Ninth and Nowhere

II Eight A.M

Adam Rangel had been on the job for a half hour.

The fruits of his labor were not stellar.

He’d been standing outside in the cold, on Waterview Street, with his favorite paper cup and looking hopeful, saying, “God bless,” and, “If you can, please.” People who eyed him may have taken him for a soldier because of his age, build and haircut, but he didn’t play the veteran card when begging for money. Never would.

For more than one reason, of course.

He was still a few dollars shy of wine money. So near, so far. The Quik Mart was around the corner on Ninth Street, just two blocks away, beckoning. Well, he’d keep at it.

This was supposedly a good corner to beg on. It was in shabby Riverside, that is, the Nowhere District, but businesspeople from nicer neighborhoods walked through, to catch busses and trains. This morning, however, they’d all treated him invisible. He’d also tried, “I’m hungry,” which was true, and, “I’m trying to get some breakfast,” which was also true, though the sustenance he wanted wouldn’t involve bacon or eggs.

No generosity from the rich folks or the middle-class folks or the whatever-class. Adam never felt he was owed anything, not a single penny. Those people earned their money and deserved to keep it. They had no obligation to give him anything. But it was simple: he wanted to get drunk and he didn’t know how else to do it.

Maybe he was putting people off because he was a little edgier than normal, fidgety.

This was because of an incident a few minutes ago.

He’d automatically lifted a cup toward somebody approaching. It turned out to be a fat black kid, around twenty, wearing a combat jacket and jeans. His shoes were bright orange. The kid had seemed edgy himself. He’d walked past Adam, then paused and looked back. Looking at Adam but not seeing him, focused instead on the street in the direction he’d just come from. Frowning. Adam felt uneasy suddenly. The look was like the kid wasn’t completely here, freaked out. Dangerous.

Then the boy blinked and saw Adam, as if for the first time. He dug into his pocket and pulled out some change, dumping it in the cup. Not because he wanted to, but, Adam’s impression, because he didn’t want to draw attention to himself. Why had he stopped? somebody might wonder. Oh, just to give the poor asshole some coin.

“Bless you,” Adam said, cut by the fact that the kid was a lot younger than he was. The kid didn’t respond. He continued to Ninth Street and turned right, with one more glance back.

But that wasn’t what troubled Adam and set the wasps loose. Just after the kid had disappeared, a man in his thirties, a compact black man in a hoodie, strode along the street. The same direction the kid had been walking.

He paused beside Adam, glanced at the cup and then looked around the sidewalk.

“Yo, dog. Punk-ass kid come by here? Orange shoes. Orange like the benches in the McDonald’s over on Taylor.”

The man’s eyes were snide and cold.

Adam said, “No.”

“He come this way. Why you ain’t seen him? Fucking orange shoes.”

“I didn’t see him.”

The man had marvelous gold rings on. One of them bridged two fingers. Adam saw an opportunity. He pointed the cup toward Hoodie Man.

“Fuck.” Hoodie Man continued on and, pausing at the intersection, turned on Ninth in the direction the kid had walked.

Something was happening. Something was going to happen.

The wasps were hovering next to Adam’s ears. Not a buzz but the whine of a power saw cutting fragrant pine.

He controlled his breathing and thought: I need my bottle. He returned to the task at hand. He was tallying in his mind. He had four dollars and twelve cents. He needed only three fifty-two more.

The pedestrians came and the pedestrians went.

“Please, can you help me out?” Adam said to their turned-away faces.

“Have a blessed day,” he said to their receding backs.

Lanie Stone was walking down Ninth Street, her heels making a snappy sound on the concrete.

If it weren’t for meeting Michael here, she wouldn’t come to Nowhere — the name a rip-off on other cities, which would shorten neighborhoods to be chic: SoHo and NoHo in New York or LoDo in Denver. But Nowhere was just that: run-down, scruffy. Like you wanted to take a power washer and scrub the dirt and grime off the sidewalks.

Lanie was always aware of her surroundings. Looking about, seeing nothing of any concern, she was pleased that there were people nearby. Not far away a tall police officer in his late fifties or early sixties walked into a coffee shop across the street. On the same side she was on, a block ahead, was a short, stocky Latino, wearing a red-and-black satin sports jacket, walking toward her. His face seemed troubled. At the curb, a handsome businessman in a blue coat sat in the front seat of his Toyota, looking over what seemed to be a spreadsheet or other business document. He was on his cell phone. She noted beside him on the passenger seat something she’d never seen: an alligator-skin briefcase. She didn’t really approve, though she guessed it was probably fake.

Lanie now walked into the Quik Mart and said good morning to the clerk, who smiled in return and went about his task of putting bakery goods into the glass case next to the register.

She was examining the delicacies. Chocolate chip muffin? Walnut?

Indulge...

She received a text from Michael, asking when she’d be arriving. She texted she’d be there soon. She was getting coffee and a muffin. Did he want anything?

He texted back:

Carlos Sanchez was walking down Ninth Street on his way to a nondescript office he’d been to several times before.

His hands were in the pockets of his Chicago Bulls jacket. This was both because it was cold and because he wanted to keep a grip on the paper bag.

It contained $5,000 in cash.

Am I really doing this?

The money amounted to the vast majority of his life savings. He’d had more at one point but Valeria’s problem had taken much of it. And when she’d decided that she didn’t want his advice or intervention with the drugs and drinking, most of the rest of his money went to fighting the custody battle to keep Luna out of his ex-wife’s household.

The battle was like World War I, a standoff.

Oh, it was obvious that Carlos was the better parent: he didn’t drink and had never done drugs. Since the divorce, he’d dated only sporadically and never brought a woman home when Luna was there.

Val, on the other hand, went to AA meetings for show and would stop in a bar on the way home. Her bed was occasionally occupied by two when Luna was home.

But she was also quick as a snake. She played the mother card, the woman card, the how-can-a-man-raise-a-daughter card.

His lawyer had told him the odds were about 55 percent that he’d ultimately prevail in the custody battle. But you never know about magistrates.

Except that Carlos had a secret weapon.

Alfonse Webber, a storefront lawyer — the man he was now on his way to meet, before he left for his important “nine o’clock.”

Webber had called him a few weeks ago. He’d been out on a few dates with Valeria and had learned about the custody battle. He told Carlos that he’d seen Valeria snort coke when Luna was present, that she’d driven the girl while drunk and that she’d mentioned that one man, who she’d dated for several weeks, had showed “inappropriate” interest in the girl.

Once Carlos had controlled his rage, he was filled with elation — Webber could tip the balance.

Then the twist.

It would only cost Carlos $5,000, cash.

Shit. The guy was lying. But it was a lie that could save Luna’s life.

He’d debated for several weeks, knowing that there was a small possibility that Webber and Valeria were setting Carlos up. Bribing a witness would probably guarantee that he’d lose custody.

But in the end, he’d decided to go ahead with it. He knew in his soul that Valeria was toxic to the girl. Only he could save Luna from a mother who would drag the girl down with her.

He was looking ahead on Ninth Street, noting a convenience store. Quik Mart. A moment ago, a blond woman with a pixie haircut had stepped inside. As he passed, he slowed to catch another glimpse of the pretty woman. What caught his eye, though, was a display of cut flowers. He and Luna had watched a concert on TV a few weeks ago, an Aretha Franklin tribute, and her eyes had glowed when she’d seen people bringing flowers up to the stage for the singer.

Would she be embarrassed if her father brought a bouquet up to the stage at her high school?

He debated.

Whatever. He’d do it anyway.

A businessman in a dark overcoat carrying a fancy briefcase — what was that? Alligator? Crocodile? — arrived at the same time. The man smiled and opened the door for Carlos. “After you.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Carlos stepped inside, beelining to the flowers and debating: Roses or lilies?

After opening the Quik Mart door for the short Latino in the Bulls jacket, Brett Abbott walked into the convenience store and looked around.

He noted the Latino heading straight for the fresh-cut flowers and the clerk behind the counter making a coffee.

Brett looked outside into the street. Deserted.

Let’s do this.

He opened the alligator attaché case — such a sweet present from his sweet wife, a woman who in her bubbling innocence knew nothing about his real job. He withdrew the Glock pistol, a silencer screwed into the tapped barrel. He stepped forward, aiming the gun toward the person he’d been hired by Ed Weatherby — his potential new boss — to kill, Lanie Stone.

After her, he’d take out the clerk and the flower man, poor sucker... wrong time, wrong place. Then he’d rip out the video-cam drive, clean out the register and leave.

Just another convenience-store heist gone bad. Nobody’d know the truth.

Brett stepped through the aisle of packaged candies and crackers and raised the gun to the back of Lanie’s head.

Behind the counter of the Quik Mart, Jamal Davis was fixing up a latte for the nice woman with the short blond hair. She’d been coming in regular every day, this time, for the past week.

He turned from the espresso machine and froze.

The businessman in the blue coat — Jamal had seen him here earlier in the week too — was walking up on her with a gun!

Breathing hard, his heart pounding so loud everybody in here had to hear it, he reached beneath the counter and grabbed the gun he’d bought from Lester just an hour ago. The businessman was concentrating on the lady and didn’t see him.

Jamal had never fired a gun in his life. All he knew from movies and TV was that to fire one, you aimed and pulled the trigger.

So he aimed and he pulled the trigger.

The roar was astonishing, shaking cups and napkins and the lottery cards and straws. The kick stung his hand and he winced in pain.

The businessman blinked in shock and touched the side of his chest, where the bullet had struck him. Jamal could see a tiny hole in the side of his coat. No blood. Just a hole.

The woman screamed and dove for the floor. The man at the flower stand dropped into a crouch and covered his head with both arms.

The businessman pointed the gun toward Jamal but he ducked and the two shots hit the wall. Then the businessman fired toward where the lady had been. The guy was staggering around in pain, though, and couldn’t aim very well. Jars and glass cases and bags of chips exploded. Jamal thought she screamed. But he was pretty deaf at this point.

Now more angry than scared, Jamal rose to his feet and aimed and pulled the trigger again, twice. Damn, his hand stung. He hit the man at least once more, because he winced and, looking dazed, turned toward the door and pushed outside.

It was then that Jamal realized he’d forgotten Lester’s advice. He’d been so frightened.

It’s pop, pop. Two. The head...

The man was alive and he still had a gun. He could still kill somebody outside.

He scrabbled clumsily over the counter and ran toward the front door.

Carlos Sanchez rolled to his feet.

He felt damp. Maybe rose water, maybe lily water. He might also have peed his pants, probably did. He didn’t care.

He was watching the man in the overcoat out in front of the Quik Mart, the man who’d been going to shoot the pretty blond woman. He was on the ground, hurt but still holding his gun. The clerk, a pudgy African American kid in orange shoes, had just scrabbled over the counter and, holding a gun of his own, flung the door open and stepped outside.

Carlos glanced out the window, across the street.

Then back to the clerk.

No, no...

Carlos, too, ran to the front door, then pushed outside.

With a stain of fried egg on his police department uniform slacks, Patrolman Arthur Fromm was standing in front of the Ninth Street Diner.

In front of the Quik Mart, a businessman, white, about six feet tall, dropped to his knees, shot, his back to Fromm.

Running from the store was a black kid in a sweatshirt. And before Fromm could react, the kid pointed the gun at the businessman and double tapped him in the head. He went down hard.

Jesus! No!

The kid had been knocking over the place, and the white guy had tried to stop it.

Fromm drew his Glock and aimed. “Freeze! Drop the weapon.”

The boy stared. He did freeze but he didn’t drop the weapon, an old-style.38. It was pointed toward the sky but wavering.

Shoot, Fromm told himself.

“Drop it, or I will fire.”

The boy was numb. Wide rabbit eyes. His arm was quivering, the muzzle going everywhere.

Oh, how Arthur Fromm didn’t want to do this. He’d never shot anyone in all his years on the force.

Goddamn Nowhere District...

He aimed at the boy’s chest and began to squeeze the trigger.

Then he stopped, as someone else, a Latino, about thirty-five, in a basketball jacket, ran from the Quik Mart and stepped in front of the boy. His hands were up, his eyes were wide.

“No, no, don’t shoot him! Don’t!”

“Get down. I will fire!”

It was a team, Fromm thought. He’d read a report about that, Latino and black joining up. The older guy was an OG, the younger one was part of the crew. Maybe it was an initiation. They’d knocked over the store together.

Just shoot Basketball Man, Fromm raged to himself. The kid working with him still had the piece in his hand.

But: You nail an unarmed person of color, that’s seven ways of bad. Even if the Latino was in the worst crew in the city, Fromm’d pay.

If he didn’t shoot and the boy nailed someone else...

Crouching, chest tight as a knot, Fromm stepped to the side, looking for a clear shot at the boy.

The kid still seemed paralyzed. Which didn’t mean his trigger finger was.

Take him out. One dead already. No more.

But just as he was about to aim and shoot, the Latino covered the kid again.

“Get down. I will shoot!”

If the kid’s muzzle moves one inch toward me, they’re both going down.

Then: “He’s the one!” Basketball Man yelled, pointing at the dead businessman, blood circling out from his head. “He’s a fucking hit man, he tried to kill this lady inside.”

Now, that was a bullshit story if Fromm had ever heard one.

The door of the Quik Mart opened and a blond woman, a stunned look on her face, stepped out. She was spattered with flecks of food and bits of paper and dust. She gazed about and then spoke to Basketball Man.

Motion of some kind... What... What was happening?

Basketball Man, hands still raised, stepped away. The gangbanger kid was lying on the ground with his arms outstretched. The woman was holding the gun. She carried it in two fingers to the curb and set it down, not near either of them.

“You,” Fromm snapped to Basketball Man. “Down too.”

He complied.

It was then that Fromm realized he hadn’t called the incident in yet. He reached for the transmit button of the Motorola, then recalled that, while he remembered how to work the radio, he didn’t recall the code for shots fired.

He decided to go with 10–13, the universal code that meant “officer needs assistance.”

Because, Lord knew, he did.

Arthur Fromm was slowly piecing together the facts.

Eight official vehicles were present. Six squad cars from Central. And two unmarked. Ambulance, of course. Ten officers. But no detectives yet. Given his seniority, Fromm discovered that he was in charge. He tried to recall procedure as the younger cops looked his way.

He tried, “Secure the scene, canvass witnesses.”

Which apparently were the magic words. The others scattered to do just that.

Fromm almost smiled.

So what do we have? Fromm considered the cast:

A man with a silenced Glock, Brett Abbott, a resident of a nearby suburb.

An advertising executive, Lanie Stone, whose interest in the whole big tsunami wasn’t yet known, aside from the fact Abbott had tried to kill her.

Another customer, Carlos Sanchez, who was the stupidest, bravest and luckiest man on earth, having saved the life of the fourth individual involved:

The clerk at the Quik Mart, Jamal Davis, no record or warrants. He was the only one of the living participants still handcuffed, because he alone of those participants had pumped three, possibly four, rounds of.38 special ammo into a man.

Fromm crouched beside him.

“Hey.”

The boy nodded. He was miserable.

“I’m not arresting you. Not yet. Just tell me what happened. You don’t have to. But it’ll go a long way in your favor if you do.”

“I’ll talk. I don’t mind. Okay. That white guy.” A nod to the medical examiner’s tarp covering the body. “He come here every day, the last couple days. He bought some shit. But it wasn’t like he really wanted it. I can tell. Us clerks always know. He was going to rob us. Pretending to buy some shit but really checking out the cameras and watching who come in and when. I told Mr. Friedman, he’s the owner, and he said what’s he look like?”

“And you said a white guy in a suit. And he didn’t believe you.”

“Yeah, man. That’s word. But that dude, if he comes back and jacks the store or customers? It’d be my ass Mr. Friedman’d get down on. I can’t lose this job. I’m helping out my grandmother, she got laid off. And sending money to my mother. She in rehab. Meth, you know. My brother’s doing time. It’s on me, sir. Hard to get a job pays like this. I been there for three years. I’m the manager.” This was said proudly. “I wasn’t going to let nothing happen to my store. A brother hooked me up with the piece. The thirty-eight.”

“Hurt your hand to fire it, right?”

“Like a bitch,” Jamal said, then shook his hand. “Had to convince him I was a mean-ass fucker. I’ma perp somebody, jack some wheels. Otherwise he wouldn’ta sold me shit. But, hey, I’m not givin’ up his name. That ain’t going to happen. Sir.”

“I wasn’t going to ask.”

“I’ma go to jail?”

There were two witnesses — Carlos Sanchez and Lanie Stone — who could testify that the shooting was in defense of others, and self-defense.

The problem was the gun.

Possession of an unregistered weapon was a felony.

“So where exactly on the street did you find the gun this morning?”

“Where—?”

“Because if you found it and just held on to it so no little kid’d pick it up and hurt himself or somebody with it, and you were going to call nine-one-one and report it but you didn’t have a chance, I don’t think you’d have anything to worry about.”

“Yeah?”

“I don’t think so. So where’d you find it?”

“Uhm.” Jamal was looking around. “The curb?”

“Good.” Fromm noticed a man walking in long, steady strides up the street. It was someone he recognized, Michael Fisk, the top organized-crime prosecutor in the city. The man was built like the football player that Fromm believed he had been at state university.

He nodded. “Officer.”

“Prosecutor Fisk.”

Lanie Stone spotted him and walked up fast and they hugged briefly. She’d been crying.

“How are you?” he asked.

“It was terrible...” she said.

Fisk’s face was dark with regret. “I don’t know how the hell he got on to you. We screwed up. Should’ve had a better protection detail on you.” He noted Fromm was looking on with, understandably, some confusion. He said, “Ms. Stone is the key witness in a homicide prosecution we’re running against Edward Weatherby.”

“Don’t know him.”

“Money launderer for the organization. Moves cash in and out, makes it look like loans. Mrs. Stone here saw him murder a prostitute, some dispute over the price, we assume. The forensics was fifty-fifty, but she was an eyewitness. We’ve been meeting for the past two weeks to put the case together.”

He explained that he’d had her cut her hair and change her appearance as much as she could. They’d never met in his office at the DA’s but at hotels and motels around town. They’d change the meeting place every few days.

Should’ve had a better protection detail on you...

Guess so, Fromm thought.

She said, “Michael even came up with a code, so my husband wouldn’t find out.”

“He doesn’t know?”

Fisk said, “We had to keep it as quiet as possible.” He nodded at the bloodstains where the hit man’s body had been. “You can see Weatherby was going to do whatever it took to find her.” He grimaced. “I should’ve thought about Abbott. He’s one of the best. He used to work for Carelli, the East Side. But the company went under a few months ago, after old man Carelli ended up under a truck that slipped the jack. Abbott was out of work. He talked his way into Weatherby and got the job. He was good. Never thought anybody’d find you.” A nod toward Lanie, then he glanced toward Jamal. “His story?”

Fromm explained about Abbott checking out the Quik Mart. About how the clerk was worried what the guy was up to, but the owner didn’t believe him.

Fisk said, “What part of the street did he find the thirty-eight in?”

Fromm said, “The curb, I’m pretty sure.”

“Damn weapons just falling from the sky. Well, my department won’t be going after him for it.”

“Good of you.”

“Not enough heroes in this world.”

Fromm said, “Amen.”

A car was pulling up. It had been moving fast, drawing the attention of all law enforcement present.

Fromm turned to the Acura.

Two uniformed officers from the local precinct did too. One officer, a rookie, lowered his hand to his holstered weapon.

Fromm’s eyes narrowed. But Lanie Stone said, “It’s okay. It’s my husband.” To Michael, she said, “I told him.”

“Now, doesn’t matter. We can put Abbott with Weatherby. Add a few other counts. Probably even hang felony murder on him for Abbott’s death.”

A round man with thinning hair climbed out of the sedan. His face, with flushed cheeks and fear in his eyes, took in everyone.

Lanie turned toward him and stepped forward fast. They hugged hard.

“Honey,” the man said, looking around. “I got your call. What’s going on?”

Lanie introduced Fromm and Michael to Henry Stone. She took his arm and they walked to a quiet corner of the sidewalk to have their talk.

Michael Fisk wandered to the ME bus to talk to the tour doc.

Fromm helped Jamal to his feet and undid the cuffs. The young man rubbed his wrists. “Okay if I clean up my store? Mess in there.”

“Have to leave it as is for now. Crime scene’s got to process it.”

“Yeah. Like CSI.”

“That’s right. We’ll need a full statement. And I was trying to remember. You found that thirty-eight... Was by the curb, wasn’t that what you told me?”

“Yessir. The curb.”

Fromm then turned to Carlos, who was rubbing his wrists from the temporary cuffing. He’d been frisked and Fromm now gave him back the bag. It contained thousands of dollars in cash, twenties mostly.

“You understand this never looks good?”

Carlos sighed. “It’s mine, Officer. I can show you the checks from my bank where I took it out.”

“Not a crime to have money, son. But I’m going to ask you why you have it. What were you going to do?”

He was thinking of the fentanyl rule in the department, though Carlos had come back clean when he’d checked his record.

The man sighed. “Was thinking of buying something.” He glanced at the bloodstains on Ninth Street. “But I changed my mind. I’m putting it back in the bank.”

“Well, do it soon. You don’t wander around Nowhere with that kind of green on you.”

Fromm wondered if that was still street slang for “money.”

“Yessir. Can I go, sir? My daughter’s got a recital. I can still see the last half.”

“Sure. Detectives’ll be in touch.”

Carlos walked off, circling wide around the bloodstains.

Fromm looked at the scene. He noticed Jamal was flexing and unflexing his hand. The gun had been a small-frame.38. Stung like hell to shoot.

There was another convenience store up at the corner. He’d give the kid some money and have him buy a cup of ice and some baggies, for the pain.

Fromm sent a text to Martha’s caregiver, explaining that he might be a little later than planned. Something had come up at work.

Esmerelda texted back that was fine and he could take his time. Martha was having a good day. Another line followed.

Finally.

Some kind soul had given him a ten.

The woman, midfifties, trim and wearing shoes that matched her beige raincoat, explained that her son had served in Iraq. She’d deduced Adam was a vet too. Was she right?

“Yes, ma’am.”

He’d endured her rambling discussion of her son’s PTSD, how it slowed his advancement at an investment banking firm on Wall Street. He didn’t get the bonus he’d hoped for.

“But he’s coping,” she’d said.

Adam had struggled for patience, even asking polite questions about the man and successfully reining in his urge to scream. A ten is a ten.

Ah, the things we do for the things we need...

With Hamilton in his pocket, the wasps didn’t go silent but the keening buzz dipped a few decibels. Ever frugal, Adam slipped his paper cup into his jacket and walked toward Ninth Street, and the Quik Mart, where his breakfast wine awaited.

But when he turned the corner, he stopped fast. The street was blocked off by police cars and ambulances and there were a number of cops milling about, along with reporters and camera people and spectators.

A shooting.

In the center was the orange-shoe kid who’d given him the money, talking to a uniformed cop, an older guy. A sign in the door said, “Closed,” though that wasn’t really necessary because the police had strung yellow tape all around it. And there were bloodstains on the ground.

Adam felt his breath coming a bit faster, his heart tapping urgently. And, of course, the wasps were back, a whole fucking hive of them.

God, I’m sorry, Todd. Forgive me.

Tears welled.

Breathe, breathe, breathe...

Okay. Got it. Barely.

Wine detail now. Quik Mart was out. But at the intersection where he stood was a chain convenience store. Much more expensive. His money wouldn’t go as far but at least he’d get his bottle.

He paid for his purchases and started out, glancing at a TV behind the clerk. He stopped fast, staring at the story, a local report of a shootout on Ninth Street — at Quik Mart!

On the screen was the kid in the orange shoes. He was Jamal Davis, the daytime manager of the shop. How our prejudices stay wound tight as a wet knot. Adam had been sure the kid was a gangbanger. Davis had shot and killed a man who’d been about to murder a customer. Possibly a robbery, possibly some other motive. The police were still investigating.

Adam was thinking: Damn. If he’d gotten enough money for the bottle at Quik Mart forty-five minutes ago, he would have been inside when the shooting happened. Fate is one bizarre fucker.

He stepped outside, unscrewed the bottle and had his first glorious sip of the day.

Okay, one more.

As he was about to turn around and head back to his begging station, he glanced across the street and noted some movement in an alleyway. Somebody was there, a man, in the shadows, hiding.

Did this have anything to do with the shooting?

The man stepped to the entrance of the alley. Well. It was the skinny black guy — Hoodie Man, the one who’d asked about the kid, Jamal.

Hoodie Man stuck his head out and looked toward Quik Mart. Adam followed his gaze and saw Jamal taking some money from the cop and walking this way. Maybe to buy something at the convenience store. Jamal was on his mobile, not looking around. Hoodie Man ducked back into the shadows and drew a pistol from his pocket. A Glock, it looked like.

He was going to kill the young man. Maybe he was a witness? Maybe the man Jamal had shot was Hoodie Man’s friend.

Adam closed his eyes briefly. And he thought of what was sitting on his table in his apartment. His own gun, the Colt. Often, he carried it with him, just in case the moment came when he was in a park, at night, or by the river. Alone. The wine gone, the wasps buzzing louder and louder and louder... And he’d kiss the muzzle.

Today he could’ve used it for something else.

Ah, well...

He took one long sip of wine and, as he charged toward Hoodie Man, flung the bottle into the alley, beyond him.

It crashed onto the ground, and Hoodie Man turned toward the sound. But only briefly, then the wiry man’s instincts seem to kick in. He spun toward Adam, who was shouting, “Jamal, run!”

Whether the boy ran or not, he couldn’t tell. Hoodie Man fired at Adam as he dove forward. He felt the hot gas on his cheek as he crashed into the man.

In the army they teach you that hand-to-hand combat is nothing like the karate fights you see in the movies. It’s grappling, wrestling, struggling to use a weapon or take a weapon away. It’s kicking, biting, gouging.

This is what Adam did now, fiercely gripping the man’s shooting-hand wrist, digging nails into his skin and flaying away with his left hand.

The gun fired again.

Like with the first shot, he didn’t know if he’d been hit or not. His face and neck were numb. From the fierce muzzle flash? Or had the 9 mm slugs actually torn into his body and opened vessels?

No matter, he decided. Wounded or not, he still had strength, from some reserve somewhere, and his grip was sure. He controlled Hoodie Man’s shooting hand and kept the weapon pointed safely to the ground.

“Motherfucker,” Hoodie Man muttered, then yelped in pain as Adam’s left fist collided with his nose. The gun fell to the ground and Adam dragged the man away from it. He smelled pot and sweat and some kind of biting aftershave lotion. His own unpleasant body scent too.

He took a few oblique hits to the ear and cheek, and subdued Hoodie Man completely with an elbow to the face. But then the police were all over them, dragging them apart and cuffing both.

Medics attended to them. Adam had not been shot, though he did have burns from the flash and powder embedded in his cheek. His right ear sang from the loud report of the gunshot — though a tone lower than the wasps. A young technician, a woman, sat close, ignoring the odor, and dabbed salve on the spot. After the treatment, he sat on the curb while the older police officer — a nice-enough guy named Arthur Fromm — checked his and Hoodie Man’s records. He listened to Adam’s story and ordered him unshackled. Jamal walked up and thanked him, looking him straight in the eye and shaking his hand.

Adam nodded but gave no other response.

Hoodie Man, whose name turned out to be Lester Banks, was apparently the head of a gang in a neighborhood not far away. He’d done time but had no current warrants, Adam heard. He was arrested for a handful of offenses.

Officer Fromm asked Jamal, “You ever see him before?” And he asked it in the kind of way that told Adam that the cop was absolutely certain the boy and Lester had seen each other before.

“No, sir.”

An answer that, Adam was sure, Officer Fromm was absolutely certain he’d hear.

“Okay,” the cop said.

“I gotta get to my grandmother’s.”

“You go on. I’ll be in touch. But put ice on that hand.”

“Yessir.”

With a look of utter hatred at Adam, Lester was escorted to a squad car and deposited in the back seat.

Adam was mentally counting the remaining cash in his pocket, and the tally indicated a deficiency in the wine-purchasing department. Hell. He started back to his begging station.

“Rangers,” Officer Fromm said to him.

Adam turned, frowning.

The cop touched his own neck. “That tat of yours?”

“Oh. Yeah.”

The officer was silent for a moment. Then he said, “My grandson was deployed.”

Adam didn’t ask where. That was a question that he might have asked a long time ago. Now, no. He didn’t care.

Officer Fromm said, “Had a rough time, Derek did. Rough over there, well, obviously. But back here too. Was worse in some ways. Got divorced, lost his job. He’s good now. Was in kind of a group thing. Veterans. You’ve heard this all before. He heard it, too, and it took him a couple of years to take the step. He can put you in touch with somebody. You have a phone?”

Adam pulled it out. Officer Fromm blinked. It was a flip phone. He’d be thinking: They still make those?

The officer dictated the number and Adam put it in. Hit “Save.”

Without another word on that subject, Officer Fromm asked, “You have any money for breakfast?”

The enticing smell of the spilled wine was strong in the heavy, damp air. Officer Fromm did not glance the way of the stain.

“Not really.”

“I’ll stand you to twenty,” Fromm said.

“No, I—”

“You pay it back. We’ve got to meet anyway, before trial.” He was nodding toward where the squad car, containing Lester Banks, had been.

Adam nodded. He walked back into the convenience store and picked up another bottle of wine and two breakfast tacos. As the clerk rang him up, he glanced at the TV news again. Another story was on, about a youngster who’d gone missing in a big construction site. The boy, a five-year-old named Bobby, had just been located, unhurt. He hadn’t been abducted or fallen down a pit, as feared; he’d just wandered into a janitor’s closet and the door had locked behind him. A tearful reunion.

Adam stepped outside the franchise and walked toward the Larkin Street Bridge, eating the tacos fast, four, five bites. It was maybe the best meal he’d had in his life.

He walked halfway across the bridge, one of the older ones in town, stone, ornate. He stopped. He unscrewed the wine bottle and drank several mouthfuls. Then he leaned over the railing, looking down.

The river was wide here, moving steadily, if not fast. It was a rich gray. He enjoyed watching a tugboat and barge as they muscled past, upstream.

Another hit of wine.

Thinking about the scar on his leg. Thinking about the pirate ship floating in the ceiling above his saggy bed. Thinking about the P word his friend and fellow soldier Todd had been trying to say as he died in a flood of crimson.

This was the moment, Adam reflected, when he would climb the railing and swan dive into the chill water.

Or when he’d pitch the bottle into the river, feeling his heart tighten with vibrant resolution.

He chuckled to himself, not a mad laugh but a genuine one, and did neither. He took another sip, slipped the cabernet back into the paper bag and continued across the bridge, then turned onto the street that would take him home.