I WOKE UP the next morning by myself. The way I always do. Belle was still gone. The pain in my chest was still there. But now I recognized it for what it was- a tourniquet around my heart, not a stranglehold.
The Plymouth found its way over to Mama's. Judy Henske on the cassette. Singing just to me. An old gut-bucket blues number came through next. I didn't remember the man's name but I know he died young. And hard.
Too sick to go to the doctor
Too tired to go to sleep
Too broke to borrow money
And too hungry to eat
And then a sweet girl singer, fronting off some doo-wop group that never had a hit record.
Your tears in my eyes
Your heart in my heart
Defeat and disguise
Can't keep us apart
The weight wasn't off, but I could carry what was left.
Mama had the Daily News. The story about the bombed-out car on Wards Island was buried on page six. The paper had it down to more mob homicides. Couldn't find a word about Julio. It would take a day or so for the Queens cops to run his prints. And they'd throw the body into the same garbage bag with the rest of the mess Wesley made. Morehouse's column would be out tomorrow.
Max came in. I showed him the story about the firebombed car. He drew his X on the table. Wesley's work. He made a questioning sign. I pulled an imaginary cord a couple of times, made the sign of something rushing past. Train. He bowed.
My brother was right. I'd pulled the switch, but it was Wesley's work. Mine was done.
Almost done.