They Don't Play Stickball in Milwaukee

Piece of Skirt

We walked for a little bit-me, the desk clerk, and the ski dude-down into the basement of the Old Watermill. It was musty as hell and made me pine for Guppy’s broom closet. The three of us had little to say. There was no need. The ski dude’s gun barrel communicated to me speed and direction. I did ask if it was possible for the ski dude not to press his pistol completely through my ribs. He responded by pressing harder. I would remember never to beg him for mercy.

We stopped by a door marked “Storage Room” and I wondered aloud if this was where the desk clerk changed into Superman. That earned me a smack in the back of my head with the gun butt. That was one way to get the damn thing out of my ribs. When I reached up to feel the lump on my head, they pushed me through the door. I landed chin first. That pissed me off and I spat in the desk clerk’s face when he bent over me. Now the square face of the 9 mm Glock was pressed against my teeth. Suddenly, I thought, my ribs weren’t such a bad place for the barrel of a gun after all.

The ski dude just stood above me smiling down. He enjoyed his work just a bit too much for my comfort. In the meantime, the desk clerk frisked me, patting down every spot on my body, turning all my pockets out.

“He doesn’t have it on him,” he said to the ski dude.

“Of course I don’t have the disc on me, you fucking moron.” I got the words out pretty well considering there was a gun in my mouth. “When I get my nephew, you’ll get your disc.”

Ski dude pulled the gun away and yanked me up like I was filled with helium. I didn’t miss the gun. And it was nice to breathe again. The desk clerk gave a nod to his accomplice. Ski dude smiled. I knew I wasn’t going to enjoy this. A fist buried itself in my gut so hard that my liver French-kissed my right kidney. Some foul-tasting liquid flew out of my mouth. I didn’t know what it was, but I knew it was the type of fluid that was supposed to stay inside the human body. I didn’t have a chance to dwell on my body fluids very long. Unconsciousness has a way of distracting me.

To wake up running through an inventory of the parts of your body that ache is usually a bad omen of things to come. My mouth still tasted of the mystery fluid and the slice on my chin was still bleeding, so I guessed I hadn’t been out that long. My liver was back in place, but I felt bruised from the inside out.

I was lying face-down on a concrete slab and when I tried to push myself up, the back of my head nearly exploded. It didn’t do wonders for the contents of my stomach, either. I opted for rolling over onto my back. I managed that without too much discomfort. There was a string of bare bulbs dangling above my head. They swayed as if blown by a breeze I could not feel. There were space heaters placed along the base of the unpainted concrete walls. The walls themselves were not flat, but concave. The place had the feel of a construction sight.

After several minutes on my back, I inched over to a wall and used its gentle slope to ease myself into a sitting position. My head voted against the upright posture, but came around to my way of thinking after punishing me with thirty seconds of extreme nausea and pain. When the wave passed, I felt I recognized my prison. The tunnels beneath the college were of the same dimensions. I was unnerved by the deathly silence of the place. Having grown up in a bedroom above a boiler, around the corner from one of Brooklyn’s busiest thoroughfares and one block away from Coney Island Hospital’s emergency room, I had always been uncomfortable with silence. Okay, when I was writing, I wanted silence. When I was bleeding, I wanted some noise.

I stood up and walked the tunnel, up and back. I was in a section about sixty paces long closed at both ends by ply-wood walls. One wall had a locked, spring-loaded door in it. I did some requisite banging and screaming after which I did some requisite puking. At least now there was some stink to go along with the silence. I got horizontal once again and willed myself to pass out, but even that yielded mixed results. I dreamed I was in pain.

Someone was slapping my cheeks the next time I opened my eyes. Just what a man with a cracked head and a slicedup face needs. I thrust my left arm out at where I thought the slapper’s throat might be and latched onto the first bit of flesh I could find. Hearing choking and feeling hands grab my left wrist, I congratulated myself for good aim.

“Uncle Dylan! Uncle Dylan!” were words I thought I heard through the choking and gasps for air.

I let go, but, in all honesty, not without some regret. Deep in the pit of my stomach, I continued to be furious with Zak for his manipulations. I was never very good at math, but no matter how I turned the equation around, Zak’s pulling at the puppet strings still resulted in Kira’s murder. I suppose that as a younger, more narcissistic man, I might have seen things differently. I might have thought my few days with Kira were somehow worth it. I wasn’t that good a liar anymore. My joy, no matter how expansive, would never be worth someone else’s life.

“Are we in the tunnels beneath the school?” I asked, sitting up.

“Yeah,” Zak said, rubbing his throat. “But these tunnels are unused. They are extensions to buildings that were never built. Everybody knows they exist, but none of the students know how to get access.”

“Now you do, but I don’t think it’s worth it.”

“I guess not,” he agreed.

“How did-” My question was cut short by an opening door.

“I put him here, Mr. Klein,” a vaguely familiar voice answered my unfinished question. Dean Dallenbach stepped through the open door. He was flanked on either side by the desk clerk and the ski dude. “Now why don’t you make the inevitable easy on everyone and hand over the disc.”

“If it existed, asshole,” I didn’t hesitate, “I might be inclined to make it easy.”

“You are going to be tiresome, aren’t you?” Dallenbach’s hand gestures were very affected, exaggerated.

“I guess so.”

“But we’ve already been through this with your nephew, Mr. Klein. Do you actually believe me such a fool?”

I smiled. “You really want an answer to that?”

“George!” Dallenbach barked.

The ski dude hopped to and proceeded to slap me so hard across the face that the force tore a gash in my cheek.

“Nice shot, George, but you’re pissing me off. I get very stubborn when I get pissed off.”

“Jerry!” the Dean was barking again. “Hold Mr. Klein steady for George this time. I don’t think our guest quite appreciates the seriousness of the position he and his nephew are in.”

As the desk clerk stepped toward me, I thought I saw him lick his lips. But he was a phony motherfucker. With him it was all show for the boss’ sake. And I knew Jerry would be a little more careless than his partner. While he moved by me to take hold of me, I head-butted Jerry in a part of his anatomy that was particularly sensitive to strong blows with a blunt object. He folded like a pup tent in a tornado. And as he was busily getting in touch with his new vocal range, I sprang on top of him, sinking my teeth into his neck. But just as I was clamping through the thick sheath around his jugular, I heard Zak scream.

“Your nephew’s about to lose his resemblance to you, Mr. Klein,” Dean Dallenbach warned almost too calmly. “I suggest you get off of Jerry this instant.”

I rolled off and got a kick in the ribs for my trouble. It was worth it. Jerry looked like Christmas; red and green all at once. He had one hand on his balls and one on his neck. George smiled at me. That took all the fun out of things. I knew no good would come of his smile. He teased me by releasing his arm from around Zak’s neck. But just as Zak was out of his grip, George pistol-whipped Zak across the back of his head. It was one of George’s specialties. I knew from first hand experience.

Zak went down harder than Jerry, blood spurting through his thick, reddish brown hair.

“Have I established my intentions, Mr. Klein? I’m quite certain you can be very stubborn and very brave when it comes to pain. But I know the type of students that attend this school and somehow I don’t get the impression that your nephew, as motivated as he might be, could withstand what you could, sir.” His assessment was twin to mine. “And even if he were able to muster what it would take to put up with George’s skills, I doubt that you would be able to sit through it. Now please hand over the disc.”

I never got a chance to debate the issue. The door swung open behind Dallenbach and MacClough, hands cuffed behind him and blood leaking from the corners of his mouth, was shoved through. Except for the blood, MacClough seemed well enough. I thought I detected a smile. He had apparently enjoyed his little escapade. He didn’t let anyone else catch wind of his pleasure and got properly serious when he saw Zak face down on the concrete.

Two of Riversborough’s finest stepped in quickly behind John and closed the door. One of the cops looked like an escapee from a blimp factory and had a nose so full of gin blossoms he could have opened a florist shop. He wore a tired yellow toupee, had yellow fingers with dirty nails and incongruously square white teeth. I doubted the teeth were original equipment. His partner was a fidgety boy with slicked-back hair and eyes that couldn’t agree on which way to look. In most places he would have been lucky to get a job as a security guard. In Riversborough, he’d probably make commissioner.

“I don’t like it,” said the future commissioner to no one in particular. “I don’t like it.”

“You’re not getting paid for your opinion,” Dallenbach hissed. “Now get out of here and go tell your story about Mr. MacClough’s escape to any fool who will listen.”

The fat cop was busily cleaning a few pounds of dirt from under his nails with a key. He wasn’t the excitable type. His manicure complete, he tossed the key to Dallenbach. “For the cuffs,” he said.

Dallenbach immediately tossed the keys to George. Jerry frowned, truly hurt that his boss had chosen George to hold the keys. The cops left. As the door closed behind them, we could hear the fidgety boy still moaning about his work.

“These two I recognize,” MacClough nodded at George and Jerry. “That’s the asshole who followed you from the airport and that’s the desk clerk from the Old Watermill. But who’s-”

“John MacClough, meet Dean Dallenbach,” I introduced them.

“I know all about Mr. MacClough,” Dallenbach doffed an imaginary hat. “Join us, won’t you?”

“For a man who’s about to take a tumble, you’re in an awfully jolly fuckin’ mood,” MacClough sneered.

The smile ran away from Dallenbach’s face. Zak stirred, sitting up. He rubbed the back of his head. I pulled him to his feet. If the three of us were going to try anything, Zak would be better off in an upright position.

“George!” Dallenbach made a gun out of his thumb and index finger and pointed at Zak. George pressed his Glock to Zak’s temple. “The disc. We were talking about the disc.”

“There is no-” Zak began.

“Stop it, Zak,” MacClough cut him off. “There’s no use in jerking these guys around anymore. They’re way too smart to believe that they got played for fools by some college kid.”

“You’re annoying me, Mr. MacClough.”

“Good, I’m tryin’ to.”

George broke into a smile, but Dallenbach told him to calm down. John had bought us a little time.

“Where is the disc?” Dallenbach repeated, but, for the first time, there was a trace of doubt in his voice.

“Not so fast,” MacClough played his hand. “After you satisfy my curiosity, maybe we’ll talk about the disc. And do me a favor, don’t even say that I’m in no position to bargain. If I wasn’t, we’d all be dead by now.”

Dallenbach did the finger gun thing again and had George move the real gun to John’s temple.

“Kill me, asshole, go ahead. You see, the problem is, I’m the only one who knows where the disc is. I had it with me when I ran and ditched it on the way out of town.”

“You’re bluffing.” Dallenbach squirmed.

“Then call the bluff. You’re gonna whack us anyways.”

I’d been in several rough situations with MacClough in the past, but he was really pushing it this time. I couldn’t believe what was coming out of his mouth. It was all I could do not to tell him to try and play it a bit less over the top.

“Very well.” Dallenbach gestured for Georgie boy to lower his 9mm. “What is it you want to know?”

“How’d a clown like you get involved with Isotope in the first place?” John asked.

“Your manner is starting to annoy me, Mr. MacClough.”

“Slap me on the knuckles with a ruler like the sisters at St. Mark’s. It didn’t improve my manner any, but it made them feel better. So how’d ya get involved?”

“Weakness,” Dallenbach replied matter-of-factly. “Weakness.”

“That covers a lot of territory,” I noted, pointing my head at George. I thought Dallenbach almost blushed. “Well, yes, I am rather fond of George’s type.” George wasn’t so fond of the word ‘type.’ “But it was my gambling, I fear, that did me in. It is one thing to be a compulsive gambler with few resources. It is quite another to be one and have access to a well-funded school’s endowment.”

“But you’re just a dean!” I exclaimed. “You shouldn’t have-”

“But I had access to someone who had access. Money, money, money. . ”

“But the well went dry,” MacClough said.

“It always does, Mr. MacClough. My friend got faint of heart and was afraid of being found out. You see, he was using the school’s purchase of the Old Watermill to cover our tracks and I got just the slightest bit greedy and asked that he divert some additional funds to cover another investment. I thought that other investment would see us through our old age and cover my debts.”

“Cyclone Ridge,” I said.

“Very good, Mr. Klein. Cyclone Ridge.”

“That well went dry, too, and quicker than you thought,” MacClough put his two cents in.

“Much too quickly. Cyclone Ridge was a dog, an albatross.”

“Don’t tell me,” MacClough smirked, “you found some new partners.”

“To be perfectly accurate, Mr. MacClough, they found me. Gamblers do tend to wear their debts on their sleeves. My creditors saw an opportunity and called in their markers. It was a set up that suited their purposes quite well. Cyclone Ridge was a perfect storehouse and transshipment point for the distribution of Isotope across Canada and the Northeast. Who would think to look for drugs in sleepy, little Riversborough? Until that fool Markham loaded the goods into the wrong BMW, the arrangement worked out rather nicely for all parties involved.”

“Yeah, everyone but your old boyfriend who got you access to the endowment,” John said. “It’s a good bet your new partners had you dissolve your old partnership.”

Dallenbach soured. “I’m afraid they insisted on it.”

“What happened,” I wondered, “a convenient midnight skiing accident?”

“I don’t know, frankly. I didn’t want to know.”

I was curious. “But you did have Steven Markum killed?”

George got all happy at my question. That alone was answer enough.

“Yes,” Dallenbach confirmed, “and he bloody well deserved it. If it were not for his abject stupidity, we wouldn’t all be standing here. Valencia Jones would be just another student struggling with her second tier course in metaphysics.”

“And Kira would still be alive,” I growled.

“That’s on your head, Mr. Klein. If you had spent more time looking for your nephew and less time chasing a piece of skirt, your friend would still be drawing breath. It was you who presented us with the opportunity. We simply took it.”

No matter the situation, chatting reduces the level of tension in a room. That’s how I managed to get my fist into Dallenbach’s teeth without interference. Some of his teeth splintered. Normally, I might have felt some of the jagged enamel dig into the skin of my knuckles, but I was way too preoccupied with the bullet ripping through the top of my left shoulder to notice pieces of broken teeth. Christ, it burned like acid on fire inside me. The floor reached up and yanked me down hard. I forgot how to breathe and why. The shot’s report rang in my ears.

“Not in here!” Dallenbach screamed, spitting out blood and bits of his teeth. “You nearly shot me, you fool!”

George enjoyed being called a fool almost as much as he liked being called a type.

“I just clipped him,” George did speak. “And I didn’t come close to hitting you.”

Zak and MacClough, his hands still cuffed, came to attend to me.

“Leave him!” Dallenbach had completely lost his sense of humor. “We’ve wasted enough time, Mr. MacClough. Where’s the disc?”

“Fuck you, asshole! There is no disc.”

I winced for MacClough, expecting George to punish him for his delightful use of the English language. But George wasn’t smiling, flashing his fists, nor pistol-whipping anyone just now.

“Oh, God, not that again. I warn you, my patience is at low ebb.”

“It wouldn’t matter if your patience were at neap tide,” MacClough laughed, “there is no disc.”

“If you’re stalling for time, Mr. MacClough,” Dallenbach said, grabbing the 9mm out of George’s hand, “you needn’t bother. The cavalry isn’t coming. I’m afraid that DEA agent who’s been following Mr. Klein about had a rather nasty accident in the fire at Cyclone Ridge. Unless you’ve got an in with Ezekiel, and can conjure up charred bones, no one’s coming to your rescue.” Dallenbach ejected a bullet from the gun’s chamber for dramatic purposes, pointed it at Johnny’s heart and began counting backwards from ten: “Ten. . nine. . eight. . seven. . six. . five. . four. . three. . two-”

The spring-loaded door flew open, clanging against the wall. Zak and John jumped. I was already so wired that I barely reacted. Dallenbach, however, and his two boys seemed unfazed. I thought I saw Dallenbach check his watch. Two men-one dressed in a loose-fitting trench coat, the other in a full-length vicuna coat-came into the tunnel.

“You’re late,” Dallenbach tapped his wrist.

“Fuck you!” vicuna coat said, “these fuckin’ tunnels get me all whacky. It’s like a fuckin’ sci-fi movie down here, people livin’ in tunnels and shit. Hey,” he screwed up his face, “what the fuck happened to your face, you suckin’ on concrete lollipops or what?”

“One of your partners?” John surmised.

“Actually, Mr. Lippo’s one of their representatives. How ever did you guess?” Dallenbach wondered, tongue in cheek.

“With that vocabulary it had to be a toss-up between a wise-guy and Werner Von Braun. Since Von Braun’s dead. .”

“Shut the fuck up!” Lippo ordered. “These the guys?”

“Those three, yes,” Dallenbach confirmed, “but not yet. They have some information I need.”

“Bullshit! The boss says I gotta whack ‘em, I whack ‘em. He didn’t say nothin’ about waitin’ time. And you,” he glared at Dallenbach, “I’m supposed to teach you a lesson.”

“What,” the dean’s voice was breaking, “could you possibly teach me?”

Lippo looked at Zak, Johnny, and me. “Which one of youz girlfriend’s got whacked?”

“Me,” I said, propping myself up.

“That shouldn’t’a happened,” Lippo said. “That was sloppy like every other fuckin’ thing around here.”

“Thanks for the sympathy.”

“Gino!” Lippo snapped his fingers and held out his hand. Gino placed a.38 police special in Lippo’s hand. “Here!” Lippo held the gun out to me. “Go ahead, kill either one a those two pricks. And don’t get no ideas. Gino boy’ll cut you down before you fart the wrong way.”

Suddenly, my left shoulder didn’t hurt so much. I took the gun and swung the tip of the barrel between George and Jerry. George looked particularly unhappy, but not especially frightened. Jerry, on the other hand, was a whisper away from begging. I picked Jerry. Dying at my hand would have no special significance to George.

“Okay,” Dallenbach threw his hands up, “I get the point. We shall endeavor to be more careful in the future. Now take that gun away from Klein and let’s get on with this.”

“You don’t get it, do you?” Lippo puzzled. “I ain’t jokin’. Go ahead and kill the prick,” he urged me.

Dallenbach was sweating now.

“Don’t!” MacClough shouted. “Don’t do it, Klein. It’ll stay with you forever.”

I pulled the hammer back on the.38.

“They’re gonna kill us, Dylan. You’re just makin’ it easier for them to have it look like we all went down in a gun-fight between us and Dallenbach’s boys.”

“Hey, shut the fuck up,” Lippo warned MacClough.

“Don’t, Dylan!”

I began to nudge the trigger toward me. Bang! The shot went off and I went down, MacClough on top of me. The slug ricocheted off the concrete. Everyone hit the floor who wasn’t there already. A light bulb exploded, its glass sprinkling down. The.38 was out of my hand. It was a long few seconds.

“Get up!” Lippo demanded.

We obliged. But when we got up, the.38 was in Jerry’s shaking right hand. He pointed it at the spot where Lippo’s vicuna coat fell away from his heart. Lippo ignored him, brushing the concrete dust off his lavish overcoat.

“Goddammit! I just had this thing cleaned.”

And as he finished his sentence, there was a sort of muffled spitting sound, a puff of smoke, and Jerry collapsed backwards. He lay all twisted like an ill-constructed jigsaw puzzle, a look of utter surprise on his dead face. Blood pooled where his right eye used to be.

“The other one, too,” Lippo said almost too nonchalantly.

George smiled, began laughing in an odd, strangled sort of way. He was not going to go quietly into that good night. He charged. He didn’t get too far; three feet maybe. But because he had been a moving target, Gino hadn’t managed to make clean work of it. The belly of George’s skin-tight ski suit was a crimson mess. He writhed in pain on the floor, trying to hold his guts in place. Lippo calmly removed his coat, handing it to Gino, and grabbed the Glock out of Dallenbach’s fear-frozen right hand. He placed his shoe on George’s throat and pressed down hard enough to steady George’s twisting.

“Here’s dessert,” Lippo said, placing the gun barrel to George’s heart. “Prick!”

As the shot went off a wave went through George’s body. I almost expected the floor to shake. Dallenbach was white. I’m not sure whether it was fear or grieving or what.

“I really do get the lesson now,” he managed to say. “So, can we please get on with it?”

“I’m a cop,” MacClough said. “You wanna kill a cop?”

“Retired over ten years ago,” Dallenbach, feeling more his old self, retorted. “No one will send out the National Guard, if your body should turn up.”

“I don’t like whackin’ cops. My brother-in-law’s on the job. But this ain’t my headache. C’mon,” he said, waving the 9mm at us, “let’s everybody go for a nice walk.”

“What about them?” Dallenbach wondered about the late George and Jerry.

“Them? Fuck them! We’ll worry about them later.”

“Let’s listen to the man,” I urged, getting to my feet. The pain in my left shoulder nearly knocking me back down. “The sooner they kill us, the sooner that disc gets to the cops.”

“Disc?” Lippo stopped dead in his tracks and stared coldly at the dean. “What disc?”

“You mean your partner didn’t tell you about the disc that my nephew downloaded after he hacked his way into Dean Dallenbach’s computer? Makes you wonder what else he didn’t tell you about, doesn’t it?”

“Shut up and get going,” Dallenbach slapped my wounded shoulder.

“No!” Lippo disagreed. “You,” he pointed to me, “talk.”

“Don’t you know what all this is about? My nephew used to date that girl that’s on trial for muling the Isotope. The details of how he hacked the system are irrelevant, but let’s just say that there’s a disc somewhere out there that details your distribution system and implicates your bosses. Now, my nephew’s no idiot. He knew what his life would be worth if he took the disc directly to the cops, so he’s been trying to barter it for the girl’s freedom for months. That’s all he wanted, the girl’s freedom.”

“I never heard nothin’ about no disc, Dallenbach.”

“That’s because there is no disc,” he pleaded. “I didn’t want to risk getting other people involved until I was sure it either did or didn’t exist.”

“Other people are involved, stroonze. You think I’m here for the climate?”

“What bullshit story did he tell your boss to get you down here, anyways?” MacClough egged Lippo on.

“I don’t know, but nobody mentioned no disc.”

“Did anybody mention the dead DEA agent?” MacClough wondered, innocent as a lamb.

“Fuck no!”

“Well, Dallenbach,” I prodded, “here’s your chance. I understand the mob just loves being involved with the murder of federal agents.”

Working on the axiom that less is sometimes more, Dallenbach said nothing in his own defense. “Come on, Lippo, can we get this over with? We can deal with these peripheral issues later.”

“Sure, Dean, we can do that for you. Hey Gino, gimme back my coat.” Lippo took great care with his precious coat. “You know what happens sometimes when like McDonalds or somebody gives out a franchise to a guy who like cooks the books or don’t follow company rules and shit like that?”

“I’m not sure I get your point, Lippo,” Dallenbach said impatiently.

“Humor me, okay? So do you know what happens or what?”

“I imagine,” Dallenbach answered, “that they reclaim their franchise.”

“Right! Exactly fuckin’ right. They take back their franchise. And right now, that’s what we’re gonna do, Dallenbach. Take back our franchise, you total fuck-up.”

“I don’t un-” Dallenbach began.

“You understand, asshole. You understand.”

We all stepped away from Dallenbach.

“Why don’t I do all of them right here?” Gino spoke up for the first time. I liked it better when he didn’t talk.

“Nah,” Lippo said, pointing at Dallenbach, “just him.”

“But what about the disc?” Dallenbach cried in desperation.

“What about it?” Lippo was cool. “If there really is no disc, then we got nothin’ to worry about. If there is a disc, who gives a fuck? I betcha me and Gino’s names ain’t on it. Am I right or what, Gino?”

Gino laughed at that.

Dallenbach blurted out: “But Malzone and DiMinici, your bosses will go down.”

“Yeah, and so what? They ain’t gonna blame me for it.

You was the one who never told them about it. And after tonight, there ain’t gonna be anybody to say I knew about it. Besides, me and Gino are overdue for a promotion.” Lippo nodded to Gino.

Gino’s hand came up holding an Uzi with a thick silencer extended from the barrel.

“But-” Dallenbach threw his hands up.

“Look at it this way,” Lippo consoled him, “we’re doin’ you a favor. If Malzone and DiMinici had ever found out about the disc, they wouldn’t make this so quick and painless. This way you go out beggin’ to live. With them, you’d go out beggin’ to die. So cross yourself and shut your eyes.”

Dallenbach actually took his advice.

Before Gino could do Dallenbach his favor, MacClough went down in a heap. He was in terrible pain. He was doubled over on the floor, his left leg twitching. His bottom lip was bleeding from where he was biting through it. This wasn’t a feint to buy time and Lippo knew it. I tried holding John, but the pain would not let me comfort him.

Gino and Lippo studied MacClough and searched each other’s eyes.

“Okay,” Lippo said, “do ‘em all here. We’ll play some games with the guns or we’ll just throw a match on the pile. The cops in this town’ll be sorting it out till next Halloween.”

MacClough winked at me. Gino had let him get too close. He kicked the gunman’s legs out from under him and the back of Gino’s head cracked hard on the concrete floor. I hit Lippo with a cross body block. My shoulder burned down through my toes, but, I thought, getting blood on Lippo’s coat was almost worth it. It’s funny what you think about. I stopped thinking about it when Lippo pounded the 9 mm butt into the square of my back. That wasn’t a good sign. But suddenly, another body piled on. It was Zak. I couldn’t see what was going on exactly, but I could feel Zak struggling with Lippo’s gun hand. I wondered if MacClough and Dallenbach were sharing a cup of tea while we were scrumming about on the ground.

There was a shot. That got everyone’s attention. I didn’t figure it was John holding the gun. He was good, but his hands had been cuffed for quite some time and I doubted they had enough feeling left in them to handle a blind grab and behind-the-back shooting.

“Get away from him,” Dallenbach ordered.

Zak and I knew who he meant. We moved away. Lippo looked almost ridiculous seated there on his ass in his dirty coat. The fact that he was still holding the Glock made him seem a bit less silly. It was Mexican standoff time between Dallenbach and Lippo. Lippo didn’t wait to discuss it and squeezed off a few shots. Dallenbach crumbled. The door flew open and an endless stream of state policemen flew in behind Detective Fazio. Lippo wasn’t an eloquent speaker, but he could compute the odds. He immediately tossed the Glock at Dallenbach’s body and started screaming something about self-defense. Gino moaned, opened his eyes, and went back to concussionville.

Fazio, his crooked nose shiny with sweat, just stood there shaking his head at us. He was out of breath and thought smoking a Kent was the best way to catch it. He looked at MacClough’s cuffed hands and John caught his gaze.

“That one’s got the key,” MacClough nodded at Dallenbach.

Fazio dutifully went about collecting the keys and undoing the cuffs. MacClough spent the next five minutes rubbing his wrists. Gloved hands were pushing and prodding my shoulder and the back of Zak’s head. The general consensus was that we’d live.

“Did you get all that?” MacClough asked, pulling a small microphone off his inner thigh.

“Every word,” Fazio said. “Every fucking word.” He turned to me. “Sorry about the girl.”

I had nothing in me to say to him just then, but he smiled at what he must have seen in my eyes.

“What the fuck took you so long?” MacClough griped.

“These tunnels, I’m not an ant for chrissakes! I can get you from the IND to the BMT to the IRT, but anywheres north of Syracuse I’m no good underground.”

“How the-” I started the question.

“We’ll talk about it some other time,” Fazio winked.

A vaguely military looking gentleman in aviator sunglasses, a blond brush cut, and cheek bones higher than K2 introduced himself to me as DEA Field Supervisor Robert Rees. I shook his hand.

“Good work,” he said. “Good work.”

Whatever that meant. Too many people on both sides of the issue had died to make something good of it. I asked him if I might be allowed to leave now. He muttered something about my shoulder and a hospital. I told him the hospital could wait. He told one of the state troopers to take me wherever I wanted to go. He shook my hand again. Maybe he was as much in shock as the rest of us.

I asked MacClough how he was feeling. He sort of laughed at me and said that he’d live. I guessed he would. Life is a hard thing to take away from some people.

Zak put his hand out for me to pull him up. I pulled him up. There were tears in his eyes and when he began to beg forgiveness, I said he had nothing to beg for. Forgiveness wasn’t my province. He had to forgive himself. My anger had all vanished in a pool of other peoples’ blood. I kissed him, told him I loved him, and ordered him to go visit his grandfather’s grave.

“No one’ll ever call me the family fuck-up again,” he vowed.

“Yeah, Zak, I know. And they don’t play stickball in Milwaukee.”

It fit somehow.

When I was almost through the door, MacClough called out for me: “Where you goin’?”

“There’s a man at the Old Watermill Inn who I need to talk to.” I didn’t look back.