– Just before Christmas. Year before last. Tim came to town. He gave me a key for a unit. He said hang on to the key. Said he probably wouldn’t be coming for it. Said I might have to send it somewhere. Said you might come for it. Asked me if I remembered you. I said, Timmy, you think I forget that shit? Think I forget I drove him to the airport? Think I forget I could be up to my ass in aiding and abetting if I ever opened my mouth about him? But, Timmy, I said, I got kids now. I got two kids and a wife and a business and employees. I can’t be in that kind of shit no more. He said you needed help. He told me to remember where I got the money. I could start my own business in the first place. He said hang on to the key. He said nobody comes to pick it up, just pay the bills on the unit and hang onto the key. Shit. I saw his body on the TV, I almost threw the key in the garbage. Then I think, What is it? What’s it all about? Came over here. Looked in the box. That stain on the floor? That’s where I threw up when I saw that shit. I saw that money. I just about died. This shit is trouble. This shit is trouble like no man should have. I think, Throw it in the river. Then I think, What if he comes for it and I threw it in the river? What a man gonna do then? Shit. So I hang onto the key. Sweat every day. Say to myself, Two years. He ain’t here in two years, it goes in the water. Two years means he’s dead. After two years I don’t want nothing to do with shit like this. This shit. I have an ulcer from this. I yell and my wife, she don’t know why. Can I tell her? No. Got to lie to her about some shit at work. Try to play with my kids, all I think about is this locker and that box. Shit. Now, I’m finished.
I’m still standing there, the lid in my hand, staring at the money. Mario’s hand appears from behind me and he snaps the key-card down on top of the cash.
– This is the spare key. You gotta use it to get back out. Code is 4430640. My card, I’m gonna toss it in the sewer as soon as I get out of here. So that’s it. I’m leaving.
I don’t say anything. And he doesn’t move.
– You hear me, man? I’m out. OK? Sweet?
I manage to nod.
– Yeah. Sweet.
I hear him walk out of the unit. I stand there, listening to his footsteps retreating down the corridor. Then I drop the lid, rip the plastic and dig out two fat handfuls of cash. Two chunks of money. I rush out the door.
I turn the corner and there he is, just stepping into the elevator. He hears my footsteps and spins. He sees me and starts jabbing at the buttons. I hurry toward him, my arms held out in front of me, the bills clutched in my hands, the individually rubber-banded packets stacked high between my fingers. His hand is trying to find its way into his pocket, pawing for the gun inside. I stop and show him the money. I take a step closer, offering it to him.
– For you. For your kids. I.
– Keep that shit away from me. I told you, want nothing to do with that poison. That shit, it kills people. Keep it away from me. Keep it away from my family. I ever see you again, long as I live, I’ll think it’s bad, and I’ll kill you.
The doors slide shut on him, and the money squeezed so tightly between my fingers slips loose and spits onto the floor. I bend over and pick it all up.
IT’S AFTER MIDNIGHT.
I close the door of the unit and haul the case to the elevator. I use the key card. I have to punch in the code three times before I get it right. The elevator takes me down. I walk out of the storage place and look up and down the street. I need someplace safe. Just for a little while. Just till I figure out what to do with this shit. There’s a pay phone at the end of the block.
I find the scrap of stationery in my pocket and make the call. Then I tilt the case onto its side, sit on it and wait.
Times like these. Times like these I wish I still smoked. Wish I still drank. Wish I had some pills. Times like these I wish I had all my bad habits to make the time pass more quickly, and to keep me out of my own head. But I don’t. So I sit and watch the traffic flow by until an airport shuttle bus jerks to a stop right in front of me and rocks back and forth on its shocks, shades pulled down over the windows.
The door folds open and a huge cloud of tobacco and pot smoke rolls out along with the sound of “Lovin’, Touchin’, Squeezin’ ” at full volume.
– Yo, Scarface.
I get up, lift the case, and climb up the steps. Jay moves out of the way and I squeeze past him.
THE PARTY BUS is packed. Cyclones players, girls from wherever, and assorted odds and ends are crammed onto the banquets that wrap around the interior. More bodies heave in the wide center aisle, swaying to the music as a disco light spins above their heads and fog pumps in from below their feet.
Miguel squirts out of the press of bodies, the bartender from last night hanging off his arm. He has to scream over the music.
– My man! Where you been?
– Had some things to do!
– No shit? What’s in the box?
I look at the box.
– Something I lost!
Jay grabs me.
– Lost? Yo! You know we don’t talk about losing up in here! This is where the winners roll! Missed a game, Scarface! Missed my man’s first official pro home run. Missed the Cyclones beating the fucking Yankees!
He shakes the beer he’s holding and sprays it in my face.
– Now get your party on, yo! Tonight’s the night!
The song hits the nah-nahs, and everybody sings along at the top of their lungs.
I DRIVE THE party bus.
I drive the party bus because Jay has been feeding cocktails to Walter, the sixty-year-old chauffeur who’s supposed to be driving it. Now Walter is squashed into a corner in the back of the bus, passed out cold and sleeping it off. So I drive the bus with a box of money riding shotgun beside me.
Jay sticks his face through the curtain that separates the driver’s compartment from the rest of the bus.
– Yo! We’re running low on supplies back here. Need a beer stop.
He disappears back into the maelstrom. I cruise around until I spot a grocery on the corner of Third and Eleventh Ave. I double-park on the avenue, find the button that opens the door, hit it, and a crowd of drunken kids tumbles to the street and charges into the grocery for beer and cigarettes and snacks. I turn on the emergency blinkers, set the parking brake, and go into the back of the bus.
The lights are still spinning, but the fog has slowed to a trickle. Whatever the machine uses for juice must be just about out. I kick through the litter of empties, crushed cigarette butts and discarded clothing. The stereo is still blaring. I find the controls mounted above a cluster of empty decanters and switch it off, silencing “No Sleep Til Brooklyn.”
A lone couple has stayed on the bus. They’re half naked and twisting around on one of the banquets, oblivious to me. I have to push Walter out of the way to get the bathroom door open. I step inside the tiny cabinet and close the door.
I take off my sweaty, crumpled jacket and hang it on the hook on the back of the door. I flip up one of the levers on the sink and a sluggish trickle of cool water dribbles out. I hold my hands under it until they fill and splash the water onto my face. I look at myself in the mirror.
My hair is twisted and crushed from sweat and the hat I was wearing. There are streaks of dirt down my neck and on the front of my wife-beater. I get some water on a couple paper towels and use them to wipe away the dirt on my skin and blot at my shirt.
The bus rocks as people start to pile back on. I get more water on my hands and rub them over my head, brushing my clipped hair back into something resembling its usual shape. Someone turns the stereo back on. Someone else bangs on the bathroom door.
I look at my face again. Would Mom recognize this face? The way she recognized my voice, would she see me inside this thing?
More banging on the door.
– Yo, Scarface, time to roll.
Yeah, right, time to roll. Not sure to where, but got to keep rolling.
I open the door and edge out into the press of bodies. Jay bugs his eyes at my tats.
– Jesus, yo. Look at you, all inked up and hooded out.
He squeezes into the can and closes the door. I maneuver back to the wheel, the kids around me cracking open fresh sixteen-ounce cans of Coors Light and tearing into bags of Doritos and packages of Chips Ahoy. I part the curtain and drop into the driver’s seat.
– Hey, man.
Miguel is sitting in the passenger seat. He’s shoved the box aside and has one long leg propped up on it.
– Mind if I ride up here?
– Nope.
He looks me up and down.
– Where’d all the tattoos come from?
– Different places.
– Cool.
– Thanks.
– I’ve been thinking about getting one. My nickname in college was The Hammer. I’ve been thinking about getting a sledgehammer hitting a baseball. Cool, right?
– Yeah. Cool.
I close the door, turn off the flashers and the brake and drop the shifter into drive.
– Where to?
– Doesn’t matter. Just driving is cool here. Everything is cool here. I fucking love New York.
We catch green lights down the avenue. Miguel has his arm stuck out the window, his hand flattened into a wing riding the wind.
– We missed you today, man. What happened?
– I got a call. Had to do some stuff.
I pull to a stop at Houston.
– Stuff for David?
– Yeah.
He reaches over and tugs the curtain closed all the way.
– What’s that like? Working for him?
I watch the signal light up ahead cycle from red to green. Traffic doesn’t move.
– It’s a job.
– Sure. I get it. You can’t say much. But, David. Is he OK? I mean, this deal I have with him. You think that’s OK?
The light goes to yellow. We move forward maybe a car length.
– It’s a deal. You take what you can get, I guess.
He turns in his seat to face me.
– Yeah, I know you work for the guy and all. I’m not looking to get you in trouble or anything. It’s just. You know I think you’re all right. So I’m just looking for your opinion if, I don’t know, if I’m doing this right.
I look at the box of money right next to him.
– Look, Miguel, here’s the thing-
The light goes red.
Jay yanks the curtain open.
– What’s up, yo? Where we headed?
Miguel points at the street.
– Cruisin’.
– Yo, man. We need to get out and stretch.
– We just got out.
– No, we need to like really get out. Get some air. This party needs some air before it punks out.
Miguel looks back into the throbbing heart of the bus.
– Man, this party ain’t punking anytime tonight.
– Uh-uh. Major punk danger. Must have O2. Driver, take us to a park or something.
I look at Miguel. He shrugs.
– Sure. A park. That’s cool.
The light is green and we move forward this time. I turn west on Houston.
Jay grabs Miguel’s sleeve.
– Get on back here, yo.
– Gonna sit up here for awhile.
– No, yo. Party needs you.
He tugs on Miguel. Miguel tries to pull away.
– Chill, Jay.
– Yo. You got guests here.
– They’re cool.
– No they ain’t. Come on back with the party.
He drags Miguel up out of the seat.
– OK. Chill, chill, chill. I’m coming.
– Then come on, fag. Chicks back here need you.
Miguel pats my shoulder.
– Check you later, man. I want to finish this.
Jay shoves him into the mass of sweaty kids, looks at me, nods, and follows Miguel, pulling the curtain closed behind him. I drive.
I take a left on West Broadway. The money box tilts and clunks against the door. I think about it. It’s pretty much impossible to think about anything else.
I reach over and touch the top of the box. I rest my hand on it. And I drive like that all the way down to the Battery.
– Yo! All out. Everybody out. Time to recharge.
There’s some bitching, but Jay herds them all toward the door. Through the windshield I see Miguel, the bartender riding on his back. I leave the engine running and go through the curtain. I need to find a pay phone again.
Jay is standing in front of the door, blocking the exit. In one hand he has my jacket. In the other hand he has two pieces of paper. The photocopy of my old ID and the clipping from the Post.
– So, yo, Scarface. What’s the most fucked-up thing you ever did?
– You were supposed to be the shit, right, yo?
– How’s that?
– That was the deal. You were like the all-American boy. That was the way they played it on the TV. You were, like, the shit. Baseball stud. Top prospect.
– Yeah. I guess so.
– Yo. I was the shit.
We sit on a bench that faces Hudson Bay. The plaza here is cobbled. Benches surround old trees. The ferry landing for the boats that take you to Ellis and Liberty Islands is quiet. We can see the statue in the middle of the bay. I have my jacket draped over my lap. Jay sits with his elbows on his knees and fiddles with the two pieces of paper.
– I was, yo, I was the shit. Little League. High school. I was the shit.
The gang from the bus is drifting around. A few of the players and their girls flag down a couple cabs on State and take off. Some others are wandering away toward the bar at American Park. Looks like the party is breaking up.
– Shortstop, yo. Started freshman ball, JV and varsity. Had all the school records, and a bunch of the district’s, too. Stolen bases. Hits. Runs. Fielding percentage. Average. Big numbers. Mad numbers. ’Course there was a problem. I’m five-fucking-six in cleats. That’s a fucking problem. Plus, you know, I’m playing with that guy.
He points at Miguel. The bartender is perched on the railing by the water, Miguel snugged between her knees as they make out.
– My man Mike was part of the problem. I was setting records, but he was, too. And he had the power. All-time single-season home run champ, California high school baseball. And he pitched. Led the state in strikeouts. And, yo, he had the body. Scouts come around to watch us both play, but once they get a look at him, I’d just drop right off the fucking scout-radar. Word got around I was even smaller in person than I was on paper and they stopped even pretending they were interested. Like a bunch of chicks, yo. All over Mike. All about the body.
He drops into a hick accent.
– Seen the body on that A-ray-nuz kid? Six-four, two hundred, and growing. Not a ounce a fat on that boy. Ripped like a NBAer. Kid’s got the pro body an he ain’t even eighteen. Kid’s gonna be a star.
He spits between his feet.
– Shit, yo. All about the fucking body. Mike got picked in the first round. The Brewers. That was a no-brainer. Said no thanks and took the Stanford scholarship. Me? Didn’t get picked by no one. Got a couple semipro teams called. Got a partial ship at UCSD. But, yo, my boy was headed up north. He says, Come upstate. Can’t break us up. Hang out. Take some classes. Get you on the team next year. Scouts see what you do in a big-time program, they’ll be all over you. Blew off SD. Went up there. But my grades weren’t good enough for that place. And they didn’t care I was Mike’s boy. Spent all my time hangin’ with him, working on his swing. See that flat swing he’s got, yo? That shit’s mine. Way he plays the field? Always getting the right jump on the ball? My shit. That ain’t no college coaching. That’s me and him. That’s what I did. I worked his ass, yo. He wants to fuck around with chicks, booze. Wants to find a poker game, head up to Reno. I kept his ass working. Junior year he goes back in the draft. First pick. Mets. Big time. My boy is big time.
He takes his elbows from his knees, leans back and looks over at Miguel.
– But I was the shit, yo. I was most definitely the shit.
Cooler air is starting to drift in off the water. I pull on my jacket.
– So, Jay.
– Yo?
I point at the papers in his hands.
– What were you doing in my jacket?
He smiles.
– Shit, yo, thought you might have some more of that x in there.
He holds up the papers.
– Imagine my surprise I find this shit.
– Uh-huh. You got any plans for those?
He dangles the pieces of paper, one in each hand pinched between his thumb and forefinger.
– These? I got a plan for these? Yeah, I got a plan. My plan is to get your ass away from Mike as quickly as fucking possible.
– Seems wise.
– Yo, it does.
I put out my hand.
– So let me have ’em and I’ll be on my way.
He pulls the papers back and shakes his head.
– Uh-uh. First there’s something you’re gonna need to do.
I look at him. Sitting there. Leaning back. I could put my elbow in his throat and grab the papers. But I don’t.
– Jay. Can I say something?
– Sure.
– Don’t fuck with me.
– Yo?
– Seriously. Don’t fuck with me. I’m. You really have no idea how at the end of my rope I am right now.
He sits up straight.
– I’m not fucking with you, yo. I’m not looking for. Shit. I’m not looking for…I don’t know what. Like money? I don’t. Yo. Fucking with you?
He pulls out his cell phone.
– See this? I could have called the cops. Found this shit, I could have dialed 911 right away and had them here. Think I want to fuck with you? I want something from you. I need. Yo. I need your help. This?
He starts folding the papers into a little square.
– Fuck this. Yo.
He points at Miguel.
– I need help with my boy. He’s starting to listen to reason. He’s here. He’s playing pro ball. He likes it. And he’s starting to think for a change. He’s thinking how shit can get off track. He’s looking around at the guys he’s playing with and how bad they want the bigs, and how none of them, yo, not one, is gonna make it. But him? All he has to do is keep his eyes on the ball and he’s in. He’s starting to think about that shit. But he’s sick of hearing from me. I can’t open my mouth about the gambling or the debt without him tuning me out. Not what he wants, to be lectured. So you. You have a talk with him. You sit his ass down, yo, spell it out. Tell him this ain’t shit to be messing with. Tell him to pay off now. He can get his moms that house later. He can dump the Escalade and drive a fucking Olds like you. All that will come later. Tell him about this Russian. An, yo, any doubts I had about that guy not being bad news have been put to rest by the fact he has someone like you working for him. That guy can take a stone-famous psycho off the map and cut his face up and turn him into a driver? That’s some fucked up, top-ten-box-office-summer-blockbuster-movie shit. And we don’t need any of that, yo. So you tell him that he’s dealing with some bad motherfuckers and it’s time to get out while he can. You help him out. You back him. This.
He holds up the square of folded paper.
– This shit, yo?
He tears the square into tiny pieces, tosses them in the air, and they fall to the ground where they are stirred and scattered by the breeze coming off the bay.
– Fuck that. You do this, yo. Help my boy. Do it ’cause it’s the right thing to do. How’s that for some shit, yo?
THE THIRD TIME was The Bank Manager.
She was a compulsive gambler. Ponies. She had run her losses to over a quarter-million. She’d already taken the second mortgage on the house and refinanced the car. Already taken all that money and blown it on long shots, trying to get even. Messages had been sent. I imagine her showing up at the bank after the first message, explaining away a black eye and a limp as the result of a fall. After the second message things probably got tricky. Maybe one of her friends sitting her down at lunch to ask if there were problems at home. That kind of thing.
Someone doesn’t find a way to generate more income after the second message, they get offered suggestions. She’s a bank manager? Maybe she can approve some loans.
She declined.
We got her after work. She stopped at a bar on the way home, had the three drinks she’d been having every night since things started getting bad, put a couple dollars in the progressive slot machine, hoping for a jackpot. All the usual things losers do. She came out, just a little drunk, walked to her car. As she was putting her hand on the door I came walking up and called her name. She looked up, squinted against the darkness, and Branko appeared behind her and hit her on the back of the head. She fell down. I walked over.
I was working the pills pretty hard by then. Hard. I was stoned out of my gourd. I reached in my pocket for whatever kind of gun I was carrying, but couldn’t find it. Branko had to show me that it was already in my hand. The safety was off, a round was chambered. The woman moved and Branko bent and hit her again with his sap.
She was wearing bank clothes; a conservative skirt suit in a dark color, flesh-tone hose, low heels. She was nearly fifty, plump, and had fat ankles. I emptied the gun into the back of her head and kept pulling the trigger until Branko took it from me, wiped it, and dropped it. Then he towed me to the car he’d bought for the job and drove us away.
He came by the Suites the next day and found me with the newspaper, looking at the photo of the dead woman when she was still alive: a family portrait with her husband and two daughters. He crumpled the paper and stuffed it in the trash. These things, he said, are better forgotten.
Good tip. Wish someone’d told me sooner.
I LOOK AT the scraps of paper being spread across the pavement. One of them flips over and I see a tiny photocopied image of my face from my old driver’s license.
I think about The Bank Manager. I think about killing mothers. I think about killing Mickey’s mother. I don’t want to do that.
I think about doing the right thing.
Jay is watching me.
I find my phone in one of my jacket pockets. I remember the battery is dead. I look at Jay.
– Can I borrow yours?
He tilts his head.
– Yo.
He pulls his out and passes it to me.
I stand up.
– Give me just a minute here.
He shakes his head and laughs.
– Sure. Whatever.
I walk a little ways away in the direction of the war monuments. I dial a number. I get an answering machine like I knew I would.
– Hey, it’s me. Call me back at this number.
I say the number and hang up. Less than a minute later Jay’s phone rings. I answer it.
– Hello, Henry.
– Hey, David.
– Have you decided to come in?
– Well, yeah.
He sighs deeply, letting the air slowly drain away like tension. It is sad, but it will be for the best.
– Good.
– Yeah. The thing is.
– Yes?
– The thing is, and this is kind of funny, the thing is I found something. And I think you’re gonna want it.
IT’S NOT EASY. You don’t just tell someone, Hey, remember all that money we thought was lost forever. Well you won’t believe this, but it just walked up to me and turned itself in. But he listens. And he asks questions. And in the end, he believes.
We work out a deal. It’s pretty much the kind of deal I’ve come to expect in these circumstances. David gets the money. I get my mom and dad. I get protection for Mom and Dad.
I’ll go to David’s office in the morning. He’ll be alone. I’ll show him the money. He’ll shake my hand and embrace me and congratulate me on fulfilling my contract. And then he’ll turn me around.
And Branko will be standing there.
And before I can say or do anything, Branko will do something to me, and I will die.
And I can live with that. So to speak.
Because 4 million dollars is not enough to buy my life at this point. But it is certainly enough for David to stick on a scale against the hassle of killing my folks after I am already dead. It’s enough to count on as a guarantee that he’ll take care of Adam and Martin.
At least it seems that way to me.
Having no other choice and all.
I HANG UP and walk back over to Jay. Miguel is by the curb with the bartender. She’s climbing into a cab. I hand Jay his phone. And with nothing to lose, I can afford to do the right thing for a change.
– Sure. I can talk to Miguel. I can tell him to stay away from David. Want me to do that now?
Jay takes his phone and stands up. He looks over at Miguel trying to get in the cab with the bartender. She pushes him out, the door slams, and the cab drives away.
– Better wait, yo. Hit him when he’s sober. Tomorrow after the game maybe.
I think about my plans for the next morning.
– That might not work out.
– Nice one, Jay.
Miguel is walking toward us.
– Good plan, taking a break and all. Way to keep the party going.
Jay waves him off and turns back to me.
His eyes open wide.
They’re looking over my shoulder.
– What the fuck, yo?
I drop.
The sap ruffles my hair.
Jay leaps over me.
I hear the sound of two bodies colliding. Stumbling feet. Flesh hitting stone. I flip onto my back. I can see Jay tangled up with Martin on the cobbles. Martin rolling on top of Jay. I start to get up. Adam kicks me in the ribs.
Martin is hurting Jay.
I start to get up.
Adam kicks me in the ribs.
Pain spears my left side. I gasp. I try to get up. The pain shoots deeper. Martin is sitting on Jay’s chest, pinning him to the ground, whipping the sap back and forth, shattering his young face.
Adam grabs me by the collar and starts dragging me toward the bus.
Miguel smashes into his back and they slam down to the pavement.
Martin is standing up. Jay isn’t moving.
Miguel doesn’t know how to fight. I can see from here that he doesn’t know how to fight at all. But he’s just so strong he’s crushing Adam into the concrete. Martin is walking toward them, sap raised. Adam has stopped resisting Miguel. I’m on my hands and knees. I see Adam’s hand slipping into the pocket where he carries his knife. I start to crawl.
– Miguel! Mike! Mike!
His head comes up. The knife comes out of the pocket. I fling myself forward and catch Adam’s wrist as the blade flicks open. Martin’s sap smashes down on the back of Miguel’s neck and he sprawls on top of Adam, jarring his arm, and I twist the knife free.
Martin grabs my hair and jerks my head back and forth.
– Tetka Anna! Tetka Anna! Tetka Anna!
Adam is heaving Miguel’s bulk off of him.
– Martin!
I aim for the center of Martin’s foot, miss, and jam the blade down into his toes. Blood squirts out of the cut in his Pumas. He brings his foot up, yanking it free and tearing the knife from my hands. It flips through the air and clatters back down. Martin hops a couple times and stumbles over Miguel, falling on top of him just as Adam squirms free.
I look for the knife. It’s lost in the darkness. But Adam is crawling after something. I crawl after him. I grab his ankle and pull. Pain worms through my rib cage. I yank Adam’s right leg out from underneath him and he balances on his left leg and his arms and looks back at me, kicking and jerking, trying to rip free. I clutch his leg with both hands. He gives up on the knife and tries to turn himself around, coming back at me.
Martin is getting up. He stands, his right foot planted, his left raised gingerly, blood leaking from his shoe. He looks at the ground, bends, picks up his sap, and looks at me.
Adam flips himself onto his back and kicks me in the forehead with his left foot. I let go with one hand and feel at the cobbles, my fingers dig in around a loose stone and pull it free.
Martin is hopping toward me.
Adam’s left foot tags me on the ear. I heave my weight on top of his right leg and pin it. I raise the cobblestone and smash it down on his ankle. He screams and stops kicking me. I bring the stone down again and feel the bone give beneath it. He screams again. I hammer him once more. He doesn’t scream this time.
I let go of the leg and roll onto my back, the stone in my hand. I feint a throw at Martin’s leaking foot. The memory of the balls I fired into him at Coney pops up in his eyes. He flinches. I throw the cobblestone at his good knee. He’s back on the ground.
I take off my shoe.
I stand up.
Hunched over the pain in my ribs, I walk to where Martin is trying to figure out the best way to stand up on his mutilated foot and his cracked kneecap. He looks up at me. I hit his face with the shoe. I keep hitting him until I’m sure he gets the point. He collapses, blood and snot leaking from his nose.
Adam has pulled his leg up close to his body, his foot dangling from the pancaked ankle. One of his hands is scampering over the ground, feeling for his lost knife. I take a couple steps, bend, and pick up the knife.
I point at the ankle.
– Can you walk on that?
– No.
I put out my hand. He takes it. I pull, wincing at the pain in my ribs.
– Come on.
He leans on me, hopping on his good leg as I lead him over to the railing.
– Wait here.
He slumps against the rail, digs a cigarette out of his pocket and lights up.
I walk over to Martin. He’s out. I look at Jay. His face is cracked and swelling. Bubbles of blood inflate and pop between his lips. Miguel shifts. He groans and puts a hand to the back of his neck. His eyes open.
– What the. What the fuck, man?
– Jay’s hurt.
– Huh?
– Jay’s hurt.
– Where? What?
He sits up too fast and his eyes spin. He starts to go back down. I kneel. A new and different pain in my ribs. I hold him up until he stops spinning.
– OK?
– Yeah. Yeah. OK.
I point his face toward Jay.
– You see.
– Oh fuck. Oh shit.
– Can you stand now?
He stands.
– Get Jay in the bus.
– Oh fuck. Oh shit. Oh, Jay.
He walks over to his friend, squats, slips his arms under him, and easily lifts him off the ground. He carries him toward the bus. I look at Martin. I still have the shoe in my hand. I tuck it into my armpit, bend over and grab Martin under his arms and drag him toward his brother. Miguel sticks his head out of the bus.
– He’s in. Should I call 911?
– Just wait in there. Put a towel on his face or something.
He disappears back inside the shuttered bus.
I get Martin to the rail. Adam reaches out and helps me pull him up and lean him there. His hands open and close a couple times and his puffed eyes open to slits. He grabs at the rail and holds himself up, but there’s nobody home yet.
I move my arm. The shoe drops out of my armpit to the ground. I push my white-socked foot back inside, not taking my eyes from Adam, his knife still in my hand.
– You been following them since you lost me?
Adam chains a fresh smoke, blood from his fingers smears the filter.
– No. We went home. Tetka Anna. There were things broken in the house. She was gone.
– Uh-huh.
– David.
– Uh-huh.
– Martin wanted to go there. To get her.
– Uh-huh.
– But they would have killed us. I thought you. David will want you. You tried to kill him.
– Yeah. He does.
– We followed your friends.
– You followed these guys, came looking for me?
– Yes.
– That wasn’t a bad idea.
– No.
– No, it wasn’t.
He takes a drag.
I blink. Wait to change my mind. But I don’t.
– A bad idea, was when you threatened to torture my parents.
The knife is very sharp. It pokes through his windpipe with great ease. I pull it out and blood sputters from the hole on a stream of cigarette smoke. His mouth opens and closes. The cigarette falls from his fingers. I bend over, grab his good leg, haul upward, and he tips over the rail into the bay. Martin turns his glazed, slitted eyes to me, but I am already pushing him back over the rail. He grabs at me, barely conscious of what is happening. His back is bent over the rail. He is held balanced only by the grip he has on my forearm. I rake the blade of the knife across his knuckles, and he falls.
I don’t bother to look. Adam with his slit throat, Martin with his lamed foot and knee and addled head, they will both drown. I turn and walk toward the bus, collecting Martin’s sap from the ground as I go.
Having made David’s end of the deal that much easier.
I climb into the bus. I close the door. I look at Miguel sitting on the floor next to Jay, holding a dirty T-shirt over his face.
– How is he?
Jay’s hand comes up and pushes the towel off.
– Fucking fine, Scarface. Fucking fine for a guy who’s gonna look worse than you.
And he passes out.
– You were fighting.
– What?
– You were fighting. You were drunk and you got into a fight with each other and you beat the crap out of him.
– Oh no. No, man. I don’t want to say that.
– Listen. If it’s a fight between friends, no matter how bad it is, the cops won’t fuck around if neither of you presses charges.
– Oh, man. That sucks. That just. It sucks. I don’t want people to think. Fuck! Who were those guys?
– They were. They’re like business rivals. Like people who have a problem with David.
– Shit! Oh, shit. Are they? What if they-Look. Don’t worry about those guys. I ran those guys off. They won’t be a problem.
I take a left on Maiden Lane, drive another couple blocks, and pull over on Gold Street.
– Come here.
Miguel gets up. I push the button that opens the door and get out of the driver’s seat. I try to lift the box, but it hurts my ribs too much.
– Pass me that thing.
I go down the steps. Miguel hands the box down. I set it on the curb.
– Thanks. There’s a hospital just up the street here. Beekman, I think, at the university. Just drive straight up and start honking.
– Right, OK.
– And, Miguel, it was a fight. You beat him up.
– Man.
– Do it. Handle it that way. Cops go poking into tonight and shit will hit the fan.
– OK. OK. Got it. What about. Wait. What about you?
– I took off when everybody else did.
– No. Where are you? What are you?
I put my hand on the box.
– I have to take care of this thing.
– OK, yeah, but you’ll be back. Here. You’ll.
– Just call your agent, OK. Him you can tell anything you want.
He won’t be letting your ass get in any trouble.
– OK. But what?
– Tomorrow. I’ll see you tomorrow, OK? At the game.
– Yeah. Yeah. OK, man. I. This is fucked up, man.
– Take Jay to the hospital.
– Yeah. Yeah, man.
He gets behind the wheel, looks at me, nods, and pushes the button that closes the door. I watch the party bus lurch down the street. Then I drag the box back to Water Street where I can find a cab.
It’s heavy.
The fucking box is heavy.
And it hurts me.
THERE WAS THIS bar Yvonne liked to go drinking at in Brooklyn. Nights when neither of us had to work at Paul’s, we’d sometimes take the A train over to the Heights. We’d walk up Henry Street to Clark, to this place. It was a dive, all our favorite places were dives. I’m not sure how she found it. We’d drink. I’d suck down bottles of Bud with a few Turkeys neat thrown in to keep me going. She’d have Corona and shots of tequila. Tequila made her crazy in bed. We’d play pool and darts, get good and drunk, and on summer nights we’d walk back to Manhattan across the Brooklyn Bridge, stopping a couple times along the way to make out. Those were good dates.
The owner of the place was nuts. He was a bit of a hood. Yvonne told me he was the local loan shark or something. Whatever else he was, he was crazy. He had this big dog, a huge mongrel. The dog would wander around the bar, sniffing the floor, looking for a peanut or a piece of beef jerky that might have been dropped. The owner left the dog in the bar overnight as protection for the place. There was a big old hotel across the street, a transient hotel that was chock-full of crackheads. He worried about them breaking into the bar. He had a training program for the dog, a program designed to make it hate crackheads. He’d do it a few times a week, whenever one of the crackheads got hard up enough to need the cash.
One of them would come across from the hotel and knock on the window until he got the owner’s attention. The owner would ignore him for awhile, then finally look over and nod. The crackhead would start banging on the glass, and the dog would run over, barking. The crackhead would walk back and forth in front of the place, banging on the window and the door as the dog barked and the owner knelt down next to it and whispered in its ear.
– Kill. Kill the nigger. Kill.
The dog would be utterly spazzed out and the owner would nod at the crackhead again. The crackhead would come over to the door, edge it open, and stick his arm inside with a jacket or an old sweatshirt wrapped around it. The dog would latch on and jerk the arm back and forth as the crackhead struggled to keep from being pulled inside, and the owner laughed his ass off. After about a minute he’d stop laughing, drag the dog off, and pass the crackhead five bucks. The crackhead would wander off looking for his man, unwrapping his arm to check out the massive bruises that would be there for weeks.
After the show was over, anyone in the place who hadn’t seen it before would tend to put their drinks down and take off. It wasn’t the kind of joint most people felt comfortable in. But if you stuck it out, saw the scene go down a few times and kept coming back, the owner figured you must be his kind of people. We’d go in a couple times a month. Saw the whole thing three or four times. But I don’t think either of us ever considered ourselves the owner’s kind of people.
Anyway, if it wasn’t for that bar, I wouldn’t know about the hotel. So there’s that.
THE BAR IS gone. There’s something there in its place, some kind of cafe or diner. But the hotel is still across the street, right on the corner. I give the cabbie a couple extra bucks and he carries the box inside for me. The place is cleaned up. I see a kind of plaque above the check-in that tells me they’re using it as housing for the Brooklyn campus of Long Island City College, but the desk clerk is still housed behind a couple inches of Plexiglas, and there are still crackheads in evidence.
– I need a room.
She doesn’t say anything, just slips a registration card under the window. I find a pen on the end of a chain and fill in the information. I don’t have the energy to make up anything new so I just use the vitals from my Las Vegas identity.
– Can I pay cash?
She looks at me this time, takes in the dirty jacket and undershirt. I wiped my hands clean of blood in the party bus, but they’re still filthy.
– Yeah. Gotta leave a deposit.
– Sure.
I ask for a room next to the elevator and she gives it to me. I pay for the night, plus an extra night as the deposit, plus extra to have the TV switched on, plus another deposit to have the phone. I give her the cash. She gives me a receipt and a key and buzzes me into the lobby. I drag the box in, wait for the elevator, go up two floors, drag the box across the hall and into my room, close the door and do all the locks, collapse on the bed and close my eyes.
Immediately I see Adam and Martin.
I open my eyes.
Jesus. Jesus.
Who are they? Where do they all come from? All of these orphans I collect. All of these brothers I’ve killed.
THERE ARE SOME take-out menus in the night table. I call the twenty-four-hour deli down the street, a place called Pickles & Peas. I can remember stopping there with Yvonne on the nights we walked home across the bridge. We’d buy cans of beer and tuck them into brown paper bags so we could sip them as we went. I call and get a woman with a heavy Korean accent. She’s fine taking my order for a sandwich and bottles of water, but we run into problems when I ask if they have any first aid stuff. Finally I work out that they don’t have anything but Band-Aids. I ask if she has duct tape.
– Duck tape?
– Duct tape.
– No duck. Deli. No grocery.
– Duct. Tape. Silver tape. Sticky.
– Silver tape! Yes! Silver tape. Yes.
– One roll, please.
– Yes. Yes. Where?
– The hotel. Room 214.
– Yes, yes. Ten minute.
– Thanks. Wait!-Yes?
– Bleach? Do you have bleach? Clorox?
– Yes. Bleach, yes.
– Send a bottle of bleach.
– Yes. Yes. Ten minute.
I hang up. Exactly ten minutes pass before the desk clerk calls and tells me I have a delivery. I tell her to send it up.
The delivery guy smiles when I open the door. He hands me the receipt. I give him some money and tell him to keep the change. He smiles again and bobs his head. I take the bag, close and relock the door.
I turn the bag upside down and empty it on the bed. Everything tumbles out. I crack one of the bottles of water and drink. I tried the water from the taps before I called the deli; it tasted like rust. I drink half the bottle in one go, my ribs bursting with pain every time I swallow. I take the half-empty bottle and the bleach and go into the bathroom.
I pull up the plug in the sink and start to fill it, then turn on the shower. I take off all my clothes and toss my wife-beater, underwear and socks into the shower. When the sink is full, I turn it off and pour a cup of bleach into it. I climb into the hot shower and stand under the water. I unwrap a tiny bar of soap, bend over and pick up my underwear and start scrubbing at the urine stains from when Mickey’s mother had her gun stuck in my neck and I almost completely pissed myself. I give the wife-beater and the socks a good wash, too. Then I scrub the sweat and dirt and blood from my skin and hair.
The bruise on my ribs is huge. It’s darkest about eight inches under my armpit, and then spreads in various shades of purple, black, blue and red down my side and around to my sternum. I have to wash that side very carefully. Even the jets of water hurt.
I get out and dry myself, blotting the bruise softly. I wring out my whites and drop them in the sink with the water and bleach. My mouth tastes funky. I should have bought a toothbrush and some toothpaste. Oh well.
I go back into the room with the towel wrapped around my waist, get my sandwich and another bottle of water, and ease myself onto the bed, propped up at the headboard by the two flat pillows. I unwrap the sandwich and take a bite. They put mayonnaise on it, even though I asked them not to. Shit, I hate mayonnaise. I take off the top piece of bread, scrape off as much mayo as I can, put the sandwich back together and eat.
There’s a remote chained to the nightstand. Students must be as bad as crackheads. I turn on the TV and start flipping. I flip and chew. There’s not much, just very-basic-cable stuff. I roll around the same dozen or so channels while I eat. When the sandwich is done I get up and go into the bathroom. I drain the sink, rinse the bleach from my things, and hang them on the shower rod. I look at my jacket and jeans. I take a damp cloth and rub at the worst of the stains, then give up. I go back into the room where I’ve left the TV tuned to the Madison Square Garden Network. I get back on the bed, pick up the remote, but before I can change the channel I see Miguel’s face. He’s on the TV.
I panic for a second. Then I realize that they are not breaking a story about the Mets’ top prospect and two bodies that are floating in the Hudson Bay. It’s just a rebroadcast of the day’s Cyclones game. I watch it. I watch how well Miguel plays. I watch the homer Jay told me about. I watch.
I watch a baseball game.
It’s not a great game. Hell, it’d barely be a good game if I didn’t know one of the players. But that doesn’t matter. I watch the game. Somewhere in the eighth inning I can’t keep my eyes open any longer. The chatter of the announcers, the hum of the crowd, the crack of the bat; all the sounds of who I once was, they lull me finally to sleep. And that’s really the best part.
I SIT ON the couch with the controller in my hands, trying to make the players on the screen do what I want them to. We’ve been playing for hours now.
– This is boring.
I hit a button and the pitch flies at The Kid’s hitter. He slams it, the ball shoots down the right field line and he clears the bases, scoring two more runs.
– Shit! That was foul.
The Kid laughs.
– Argue the call. Get kicked out of the game. I love that.
– This sucks.
– For you. I’m having a great time.
I look at the score, 63-1, top of the sixth.
We play. He leans forward, his elbows on his knees. I look at the huge hole in the back of his head.
– When you gonna get that fixed?
He fouls off a pitch.
– Huh?
– When you gonna get that hole fixed?
– What are you talking about?
– Your hole, when are you gonna get that taken care of?
– You’re high. You can’t fix that. I’m stuck with it. Don’t be a dick.
– You’re the dick. This game. Let’s just declare mercy rule and go outside and play for real.
The Kid shakes his head and the strings of spaghetti in his hair waggle.
– No mercy.
– But I’m sick of playing. And these guys want to do something, too.
I point at Adam and Martin, sitting by the open window, both of them dripping water.
Adam shakes his head.
– I do not need to play. I will smoke.
He brings a cigarette to his mouth, takes a drag, and blows rings out of the hole in his throat.
The Kid points at him.
– Hey! Blow that outside. My folks will shit if they smell it.
Adam waves a hand at him and blows a stream of smoke out the window.
I slap the controller against my thigh.
– OK, but I want to go do something else and so does Martin.
– No he doesn’t.
– Yes he does.
The Kid looks at Martin.
– Marty, you want to go outside?
Martin slaps his sap into the palm of his hand.
– Tetka Anna! Tetka Anna! Tetka Anna!-See. He’s fine.
– But I want to go.
– Don’t whine. Tell you what. Get this next hitter out, and we’ll go outside.
I point at the TV.
– That’s Jackie Robinson. I can’t get Jackie out.
– You can try.
The door opens. The Bank Manager and The Culinary Rep walk in.
The Kid looks over at them.
– Hey, Mom. Hey, Dad.
The Rep waves.
– Hey, Kid.
The Manager comes over and kisses him on the cheek. I see the huge hole in the back of her head.
– Hello, baby.
She looks around.
– Do I smell cigarette smoke?
Adam flicks his butt out the window.
The Kid sniffs.
– Not from us, Mom.
– Hmm.
The Rep walks over. He turns around, sniffing the air. I see the huge hole in the back of his head.
– Smells like smoke.
– Naw, I don’t think so.
The Rep gives him a hard look.
– Don’t lie to me, Son.
– Dad, you’re in the way of the game!
I throw a pitch.
– Don’t yell at me. I smell cigarette smoke in my house.
The Kid hits a button, Jackie swings and pops up the ball and it drops into my catcher’s glove. He throws his controller at the floor.
– Shit! Shit! Shit!
The Manager covers her mouth with her hand.
– What did you say?
The Culinary Rep walks to the TV, unplugs the game console and starts to wrap the cables around it.
– OK, that’s it. Everybody out.
I stand.
– Yeah, let’s go play.
The Kid stands.
– OK. Jeez, I was going for the single-game scoring record. Would have had it, too. You suck.
The Rep puts a hand on his shoulder.
– Uh-uh, not you. You aren’t going anywhere. Not after using language like that.
– Daaad!-No! Game over. Everybody out. And I’m calling all of your parents and telling them one of you was smoking.
Adam and Martin don’t say anything, they just help each other stand and start hobbling to the door, Adam pulling a fresh smoke from his pack.
I follow them out. The door closes behind us.
– C’mon, guys, let’s go play pickle.
Adam looks at me, blows more smoke out of his neck.
– No. I must smoke.
– C’mooooon.
Martin points at his ruined knee and foot.
– Tetka Anna! Tetka Anna! Tetka Anna!
– OK, OK. Be spoilsports.
I watch them as they weave and lurch down the street, leaning on one another for support.
– Yo!
I turn around. Jay and Miguel are in the middle of the street. Miguel has a ball. He’s throwing it up in the air as far as he can, positioning himself underneath it and practicing basket catches.
I point.
– That’s bad fundamentals. You want to get under the ball, get the glove up and catch it with both hands. Showboat like that and it’ll cost you a run someday.
Jay looks at Miguel.
– Check out Sparky Anderson, yo.
Miguel makes another easy catch.
– Whatever. Let’s play three flies.
I watch the ball go up in the air again.
– I don’t got my glove.
Miguel tosses me his.
– Use mine.
The ball drops and slaps down into his bare hand.
– Take the field.
Me and Jay walk down the street. Miguel walks in the opposite direction. When we’re far enough away he tells us to stop. We take spots in the middle of the street. Miguel tosses the ball up and swats it with his bat, popping it toward us. We jockey for position, lightly elbowing one another, trying to create space as the ball drops at our faces. It veers slightly at the last second and I leap and twist and flop over the hood of a car, snowconing it before it can hit and leave a dent.
Jay slaps me on the ass as I walk over with the ball.
– Nice one, yo.
I throw the ball back to Miguel. He catches it and points up the street behind us.
– Car!
We take a couple steps out of the way and let the car go by. Then we play some more.
I WAKE UP.
I look at the clock.
It’s after 10:00 a.m. Late.
I get up, grab the duct tape and go into the bathroom. I splash water on my face and rub it over my head. I rinse my mouth. I look at the bruise on my ribs. It’s bigger. My whole side is stiff and aches. I peel off a long strip of duct tape and plaster it to my side. I peel off another strip and do the same.
I use the whole roll, taping up my side, fixing the cracked ribs in place. When I’m done it looks like I have a plate of lead covering my left side, bands of it wrapped around my middle and arcing up over my shoulder. It pulls at my skin and makes it hard to breathe, but the ribs don’t move as much.
I put on my wife-beater and underwear and socks. Everything smells of bleach. I pull on my jeans and my jacket and go back into the room and get my shoes. There’s blood on the heel of the right one. I leave it there and put them on. I fill my pockets with my cash and my wallet and the keys to my shitty apartment in Las Vegas. I pick up Adam’s flick-knife and Martin’s sap and the last full bottle of water.
Anything else?
Before I die, anything else?
I take a last look around the room.
No, not really. Nothing else.
So I take the box to the elevator and go downstairs and drag it through the lobby to the curb and hail a cab and the driver puts it in the trunk and I tell him to take me to Brighton Beach.
Wasn’t much of a last night. But at least I got to see some of that game. That was nice. That was OK.
THE CABBIE DROPS me off right in front of the building, but he doesn’t want to help me with the box no matter how much cash I offer him. He does lift it out of the trunk for me, and then I stand at the bottom of the steps looking up. There are only about eight of them, but it’s gonna hurt like hell getting the box up there. I force my water bottle into the right side-pocket of my jacket and lift the box up on the first step. Sure enough, it hurts like hell. There are a couple middle-aged Latinos sitting at the top of the steps playing cards on a little crate between their knees. They watch me struggle to get the box up another step, and then one of them calls into the lobby of the building.
– Chiqui!
A skinny twelve-year-old kid wearing shorts and nothing else comes running out. The man points at me and my box. The kid scampers down the steps, wraps his arms around the box, and muscles it up to the top. I climb up after him. He starts to run back inside.
– Hang on.
He stops.
I get a five out of my pocket and hand it to him.
– To the elevator, OK?
The kid looks at the five and then at the man playing cards. The man nods and says something in Spanish. The kid smiles, grabs the bill and hauls the box over to the elevator.
I nod at the man.
– Gracias.
– De nada.
I walk across the tiles that spell out El Marisol and into the cool lobby. The kid smiles again, pushes the elevator button for me and runs outside. I look around the lobby. I figured David would have someone down here, waiting for me. Nope. The elevator dings and the doors open. I scoot the box in. Standing inside the elevator, looking through the lobby and out the front door, I can see the ocean beyond the two small brown men playing cards. I hear them mumbling to each other in Spanish and, faintly, the crash of a wave. It feels like Mexico for that one second. And then the doors close and the elevator takes me up.
– Henry.
– Hey, David. Can you help me with this?
He comes into the corridor and we carry the box down the hall and into his office. I wait for a moment while he goes back down the hall, closes and locks the door and returns.
– A drink?
He walks toward the sideboard that holds the bottles, going around the box, treating it like just another piece of furniture in the overcrowded room.
I work the water bottle free of my pocket.
– No thanks.
He nods.
– It is early for me. And you do not drink. But still.
He picks up two glasses and brandishes them at me. Today of all days.-No. Thanks, but no.
He puts down one of the glasses in surrender.
– Well, it is good to be true to one’s convictions. Bravo, Henry. But I will drink. You do not mind?
– No.
He pours himself a brandy, sniffs it.
– I need a drink. After this last day, I need a drink.
He takes a drink.
– Yes, I need a drink.
He stands there, staring down into the glass. I stand there, staring at him.
– So, David.
– Yes?
I put my hand on top of the box.
– You want to check this out?
He looks at the box, lifts his glass and waves it back and forth a little. If that will make you happy.
I flip and twist the clasps, pull off the top and set it on the arm of the couch.
David takes a couple steps closer and looks at the money. He smiles. A tiny breath of laughter escapes from his nose.
– To be honest, Henry? To be honest, I half expected you would have a weapon or an ally hidden within.
– Someone with a tommy gun waiting to pop out?
– Just so.
– Yeah, that would have been good. Nope, just the money.
He comes closer, reaches out, takes one of the packs of bills from the torn plastic, fingers it, and drops it back inside.
– And it was waiting here?
– Yeah.
– Your friend left it here for you?
– Yeah.
– I have said before.
– What?
– He was a good friend.
– Yeah, he was.
– A loss for you.
I don’t say anything.
– Think of all that could have been avoided if he had lived just long enough to tell you what he had done. Imagine.
He looks up at the ceiling, shaking his head in wonder. The waste, the waste.
I unscrew the top of my water bottle, take a sip and screw it back on.
– What I imagine is that if I had known where the money was that day, you would have killed me there and then.
He raises a hand in objection, lowers it.
– I would like to say, I would like very much to say that you are wrong, Henry, but it is not a day to tell lies. Yes, that would have been the case. But. But it has not all been a tragedy. There have been benefits. Some of the work you have done for me has been good. And for you? Some extra time. Who, if asked, would not do what you have done to extend their life for a year? More than a year. And it has not been your life alone that you have spared. Yes? This is the point, yes? This is the why and the wherefore of it all, yes? This is why you are here now with this money rather than on a plane. I tell you, it has not been all bad. You have done well in this, Henry. You are a good son. No one can question that. Ever.
He lifts his glass to me, brings it to his lips, drains it. And I salute you.
He sets the glass on his desktop.
– Are you carrying any weapons, Henry?
I nod.
– Yeah.
He points at the box.
– Put them there, right on top. When the time comes, instinct sometimes takes over. It is best if you are not armed.
I take the knife from my pocket and put it on top of the money.
David looks at it. He sees the blood. He raises an eyebrow. You have been busy?
I nod.
– The nephews.
– Yes?
– They found me.
– And?
– I killed them, David.
– Yes. What else could have happened? Always you are underestimated, Henry. Always.
– Except by you.
He shakes his head and holds up a hand. Do not flatter me.
– No. Even by me. On some occasions, even by me. Do you have any other weapons?
I take out the sap and put it with the knife.
He smiles.
– You will have to turn around and raise your arms.
I do it.
He comes close behind me and runs his hands down my arms and sides. I flinch when he touches the ribs.
– An injury?
He lifts my shirt and looks at the tape.
– The nephews?
– Yeah.
He drops my shirt and finishes patting me down.
– Yes. That is good.
I turn around.
– What now?
– Branko.
I jerk my head around, expecting to find him behind me. But he’s not.
David pats my shoulder.
– No, Henry. There is time. He will not sneak up on you.
– Where is he?
– Here. In the bedroom. I am not a fool. I would not have you here and be alone. No matter, no matter how much I trust that you love your parents, I would not do that.
– So?
– So we will go in. You will see him. We will talk for another moment or two. And he will take you away somewhere. Yes?
– Yeah. Sure. That was the deal.
– Yes. That was the deal.
He gestures to the hall, to the doors that open off the hall. Two of them are open: one the kitchen, the other the bathroom. The closed door will be the bedroom.
The deliberateness of the exercise has kept it at a distance, but now, walking up the hall, my heart starts to bang. It bangs, and each beat seems to knock against my ribs and pump up the pressure in my face.
My feet stop. Just short of the door, my feet stop.
– Henry?
I try to tell him I’m OK, try to tell him I just need a second, but I can’t get the words to fit together in my mouth. He steps around me, looks at my face.
– Yes. It is hard.
I can’t even nod.
– Here.
He tugs the water bottle from my frozen hand, opens it, holds it to my mouth. He tilts the bottle, water dribbles off my lips, I start to swallow. I reach up and take the bottle, drink a tiny bit more, and lower it from my mouth.
– Thanks.
– Of course.
He hands me the cap and I put it back on.
– That is better?
– Yeah, better.
– Good, good.
He puts his hand on the doorknob.
– Because, Henry, there is, I am afraid, one more thing you will have to do.
He opens the door.
It’s a small room. There is a bed for taking naps on, a TV, a comfortable chair, and a matching footstool. And there is Mickey’s mother, bound and gagged in the chair. And there is Branko, sitting on the edge of the bed.
Branko looks from the woman to the door as it opens. David is standing with one hand on the knob, holding the door open, waiting for me to walk past him into the room. He is watching my face, waiting to see the surprise there when I register his final twist of the knife, when I realize he wants me to kill Anna before he’ll send me away with Branko, before he will ensure my parents’ safety. The smile on his face says it all. Now you see? Now you see what you fucking get when you fuck with me?
And I do see.
I see what I get.
But I don’t want it.
And I’m not going to take it.
Too late, Branko sees what I have in my hand.
– David!
But David is enjoying the moment so thoroughly, he doesn’t see the water bottle coming until I smash it across the side of his head.
The shock of the blow sends the bottle spinning from my hand and David toward the floor. I grab him before he can go down and jerk him up in front of me, my arm around his neck. Branko comes off the bed, the .22 Magnum in his hand.
We freeze.
David is slack in my arms, blood is leaking from his left ear.
Branko stands by the bed, the gun out, but not yet raised.
I look at Mickey’s mother and back at Branko.
– That’s pretty fucked up, Branko.
He brings his empty left hand slowly to his face and adjusts his glasses.
– David will have things his way. Always.
– Still.
He lowers his hand.
– Yes. Still. It is not how I would have wanted this.
– You’re a pro, Branko.
He tilts his head.
– My mother would not be proud.
– Neither would mine, man.
He gives his little laugh-grunt.
David stirs in my arms.
I charge Branko, shoving David ahead of me.
The gun comes up. Branko wastes a moment trying to get some exposed part of me in his sights, then he shoots at our legs. He gets off two rounds. One bullet snaps into the floor, raising a cloud of tiny splinters. I feel the other one, or at least the shock of it as it enters David’s thigh. And then we are plowing into Branko.
He drops his shoulder to take the blow, but the mass of two bodies striking him sends him backward onto the bed. David is sandwiched between us, howling, his wounded thigh being knocked about.
Branko still has the gun. It is in his right hand, pinned between his body and David’s. He tries to writhe away from the bulk on top of him, tries to free his gun hand. I grab at David’s hair, but it’s too short to get a grip. I latch onto his ears instead, one in either hand. I pull his head back and slam it forward, smashing his face into Branko’s. Things crunch, and I do it again.
David is jerking and twisting, trying to free himself. All his thrashing batters Branko.
Branko moves his head to the side. His nose is a bloody mess. His eyes meet mine.
The gun goes off.
David tenses.
And goes limp.
The gun goes off again. I feel the bullet shiver through David’s corpse. I pull his head back and bash it again into Branko’s face.
The gun goes off again.
This bullet finds a path through David’s ribs, slicing his soft tissues, punching out his back and into my chest.
I yelp.
I heave on David’s ears, slam his head forward again.
And again.
And again.
The gun doesn’t go off anymore. But I keep pounding David’s face into Branko’s, hitting him over and over with something other than my fist.
When David’s ears are too slick with blood for me to keep my grip, I roll off of the two corpses, slide to the floor, and sit with my back to the bed. I pull up my shirt and pick the small, spent slug from the duct tape layered over my ribs. I look at it, and then look up. And see Mickey’s mother as she stares at me.
The maddog who killed her son, in all his glory.
WHEN THE PAIN in my ribs has subsided, when I can breathe again, I go to the living room/office, collect Adam’s knife, and go back to the bedroom. Mickey’s mother is still in the chair. I walk toward her. She sees the knife.
– It’s OK. I’m not. Look, it’s OK.
I kneel in front of her and cut the cords around her legs. She draws them up, away from my touch.
– Your hands.
She doesn’t move.
– Give me your hands.
She doesn’t.
I set the knife down, take hold of her hands and pull them out so I can see the bindings. She leaves them there as I pick up the knife and cut her free.
– You can do the gag.
But she just sits there, knees pulled up, hands sticking out.
– This will hurt.
She closes her eyes. I tease up a corner of the tape on her face, then yank. It rips free. She coughs once and spits the racquetball from her mouth. I look at the floor, find the water bottle, bring it over and offer it to her. She just stares at it. I look. Some blood from David’s ear is on the side. I bend and wipe it on the carpet. She takes it from me this time, fills her mouth, swishes the water around, and spits, trying to rinse out the taste of rubber. Then she drinks.
I go to the bed. I pull David off of Branko. He falls to the floor. There are wounds in his right thigh and three in the right side of his chest. I look at Branko, but not at what I’ve done to his face. I take the gun and go through his pockets. There are no more bullets, but I find his phone and some car keys.
I turn around. Mickey’s mother is watching me. She’s still clutching the half-empty water bottle. I point at it.
– Done?
She nods. I put out my hand and she gives it to me. I drink. When it’s empty I drop it on the floor.
– Let’s go.
She looks at me.
– We have to go now.
She stands up.
– Come on.
I walk to the living room. She follows. I put the lid back on the box.
– I’ll need help.
She doesn’t move.
– Anna, I’ll need your help with this.
THERE ARE HANDLES on either side. We carry the box between us, like two pallbearers carrying a child’s coffin.
THE MEN ARE still playing cards. They look up as we come out, and then look right back down at their game. I look up the street and see what I want.
I point with my chin.
– There, that one.
We walk over and set the box down. I fish the car keys from my pocket and push the trunk release and it pops open, the only rental car on the street: a Camry. We lift the box into the trunk, close it, and I lead her to the passenger side. I hold the door open. She gets in. I go around and see her through the windshield as she reaches across and unlocks my door. I get in.
– Put on your seat belt.
She does.
I start the engine and turn us around.
– I have to make a stop. A quick stop. And then we can go.
IT’S STILL A couple hours before game time. I find a spot by the player’s entrance, right next to Miguel’s Escalade. I pull in and turn off the engine.
Anna hasn’t moved. She sits up in her seat, legs together, hands flat on top of her thighs, looking straight ahead.
– I have to do something inside.
She doesn’t move.
– I’m gonna go in for a couple minutes. I want you to stay here. OK?
Nothing.
I look at the dash clock. Time is passing. I need to move.
– Anna.
She looks at me.
– Don’t go anywhere. OK?
– OK.
I open the door and get out. The sun is bright and hot. I turn my face to it. It feels good on my face, makes my bones hurt less. I take off my jacket so I can feel the sun on as much of my skin as possible. I bend over and drop the jacket on my seat. I look at Anna.
– Stay right here.
– OK.
– OK.
I close the door, go around to the trunk and pop it. I work the top off the box and start scooping money out into the trunk. I scoop what looks to be half of the money. Then I put the top back on the box, hoist it out and close the trunk.
The box is much easier to handle now. I walk around the car toward the player’s entrance. Through the windows of the Camry I can see Anna, still and quiet. Somewhere inside, her brain is churning, trying to find someplace to settle, but nothing gives her peace.
I think about helping her with that. I think about not just getting her away from David’s place and the cops who will be showing up. I think about whoever is going to come along and take over where David left off. Will they know about his crazy sister-in-law? Will they think she had a hand in his murder? Possibly. They won’t know about me. I’m David’s ghost. No one knows about me except David and Branko, and the people I’ve hurt. I’m clear now. Clear and rich. And alone.
I think about showing Anna how to run. Protecting her. It’s a silly idea, childish. But I guess it’s to be expected. I thought I’d be dead by now, and I’m having to make up the rest of my life as I go along.
THERE’S A SECURITY guard just inside the entrance. I tell him I’m Miguel Arenas’s bodyguard. He checks out my bruises and tattoos. I guess he decides I fit the bill because he picks up a phone and makes a call and then waves me on down the corridor.
There’s a buzz in the air, the slow anticipation of the game that will start in a little less than two hours. A groundskeeper passes me, bases stacked in his arms. The door to the promotions room is open. It’s packed with giveaways: mini-bats, key chains, stuffed seagulls, hats, batting gloves. There’s a guy going through a pile of what look like hot dog costumes. Around the corner, Miguel is waiting for me outside the home clubhouse.
– Hey, man.
– Hey.
He looks me over.
– You’re a mess, man. Did you look that bad last night?
– Yeah. Pretty much.
– I was loaded.
– Yeah.
– Yeah.
He kicks at the concrete floor. He’s half dressed for the game: pants and cleats, but he’s wearing a Stanford T-shirt.
– How’s Jay?
He rubs the top of his head.
– They had to wire his jaw shut. It was broken. And his nose. And his cheekbone was cracked. They said he was lucky his eye didn’t pop out.
– You talk to him?
– A little. They got him totally stoned.
– He say anything?
– No, not really. Can’t talk with the jaw shut.
– How’s he gonna deal with that?
He grins.
– Gonna drive him nuts.
– Yo.
He laughs.
I point at the bruise on his neck.
– How’re you?
– OK. It’s sore. And I got some scrapes on my hands and stuff. No biggie.
– Uh-huh.
– Yeah. But. Someone in the emergency room recognized me. And they, I guess they know someone, so they called that Page Six deal and a photographer showed up.
– Oh, shit.
– No, it’s cool. My agent and a lawyer for the club made some calls. They promised those guys a better story later if they killed this one. Said publicity like that two days in a row would hurt my career. Whatever.
– That’s cool.
– Yeah, but. The club is sending me back down. After the game. Sending me back for rookie ball. Said I can play, but I’m not ready to handle life in the City. So. Shit.
– Sorry.
– Yeah.
Another player ducks out the clubhouse door. He nods at Miguel and heads for the tunnel to the field. Miguel watches him, and then turns back to me.
– So look. I’m thinking.
– Yeah?
– I’m thinking this is maybe not gonna work out with, you know, with your boss and all. I’m thinking. Man, you said those guys last night were hooked up with him?
– That’s right.
– Well. I mean, that’s not cool. Those guys hurt my best friend. That’s not. I can’t live like that, man.
– Uh-huh.
– So. I’m thinking you can talk to him. And tell him I want to make an arrangement. Start maybe making some payments. Work something out. And. I mean. I can’t.
He gestures, taking in the stadium above us.
– This, all this. The game. This chance. I don’t want to lose this. Jay. I can’t have that kind of thing happen. Ever. I can always play. That I can do. I can play this game wherever. But I can’t have my friends being hurt. So. Will you talk to him? Tell him. I don’t know what.
A guy comes around the corner. He’s carrying the hot dog costumes. I wait till he’s gone.
– Here’s the thing, Miguel. I talked to David this morning. And things are gonna change a little. Someone, I don’t know who, but someone else is going to have your paper. My guess is they won’t be interested in the kind of deal you had, that whole letting-the-debt-float thing. Payments won’t really cut it.
– Oh, shit.
– No. Now. Look. Don’t worry about it. It’s gonna be OK. I’m gonna help. And it will work out.
– I don’t know, man. This is. I need out.
– We’re gonna get you out. I. Hey. I’m gonna get you out. I am. I really. I am. So do something for me.
I put my hand on the box.
– This is for you. I mean, really, it’s for whoever comes to collect on your paper. What you do is, you put this someplace safe. When they come around, when they call, you give them this.
He looks sideways at the box.
– Man, do you know what I owe?
– Yeah.
– And you got something there that will cover it?
– Yeah. This will do it.
– And. Is that drugs?
– No.
– ’Cause I want nothing to do. No more trouble, OK. So no drugs.
– Miguel. Take the box. I want you to have this. Get out, man. Get out of trouble. This will do that. Take it, man. Take it and use it. Trust me.
He doesn’t say anything. Then he reaches out and puts his hand on the box.
– OK. OK, man. Thanks.
– Sure. OK. I. I got to go.
– What?
– I got to.
– The game!
– Yeah, I know.
– Maaan.
– Sorry.
– So when?
– Later. Later sometime.
– That bites, man.
– Yeah.
I put out my hand. He grabs me and crushes me, slapping my back hard a couple times. It feels like he’s breaking more of my ribs.
Miguel goes back into the clubhouse to get ready. He has to play the rubber game of the first series of the season. Must be nice. I walk back out the tunnel.
Outside, the sun is still hot and it still feels good. Cops may be at David’s right now, but they won’t know who they’re looking for for awhile. I can figure out what to do with Anna, how to help her best, and be on my way. I may not get a full thirteen thousand mornings out of the deal, but I’m going to get something. I open the car door.
BANG!
The shock wave vibrates out of the car, ruffling my shirt, and dissipates over the parking lot. I bend over and look inside. Anna has my jacket on her lap, the pocket the gun was in is flipped inside out. Her hands are over her ears. The .22 is in her left hand, smoke oozing from the barrel. Her eyes are fixed on something. I look down to see what it is. There’s a hole in my shirt and, under that, a hole in my stomach. It’s about five inches to the left of my belly button. I get in the car. Anna is still staring at the hole she put in me. I have the tail of my shirt pulled up. I’m staring at it, too.
She says something.
I look at her.
– What?
She shakes her head.
– No.
I nod.
– It’s OK.
– No. I’m sorry. I.
– It’s OK.
I reach for the gun.
– Here, let me have that.
She lowers the gun.
BANG!
This one is up higher. The tape slows it down, but it gets through and buries itself between two ribs. I inhale and feel it grinding against the bone.
It hurts.
I black out.
I come to.
Anna still has the gun in her left hand. She’s crying. She shouldn’t cry.
I point at the gun.
– I didn’t know you were left-handed.
She nods.
– Here. I’ve got it now. I’ll take it.
She nods, and pulls the trigger again, but the gun is empty. I take it from her hand and drop it on the backseat.
– OK. That’s over, that’s. Oh. Oh, man. Wow. This hurts. This really. OK. Here’s what. Can I have my jacket please?
She hiccups a couple times, covers her mouth with her hand, holds it there, then moves it away when she doesn’t vomit.
– My jacket, Anna. Please.
She picks up the jacket. I lean forward.
– Just, just wrap it around me, around my middle.
She leans over and wraps the sleeves around me.
– Good. Thanks.
I lean back, adjust the sleeves so that they cross the wound in my belly, and tie them in a tight double knot.
– OK. That’s better. That’s. And see.
I show her the hole in the tape where her second bullet entered. There is only the slightest dribble of blood leaking out.
– That one’s not bad at all. So now. Now all we have to. All we have to do is.
My head spins. I grip the steering wheel. It stops spinning.
– I’m gonna sit still for a sec, OK?
I lean back.
– Why did you kill my son?
I turn my head to face her.
– What did he do to you?
– I.
– He must have done something.
I remember Mickey. How smug he was when he figured out who I was and he demanded money from me. I remember how he threatened to tell David where I was, how he threatened Mom and Dad. I think about Mom and Dad, what it must feel like knowing some of the terrible things I’ve done. How much worse it would be if they knew them all.
– He didn’t do anything to me.
– No. He must have.
– Anna. Nothing. He did nothing. All he did. He. He just stumbled across me and recognized me. I got scared. I couldn’t take a chance he’d tell. That’s why. I killed him. He did nothing. He was a good kid. I. I liked him.
She closes her eyes. Tears leak out.
– Yes. Yes. He was a good boy.
I’ve started. I’ve started, and I find I can’t stop.
– And. I. I dream about him sometimes, too. Like you. I. I dream about all of them sometimes. And. If I could. Anna, if I could change. I was. When I was young, when I was a kid. I was driving and I, I hit this, this tree. And if. My friend was in the car and he died, you know. It was. And I thought, sometimes I thought I wished it had been me. But I really didn’t. When I was honest, honest to myself, I was thanking God that it was him and not me. But. Now. Now I wish, God, every day I wish it had been me. All the lives, Anna. You have no idea. All the lives that could have been saved. Oh, shit.
I spin again. Stop spinning.
Anna reaches over and presses her hand over the wound in my chest.
– I’ll get someone. An ambulance.
I look past her, through the window, and see the water beyond the boardwalk.
– That’s OK. That’s. Here’s what. OK, I’m gonna go and. I’m gonna go. I’m. I think I’m gonna just go down to the beach, OK? I think that’s what. Jesus. Jesus. I’m gonna go to the beach.
She still has her hand pressed against my chest. I put mine over hers.
– What you. There will be people. David has other people. They’ll want to know what happened. So the best thing. What you should do is. There’s money in the trunk. There’s a lot of money in the trunk. You need to take it. Take the car and go somewhere. Take the money and go somewhere. Back to Russia. Somewhere. Go away.
She’s staring at the blood seeping between her fingers.
– Don’t look at that. Don’t.
I put a finger under her chin and tilt her face up to mine.
– Don’t worry about that. I can. I know how to fix that. You just need to go. Just go. OK?
Her upper lip is glazed with snot.
– OK. OK.
– Good. Good for you. OK. So.
I open the door. I swing my feet out. I stand up. My head swirls. The parking lot swirls with it. I lean over and puke. It hurts. I look into the car. Anna is still in the passenger seat. I reach in and pat the driver’s seat.
– Here. Scoot over here.
She looks down at the seat. Some of my blood is pooled there. I brush at it, smearing it over the material.
– Don’t worry about that. That comes out. Just come on over here.
She lifts her legs over the gearshift and scoots her bottom into the seat.
– Good. That’s good. You can? Can you drive?
She nods.
– OK. Great. So start ’er up.
She turns the key and the engine starts.
– Good. OK. So. So. So. Out of town. That’s where you want to go. Drive. Boston. Maybe Philly. One of those places. Get a bag on the way. For. You’ll need it for the money. And go to an airport. And buy a ticket. And go away. Go away. It’s OK. You can go away. And. You just don’t come back. And. Oh, hey, and Anna?
– Yes?
– Don’t worry about this.
I point at the hole in my stomach.
– This is. I’ll be fine. This is nothing. OK?
– OK.
– Good. So. OK. Bye-bye then. Bye-bye.
I push the door closed. She sits there, staring at me through the window. I wave bye-bye to her. Bye-bye. She puts the car in reverse and pulls out. I wave again. Bye-bye. She looks at me, raises her hand. Her lips move. Bye-bye. And she drives away.
I look up, over at the beach. Wow, that’s a long way away. If I want to get there I better start now. So I do. I start walking to the beach.
And close my eyes long before I get there.