar.

“But do you think he’ll win the race?”

“I don’t know if he’ll win, but he’ll run good. I know that.”

“What do you want to do after the races?”

“I don’t know. I figured maybe we’d go to that big party at Clint’s house.”

“I don’t want to go to Clint’s party, I want to go to Jack’s party.”

“All right, we’ll go to Jack’s party then.”

Pete was in the aisle, passing by.

“Not gonna bet on the race?” he said.

“Nope,” I said.

“Why not? She’s five to one—that’s not too bad.”

“I don’t bet anymore,” I said.

Pete looked at me like I’d suddenly turned Chinese.

“Yeah, right,” he said. “That’s a good one.”

“I’m serious,” I said. “I gave it up—went cold turkey.”

“Smart man,” Bill said. “Nobody makes a living betting on this game.”

“Yeah, well I guess I’m not gonna make a living at it then,” Pete said, “because I’m gonna take this horse down.”

Steve and Rob stood up and followed Pete.

“I’m not gonna watch this horse win and not have any money on it,” Steve said.

“I’m game,” Rob said.

“I have to use the john,” Alan said. “On my way back maybe I’ll just make a small wager.”

He winked at Bill as he passed by.

“So lemme ask you something,” I said to Bill when we were alone. “When we get this horse, when are we gonna run her again? I mean you’re gonna put her in a race by next week, right?”

“I don’t know about that,” Bill said.

“What do you mean?” I said.

“Well, next week might be a little too soon,” he said. “We’ll have to see how she comes out of this race, then we might want to get her on the track a few times, get some works into her—”

“So why can’t you do that by next week? I mean I’ve seen trainers run horses back two days after the claim.”

“Yeah, and then they have to lay the horse up for six months because they ran him into the ground. No, we’re gonna take it a little easier than that with Sunshine Brandy—especially because she’s a filly. With the girls you gotta be a little more gentle than with the boys. On the other hand, I like what I’ve seen of this horse so far—I really like it. She has a nice easy stride, a good pedigree, a good age too. Filly, lightly raced. She didn’t run as a two-year-old and when she turns four next year I think she’ll really have an edge. Yep, I think this horse has a chance to do something in state-bred allowance company.”

“And then we’re gonna enter her in some big stakes races, right?”

“Well, we don’t want to get ahead of ourselves now, do we?” he said. “I think we’d be happy if we got into allowance company and ran a couple of good races.”

“Why would we be happy then?”

“Because that would mean the horse was running good. That’s the most we could hope for, right?”

“No. The most we could hope for is for her to win a Breeder’s Cup race.”

“Well, that sure is ambitious.”

“Why?”

Bill looked at me funny, like he was confused about something.

“You’re only paying thirty thousand-plus dollars for this horse,” he said. “A champion race horse costs a lot more than that.”

“John Henry only cost about twenty thousand dollars and how many millions of dollars did he win?”

“John Henry was a rare exception. For every John Henry there’re a thousand horses who don’t win anything.”

“Maybe this horse will be another John Henry.”

“Unfortunately,” he said, “I don’t think that’s going to happen.”

“It will,” I said. “You’ll see.”

Pete came back from betting and started talking to Bill. Bill’s negative attitude pissed me off. Now I realized why he was always at the bottom of the trainer standings.

The horses were coming onto the track for the second race. I stood up and stared at Sunshine Brandy, the number three horse. Bill was right about one thing—she was in great shape, all right. She had big muscular legs, a nice shiny coat, and she was walking on her toes and her ears were perked up. I wished I had binoculars with me so I could get a better look. Pete must’ve been reading my mind because he said, “Want a better look, Tommy?” and he was holding out his binoculars for me.

“That’s all right,” I said.

Pete was a loser and I was afraid if I touched anything he owned part of him might rub off on me.

Alan, Steve and Rob came back from betting and sat in their seats. I was still standing up, watching the horses pass the grandstand in a line, each one next to a pony. Sunshine Brandy looked so much classier than the other horses, like she didn’t belong on the same racetrack. She had a good jockey on her too—John Velazquez.

I glanced at the tote board—there were only six minutes to post time.

I sat down, but I couldn’t stop looking at Sunshine Brandy. The race was six furlongs so the starting gate was on the backstretch, on the other side of the track. Velazquez was jogging her toward the gate now, taking it nice and easy, airing her out. Even from far away she stood out from the field like a champion.

The horses were going into the starting gate. I looked at the tote board—there was less than a minute to post. I stood up on my seat to get a better view. Then the track announcer said “They’re off!” and Sunshine Brandy, with the pink and red silks, shot out of the gate like a bullet. It was like she was pulling Velazquez along, doing all the work. She had a three-length lead, but it was an easy three-length lead. If Velazquez wanted to, it was obvious he could’ve opened up five or ten lengths on the field and the horse wouldn’t’ve even broken a sweat.

Alan, Pete and the other guys were screaming their heads off, but I was just standing there, watching. Rounding the far turn, Velazquez let it out a notch and, suddenly, Sunshine Brandy opened up five lengths on the field. She looked like she was running even easier than before. It was like this was a workout for her while the jockeys on the other horses were whipping and driving, trying to keep up. In the stretch, Sunshine Brandy still had that big lead and Velazquez still hadn’t used the whip. He was sitting straight up on her with a stranglehold. She still had about a five-length lead, but to me she looked like Secretariat in the ’73 Belmont—all alone on the track, a champ. Then, about fifty yards from the wire, she went down. It happened in a split second. Maybe she took a bad step, or maybe one of her legs just snapped, because she stopped short and Velazquez went flying over her head, landing on his ass, and then the hind legs of the horse went off the ground and the horse tipped over, just missing Velazquez.

Suddenly, the whole crowd went quiet. The other horses ran by, but nobody was paying attention to the race anymore. Everybody was looking at Sunshine Brandy, trying to stand up on three legs. It was obvious she’d snapped one of her front legs now—the bone was sticking out through the skin, all covered with blood.

For the first time since before the race started I looked at the other guys. They were staring down at the racetrack in shock.

“I’m really sorry, fellas,” Bill Tucker said. “I don’t know what else to say.”

“Don’t apologize,” Alan said. “It’s not your fault.”

“I still am sorry,” Bill said. “I really am.”

“What the hell are you sorry for?” I said to Bill. “You didn’t know the horse was gonna break her leg.”

“I know, I know, but I still feel responsible.”

I slapped Bill on the back.

“Forget about it,” I said. “Let’s just thank our lucky stars the horse didn’t finish the race. At least now we can take our money and go claim another horse.”

Bill looked at me and the other guys were staring at me too. I wondered what the hell was going on.

“I’m afraid that’s not the way it works,” Alan said.

“What do you mean?” I said. “It’s our money. We can do whatever we want with it.”

“It’s not our money anymore,” Pete said. “According to rules, once somebody puts a slip in the claiming box to claim a horse and the race goes off, the horse belongs to the new owner.”

I stared at Pete for a few seconds, then I started to laugh.

“That’s a good one,” I said. “You guys almost had me going there a second.”

“It’s true,” Pete said.

“Come on, you gotta be kidding me,” I said. Nobody was laughing. “What about all the insurance we bought? The insurance must cover this.”

“The policy kicks in after the race,” Alan said. “Unfortunately, Sunshine Brandy is ours now.”

I looked over at Bill Tucker and I could tell by his face that they weren’t bullshitting. Then I looked back toward the track. An ambulance had pulled up next to the horse and the workers were setting up the screen so the fans didn’t have to see them give the horse a lethal injection. In a couple of minutes we were going to own a thirty-thousand-dollar piece of horsemeat.

Suddenly, I lost it. I remember screaming and cursing like a wild man, running through the grandstand, pushing people out of my way. Somehow I made it back into my car. Next thing I knew, I was driving out of the racetrack, going as fast as my car would go, running red lights and swerving. I pulled over on a side street and took deep breaths, trying to get a hold of myself.

The horse was dead. It was still impossible to believe. One second she looked like the best horse in the world, the next she was on the ground and they were getting ready to give her the needle.

I needed to unwind. I spotted a bowling alley on Rockaway Boulevard and I pulled into the parking lot. I bowled for about an hour. I was just letting off steam, tossing the ball down the lane on two or three bounces to the pins. Afterwards, I felt better, more like my old self. Bowling had cost eleven dollars and now I had only three dollars and some change left to my name. I’d have to figure out a way to get some more money soon, that’s all. I knew I could talk Frank into giving me another advance on my salary, and then I’d have to figure out a way to get twenty grand, or however much I would need to buy another race horse.

It was a little after four o’clock. Driving over the Queensboro Bridge, I was looking forward to going to work tonight, getting my life back on track.

I exited the bridge onto First Avenue and headed uptown. I found a good spot near East Sixty-second Street and walked uptown, toward my apartment. Turning the corner onto Sixty-fourth Street, I noticed two cop cars in front of my building. I turned around and walked back toward my car, as fast as I could.

I had no idea how the cops had caught on to me and I didn’t have time to think about it. I had to get away, maybe leave the city, then I remembered I only had three dollars and some change.

Avoiding First Avenue, I walked up Sixty-second Street to Second Avenue and headed uptown. On Seventy-first, I cut over two long blocks to York. The sun had set and it was almost totally dark outside. I went into the vestibule of Janene’s building and rang the buzzer. She didn’t answer. Afraid she wasn’t home, I rang again, pressing down hard with my finger. Then I heard Janene say, “Who is it?”

“Tommy,” I said, relieved.

“Who?”

“Tommy. You remember me, don’t you?”

She didn’t answer for a few seconds. I was about to ring again when she said, “What do you want?”

“I have a surprise for you.”

“What?” she said, like she didn’t hear me.

“A surprise,” I said.

“What’s the surprise?”

“If I tell you, it won’t be a surprise, will it?”

She didn’t answer. I rang again.

“What is it?” she said.

“I have your jewelry,” I said.

Again, she waited a few seconds before answering. “I thought you gave it to a pawn shop.”

“I did, but the guy bought it back and now I just bought it back from him. Come on, just let me up so I can give it to you.”

“I’ll come to the bar tonight to get it.”

“But I have it here—right now.”

“Why can’t you bring it to the bar?”

“I wanted to apologize to you too. I’m in Gamblers Anonymous now and in Step 6 you have to apologize to the people you’ve wronged. It would really help me if I had a chance to apologize to you, face to face. Come on, I’ll just come up for a minute then leave.”

The buzzer rang.

I took the elevator up to her apartment on the sixth floor. I rang once and she opened the door, wearing jeans and a white sweatshirt.

“Hey, how are you?” I said.

I tried to kiss her, but she backed away.

“I don’t have cooties,” I said smiling.

“Where’s my jewelry?” she asked.

“Aren’t you gonna invite me inside first?”

“Do you have my jewelry or not?”

“Yeah, I have it.”

I went by her, into the apartment.

“I was hoping you could lend me some money,” I said.

“What?”

“Just a few hundred bucks. I’ll pay you back tomorrow or the next day. I promise.”

“Do you have the jewelry or don’t you?”

“First lend me some money.”

“I’m not lending you money.”

“Why not? I paid you back last time, didn’t I?”

“Get out of here—right now.”

I spotted her pocketbook on a chair in the corner.

“Sorry to have to do this.”

“What are you doing? Give that back to me—”

I stiff-armed her, trying to keep her away, but she kept coming after me. Finally, I pushed her and she fell down onto the couch. I found about twenty dollars in bills in one of the pocketbook’s compartments.

“Don’t you have any more than this?” I asked.

Janene was crying. I thought about searching her apartment for more money when I had a better idea. I took her bank card out of her wallet and slipped it into my pocket. I put the pocketbook back onto the chair.

“If you just lent me the money this would have been a lot easier,” I said, “but I am going to pay you back.”

I left the apartment. On the landing of the stairwell I felt dizzy and I saw myself tumbling down the stairs. I took the elevator down instead. I walked around the corner to the Chase bank on First Avenue and Seventy-second. I still had Janene’s pin number memorized. I put her card in the machine and typed in the code. A receipt came out with a printed message:

TRANSACTION DENIED

Damn it—she must’ve called the bank already and put a hold on the account.

On my way out, I spotted a police car speeding up First Avenue. I ducked back into the bank and stayed there until the coast was clear.

I needed money—fast—and there was only one place to get it.

I walked over to Second Avenue, down to Sixty-fifth Street, then back over to O’Reilley’s on First. Luckily, there were no cops there. Frank was working the bar and a couple of old-timers were sitting on stools, watching TV.

Frank saw me come in and he screamed, “Get the hell out of here! Right now, you son of a bitch!”

“Why? What’s going on?”

“You sick piece of shit! You fucking scumbag!”

“What?” I said.

“I don’t wanna look at your face anymore. Just get the hell out of here!”

“Look, I don’t know what’s going on,” I said, “but I’m sure—”

“How long were you fucking her?”

“Who?”

“You know who—Debbie. My fucking wife!”

“Jesus, I can’t believe you just asked me that,” I said.

“No more bullshit!” Frank’s face was red and he looked crazy. The two guys in the bar got up and left.

“No,” I said. “I wasn’t fucking Debbie. Jesus, what kind of guy do you think I am?”

“Fucking liar! My doorman saw you there—last week.”

“I did go there one day—looking for you.”

“Look, you son of a bitch piece of shit, I know you were there, so stop lying to me! You killed her didn’t you?”

“Take it easy,” I said. “I know you’re angry, grieving or whatever, but you don’t have to take it out on me.”

Frank came out from around the bar.

“A cab driver said he dropped her off by your apartment the day she disappeared. Then, that night, a cop pulled you over in Brooklyn.”

“It’s not what it looks like,” I said.

Frank came after me, beating his fists against my chest.

“Come on, take it easy,” I said. “Chill out.”

Frank kept beating me until he got too exhausted, gasping for air.

“Look, you have to believe me,” I said. “I know how bad things look right now, but I think you know I’m a good person. You know I wouldn’t kill somebody. You’ll see—they’ll find the real killer and then you’ll forgive me. But don’t worry, I won’t hold a grudge. I know what you’re going through.”

“What did you come here for anyway?” Frank said. “Money? If you can’t steal it, you have to borrow it from your stupid boss, right?” Frank took his wallet out of his pocket and started throwing bills at me. “Here, you want my money? You want my fucking money? Take it! Take it all!”

I started to pick up the bills when I heard loud sirens. I looked behind me and saw two police cars pull up in front of the bar. I was about to make a run for it—maybe try to get out through the window in the kitchen—when I looked back at Frank. He was still throwing money at me, but he was slumping back onto a bar stool.

“Come on, buddy,” I said, trying to help him up. “Hang in there. Just hang in there!”

I looked behind me and three cops were standing by the door with their guns drawn.

“Hurry up,” I said. “Do any of you guys know CPR?”

“Put your hands up where I can see them!” one of the cops shouted.

“The guy’s dying here!”

“Put your hands up!”

“For Chrissake. Look at him!”

“Now, asshole!”

“You gotta help him!”

“Get your fucking hands in the air!”

I looked over at Frank, who was staring right at me. A cop came up behind me and pulled my arms behind my back and cuffed me. Frank was slumped over on the stool, leaning against the bar.

“Will somebody help him, damn it? Forget about me. Help him!”

One cop went over to Frank.

“Hang in there, buddy,” I said. “You just hang in there.”

Frank was looking at me, his eyes half shut.

“Let’s go,” one of the cops behind me said.

“Don’t die,” I said to Frank. “Whatever you do—don’t die. You have to make it out to Arizona, buddy. You’re gonna love it out there.”

“Come on,” one cop said to me, and the other one said, “Move it.”

I tried to turn around, to look at Frank again, but I couldn’t.

“See you tomorrow!” I yelled as the cops pushed me out the door.