THE SECOND TIME was The Rep for the Culinary, the Vegas union that handles restaurant and hotel workers. The bulk of the Culinary’s members are Mexican. The Rep was Mexican. He was helping more Mexicans join the union. Big deal. That’s how things work. You have a choice between helping out someone who’s familiar to you, someone you understand, as opposed to say, some Russian guy, and you’re going to help the one you understand, the one from your country who was recommended to you by your cousin’s husband. That’s what he did, and he kept doing it. David kept sending people over, trying for Culinary jobs that this guy controlled, and he kept helping Mexicans instead. He was offered money. He didn’t take it. He didn’t care about the money, he cared about helping people from his country. So David sent me and Branko.
He worked as a cook in a restaurant inside the Bellagio. He made enough money to own two cars, a house in a gated community, and to send his two kids to a private Catholic school, not to mention health insurance for the whole family. That’s how good those Culinary jobs can be. Shit, I would have liked a job in the Culinary.
It was a parking lot deal. Parking lots are popular for this sort of thing. It’s easy to be anonymous in a parking lot. Easy to get a moment’s privacy. And you’re close to your car.
He worked the swing, 5:00 p.m. to 1:00 a.m. We sat in a used car Branko had bought for cash. I don’t remember what model or make. I don’t remember the color. By then I was too high to remember shit. Xanax, Darvocet, and Dexedrine, I think.
The Rep came out an employee entrance, into the underground parking lot. He started toward his 4x4, walking slow, stretching his back after the long shift. We got out of our car and started walking toward him, Branko in front, me right behind, both of us wearing ball caps, sunglasses, and fake beards for the security cameras. A couple more people came out the employee door. One of them called to The Rep and he turned and waved. We slowed a bit, but he didn’t stop to talk, just reached in his pocket for his keys and pressed the button to turn off his car alarm. The alarm beeped as we came abreast the truck, blocking his passage. Branko turned sideways to let The Rep by. He waited politely at the hood of his truck, gesturing with his arm that we should go by him first. Branko gave a little nod, stumbled, and I bumped into his back. His keys fell out of his hand and skittered toward The Rep. Branko turned to me and I told him I was sorry. Behind him, The Rep bent to pick up the keys, and I nodded. Branko turned, grabbed The Rep’s neck, and rammed his head into the fender of the car parked next to his truck. The Rep grunted, tried to stand, and Branko rammed his head again. The Rep went limp and Branko dropped him.
I was carrying the gun this time, but for a second I forgot what came next and Branko had to pull it out of my pocket and put it in my hand. I don’t remember the car we drove, but I remember the gun. It was a Ruger, a Rimfire .22. I remember because it had a ten-round magazine. And I was supposed to use all the bullets. And I did. Branko had drilled little holes down the length of the barrel to vent gases as the pistol was fired, an integral silencer. But the shots were still loud in the enclosed garage. Branko watched the first two bullets go in, then he started for our car as I pulled the trigger.
There was a hesitation between the fifth and sixth bullets. Branko paused halfway to our car when he heard it. If he had turned just then, he would have seen that I had raised the gun, bringing it up to point it at either the back of his head or the front of my own. I’m not sure which. But I lost my nerve, kept firing into The Rep, and Branko got into the car. I wiped the gun, dropped it, and Branko pulled the car up in front of me. I got in.
The new rep opened the book to a few Russians and David got his first toehold in the Culinary. And I went and saw my dealer the next day and told him I needed something new. He said Demerol. I said I’d take all he had.
– You killed my son.
This time the words aren’t addressed at me, but at the floor, as if she’s trying to put it together, make sense out of how I could have killed her son.
She looks up. Her brown, curly hair is shot with gray, her eyes are bloodshot and dark-ringed, a weary tension pulls at the corners of her mouth. She licks her dry lips.
– How?
She gets that one word out. I wait for another, but if there was anything more it’s caught inside her. I wonder if she really wants to know how I killed Mickey. How I pushed him from the top of a Mayan ruin and watched him tumble down, spilling blood on the steps. No, she must surely know. She must know how her own son died. I say nothing.
She finds the words in her throat.
– How could you…
She breathes.
– Do that?
She is breathing through her mouth now, her chest heaving, hyperventilating.
I don’t know what to tell her. I try to think of the answer that will keep me alive the longest, the one that will give me the most time to try to get out of this. I try to think. I think the top of my head feels cracked and itchy, like the sap split the skin and a scab has formed. I think my right shoulder hasn’t been seriously damaged, but it hurts like hell. I think the plastic handcuffs zipped tight around my wrists are cutting off the circulation to my hands. I think my face has had nails driven into it and I want something to make the pain go away.
– How?
There is more, but she can’t get it past all the air rushing in and out of her lungs.
I think I have something I want to say. It’s hard to speak. It hurts to say things. But I try.
– I don’t want to die.
Whatever was to come out of her mouth next doesn’t.
I say it again.
– I don’t want to die.
She shakes her head.
– Shut.
It is less a word this time than a gasp. Air shaped like a word, but carrying none of the weight of spoken language.
– Up.
But I won’t.
– I don’t want to die.
She starts to rise on trembling legs, strong dancer’s legs weak with rage.
– Shut. Up.
But I can’t.
– I don’t want to die.
She takes a step toward me. Her fists balled at her sides, arms shaking. Tears hot, spilling from her eyes.
– Shut up.
But it’s true. What I am saying is true.
– I don’t want to die.
She crosses the space between us, and her fist crashes down on the side of my head.
The nails in my face are driven deeper. But I don’t shut up.
– Please.
Her other fist slams into the back of my neck.
– Shut up.
No.
– I don’t want to die.
She swings her arms, pummeling me, hammering at my back and shoulders and head and neck. Sobbing.
– You shut up. Shut up, you. You. Shut. Shut. You don’t. No. Never. Shut up.
And me.
– Please. Let me live. I don’t want to. I can’t die yet. I want. Don’t want to die.
Both of us begging in whispers.
She’s falling to her knees, wheezing, her blows have no strength.
– You shut up. Shut up. Please shut up.
She’s on her knees next to the couch, her face a foot from mine, her hands clenched together, pounding on my back.
– Please shut up.
Spiky says something in Russian. She stops hitting me, says something in Russian. He walks to her and offers her something. She stays on her knees, takes it from his hand. I see what it is.
– Please. I don’t want to die.
She puts the gun below my chin, presses it into my throat.
– Shut up.
I open my mouth. Something comes out; a noise, the tail end of a years-long sob.
– Please.
She digs the gun into my flesh.
– Shut up. Please shut up. Please shut up. Please shut up.
They are whispers. Pleas.
I shut up.
She breathes.
She looks at my face, the face I was not born with.
She breathes.
The barrel of the gun is deep in the hollow beneath my chin, shivering.
She breathes.
Her mouth opens wide, mirroring my own, and a sound, a ragged wail like the one that escaped mine, comes from hers.
She slumps, the gun falls from her hand and thumps on the carpet. Spiky touches her shoulder.
– Tetka?
She looks at me, closes her eyes.
Whispers.
– No. It is all right. Everything is all right.
But it’s not. How could it be?
– How do you kill?
She speaks English beautifully, just the trace of an accent to let you know it is not her native tongue, so I know there is no misunderstanding. I know it’s not what she means, but still, I think of all the many ways I have killed.
– How?
And she is not speaking to me in any case.
– How can you kill another human being?
She is speaking to the wall-to-wall carpet.
– And a boy?
She gestures to the carpet, trying to eke an answer from it.
– How do you kill a boy?
She shakes her head.
– A simple boy. A beautiful boy.
She looks at the ceiling now.
– You. You have killed so many people. A boy, more or less, what was he to you?
She puts her hand to her chest.
– But he was everything to me.
She clutches a handful of material at her breast.
– Everything.
Her eyes fall back to the carpet.
– You have killed so many.
Her hand goes to her forehead.
– And I cannot kill even one.
And now she looks at me.
– Not even if that one is you.
She spits on my face.
– A murderer. A killer of boys.
She stands, gets up from the floor where she has been sitting right next to me.
– I cannot kill you.
She is straightening her dress, her hands scuttling over her body, tugging at wrinkles.
– But I know who you are.
She steps to the ottoman and picks up the small black handbag sitting next to it.
– I know who you are.
She opens the bag, takes out two pieces of paper and unfolds them.
– I know who you are.
The papers have been handled much, and she smooths them against her thigh.
– See, I know who you are.
She separates the papers, holds them one in each hand, and sticks them in my face.
– This is who you are.
The paper in her left hand is a photocopy of various pieces of ID: my driver’s license, a library card, a credit card, a gym card. They are mine, really mine. They say Henry Thompson. These are the pieces of identification I left with a forger named Billy.
The paper in her right hand was torn from today’s Post. It’s a fragment of Page Six, a photo of Miguel, half-naked Jay tossed over his shoulder. But that’s not the best part, the best part is me, right behind them, pushing them out the door of Hogs & Heifers.
She drops the papers on the floor and wipes her hands on her thighs, cleaning away any trace of me that might have clung to them.
– They told me.
She points at the two young men.
– They told me you were alive. And that David knew. They told me, Go to David, go see your brother-in-law. Ask him. But I did not believe them. It was too much. Too much.
She brings her hands to her forehead and turns her back to me. She stands like that, hands pressed to her forehead, holding something terrible inside. The blond walks to her, starts to whisper in Russian, but she takes one of the hands from her head and holds it out, silencing him. He shrugs, bends, picks up the gun she dropped next to the couch, puts it in his pocket and goes to stand behind the chair.
The guy with the widow’s peak just sits there watching, chaining cigarette after cigarette.
Mickey’s mother drops her hands to her sides. She is still now, only her eyes move, skipping around the room, occasionally touching on me, but never looking into my own.
– I went to see him yesterday. To apologize to my brother-in-law. To my son’s godfather. To tell him that things had gone too far. I wasn’t thinking clearly. Since my son died, since he was murdered, I have not been able to think clearly. I.
She’s starting to lose it again. She stops for a moment, gets it back.
– And I walked past a man in the hall. Then I looked. And, you were looking at me. And I. Something. But. How could I think? Impossible. I talked to David, but I told him nothing. Nothing. And when I came home, I looked at this again.
She’s pointing at the photocopy.
– And I looked and I looked. But I couldn’t see it. And I can’t sleep. I can never sleep. I want to. When Mickey…I would dream about him. And it was. He was with me. I could feel him. It was the only time he was with me anymore. But I can’t sleep now. I have to take pills and they won’t let me sleep. And I take other pills and I sleep, but they don’t let me dream. And I want to sleep. I want to dream about my son. I. I. I.
Tears again. She is furious at them. She presses the heels of her palms into her eyes and whisks the tears away.
– But last night. I slept. And I dreamt. But it was about you. You son of a bitch. I can’t dream about my son, but I dream about you. You. And this morning. I see that.
She points at the page of torn newsprint.
– I sit with my tea and I flip the pages of the newspaper. I see nothing. Flip, flip, flip. Nothing. Until I see this. And I looked. I looked at that picture. And I looked at the other pictures of you. And I.
She presses her hands flat together and holds them in front of her chest.
– I knew.
She squeezes her eyes shut. Muscles on her forearms flex as she pushes her hands one against the other.
– I knew.
She opens her eyes and drops her hands. Air sighs from her mouth.
– I knew.
She bites her lower lip.
– But I can’t kill you. I can’t. I can’t. I can’t. And I want to. So badly I want to. I. But I can’t. But you.
She points at me.
– You can kill David.
– She’s our aunt.
She left without saying another word. Picked up her bag, went to the door, waited while Spiky opened it, and went out with him following. She never looked at me again, and I never had a chance to tell her what me trying to kill David would mean to my parents.
Then Widow’s Peak gets up and starts pacing back and forth in front of the couch. A pair of legs in very blue jeans, bleached nearly white down the fronts of the thighs, scissoring past me. As he paces and talks, he smokes, flicking ashes, letting them drift onto the carpet.
– Tetka Anna. Our mother’s sister. A beautiful woman. Even now.
His hand dips in his pocket and comes out with a flick-knife. The blade pops open. He bends over my back and there’s a snap as he cuts the plastic bindings on my wrists. I sit up slowly, a rush of blood making my hands tingle and my head throb even worse. I sit and massage the deep red welts on my wrists.
– She brought us over last year.
He takes a seat in the flowered armchair.
– We had to leave Russia.
He takes another Marlboro Light from the box on the table next to him, sticks it in his mouth and lights it from the butt of his last one.
– Trouble.
He stubs the butt in a glass dish full of glass marbles.
– Our father. Our mother. Do you know what a Shakhidki is?
I shake my head.
– It is a Russian word for a word in Arabic. It is a female word.
He has one of those thin beards that trace the line of the jaw, a moustache just as thin arches from it to cross his upper lip. He traces it with a fingertip.
– You know anything about Chechnya?
I shake my head, still massaging my wrists.
– But you know what it is? A country? Part of the old USSR?
I nod. I press my hand to my forehead and find a residue of saliva. I wipe it off.
– You know there are rebels?
I nod.
– Yes. It is like the Middle East for Russia. Shit. It is a great pile of shit.
I gently run my hand over my face. Sometimes it helps. Sometimes it eases the pain. Not this time.
Widow’s Peak points at the door Mickey’s mother and Spiky went through.
– My brother, his name is Martin. I am Adam. Those are our American names. In Russia, we would be called something different. But here, these are our names. Tetka Anna thought of them for us.
He blows a smoke ring, watches it dissolve, thinking of his real name maybe. He stops thinking about it and looks back at me.
– Our father. My brother Martin and me, our father. He was an intelligence officer. In Chechnya. Very high up. Very important. He. Everybody must serve in Russia. Not like here. Everybody. My brother and me, we did not wait to be drafted. We served. Volunteers. In Chechnya. With our father. Intelligence.
He picks up the box of cigarettes. Holds it out to me. I shake my head. It hurts.
He shrugs and chains another.
– Intelligence. Interrogation. An interrogation unit we worked in. Our father put us there. To keep us out of combat. But it was.
He smokes.
– It was hard work. I think sometimes. Sometimes I think we would rather have fought. Martin would rather have fought. I know this.
He pulls the knife from his pocket and his thumb snaps it open and shut. Open and shut.
– OK. So. Yes. It was hard work. But it was over. Like all things. It was over.
Open and shut.
– I know English. I was almost. I could have taken another post. In Moscow. Somewhere. A city. I could have stayed in intelligence. But no. When we had served, we were done. Our father. He understood. Chechnya.
Open.
– He stayed. His duty. And our mother.
And shut.
– She stayed. Of course. And. There are people there. These women. They have lost husbands. Sons. So.
Open.
– So one of these women. She has a bag. A knapsack. She walks into a cafe. She sits at a table. She takes off her knapsack. She reaches inside of it. And the bomb inside goes off. And the intelligence officer sitting at the next table is blown up. And his wife he is having lunch with is blown up.
And shut.
– And this woman had lost men. Her husband and her boys. And so she became a Shakhidki. A holy warrior. The newspapers, they call them also black widows.
He slips the knife back in his pocket.
– And now you know what this is. And you know also.
He draws the last cigarette from the box and lights it.
– You know also, I think, that she is one, too.
He points at the closed door.
– Tetka Anna. A Shakhidki.
THERE’S MORE.
– Martin wanted to stay. To fight. He wanted to reenlist and fight in Chechnya. No interrogation this time. Guns. Battle. But he would have died. We both would have died. They knew who we were. The rebels. They knew our father. We would have been assassinated as soon as we returned. Anywhere in Russia we would be assassinated. And family. We still had family. Here. Tetka Anna.
Out of cigarettes, he has begun pacing again.
– After Mikhail was killed, she was calling all the time. To talk to our mother. She was so sad. When our mother was killed, she was more sad. And I told my brother, If we stay here we will be killed. He did not care. But I did. I told him, We can still do something. We have family. We can take care of Tetka Anna. For mother. For mother. He likes this. Taking care of someone else, it makes him. He does not forget, but it makes him better. We came here. And she is. There is only one thing she talks about. Yes? No. Two things. Her son. And you. We can do nothing about her son.
He returns to the chair, sits, and pokes at the butts in the glass dish. He finds one not quite half smoked and lights it.
– But maybe we can do something about you.
He takes a drag from the stale butt and makes a face, but he keeps smoking it.
– She told us that David believed you were dead. OK. We investigate. There are books. There are old TV programs. There is the Internet. And we find that there is no body. Something is wrong. In Chechnya, if a rebel is not there when the soldiers go to capture him, often the family says he has died. The soldiers say, Where is the body? And if there is no body, or if it is the wrong body, they bring us the family and we ask them questions. But your family, where are they? We do not know. We need. We need someone to ask questions. No. Someone we can ask questions. There are these things.
He points at the papers at my feet, at the photocopy of my ID. I pick up both papers.
– This was bought from a forger. He heard of Tetka Anna. Brought her these and sold them to her. She thought they could help. How? I do not know. But, the man who sold them. That is a man my brother and I must talk to.
I look at the photocopy and think about Billy. A young guy. A freelancer. A guy with a talent for computers and pieces of plastic.
I put the papers together and fold them between my hands.
Adam sucks a last bit of smoke from his butt, crushes it and begins digging for another.
– We went to him. Martin and I. The things. The things he knew. We had no idea.
He finds a suitable remnant, straightens and lights it.
– He does work for everyone. His work is valued. He does work for David. Not just forgery. But information. He has a gift for this. Like us. But different. His is with machines. Ours, not so. But we can learn what he knows.
He makes a noise, like a cat quietly coughing up a hairball, and drops the butt back in the dish. He sniffs at his fingertips and makes the sound again.
– And we do. We learn.
He closes his eyes.
– Too much.
He opens them.
– David. He is our uncle. By marriage only. But he is our uncle. But this man. He is shit.
He stands and paces once more.
– The forger tells us he has done a job for David. Identification for a man in Las Vegas. He showed us the pictures. He showed us the changes. He told us what he thinks. But we do not need him to tell us. We can see it. But there is more. If you wait, if you are patient, there is always more. He has met our cousin. Mikhail. And he knows something.
He stops pacing.
– Mikhail had lost his passport. He was to travel soon and he had lost his Russian passport. This is not a easy thing to replace. But it is something David could help with. He was a artist, our cousin. You know this? A filmmaker. A student.
I nod.
– Yes. He wanted to make a film. For school. NYU. I remember when my mother received the letter from Tetka Anna. She was so proud. She told us what it was, NYU. One of the best. And expensive. They do not give you the money to make your films. He wanted money for this film. He went to his uncle. He had plans. He would go to Europe. Take time from school and travel Europe. Russia. See family. Then back and start this film. But David, he thinks a man should work. He offered the money, but Mikhail must work for it. Do not go to Europe, David said to him, go to Mexico. Have fun in Mexico. Relax. But look for this man.
He points at me.
– You. David told his nephew to go to Mexico and look for you. Do not do anything, he said. Just look. David promised the money whether Mikhail saw you or not. Ten thousand dollars to go to Mexico on vacation and to look. Why not?
He stops pacing.
– And the forger can tell us this story because Mikhail had lost his passport. So David had sent him to the forger. And he had bragged to the forger. About his uncle. About the job he would do. And how he would be paid. Paid by his uncle to go to a foreign country and look for a killer.
He makes the hairball sound. But this time he is not smoking.
– So now we know. We know you are alive. We know you are in Las Vegas. We know David is protecting you. And we know how little he cares for his family. Is there need for more?
He waits.
I shake my head.
He nods.
– But there is more. We cannot make Tetka believe. She will not believe this is David. That he would do these things. She thinks we are wrong. Until she sees you at his office. And the picture in the paper. And we show her the forger’s pictures again. And she believes. So then. She wants you. And we know where to find you. Because in the news article there, it says the man you are with is a baseball player. And people at newspapers are weak and make little money. For a little more, they will tell you where someone is. They told us where the baseball player was. And so we found you.
He sits. Picks at the cigarette butts again, but finds them wanting.
– And now. You are here. And Tetka Anna wants David to die. And she wants you to die. So you will do the first.
He scratches his beard.
– And we will do the second.
I look at the papers in my hands. I fold them over again and tuck them inside my jacket.
– If I try to kill David he’ll have my parents murdered.
He nods.
– Yes. He will. He knows where they are. They are in a small town in Oregon. On the coast. This is something the forger found out for him. He found out from the Internet, from all of the men who talk about you. The forger told us this last. Told us where your parents are. Before we killed him. Because he was so broken. He wanted to die. That is what will happen if we go to Oregon. To them. You see?
– David. It’s me.
He makes a sound, the kind you might make if your favorite player did something unbelievably boneheaded on the field.
– I need to see you, David.
– Yes. You do. But I, I have seen you already this morning. Do you know where? In the paper, yes? In the newspaper I saw you.
He will be making a fist and bouncing it lightly against his forehead. What have I done to deserve this?
– Yeah, I know. I need to see you.
– Yes. Yes, you must see me. How is the boy?
– He’s fine. It wasn’t a real fight, just him and his friend.
– Are you with them?
– No. They went to breakfast. I went to meet them and saw the paper on the way.
– Where are you now?
– The West Village. A coffee shop.
– Good. That is good. Stay away from them. This photograph. Someone might see something in this, yes? The surgery is good in its way, but someone could see something. There is nothing they can prove if you are gone. No way to ask you questions. I will have someone talk to the boy. If anyone asks him questions, you will be someone his agent hired. A simple bodyguard.
– Sure.
– Come to my office. We will talk. You will take care of this other business of ours. And then, then it will be time for you to leave.
He’ll be looking at the ceiling, searching it with his eyes. I have no words to describe how disappointed I am.
– Come to my office. Wait for me there. Yes?
– Yeah. Sure thing. David?
– Yes?
– I’m sorry about this.
– Sorry will not help this. Come to my office and we will fix things. Things can always be fixed. I have told you this?
– Yeah.
– So we will fix.
He hangs up. I drop the phone in my pocket. I look out the car window as we hum over the George Washington Bridge. Martin is driving. Adam sits next to him, turned sideways, watching me in the backseat as I hang up the phone.
I lean my head against the window. I found some Motrin in Mickey’s mother’s bathroom. They made my face feel a little better. I was hoping to find some of the pills she had been talking about, but I’m sure it’s better I didn’t.
We come off the bridge and pull onto the West Side Highway. Deja vu hits me. Right, I made a trip like this before. Coming back from Jersey in the DuRantes’s car. They were brothers, too. Ed and Paris. They wanted me to set someone up. That didn’t work out very well. Not for them. In the long run, not for anybody.
– What does he say?
I take my head from the glass.
– He said come over.
He looks at his watch.
– Good. He will be taking tea. There is a cafe below his office. The Moscow. He takes tea there. Do not go to his office. Go to the cafe. If you walk to him very quickly, talking to him. Saying you are sorry to be early. If you do this and move quickly, you can shoot him in the face. I have seen it. It will work.
– He’ll have bodyguards.
– Yes.
– They’ll kill me.
– They will kill you, or we will kill you. Someone will kill you, yes. Either way, Tetka Anna maybe will be able to sleep.
He peels the cellophane from a fresh pack of cigarettes.
– And we will not have to go to Oregon.
It’s a long drive. Every bump hurts. I think about a town on the Oregon coast. A place we used to go when I was a kid. We’d go up every summer. There was a campground near the beach. We’d bring the dog we had when I was a little kid. We’d go to the beach and watch the dog chase the waves. I stopped going when I was in high school. Summertime, there was always a baseball camp, always something more important. But my folks went without me. And they always talked about how they’d like to retire there one day.
We stop at the intersection of Brighton Beach Ave. and Brighton Road. Adam hands me a paper bag with a gun and a handful of bullets inside. I get out of the car. And then they drive away.
I heft the paper bag. That was smart of them, giving me the empty gun. If it had been loaded I would have shot them.
IT’S ANOTHER BEAUTIFUL day at the beach, just after twelve and the coastal haze is burning off. I walk the two blocks to the boardwalk. Right there, where the street dead-ends into the boardwalk, is a place called the Smoothie Cafe. My stomach rumbles, reminding me I’ve not eaten since the dogs I had at last night’s ball game. I walk past the cafe and up the steps to the boardwalk.
The Brighton Towers, a sixties-styled modern apartment building, rises above me on my right. American flags dangle from several of the balconies. Coney and the ballpark are off in that direction. The Cyclones have a day game. Miguel and Jay will be there. Batting practice is probably ending. I would have liked to see Miguel play again. He’s good at the game. I look the other way.
I can see the colored awnings of the four or five Russian cafes that cluster together about a quarter mile away. The beach is just starting to fill. People walk past me, across the boardwalk and down to the sand. They carry their blankets and coolers and umbrellas toward the water, their children running ahead of them. I go to one of the benches that face the sea, walking past an older Russian couple reclining on beach lounges, little squares of white cardboard tucked under the bridges of their sunglasses to protect their noses from the sun.
I sit on a bench.
I want to lie down on this bench. I want to pull my jacket and my shirt open and feel the sun on my skin. I want to find a bag of ice and lay here with it sitting on my face. I want to sweat and feel the poison leaching from my body. Instead, I open the paper bag.
There’s the gun and five bullets. The gun is a Norinco. It’s a mass-produced Chinese knockoff of a 1911 Browning. It’s a very bad gun. It is legendary for both its inaccuracy and its utter lack of reliability. Anything over five yards is long range for this gun. Walk right up to someone, stick it against their heart, and there’s still a good chance you’ll miss. That’s if you can get the thing to fire without jamming. I put my hands in the bag, eject the clip and snap the rounds into place.
I look to my left and catch the Russian woman with the square of cardboard on her nose looking at me. She quickly turns her face back toward the water. She’s wondering what I’m doing with my hands in the bag. She’s wondering if I’m fiddling with my lunch. The bag is in my lap; maybe she’s wondering if there’s a hole cut in the bottom of the bag so I can play with myself while I look at the girls on the beach. If only.
I push the clip back. It clicks, but when I turn the gun over it drops right out. I push it in again, hear the click, give it another tap, and hear another click. It stays in this time. I point the gun down and work the slide, chambering a round. It’s sticky, but the bullet seats itself without going off. So that’s something. I flick the safety up and down several times, making sure it doesn’t have a nasty habit of flicking itself off. It seems OK. I take a look at the woman. She snaps her head back to the ocean again. I stand up, turn my back to her, and, as I walk around the bench, I take the gun out of the bag, tuck it into my waistband, and pull my jacket over it. I drop the empty bag into a trash can.
I start walking toward the cafes.
I’m holding the jacket closed over the gun. I have to do this because I can barely button the jacket over my fat gut. If I walk up to David with the jacket buttoned over the gun, he and his bodyguards will see the huge bulge it makes. Why’d they have to give me such a big gun? Something smaller I could have carried in my pocket.
I walk past a big concrete shelter: open on all four sides, stone tables with chessboards set into the tops, wood benches. A few people play, moving their pieces around the boards. One man reads a book patiently as he waits for his opponent to finish studying the game and make his move. I keep walking.
I’m trying to come up with a plan. It’s hard because I’ve never really planned to kill someone. The people I’ve killed on my own, it always just happened. The ones I killed for David, Branko always made the plan, explaining to me carefully why he had set things just so, preparing me for when I would do this on my own. And here I am on my own, but this is not the way anyone planned it.
I’ve passed the Brighton Playground. The first cafe is just ahead. It’s the Volno Cafe, a blue awning with yellow letters, a handful of people at the tables. A gull screams overhead.
I can walk up to him with my right hand out, ready to shake. It will give me an excuse to get very close. But I’ll have to shoot with my left hand.
There are a few apartment buildings before the next cafe. I walk past a Parks Department “comfort station.” The smell of urinal cakes is blown toward me.
The Cafe Tatiana is next, a blue awning with silver letters. The same tables, same people, the same signs with Russian letters. What do they call that? Cyrillic?
I can pull the gun with my right hand as I walk to the table, start shooting from several feet away, hope the bullets don’t go awry, hope the terrible gun doesn’t jam.
Right next to the Cafe Tatiana is the Tatiana Restaurant. One imagines a dispute between former business partners. A dispute that ended in an act of spite as one of them bought the space next to the original and opened a place with a nearly identical name. A very Russian strategy, meant to drive the former partner not so much out of business as out of his mind. Beyond them is the Winter Garden. And pinched-in before that, the Moscow Cafe.
I slide the jacket from my right shoulder. With a bit of maneuvering I’m able to take it off while keeping the gun concealed, then slip the gun into my left hand, the jacket draped over it. It’s already a hot day, I can feel the sweat in my pits dribbling down my sides. It will make sense that I have the jacket off. If only the gun weren’t so big.
I’m walking past the Tatiana Restaurant, the one I fancy was opened by the spiteful partner. I see again those fluorescent green and orange napkins blossoming from the water glasses on the tables. They remind me of caution signs. Markers warning of some peril in the road ahead.
Such a big fucking gun. Don’t they know a small gun will kill just as well from two feet as a big gun will?
I see the red awning of the Moscow Cafe. It is the smallest of the cafes, only five or six tables on the boardwalk, a few more inside, and a short bar. Above it, where it abuts the Winter Garden, I can see the little corner turret window of David’s office. His castle keep. Laundry lines are strung between the buildings behind the Moscow. Someone has a window garden of nothing but sun-flowers.
I look at my left hand and forearm, draped under the jacket. The huge gun makes that arm look nearly a foot longer than my other one. Maybe I can walk up to David and tell him what has happened. Maybe he will be grateful. He will send people to protect my parents from Adam and Martin. I’m in front of the Moscow.
I see David.
He’s alone.
There are no bodyguards anywhere. He’s alone. I look around for some sign of Adam or Martin. I can’t see them.
There are no bodyguards. I can do it. I can kill David. And Adam and Martin? Without bodyguards to take care of, I’ll have bullets left. I can handle them. I can handle them and I can get away. David sees me.
I walk toward him.
I put out my hand.
He starts to rise.
Words are coming out of my mouth, something about being early. Something about being sorry for making trouble.
His hand is out.
Branko walks out of the shadows inside the Moscow Cafe, a glass of tea in each hand.
BRANKO AND I had a conversation once.
I was still at the Suites. It was after my face had healed. We had worked together a couple times, but it was before The Kid. We had just come back from beating someone. Branko had watched, I had beaten. The knuckles of my right hand were swollen and the skin over them split and bleeding. Branko looked at them, then filled a bowl with ice water and had me soak my hand.
– If you are going to beat someone with your fists, you want always to have gloves. Leather work gloves are best. Better is to beat a person with a tool. Something that will not break. Something that will not break bones, unless you want to break bones. A shoe. A rolled magazine. A book. Bars of soap in a sock. These are all good. If you use your hands, always you will break your fingers. You see?
He showed me his hands. Large working hands, but no scars or knobs on the knuckles; signs he had already taught me to look for, indications that this one is a fighter. Branko wanted no one to know he was a fighter.
– I have always protected my hands. My hands will never fail me when I must hold a knife or a gun. When you are holding a knife or a gun, these are the times you must be able to trust your hands. Save your hands for these times.
He took my hand from the ice water and inspected it, blotting the blood with a dishrag.
– David tells me you have killed men.
He put my hand back in the water.
– He says you have killed some the TV does not know about, but not all they say you have. Do you know how many?
I did. And I told him the number.
He nodded.
– It is likely you will never meet someone who has killed more.
He leaned back in his chair.
– I have killed more. But that is different.
He took off the reading glasses he had worn as he inspected my hand.
– Do you like to kill?
I told him I didn’t.
He folded the arms of his glasses and tucked them away inside his Windbreaker.
– Few men do. Only the sick. But all men, I think, get used to it.
He leaned forward again.
– Have you gotten used to it?
Under the ice water, I made a fist of my hand. It felt tight and I could only close it halfway. I told him I was starting to.
He stood up.
– That will make it easier.
He went to the door, stopped, pointed at my hand.
– Keep it in the water as long as you can. Next time, we will try it with a shoe.
BRANKO WALKS OUT of the shadows inside the Moscow Cafe, a glass of tea in each hand.
He sees me. I freeze. David sees me freeze. Sees what is in my eyes as I look at Branko.
David looks down. I look down. He is not looking at my left hand, at the ridiculously obvious bulge beneath the jacket. He is looking at my wrist, at my right wrist sticking out of my shirtsleeve. He is looking at the red welts on my wrist.
– Henry?
And then Branko is between us, the glasses of tea still in his hands.
– Go inside, David.
And David does. He turns and walks quickly into the Moscow without another look.
I look at Branko. He is looking at the welts.
David is gone.
I have failed.
Branko sets the glasses of tea on a table.
I run.
I RUN PAST the cafes and the comfort station and the shelter and the park. I’m winded. I’m worse than winded, I am fat and covered in sweat and gasping. I quit smoking long ago, but my lungs burn. My legs feel wobbly and unwilling to move. And every pounding step I feel in my face. I should have taken more Motrin. I should have never flushed the pills. I should be sitting on the floor of my shitty apartment zoned on Demerol, listening to music and staring at the carpet with spit running down my chin. That would be nice.
People look at me as I run past them, a man in black jeans and shirtsleeves running on the boardwalk, sweat rolling down his face. I pass the handball courts. My lungs are still heaving.
I look back over my shoulder. There is no sign of Branko. Of course not. He would never run after me, never risk attracting attention. Where will he be? The streets? He will be thinking. He’ll be thinking about me on the boardwalk, lost, panicked, not knowing what else to do but keep going straight. He’ll be on the streets parallel to the boardwalk, checking the breaks between buildings, making certain I stay on my course. I should get off the boardwalk. No. That’s what he’s thinking. He’s thinking I’ll think too much and head for the streets and he’ll be there, looking for me. Or he’s not on the street, he is behind me. Right behind me. I stop and spin and a man on Rollerblades behind me makes a sharp cut. He skates past, flipping me off. I have to cool down. I have to get it together.
Branko is in New York.
Why?
To kill me.
And it’s not because of the fucking picture in the paper. There’s no way Branko could have gotten here since that picture came out. They wanted to use me to kill Mickey’s mother and then get rid of me.
I stop running. Running, I am an easy target.
I stroll toward Coney Island and the thick crowds around the amusement park. I watch the faces. The further I get from Brighton, the fewer are stamped by Russia. I’m past the Aquarium, just ahead is the fence surrounding the Cyclone.
Hiding in that crowd won’t be enough. I need to think. I need a Percocet. I need a plan. I need a Darvocet. I need to know what Branko is doing, where he is. I need-
Shit.
Oh, shit.
Branko isn’t hunting for me. Branko is in a car going to the airport. Branko is calling the airline and booking a flight to Oregon.
I turn around and start heading back.
I have to kill David. I have to find a way up into his office and kill him. I. No. I have to go to him and beg. I have to explain. No. Kill him. That’s. Wait.
Branko won’t be on a plane. They can’t have me running around. There’s too much I can tell the police if I’m caught. David won’t just kill my parents. He’ll use them. He’ll. What? He’ll.
I lean against the chain-link around the Cyclone. I tilt my head back and close my eyes, letting the sun fall on my face.
They will call me first. They will call me and tell me to come to them or Branko will leave for Oregon. That is what they will do.
My phone rings.
It’s nice to be right about something every now and then.
I answer the phone.
– Henry, what is this? What is this you are doing?
I stand with my back to the fence, my eyes still closed, the sun still on my face.
– Why are you calling, David?
– Henry, Henry. What is this? Why am I calling? Why are you running? What is the trouble? Someone has been talking to you, yes? Yes? This, you do not need to answer. I know.
– Where’s Branko?
– Branko, Branko is here.
He will be pointing at his own forehead. Think, Henry, what else would Branko be doing?
– He’s not on his way to my parents?
– Henry.
His mouth will have dropped open. You could think such a thing?
– Are we children? We are not. We can talk. Is Branko on his way to your parents? No. No, Henry. What sense is there in that? None.
My hand is still stuffed inside the balled jacket, sweating on the gun.
– Let me talk to Branko.
– First, we talk.
– Now, I want to talk to him now.
– Tell me.
– Where’s Branko?
– Branko is here.
– Let me talk to him.
Silence.
– I want to talk to him.
– Of course.
More silence. I stand there waiting. I stand there waiting while David takes his time getting Branko.
I’m standing here waiting, while David takes his time. My eyes snap open and I look down the boardwalk toward Brighton. I don’t see Branko.
But Adam and Martin are ten yards away and getting closer.
More running.
I BREAK AROUND the corner. The Cyclone roars past, burdened with screaming passengers. As I run I unbutton my shirt, peel it off and stuff it in a trash barrel. Now wearing just a wife-beater, the tattoos running down my arms exposed to the sun, I cross the street toward one of the arcades. I unwrap the jacket from my hand. I stuff the gun in my waistband and tie the jacket around my middle so that it hides it. I walk into the arcade. There is a rack of sunglasses. I find a huge bug-eyed pair that sit on my face like goggles and all but cover my scar. I walk to the counter. A teenage girl wearing a blue shirt with the clown face of the Coney Island mascot silk-screened across it stands there making change for the kids playing video games. Behind her is a display of baseball caps. I put the sunglasses on the counter and point at a red and white cap with I NY on the front. She takes the hat down and puts it next to the sunglasses.
– Forty.
I hand her two twenties and grab my purchases.
– Want a bag?
I rip the tag from the hat and put it on.
– No thanks.
I peel the sticker from the lens of my new sunglasses, put them on and head for the arcade entrance. I look down the street back toward the Cyclone. Adam is coming. He’s alone. Martin will be up on the boardwalk in case I try to circle around. The arcade’s other entrance opens on the midway. I turn around and head out that way.
I walk past a couple rides, spinning cars mounted at the ends of giant pinwheels. Barkers man the shooting galleries and penny pitches and ringtosses. They talk into microphones, calling for people to join in the fun and win a sawdust-stuffed Bugs Bunny. I cut straight through it all, making for the Stillwell exit. I come out into the street, walk to the corner and look across Surf Ave. at the subway station. It is shrouded in construction scaffolding, a huge sign announcing that it will reopen next summer.
Down Surf I see Adam standing next to the entrance to the Cyclone, peering up the street. I turn, and at the end of Stillwell, I see Martin coming down the steps from the boardwalk. I cut back onto the midway, walk up to the nearest game and put a ten down. The barker picks up the money.
– How many?
I’m looking back toward the street.
– As many as I can.
– Start with these.
No sign of Martin yet.
– Mister?
– Huh.
– Start with these.
He’s offering me three baseballs.
– Got to knock all of them off. Completely off.
I look at what he’s pointing at, the three wood milk bottles stacked in a pyramid on a little table.
I look at the balls in his hand. Take them. Stare at them. I wonder if the universe does this to everyone or if it’s just me?
– You’re up, mister.
– Right.
I look back at the street. Still clear.
I toss a ball. Miss everything.
– One down!
I look again. Clear. Toss. Miss.
– Two down.
Still no one. Toss. Miss.
– Three down. Got plenty left.
He offers me three more balls. I’m still looking for Martin. No sign. OK, time to go. I take a step toward the street.
– You got more balls coming, mister!
– That’s OK. I.
Martin comes into view. I step back to the counter, take the balls and look at the bottles. I look only at the bottles. I do not look up to see if Martin has seen me. And I throw three misses. Shit. I should be able to hit those things.
– I got more?
– Ten buys nine.
He hands me three more. I throw one and knock the top bottle off. OK, that’s more like it. The barker resets the bottle. I toss a ball up and down, enjoying the feel of it landing in my palm. And not, absolutely not looking up for Martin. The bottles are set. Now, the trick here is to hit them low. The bottoms of the bottles are weighted with lead or something. That’s why it’s so hard to knock them completely off of their little table. I throw hard and hit them dead center. The top bottle flies, but the bottom bottles just get knocked on their sides and spin around a couple times. The barker resets them. I focus on the target, not looking at Martin. Do not look. Let him pass on by. Yeah, I can do this. Shit, if there’s one thing in life I have ever been able to do, it’s throw a goddamn baseball. I throw and miss again.
– Shit. I got more?
– That’s it.
I pull out a twenty.
– Let me get a few more.
I take a look to make sure Martin has moved on. He hasn’t. He’s twenty feet away, looking at the crowd and talking into his cell phone. Then he looks at me. He sees me seeing him, and starts talking a little louder into his phone.
– Balls, mister.
I grab the three balls and start firing them at Martin.
The first one hits him in the thigh and he stops and curses and does a little hop. The second one whizzes past his head and he instinctively covers his face, dropping his phone. The last one plunks him in the chest and he gasps and coughs. I run straight at him, drop a shoulder, and plow him to the ground. I keep running, the crowd parting for me, the barker yelling after me. I hit Stillwell and look over at Surf. Adam is coming around the corner. He sees me. I go straight across the street. A flea market has been set up on a parking lot. I run into it. I start making for the far side of the market, thinking I can cut back out to Surf and maybe grab a cab, but all I find is a chain-link fence. On the other side is a motor pool for the New York Department of Education or something, a couple acres of yellow school buses packed tight. I look back at the entrance of the flea market. Adam is working his way toward me; Martin is right behind him, rubbing his chest. I start to climb the fence. A man working a booth stocked with VHS tapes waves at me.
– Hey. Hey, man. You can’t do that.
At the top of the fence are three strands of barbwire. I boost myself up so that both my feet are on the top bar of the fence. I balance there for a second, then push off, driving with my legs.
– Hey! I’m gonna call a cop, man.
I clear the barbwire and belly flop on top of the nearest bus.
– Hey.
The wind knocked out of me, I worm to the edge of the bus and push myself over. I drop to the ground and lay there for a second, trying to get my wind back. Sprawled on my stomach, I can see under the bus and through the chain-link. I see two sets of feet run up. One of them starts to climb. The feet of the VHS guy come around his booth.
– Hey! That’s city property. You can’t go in there.
I see the VHS guy’s feet leave the ground, and then he’s lying on his back, holding the side of his head. The other feet are going up the fence. I stand, one hand held over my stomach, and start working my way into the maze of yellow school buses. By the time I realize I’ve lost my gun, Adam and Martin are over the fence.
I STAY HUNCHED below the level of the windows. It’s easy enough because my gut still aches from slapping down on the roof of the bus. Crap. That’s where my gun is, either on top of that bus or on the ground next to it. I can cut back, circle back to that spot in the fence. No. Think. There are two of them, they’ll be spreading out. I can’t circle back. I need to lose them in here. Maybe go to ground. Find a good spot to hunker down and wait them out until they give up. I look around for a good hiding spot. It’s all buses, the same hiding places over and over. I keep moving, heading toward what I think is the farside of the yard. I hear something. A voice? I stop. There are footsteps. They crunch in the gravel and then stop. I get down on my hands and knees and look under the buses, back in the direction I came from. Several buses back, Martin is lying on the ground, his phone pressed to his face. The footsteps crunch after me. I stand and start running. He’s spotting for Adam, tracking my legs under the buses. I need to put a few more between us so he loses sight of me in the jumble of tires.
I dodge back and forth randomly, losing all sense of where I came from or which way might lead to the edge of the yard. I stop. I hear nothing but “99 Problems” blasting from the bumper cars. I’m sandwiched between two of the short buses that used to bring the special education kids to my high school. Straight ahead is the rear of one of the big buses. A ladder runs up past its emergency exit, bolted there so a guy can climb up and clean the roof. I run to it, climb on top and flatten myself on the sunbaked steel.
The hot metal feels good against my sore stomach. I rest my face against it. It burns for the first second and then starts to ease the pain beneath my skin. I crane my neck to get a look around. The Coney midway is to my left, the boardwalk and the ocean straight ahead.
The buses are packed tight. There’s just enough room between them for a man to walk, just enough room for him not to have to turn his shoulders to get through. What I can do, I can stand up and run across the tops of the buses to the fence. By the time these guys realize what I’m doing I’ll be halfway there. I can be over the fence and back on the boardwalk, back where there are people. That’s what I need. People. Coming in here was stupid. I need to get back to where there are people.
I get up to my hands and knees, ready to jump to my feet and start running down the length of the bus.
– Hey!
I flatten.
– Hey.
It’s coming from below.
– You! Hey, you! Hang on there. Hang on.
I twist my head from side to side, looking for who is calling to me. But nowhere does a head poke up above the level of the bus tops.
– Hang on, hang on!
– What? Yes. We are. Hello.
Adam’s voice. He’s below me.
The new voice comes closer.
– Yeah, you. Who the hell do you think I’m talking to? Hold on there. And tell your buddy to hold on.
– Uh, yes. Da. Yes.
Adam says something in Russian.
– You guys see the No Trespassing signs around this place?
– We are sorry. What?
– The signs. No Trespassing?
– No. No. Sorry.
– This is off-limits in here. Verboten, like.
– Sorry. No. We did not know.
– Yeah. Well there’s a guy over in the flea market says you gave him a shove. Want to explain that to me.
– We. No. A man. He tried to.
He mumbles to himself in Russian.
– He tried to grab my brother.
Martin starts chattering loudly in Russian.
– Whoa. Fucking whoa! Tell your brother to settle down.
Adam says something else in Russian and Martin is quiet.
– The guy grabbed your brother?
– Da. Yes.
– The little guy out there shoved your bigass brother?
– He. Bigass? He grabbed him. Da.
– OK. Well, that’s not his story.
– He is. He is bigass! We. We do not.
He starts rattling off Russian again.
– Whoa! Fucking shut it.
Adam shuts it.
– OK. Whatever happened, you guys are not supposed to be in here. What we are going to do, we are going to walk to the exit. We are going to go talk to the guy in the flea market and sort out who grabbed who. We’re gonna take it all very easy, ’cause no one has been hurt. And if you and the guy out there can settle your differences without any charges, and that is how I’d really like to handle this, I will give you a citation for trespassing on city property. OK? Sound good? You get all that?
– Citation?
– Like a ticket. Just. Just come on. Come on.
Adam talks in Russian, Martin answers, and footsteps start walking away.
– Hey! Hey! Where’s your friend?
– Friend?
– Tavarich. Right?
– Yes, I know what a friend is.
– Great. So where is he? Guy said there were three of you.
– No. Nyet. No. Only us.
Silence.
– Yeah, OK, fine. Just. Let’s just get out of here, it’s hot as hell.
I scoot to the edge of the roof and look down and see Adam and Martin threading their way through the buses, followed by a cop.
And my phone rings.
I pull it out of my pocket and press the power stud. The phone turns off, but not before emitting one final loud chime to let me know it won’t be ringing again. I wait. The footsteps don’t come back.
OK. Good. That was good. Sometimes a cop is good. Now I’ll. They were going that way. So now I’ll just go the other way and I’ll. I’ll. Shit. I don’t know what I’ll do. I’ll get out of here. I dangle my legs over the side of the bus and drop to the ground right at Branko’s feet.
I try to run. Branko trips me. He’s on top of me. His arms dragging mine behind me, his legs twining around mine.
– Calm down.
I jerk and writhe, trying to break free.
– I cannot talk until you calm down.
I open my mouth wide and scream. Branko pulls a racquetball from his pocket, stuffs it in my open mouth and holds his hand over it.
– Stop! We must talk. We will go someplace where we can talk. Out there.
He jerks his chin in the direction of the midway.
– We will go someplace where there are people. You will feel safe and we will talk.
I’m screaming through the ball, trying to force it out of my mouth with my voice.
Branko squeezes my face.
– Stop this. There is no more of this to do. You are not saving your parents this way. Think.
I stop screaming.
I think.
– Yes, think.
I think.
– You see now?
I think.
– Yes, you see.
He takes his hand from my face and holds it below my mouth. I push the ball out with my tongue and it lands in his palm. He wipes it off on his pants and puts it back in his pocket.
– These things, you never know when you may need them again.
I WAIT WHILE Branko buys the tickets.
He waves me over and I go stand with him. We wait side by side, saying nothing. Our turn comes.
We get into our car and sit on opposite benches facing one another. The operator closes the door. It latches, he pulls the big lever that releases the brake and the Wonder Wheel spins, carrying us slowly into the air.
Branko looks out the side of the car, watching the ground drop away. I shift in my seat and the car rocks back and forth.
He looks at me.
– I cannot kill you here.
– I know.
– But you must be killed.
– Sure. That was the plan, right? I kill David’s sister-in-law, and that’s it. Hey, why not? I’m a fucking mess.
He shakes his head.
– No.
I watch his eyes as they gaze down at the midway.
– No. You are a mess. But no. You were not to be killed. No.
He looks at me.
– No.
– Bullshit, Branko. You’re here. You are here.
– Yes. I am here. And I have something for you. Look what I have for you.
He reaches into his pocket and comes out with the Smith & Wesson .22.
– I am here to help you. With Anna. To help. Because you are a fucking mess. But the baseball player wants you. So David wants you. So I must help you. But now. Yes, now you are fucked.
Oh, crap. Wrong again, Henry.
The Wheel stops as the operator lets one couple off and puts another on. And then it spins again. We are near the top.
He puts the gun back in his pocket. He points over my shoulder, back toward Brighton Beach and David’s office. Toward David.
– He is not unreasonable.
– Sure.
– But you had a gun. Those marks.
He points at the welts the bindings left on my wrists.
– These mean you have been held. Threatened. And you came to see David with a gun.
– His sister.
– Yes?
– She. Oh, shit, Branko. His sister-in-law and her damn nephews.
He nods. He looks at the ocean. He nods again.
– I cannot kill you here.
– You said that.
– We will go somewhere else. You will tell me about Anna and her nephews and what they told you.
He touches his upper lip, scratches a slight itch.
– And then I will kill you.
Behind Branko I can see the Cyclone’s ballpark. The stands are full. The players are on the field. A game is being played.
– And what do I get?
– Your mother and your father. What else is there left?
– Right.
The Wheel spins again, carrying us toward the ground.
– But it must be now. You must go with me now. I know David.
He grunts.
– And he likes to have his way.
– Right.
We dip down, and the ballpark is lost to view.
The Wheel spins.
I AM EVIDENCE.
This is what I saw while I was being held down in the dirt with the ball in my mouth. Branko cannot kill me anywhere that he cannot safely dispose of my body. Nor can he march me down the boardwalk, or even out to the street and into a car. He can do none of that unless I am willing, unless he knows I will not start yelling for the police.
I am evidence.
My body and its fingerprints and its new face. The fingerprints will lead to Henry Thompson. The face will lead to the photo in the paper. The photo will lead to Miguel. And sooner or later, after the questions start, Miguel will lead to David.
He has to be careful.
But I don’t.
OUR CAR CIRCLES to the ground. The operator opens the door and we climb out. Branko leads me past a cluster of kiddy rides and back to the boardwalk. We turn left and start the long walk to Brighton Beach.
We walk past the fried clam shacks and the beer booths and the Cyclone and the Aquarium. And then I turn left, heading for the walkway that will take me to the Aquarium subway station. Branko catches up with me and walks by my side.
– This is not the way.
– This is the way I’m going.
– David is waiting.
– You should go then. You can tell him I’m not coming.
– I cannot let you go.
– What are you going to do, Branko? You can’t drag me screaming. You can’t kill me here. Go back to David. Tell him I said no.
– I cannot leave you.
– OK.
We get to the station. There are two cops standing next to the token booth. I walk up to them.
– Excuse me, officers?
– Yeah?
I point at Branko.
– This guy wants to know which train to take to get to Queens.
One cop looks at me.
– Sorry, I’m from Staten Island.
The other cop points at the map on the wall.
– Let’s take a look.
He walks to the map, taking Branko over with him. I wave.
– Good luck.
Branko smiles.
– And to you.
He keeps the smile on his face and follows the cop to the map. I buy a MetroCard from the booth, walk upstairs and get on a Manhattan-bound F train. Cops just when I needed them, twice in one day. Go figure. Maybe things are turning my way at last. But probably not.
I HAVE TO talk to Mom and Dad. I have to tell them I didn’t kill David. And that means Adam and Martin will be coming, coming to interrogate them.
I never wanted to talk to them again, never wanted to see them. There are no explanations for the things I have done. No way you can tell your mother and father that you have murdered people to keep them alive.
So while I sit on the train, I try to figure out how I’m going to tell them all of that. But, oh yeah, first I have to figure out how I’m going to find their damn phone number.
– What city please?
– Port Orford, Oregon. A residential listing for Thompson?
I get two Thompsons. The first is picked up by an answering machine. The voice is not my mother or my father. The second is answered by a small child who tells me that her daddy is not home and her mommy is in the bathroom. Each time, as the phone is ringing, a pit with no bottom opens in my stomach and I fall into it. I am so relieved. Then I dial information again and try it with my mother’s maiden name and my father’s middle name and every variation I can think of. None of them work. But I’m not done. I remember what Adam told me about how they found out where my folks live in the first place. I get off my bench, walk out of Washington Square Park, and go looking for an Internet cafe.
MagickBulletMan: No way! I’ve been to the El Cortez in Las Vegas. I tried to stay in the room Thompson and Sandy Candy were in and they told me it was closed off.
MrTruth: That’s because you didn’t bribe the security guard like I did. You think they’re going to let you in there if you ask nice? Don’t be an asshole, MBM. You want something you got to go get it. Just like Henry.
MagickBulletMan: A) Don’t curse at me! B) You don’t know anything about Henry. C) YOU’RE LYING!!!
MrTruth: FUCK YOU, MAGICKBOWELMOVEMENT!
Robert Cramer: No shouting in here guys.
MagickBulletMan: Sorry, Robert. I’m just sick of MrTruth acting like he’s the only one that knows anything about Henry and pretending like he’s been everywhere Henry was when we all know he’s lying.
MrTruth: MBM wouldn’t know the truth if it fucked him in the ass. Henry Thompson was captured at the El Cortez by a Special Forces Black Ops Squad. They then manufactured evidence to make it appear that he had escaped. They want to maintain a fiction that he is at large so they can use him as a cover story for state killings in the future. In the meantime, Henry was reprogrammed and sent to the Middle East to hunt for terrorists and insurgents.
MagickBulletMan: OMG! That’s what I’m talking about. Every time he comes here he has a new story. Last time he said Henry was working a fishing boat in Alaska.
MrTruth: My story changes because I am constantly gathering evidence and trying to get to the heart of the greatest criminal mystery this country has ever known and unlike some assholes I care about Henry and what happened to him so I work to find out what really happened instead of just parroting the crap that the police and the FBI would have us think. FUCK FACE!
Robert Cramer: I said no shouting, MrTruth.
MrTruth: FUCK YOU ASS CRAMMER! Just because you wrote a couple books about Henry you think you own him. That’s bullshit! Henry’s story is an American narrative that belongs to all of us. It’s part of our heritage and you can’t shut up the truth!
USER MRTRUTH HAS BEEN BOUNCED FROM THE SITE
MagickBulletMan: Thanks, Robert. That guy drives me crazy.
Robert Cramer: Well it is an open forum, MBM, so you need to be patient with all points of view.
SF Giants Fan: You think there’s anything to what he says?
MagickBulletMan: No way, SF. All that conspiracy stuff is crap. SF Giants Fan: What about the Alaska stuff?
Robert Cramer: The truth is, Henry Thompson is most likely dead. In The Man Who Came Back I wrote about the many enemies he had made. More than likely one of these killed him during the Las Vegas rampage and his body was disposed of.
MagickBulletMan: Who do you think killed him, Robert?
Robert Cramer: I have a theory, but you’ll have to buy my new book when it comes out. I don’t claim to know the truth, but I think when The Man Who Got His Due is released it will answer pretty much all the key questions about Thompson’s crimes.
SF Giants Fan: I was asking about Alaska because I heard that his folks had moved to Oregon. That’s not all that far from Alaska. Maybe that’s where he really is. MagickBulletMan: where did you hear that, SF? SF Giants Fan: On another site.
MagickBulletMan: Which one?
:
:
:
MagickBulletMan: SF?
SF Giants Fan: sorry. I think it was Danny Lester’s site.
MagickBulletMan: Danny Lester sucks! Ru one of his goons?
SF Giants Fan: No I just went to his site.
MagickBulletMan: Danny Lester floods other sites with links to his. He lies all the time. and he’s notorious for logging onto sites under assumed identities. Ru Danny Lester?
SF Giants Fan: No.
MagickBulletMan: Robert, I think SF is Danny Lester. I think he’s here trying to find out where Henry’s parents are so he can harass them like he did right after Las Vegas.
Robert Cramer: OK, just settle down, MBM. SF, are you associated with Danny Lester?
SF Giants Fan: No.
Robert Cramer: Well, you’ve never been on my site before and you’re asking about Thompson’s parents. Danny Lester is known to have made a habit of tracking down those poor people to harass them about Thompson’s whereabouts.
SF Giants Fan: I am not Danny fucking Lester.
Robert Cramer: I’ll take your word for that. But I would prefer that there were no swearing on this site. And just to be on the safe side I’m going to declare Thompson’s parents as an off limits topic for the rest of this session.
MagickBulletMan: Good idea, Robert.
USER SF GIANTS FAN HAS LOGGED OFF
And so it goes.
I haven’t read Robert Cramer’s The Man Who Came Back and I can pretty much guarantee I won’t be reading The Man Who Got His Due. I can guarantee these things because I did read his first book about me, The Man Who Got Away. Once around the block with that shit was more than enough. It was apparently also more than enough to put him on an equal footing with Sandy Candy and Danny Lester as an acknowledged Henry Thompson expert. I guess I was lucky to hit his site on a day when he was doing a live chat, but it doesn’t feel that way.
I look out the window. It’s getting dark. I’ve been sitting in this place on Twelfth Street for hours, setting up free e-mail accounts on Hotmail and Yahoo and using them to create screen identities at various Henry Thompson chat sites. But there’s only so much traffic on the sites. Most of them are devoted to posts, and it takes far too long to generate responses to my questions. And the freaks on these sites, my fan base, are cliquey as hell. They chat, post, and e-mail to each other constantly, but newcomers aren’t made to feel overly welcome. It’s not as if I lack for Henry Thompson trivia knowledge to prove my devotion to the topic at hand, but just getting anyone to acknowledge you is a challenge. I spend two hours slowly creeping my way into a chat on www.therealhenrythompson.com, but when I try to get any actual information about my folks I’m shut down.
I put my fingers on the keyboard. They’re shaking. Hours of sitting here, staring at the screen and drinking coffee have fried me out. I need to take a walk.
I log off and go to the counter. The NYU student at the register checks how long I’ve been on and rings me up. I hand her some money. She looks up as she’s handing me my change.
– Nice hat.
I put my hand on my head. I took off the sunglasses and put my jacket on over my wife-beater, but I’m still wearing the I NY hat.
– You want it?
– No. I was being sarcastic.
– Your loss.
I walk outside and drop the hat in a garbage can.
It really is her loss. A hat like this, worn by Henry Thompson? She could sell it on eBay to one of those assholes for a few hundred easy.
I WALK UP Seventh Avenue.
Adam and Martin won’t get on a plane for Oregon right away. They don’t know what I’ll do. They’ll want to find me before I can tell David anything. They’ll want to protect their aunt.
I walk out of the West Village and into Chelsea.
David won’t do anything right away, either. He’ll wait for my next move. He knows the thing I’m most likely to do is come walking in just like he wants. But I know him, too. I know he likes to talk about the bottom line, about the expense of revenge. But I’ve seen the bodies; men and women killed to send a message. I’ve broken bones for his spite.
I walk out of Chelsea and into Midtown.
The cops. I can walk into a precinct house and turn myself in. But it will take time. Time before I can get anyone to listen about the danger my parents are in. Time before anyone who can do something about it appears. And then for how long? For how long do the police protect them?
No.
David has to die. Adam has to die. Martin has to die. Branko has to die.
But first I’ll take another shot at the Internet. See if I can find someone with a phone number. See if I can talk to them. God, I don’t want to talk to them.
I’m standing on the corner of Forty-second and Seventh. The southern edge of Times Square. I look down toward Eighth Ave., the block they used to call the Deuce. When I first came to the City, it was lined with titty bars and porn shops. It had already been cleaned up a lot when I left, but now it looks like a giant mall. Movie theaters, a McDonald’s, Chili’s, a Hello Kitty store. And a huge Internet cafe. I stand there staring at it, and a guy in a bright orange poncho forces a piece of cardboard into my hand and walks on. I look at the card.
It’s an advertisement for Legz Diamond, one of the old Midtown strip clubs. I look at the guy who gave it to me. He walks down the street, pulling the cards from the kangaroo pocket in his poncho and handing them to the men streaming past on the sidewalk, ignoring the women. Well, at least that hasn’t changed. I start down the block headed for the Internet place, flicking the card’s edge against my thigh as I walk.
I guess it’s a good thing, all this renovation, all this cleanup. But I miss the old city. I miss that feel. The character. I look at the card again. At least they haven’t cleaned it up entirely. At least there are still strippers.
Strippers.
At least there are still strippers.
Oh, God, there are still strippers.
PRIVATE EYES IS a strip club. Being a strip club, it is just like all other strip clubs. I pay my twenty-dollar cover, get my hand stamped, pay eight bucks for a soda, and take a seat at the bar. I am the only patron at the bar. Just me, a scantily clad bartender and scantily clad cocktail waitresses picking up drinks. I’m alone at the bar because of Rudy Giuliani.
While he was still mayor, Rudy got a public decency law passed that targeted strip bars and porn shops. The essence of the law is that adult trade can comprise no more than 49% of a business. The strip clubs’ answer to this dilemma was to wall off the majority of their physical space, and enclose their stripping in a carefully measured 49% of their total square footage. Inside that 49% they wanted room for patrons and strippers and little else. Thus the bar at Private Eyes features a wide expanse of elbow room because you can sit there all night without seeing a single bare tit. I sit there alone and let the bartender fisheye me.
She’s wondering what’s wrong with me. She’s wondering what a guy is doing coming into a strip club and paying eight bucks for a soda and not going into the next room to look at the naked girls. She’s waiting for me to start talking. She’s expecting me to turn out to be a talker. I don’t talk. I sit and I sip and I don’t go into the next room. The minute I go into that room, dancers will start coming to my table and offering me lap dances. I don’t want a lap dance. I don’t want to look at naked women. I want to sit here and wait. So I wait. And after about half an hour I hear what I’ve been waiting for. I hear the voice of the DJ, who sounds like every other DJ in every other strip club ever.
– That was Misty. Misty. Misty coming around to your tables right now. A special dance from Misty coming your way. And now we’re gonna bring out our special guest dancer. She’s here just for the weekend. You’ve seen her on Howard Stern and Sally Jessy. She had a feature spread in Hustler. The most infamous dancer in the world. Sandy Candy!
The DJ plays her song. Van Halen, “Ice Cream Man.”
I go in.
SHE’S GOOD.
I’ve never actually seen her dance, and she’s really very good. Not a lot of titty and ass shaking, more a slow strip with some low-key pole work. Classy, as these things go. And she looks great. Still wearing the Bettie Page cut. Never did get rid of the tattoos, the half circle of stars along her collarbone and the pin-ups on her shoulders. The crowd is thin this early, but the guys like her. She stays up on the main stage for a couple songs, then scoops her discarded dress from the steps, shimmies back into it, and comes off the stage to a nice round of applause.
There are a couple fans with a table up front. She goes straight to them and kisses them on the cheek. They probably follow her from gig to gig. She signs some 8x10s they have and a couple copies of a book that I assume is the one she had ghostwritten last year. Then she starts circulating, working the tables. She’ll do lap dances. The rate will probably be double what the regular girls get. I could wait, but she’s pretty popular with the clientele, and if she hits a big spender she might just camp out with him all night. Any stripper would just as soon cash in on one guy as dance thirty or forty. I wave down a cocktail waitress.
– What’ll ya have, baby?
– Just a seltzer. And could you ask Sandy to come over?
– Baby, she’ll get around. You want to talk to her now, all you got to do is go say hi.
I hand her a C-note.
– I’m shy.
She smiles even wider than she already was, takes the bill from my fingers and gives them a little squeeze at the same time.
– Sure thing, baby. You just sit tight.
She walks across the room. Sandy is leaning against the back of a chair, casually letting her breasts rub the head of the man sitting there, talking to him and his friends, laughing at everything they say. The cocktail waitress touches her shoulder and whispers in her ear and points at me. Sandy looks over, squinting into the dark corner of the room where I am seated on a banquet. She smiles, waves, holds up a finger to tell me to wait just a second, blows me a kiss, and turns back to the guys she’s been working. I wait a little longer, turn down several dances, thank the cocktail waitress when she brings me my seltzer that she still charges me eight bucks for despite the hundred she has tucked in her pocket. And while I’m watching her walk away, a hand slides onto my shoulder and Sandy smiles at me and pinches my earlobe and I jump and say something like Hi, hello, uh, hi, and the blank look and utter lack of recognition leaves her face as soon as she hears my voice, but she doesn’t scream and turn and run, she just drops her hand from my shoulder and lifts it to her forehead.
– Fuck. This is gonna cost a fortune in therapy.
WE SIT AT the far end of the bar, away from the bartender and the customers coming in through the front door and making a beeline for the main room. She drinks red wine that comes in little single-serving bottles with screw-off caps. I pay.
– You’re handling this pretty well.
She pours her wine into a glass.
– Yeah. That would be the Librium. There’s not much I don’t take well.
Librium. Antianxiety agent. Narcotic. Addictive. This information reels itself off in my mind, followed immediately by a strong desire to ask if she has any on her. I drink my seltzer instead.
– When did you start on that?
She’s sipping her wine. She stops in midsip, puts the glass down and looks at me.
– When? When did I start taking Librium? Shit, Henry, I don’t know, maybe about five minutes after I turned myself in to the cops and they started showing me pictures of the shit that happened in my house.
– Right.
– Color.
– Sorry. I.
– They showed me color pictures of those two hicks with their heads beaten in.
– Yeah, I get it. I’m.
– They showed me a picture of Terry.
She takes a big gulp of wine.
– Terry. What that dog did to Terry.
– OK. Stupid question. Just.
– So it was probably right around then, when I saw the picture of Terry with his dick chewed off, that I started taking Librium. After I got done screaming and all.
She finishes off her wine and signals the bartender for another. We don’t say anything while she brings it over and takes more money from my pile of bills on the bar.
Sandy cracks the top and pours.
– And you? How have you been? See you got a new look. How’s that working out for you?
– Sandy. I need help.
– No shit? Well, there’s a shocker. Wanted man shows up at a Manhattan strip club to see me? And he needs help? I would have had a hard time putting that together.
– It won’t take much time. I just.
I look over at the bartender, but the music from the main room is loud enough that she’s not hearing any of this.
– Sandy. It’s my parents.
– Sandy to the stage, please. Sandy to the stage.
She looks up, the DJ calling her for her next performance. She tosses down the rest of her wine, sets the empty glass on the bar, and kneads her neck with her right hand.
– OK. I’m gonna go dance now.
She stands up.
I put a hand on her arm.
– Sandy.
She moves her arm away from my hand.
– I’m gonna dance, and then I’m gonna come back and help your parents, because they probably never did anything to anyone, except for having you. And then you are going to fuck off out of my life. OK?
– Yeah. OK.
She walks back into the main room, and through the door I see her talking to the DJ, asking him for something, and he digs through his CDs and nods, and she goes up on the stage and dances to “Psycho Killer.”
USER SCANDY HAS SIGNED ON
God Zilla: Hey sandy.
MagickBulletMan: Hi sandy.
sidomaniac: What’s up sandy?
budthecat: Sandy!
scandy: hey, guys!
sidomaniac: Cool of you to drop in.
MagickBulletMan: Thought you were in NY.
scandy: i am! I’m dancing at Private Eyes! It’s so great! I just had some time and wanted to say hi to my real fans!
God Zilla: ty, sandy.
scandy: sure, big Z!
sidomaniac: We were talking about the Danny Lester rumor.
budthecat: I love you, Sandy.
scandy: what rumor, sid? ty, kitty! meow!
MagickBulletMan: Lester is saying that henry has been in contact with you.
sidomaniac: It’s bs.
scandy: it sure is, sid. If Henry Thompson ever made contact with me the first thing I’d do is call the cops!
MagickBulletMan: That’s what I said.
God Zilla: He’s dead anyway.
budthecat: Then show me the body, zilla. habeas corpus. When there’s a body I’ll believe he’s dead.
God Zilla: There’s no way he could stay hidden this long. They did a Hoffa on him. sidomaniac: Who’s “they,” zilla? scandy: hey, guys! anyone seen henryhunter today? budthecat: Not today.
God Zilla: Sorry
sidomaniac: Not here.
MagickBulletMan: Did you try therealhenrythompson? he hangs there a lot.
scandy: this is my first stop. anyone know how to get in touch with him?
God Zilla: Nope
SCANDY: You have a private message from BUDTHECAT.
I know his email, sandy. Want to send a message?
MagickBulletMan: Don’t know where he is.
Private message for BUDTHECAT.
could you, honey? Just tell him I’m here! TY!
sidomaniac: Havn’t seen hh for awhile.
SCANDY: You have a private message from BUDTHECAT.
Sure!
scandy: hey, guys! I have to go do a couple things. I’m gonna stay logged on, so if hh comes by please tell him I’ll be right back!
MagickBulletMan: Sure.
Sandy pushes back from the computer in the Internet cafe on Forty-second.
– Jesus, they freak me out.
I watch as their chat continues to scroll down the screen. They bounce various theories about me, opinions about Cramer’s books, quiz each other on the names of my former “associates,” talk about my cat, and whatever else. It’s all mixed together with personal talk, mostly about a chronic lack of girlfriends.
– Interesting following.
She slides her eye from the screen to my face, and then back to the screen.
– They’re not my fans. They’re yours. I’m just extra. If it wasn’t for you, they’d have latched on to some other piece of ass.
USER HENRYHUNTER HAS SIGNED ON
henryhunter: Hey room.
God Zilla: Hey, hh.
MagickBulletMan: Hi hh
SCANDY: You have a private message from HENRYHUNTER.
You here, Sandy?
sidomaniac: Sandy candy was looking for you, hh.
henryhunter: ty, sid.
Private message for HENRYHUNTER.
hey, hh! Thanks for coming!
sidomaniac: She said she’d be right back.
SCANDY: You have a private message from HENRYHUNTER.
Sure, sandy. What’s up?
Private message for HENRYHUNTER.
um, it’s kind of personal. Can we do a room!
God Zilla: You back, sandy?
SCANDY: You have a private message from HENRYHUNTER.
You bet! I’ll call it hhscandy.
Private message for HENRYHUNTER.
TY, hh!
USER HENRYHUNTER HAS GONE TO A PRIVATE ROOM
USER SCANDY HAS GONE TO A PRIVATE ROOM
sidomaniac: Oh man! A private with sandy! How’d hh score that?
USER SCANDY ENTERING ROOM HHSCANDY
scandy: hh?
henryhunter: Hey sandy. what can I do for you? You OK?
scandy: well, remember when you did one of my chats a couple weeks back?
henryhunter: Yeah! I love your site!
scandy: TY, hh! Anyway. you were talking about closure and I was thinking about that and you said how talking to someone who actually knew henry might help with my therapy and you said something about his parents and I was talking to my therapist and he said he thinks something like that might really help with my nightmares and stuff and I was wondering if you were like just talking or if you might know how to get in touch with them?!?
henryhunter: Wow, sandy, that’s pretty heavy.
scandy: i know! Sorry to like unload on you!
henryhunter: No! it’s ok!
scandy: ty, hh! You’re so sweet! can you help me? It’s really important to me!
henryhunter: Well, pretty much all the serious Henry Thompson people (and I mean the ones who want to seem him brought to justice, not the sickos) know by now that his parents moved to a place in Oregon. Some people have managed to get their hands on an address, but that’s pretty secret stuff.
scandy: what about a phone number or something?
henryhunter: Someone might have one. But they would have gotten in illegally so they’d be pretty cautious about sharing it or talking about it.
scandy: you know someone like that hh? I bet you do!
henryhunter: I might know something. But this isn’t really what I’d call a secure connection. I could maybe help, but I’d need your private email to send it to you.
scandy: ok
henryhunter: And then maybe we could like exchange some emails. I’d like to hear how things are going with your therapy and stuff. We could even sinc up. Chat some more.
scandy: sure thing, hh! I’d love that! But I have to get back to the club! If I give you my address can you send that number right away?!? Then we can make a date to chat! That’d be cool!
henryhunter: Great! scandy: super! My address is candicestalbot@earthlink.net
henryhunter: I’ll send you a message as soon as I sign off.
scandy: TY, HH! You’re my hero!
USER SCANDY HAS SIGNED OFF
– Fucking great. Now I’m going to have to change my private e-mail. Do you know how big a pain that is? All my charges go there. My PayPal. My eBay. Shit.
I point at the screen.
– Candice?
– Candice Sandra Talbot. Sandy Candy. Like it was meant to be.
– It’s a nice name.
– Whatever.
She logs on to her e-mail account. She hits the check mail button four or five times until a new message pops up. She opens it.
Sandy,
It was cool chatting with you in private. I think you’re making the right decision trying to get in touch with Mr. and Mrs. Thompson. Everything I read about them and all the stuff that was on TV made them seem like very good people. It’s not their fault their son did the things he did. They’ve probably suffered from his crimes as much as anyone. Please don’t share this number and please delete this email. Like I said, “someone” (wink-wink) probably had to do some illegal hacking to get this. Write me back and let me know your MSMessenger account. We can chat anytime. I live in Ohio, which isn’t so far from Pennsylvania, so maybe we could even meet! That would be great. Good luck and I can’t wait to hear how it goes. Have fun dancing.
HH
(But my real name is Sam)
Sandy scribbles the number at the bottom of the screen onto a scrap of paper.
– Ol’ Sam probably started jerking off to a picture of me as soon as he hit send.
SANDY GOES TO the bathroom while I pay for our time on the computer. She comes out and walks past me. I grab my change and run after her. She’s walking fast down Forty-second on her way back to Private Eyes.
– Sandy. Wait up.
She keeps walking.
– Hey.
I catch up to her, but she keeps storming along.
– What do you want? You got the number. Go use it.
– Yeah. Well.
– What? You want something else?
– I just.
– What?
– I could use a place. For a couple hours. To make my call and think for a little while.
She nods.
– So, what, you thought maybe my hotel room or something?
– Whatever. I just need someplace quiet to make this call. And I need to sit and-I have to get back to the club.
– Sure. I just. I.
– Need more help?
– Yeah. I do.
She stops in the middle of the sidewalk and the Saturday night traffic splits and flows around us.
– Jesus! What have you ever needed from anyone but help?
– Sandy.
– That’s your fucking MO.
She cups her hand over her mouth and talks into it like it’s a radio.
– Calling all cars, calling all cars. Be on the lookout for a mass murderer that often needs help and who fucks up people’s lives.
– They’re. They’ll kill my mom and dad.
She raises her eyebrows.
– So. Fucking. What.
She puts her face close to mine.
– Your parents. Your fucking mom and dad. Like no one else was ever born. Like no one else has a mom and dad. My mom and dad are in Phoenix. They got problems. My mom is a bank teller and she’s worried about all the weight she’s been putting on since she turned fifty, and my dad just took early retirement from his job with Xerox so they wouldn’t lay him off. Their biggest problem is their stripper daughter that they don’t understand and can barely talk to. But at least she never did anything to put their lives in danger. And I didn’t do anything to put yours in danger, either. It’s not my fucking fault. It’s yours. So you fucking save them.
She turns to start walking and I grab her arm. She looks at my hand and then back up at my face.
– Let go.
– I can’t. I. I just. Sandy, I’m sorry. I don’t have anyone else.
– I wonder why that is. Could it be because everyone who helps you gets killed? Let go of my arm.
I don’t.
– Let go of my arm or I will scream.
I let go. She jerks her head and leads me away from the middle of the sidewalk.
– Just so we’re clear. I don’t like you. You fucked up my life. I was already pretty messed up. I mean, stripping at Glitter Gulch, dealing grass and fucking Terry the steroid king wasn’t the greatest way to live, but at least I didn’t wake up screaming five nights out of ten. I want you to leave me alone.
I look at her. I look at the Lucky jeans and the Michael Kors top she changed into when we left the club. I look at the Louis Vuitton shoes on her feet and the matching bag on her shoulder. She watches my eyes as they inventory these items.
I shrug.
– You seem to be doing pretty well out of the deal.
She nods. Smiles.
– Yeah. Pretty good. Pretty good with the creeps that come out of the woodwork every time I turn around. Pretty good with the guys who like to pretend they’re you. Or with Danny Lester when he gets drunk every couple of months and finds my latest unlisted number and calls to accuse me of hiding you and ends up telling me how much he wants to fuck me in the mouth. Or whatever excop bounty hunter who wants to grill me. I do really good with all the assholes at the clubs who want a lap dance so they can tell their friends they rubbed crotches with Sandy Candy. Fuck you! Fuck you, Henry! You think I want this? You think I want to live off your carcass like those freaks on the computer? This is what I have. This is how I can get by. It’s totally fucked, but it’s what I have. And I didn’t do anything. I didn’t do anything to deserve this shit. You did. You killed people. That’s why your life is fucked. I didn’t do anything.
She yanks her bag open, pulls out a pill bottle, tries to open it, but can’t stop shaking. I know how frustrating that is. Wanting what’s inside the bottle, but not being able to get to it. Hell, I want what’s in that bottle as much as she does.
I take the bottle from her hand, open it, take out one of the caps of Librium and hand it to her. She pokes it to the back of her tongue, tilts her face skyward, and swallows. I look at the bottle in my hand. I look at the pills inside. I put the cap back on, twist it into place and hand it to her. She takes it and drops it in her bag.
– Oh, and by the way, you forgot to ask about T.
I lick my lips.
– How’s T?
– He’s dead. His leg got infected and he wouldn’t let me take him to a doctor and he had a fever of like a hundred and fifteen and I was freaking out and didn’t know what to do and he died and I put his body in the car and drove it to a lake and filled his pockets with rocks and shoved him in so no one would find him ’cause that’s what he told me to do ’cause he didn’t want anyone to find him he just wanted to be dead like everyone he loved, like his mom and dad. And his fucking dog.
– Sandy.
– Go away, Henry. And don’t try to follow me. I called the police when I was in the bathroom and told them a creep with a scar was hassling me and they said they’d send a car to the club. So now I got to get back ’cause I’m gonna have to give the fucking cops free lap dances.
I put a hand on her cheek.
– Sandy.
– Go away! You’re going to die. Go do it away from me.
She slaps my hand from her face, turns and walks back to the club.
I lean against the wall of the Yankees Store and watch the pedestrians flicker past. My arms are at my sides, my fists balled tight. In one of them is the piece of paper with my parents’ phone number. I guess I should call them. Sandy was so happy to hear from me, why wouldn’t they be, too?
I WALK AROUND a little bit, looking for someplace quiet to sit down and make the call. I should find a flop is what I should do. I should find a cheapass motel that will let me pay cash at an hourly rate. I remember some places on Forty-eighth or Forty-ninth and head in that direction.
A cop car stops at a light as I’m waiting on the corner. One of the officers is checking me out. Sandy said she told the cops she was being hassled by a guy with a scar on his face. I should get off the street now. There are two choices on the block, a bar and grill or the inevitable Starbucks. I take the bar.
It’s an old dive. Above the door is the neon sign that lights up one letter at a time: S-M-I-T-H’-S. The long bar is lined with old-timers watching the last couple innings of a Mets game. I take a seat at one of the teetery tables. A waitress as old as my mom comes by. I order a deluxe burger medium and a seltzer. She walks away. I take out my phone and smooth the piece of paper with the number on it. I look at the number, breathe in and out a few times, and dial.
It rings.
And rings.
And rings some more.
Then it picks up. And I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that it’s an answering machine, or that it’s one of those robot voices. I’ll have to talk into the machine. If they screen all their calls I’ll never get them to pick up unless I say something first. But what if it’s not them? Worse, what if they’re not home? What if they come home and just hear my voice out of the blue on their machine and they have no idea if it’s really me or just someone fucking with them? Shit. The machine beeps.
– Uh. Hi. Hello. Is. Is anyone home? Um. This is.
Shit.
– This. Is this the Thompsons’? Because.
Because what, asshole?
– Because, if it is. If it is, I have something. I-
My phone beeps loudly in my ear. I look at it. The lone remaining power-bar is flashing. Fucking. Fucking-fucking-fucking.
– Um. I’m. My phone is gonna die here and. I’m looking for the Thompsons’. So. If.
– Hello. Hello?
Oh.
– Hello. Is? Are you there?
Oh no.
– Hello. We’re. Is that? We’re here. Is that?
Oh. It’s.
– Please. If this is a joke. Please hang up. Is that? You sound.
Oh, Mom.
– You sound like.
Oh, Mom. You sound.
– Is that you?
You sound so old.
– Mom.
– Henry?
My phone beeps again, and dies.
THE FIRST CABBIE asks me where I want to go before I get in. When I tell him Brighton Beach, he screeches away. There is no second cab because it’s around 10:30 on a Saturday night in Midtown and the shows are all getting out and traffic is stacked up and all the tourists and the couples from New Jersey are fighting over every cab in sight. I walk back into Smith’s. The waitress is standing by my table with my food in her hand. She gives me a nasty what-the-hell-do-you-think-you’re-doing look, and I point at the food and point at my table and point at myself and point at the pay phone in the back.
I get change and a phone book from one of the bartenders and start making calls. The first three car services tell me it will be at least forty-five minutes before they can get me anything. I offer to pay double, triple, whatever, and they tell me it’s the busiest couple hours of the week and they just don’t have a car.
I have to get to Brighton Beach.
I have to get there now.
I have to get to Brighton Beach so I can tell David I’m sorry. So I can beg him to leave my parents. So I can beg him to kill me and just leave them alone. And protect them from Adam and Martin. Hearing my mom’s voice. I can’t. I have to stop this. It has to end. Now.
I start to dial another car service. I stop. I flip a couple pages. I dial.
– Mario’s personal car service.
– Yeah, do you have any cars free right now?
– There’s about a forty-five minute wait. You want to reserve?
– Uh. Is Mario there?
– Who’s calling?
– I’m an old friend and I’m in town and I’m trying to get in touch.
– You got a number he can call?
– No.
– He’s busy.
– This is really important. Tell him it’s Henry. Tim’s friend Henry. He’ll know who I am. He’ll want to talk to me. Just put me on hold and tell him and if he says he doesn’t want to talk you don’t even have to tell me, just disconnect and I’ll fuck off.
– Look, guy-Please, man. Please. I need to talk to him. Please.
– Jesus H. Hang on.
There’s a click. The hold music kicks in. Tito Rodriguez doing “Cuando, Cuando, Cuando.”
Will Mario want to talk to me? No. Why would he? All we had was a business arrangement; he gave me a couple rides and I gave him a bunch of money six years ago. What does he know about me since then? Just what he’s seen on TV. The bodies. If he’s smart, he’ll tell the guy to hang up on me. If he’s really smart, he’ll call the cops.
The music stops.
– Where are you?
– Place called Smith’s. Corner of-
– I know where it is. Be out front in ten minutes.
He hangs up. I hang up. I walk back to my table and poke my cold burger. I eat a cold french fry. I take a sip of my seltzer. I put a twenty on the table. I think about going out the back door. I look around. There is no back door. I think again that if Mario is really smart he will have called the cops. But if he’s really, really smart, he will have found out where I am and then called the cops and then he can collect on the huge reward that is available for information leading to my capture and conviction. The capture has always been the tricky part, conviction on at least a few of the crimes I’ve been accused of being a foregone conclusion. Which is only right, seeing as I have done some fucked-up shit. I think about what it would mean to get scooped up by the cops right now. As opposed to my other options. Which are?
Suicide by Branko.
Kill everyone.
I eat another cold fry and walk out the front door. It seems about as good an idea as any of the others. And maybe it is, because a brand-new black Lincoln Continental pulls smoothly to a stop just as I hit the curb and the driver side window zips down and there’s Mario, with his short Puerto Rican fro and his carefully etched beard, and he takes a look at me and nods and I get in the backseat and close the door.
He turns around.
– I’m gonna show you something, man.
I look out the back window to see if a squad of SWATs is surrounding us. Nope. I look at Mario and nod.
– OK.
He brings his hand above the seatback and shows me the little automatic resting in his palm.
– See?
– Yeah.
He points at the gun with his other hand.
– You try anything, I’ll use it. I never shoot anybody, man. But I got kids. You try anything, I’ll fucking do it. OK?
– OK.
He shakes his head and bites his lower lip.
– OK. OK then.
He puts the gun back in his pocket, turns to the wheel, drops the car into drive and rolls.
I lean forward and put my arm on the back of his seat.
– I need-
– You just sit the fuck back, man. Sit back.
His right hand has gone to his pocket.
I sit back.
– Right. It’s cool.
His eyes flick at me in the rearview mirror and he shakes his head.
– You just chill and I’ll take you to your money. Take you to the fucking money and then I’m through with this shit.
IT’S A TWENTY-FOUR-HOUR self-service place on Third Ave., down near the Bowery. I watch from a couple hundred miles away as Mario slips a plastic card into the slot next to the door and enters a code. There’s a beep and he pulls the door open and it buzzes loudly. He walks through and looks back at me standing there, watching him.
– Come on, man.
I walk through the door and he lets it go and it swings shut behind me and the buzzing stops. He goes to the elevator, slips his card into another slot, enters his code again, there’s the same beep and the elevator doors slide open. He steps in, and again he has to prompt me.
– Son of a bitch. Move!
I get into the elevator. He pushes a button and we go up for a few seconds and the elevator stops and the doors open and he gets out and shakes his head at me standing there not moving and grabs my sleeve and pulls me along with him down the corridor of identical doors.
– You stoned, man? You on something?
I shake my head.
I am not on anything. But I can see where he got the idea. I’ve been acting like this ever since he said the magic words. Ever since he told me where we were going. I want to snap out of it, but I can’t. I know this feeling. I’ve had it before in my life. It’s the feeling you get when you realize nothing is going to be the way you thought it would be. When you realize nothing has been the way you always thought it was.
The first time I had this feeling was when I woke up after the surgery on my leg and saw the rods sticking out of it. The second time was when I plowed my Mustang into the tree and saw my friend smash through the windshield. The third time was in here in the City before I ran, when I found Yvonne’s beaten body. The last time I felt it was the first time I killed someone for David. The Kid. And now it’s here for one final visit.
Mario stops in front of one of the doors.
He slips the card into its slot.
He enters his code.
Beep.
He pushes the door open and steps back out of the way and I look inside the tiny storage unit and see the large, rectangular black travel box, the kind people use when they have to haul around expensive electronics and whatnot. I walk over to the box. It’s standing on end; its top reaches the bottom of my rib cage. I fumble with one of the key-shaped clasps. I fumble with it because my fingers are suddenly sausage-thick and about as useful. Except they’re not. Not really. They just feel that way. I manage to pop the clasp down and twist it. I repeat the action with the other three clasps. I wrap my sausage hand around the handle on top of the case and pull. It’s fitted tightly and sighs off. A little sand from a Mexican beach is caught in the cracks and rains down onto the concrete floor. I hold the lid in one hand and look inside the box.
It’s packed in tight, right up to the top.
Packed and wrapped in plastic.
Just like I left it.
Mario steps close behind me.
– It’s all there, man. I never touch the shit. Even this unit, the money came out of my own pocket. I almost dumped it in the river a couple times, but I never took none of it.
I nod.
I’m sure he’s telling the truth.
Anyway, it looks like all 4 million is in there. It surely looks like it.