—Did you tell them much?
—Everything.
—The key?
—What about it?
—Do they have the key? Did you give it to them?
It’s another beautiful fall night in Manhattan. The air is clean and there’s a lover’s moon in the sky. It’s Friday night or Saturday morning, depending on your point of view and people are out. Back on my street, things are probably in full swing right now. I like to go out alone on my nights off, play some pool, meet new people, have more than a few. This would be a great night for it.
I look at the empty backseat of the car.
—Where is everybody, Roman?
—The partnership has broken up.
—That sucks.
—It was never stable. Frankly, it doesn’t alter my own situation. But it does greatly increase the danger to yourself.
—How so?
—There is now a large number of rogue elements at large, all looking for the key and, thus, for you. And I assure you that to the extent any of those elements have ever been able to show restraint in their dealings, I have always been the one holding them back. They are violent men and you are going to need an ally against them.
—Yourself?
—I nominate myself. Events like these have a momentum. Brutality lends itself to greater brutality and without realizing it, one can be swept along in its wake. If you wait too long, you might find yourself someplace you never knew existed. Doing things you never thought possible. I can both protect you and help to return your life to normal. I would like to do that.
He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment and pinches one earlobe with the fingers of his right hand.
—I would like very much to do that.
All the running around has my feet hurting again. I stroke Bud and feel my feet throb in time to my heartbeat. Yvonne would rub my feet sometimes, not always, but every now and then. She always made me wash them first.
Roman reaches into his jacket again. He flips on the car’s interior dome light and shows me what he has. It’s one of the pictures. A close-up of a bruise pattern on her neck. Roman traces a finger over the bruises.
—Look here. See how the bruises are knobbed and distinct? The skin is abraded in each of the bruises. Torn. This kind of bruising you get when someone wears brass knuckles. Or sometimes, you see it if the perpetrator wears several rings.
I think about Ed and Paris in the hall outside my apartment. I think about them knocking on Russ’s door, knocking with their hands covered in silver rings. Naked women and skulls. Roman puts the picture in my hand. I look at it and think about Yvonne in her Knicks jersey, spooned against me on her futon.
—Your legal problems are significant, but not insurmountable. I can help you there. More importantly, you have enemies, enemies who are fierce. I can help you there as well. To get away or to get revenge.
I think about the first time I slept with Yvonne, how drunk we were, how we laughed. I think about her hands, callused, scarred and covered in small burns from her work. I look again at the picture of her sweet neck mottled, red, black and blue. Roman watches me.
—Did you give them the key?
—No.
—Did you tell them where it is?
—No.
—Where is it?
—It’s at the bar. It’s in the safe at the bar.
—Let’s go get it.
I’m staring at the picture, feeling the pain in my feet and listening to the rushing sound in my ears, and really, I’m just not that surprised when Bolo opens the car door, pushes me over and climbs in, wedging me tight between himself and Roman just like Red is now wedged into the backseat between the Russians, who are wearing their tracksuits again. In the rearview, I can see Red’s face, a huge gauze pad over his nose held in place by a big X of white tape. He looks at Roman, who is starting the car.
—I told you it was the bar.
Bolo adjusts himself in the seat to settle his bulk and looks down at Bud.
—Hey, man, how’s the cat?
—Spalding Gray.
—What the fuck, Spalding Gray? Who the fuck?
—Spalding Gray, he’s a, a, whaddayacallit, a performance, a monologist. He talks.
—Actors, fucking actors only.
—He is a fucking actor. He’s in movies, too.
—Bullshit.
Bolo and the Russians are playing Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon. Bolo is kicking their asses. Tempers are flaring. Bolo looks at his watch.
—Come on, man, Spalding Gray.
—I don’t know fucking Spalding. Fucking Spalding is a fucking ball.
—So forfeit the point.
—Fuck you.
Red is leaning forward against the back of the front seat. The Russians put their heads together behind him and whisper to each other. Bolo grins.
—Come on, forfeit, you don’t even know who the fuck he is.
—Fuck you.
Red flicks the back of my ear again. He’s been doing it for a few hours now but doesn’t seem to be getting bored. Sometimes he just moves like he’s going to do it so he can watch me flinch, then he laughs a little. The car smells like the coffee they keep getting from the grocery across the street and about a half hour ago someone started passing gas. Fortunately, Roman makes the Russians get out of the car when they want to smoke; otherwise it might be unbearable in here. Roman just sits there behind the wheel and keeps his eyes on the front door of Paul’s down the block and across the street.
—How much longer, do you think?
It’s getting close to 5:00 A.M. and a handful of folks are still in the bar and Roman wants them out soon.
—I don’t know, sometimes Edwin will hang out partying till almost noon.
Roman runs his fingertips around the steering wheel and nods.
—Spalding Gray, Spalding Gray, Spalding Gray.
—Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you. Fucking, fuck, fuck, Spalding, fuck.
—Hey, man, is that your own rage you’re choking on or just bile?
—Forfeit, we fucking forfeit. Our turn.
Red also whispers into my ear from time to time, the same thing over and over.
—Pussy bitch, pussy bitch, pussy bitch.
—Christopher Lee!
Bolo laughs.
—Christopher Lee? Are you sure about that?
—Fucking Christopher Lee.
—OK. Lee to Peter Cushing in Horror of Dracula, Cushing to Carrie Fisher in Star Wars, Fisher to Billy Crystal in When Harry Met Sally, Crystal to Robin Williams in Father’s Day, Williams to John Lithgow in Garp, and, of course, Lithgow to Bacon in Footloose.
—Fuck! Fuck!
And again in my ear.
—Pussy bitch, pussy bitch, puuuuuuuussy bi-tch.
Bolo is still laughing.
—Christopher Lee! That your big gun, boys? Christopher Lee?
—Quit! Fucking fuck you, we fucking quit this fucking shit game.
—Yeah, fucking, yeah. Quit, you always fucking quit.
Right in my fucking ear.
—Pussy bitch, pussy bitch, pussy bitch.
I clear my throat.
—Hey, Roman, did Red mention that when he ran into me earlier today, not only did I kick his ass, but he tried to get the key for himself? “Fuck Roman,” is what he said. “Fuck Roman.” That was it, wasn’t it, Red? “Fuck Roman”?
The whispering in my ear stops and everything is really very quiet as Roman swivels around, crams the barrel of a small automatic in Red’s mouth, and pulls the trigger. There’s a muffled pop. A flashbulb goes off inside Red’s face and smoke shoots out his nose. The car is quiet and stinks and then I start screaming like a girl until Bolo clamps one of his hands over my mouth and shuts me up.
The Russians wrap what’s left of Red’s head in some old newspaper, dump him in the trunk and stay on the sidewalk to smoke as Bolo goes to the grocery. Me and Roman sit in the car with the windows rolled down to let out the stink of cordite, blo
od, and crap from Red’s bowels letting loose as he died.
5:23 A.M. Saturday morning on Avenue B and the streets are empty; no witnesses, except maybe a junkie or a squatter, and who cares anyhow?
Roman looks at me and taps his upper lip. He points at my face and taps his lip again. I get the idea and wipe my lip with the back of my hand; it comes away bloody. Roman shakes his head and taps his lip again.
—No, there’s still some. Here.
He takes out a handkerchief and wipes it across my mouth and chin a couple times.
—There. Sorry about that. Messy.
He folds the bloody handkerchief and puts it back in his pocket.
—You’re sure you don’t know the combination?
—I’m sure.
—Well, I guess you’re going to have to go in and get the key.
The blood is still on the back of my hand, drying. I rub it against the seat to get it off.
—No. I don’t. I don’t want any more. I can’t do. I can’t. I’m so.
I’m trying to say something. Fear robs my voice and I gasp out half-finished words. Bud is getting squirrelly in my lap. All the action and noise and smells are riling him up and I’m trying to calm him, but it’s not working because he can feel how scared I am. Roman reaches over and takes him from me.
—Here, let me.
He holds Bud tight and starts scratching him behind the ears. Bud starts to settle and rubs his head against Roman’s chin.
—Give the cat back.
Roman stops and smiles a little.
—Sure.
He passes Bud back and I settle him in my lap. Roman leans forward, crosses his arms over the top of the steering wheel and rests his chin there.
—You see it happening, don’t you? Circumstances spinning out of control, out of your realm of experience. The world you know is receding. I know. I know that the further you travel down this road, the less likely it is you will ever return to home. So.
—So what, man? So fucking what?
—So, if you can’t go in to get the key, then I guess we’ll have to go in and get the key.
Bolo opens the rear door and climbs in with a bottle of Formula 409 and a roll of paper towels and starts cleaning up Red’s brains.
The plan was that we would wait for everyone to leave the bar, then I would let us in with my key and one of Roman’s crew would open the safe. After that, things got vague about what happens to me. But I still thought it was a pretty good plan since it didn’t involve any more people I care about getting hurt. I liked the plan just fine until Roman blew his safecracker’s brain all over the backseat of the car.
Roman explains to me the relative advantages of my going in alone to get the key over him and his minions going in to get it.
—You have the advantage of being able to go in and simply ask your friend to get the key for you. If we go in, we’ll have to resort to threats and the use of violence.
I start to hyperventilate and Roman puts his hand on the back of my head and bends me forward until my face is between my knees.
—Just breathe.
I breathe while Bud squirms out of my lap and jumps down into the car’s footwell. Roman gives my shoulder a little squeeze.
—Good. Now, I would just as soon not go in there. Too many variables, too many risks, and the most likely outcome would be bloody. But it’s getting light out and someone has to be going in there very soon. I need that key, I really do.
I sit up and look out at the graying sky. The dash clock is at 5:34. The street is still empty, but soon early morning stragglers will appear. In the backseat, Bolo is still cleaning, humming a song under his breath. I think it might be “Car Wash.” Roman stares out the front windshield, eyes still focused on the bar’s front door. I try to picture happy endings and all I get is the nightmare image of Yvonne. There is no happy ending anymore and all I want now is to go home. I want to leave New York, I want to be with my family and be safe again and forget.
—Will you help me?
Roman is silent.
—Will you still protect me from Ed and Paris and get me off the hook with the cops? Will you still protect me?
Roman scratches his earlobe and nods.
—Nothing changes. Get the key and bring it out and I will help you. But do it now and do it quickly. Dawdle, and we’ll have to come in.
I pet Bud, climb out of the car, and cross the street over to Paul’s.
They’re listening to Black Sabbath. Edwin loves Sabbath. He has all the CDs from the original lineup loaded into the jukebox. It’s his party music. I take a look through the little window set into the door and, sure enough, it’s a party.
Edwin and Lisa are on the bar. Edwin is doing push-ups and Lisa is sitting on his back. A small group of regulars is gathered around them, keeping count, shouting out the numbers as Edwin pumps up and down, showing no sign of strain or stopping. From the door I can see Wayne, the ex-marshal, and his hippie girlfriend, Sunday. Also Cokehead Dan and Amtrak John. It’s an after-hours party and, by the huge lines of coke Dan is cutting on the bar, I’d say it’s not ending anytime soon.
I look at Roman’s car. The Russians have gotten back in, and I can’t really see anyone. I give a little wave and the headlights flash back at me. I take out my key, unlock the door and go in.
Paul’s was a Thai restaurant until Edwin bought it. He gutted the whole thing and rebuilt from the floor up. The place is just a long hallway, about four yards wide and twenty deep, with a bar running down the right wall, an elbow-high ledge running down the left and thirty stools scattered between. The bar itself is an antique Edwin bought at an auction, as is the mirror behind it. He put in hardwood floors and an old-style tin ceiling with insulation and another plaster ceiling above it so the noise wouldn’t bother the landlady, who lives right upstairs. It works great. Master of Reality, Sabbath’s second album, is pounding at full volume and no one seems to be complaining. I close and lock the door behind me.
Edwin is a bit past fifty but still built like a tractor. I’ve watched him carry a full beer keg on his shoulder up and down the cellar stairs. He’s still grinding out push-ups as I walk down the bar, apparently going for a personal best. The crowd is reaching a crescendo with the count and Edwin is finally slowing down.
—Forty-three! Forty-four! Forty-five!
His record with Lisa on his back is fifty-three. He did around fifteen once with Amtrak on his back, but Amtrak weighs about 280. With nobody on his back Edwin can do push-ups until everyone just gets tired of counting.
—Forty-nine! Fifty! Fifty-one!
The natives are really whipped up. “Children of the Grave” has just started screaming out of the juke and Lisa is giggling uncontrollably on Edwin’s back. She tries to take a sip of her greyhound, spilling it down her chin. Edwin is now shaking and grunting. Sweat is racing down his face and arms.
—Fifty-two! Fifty-three!
Edwin gulps air and Lisa gets down a big slug of vodka and grapefruit juice as he ratchets himself up again and again and again.
—FIFTY-FOUR! FIFTY-FIVE! FIFTY-SIX!
The record is shattered and Edwin collapses on the bar. He rolls to his back, tumbling Lisa to the floor behind the bar, where she lands, still giggling. Edwin gasps and shouts.
—Reward me! My just due! Reward me!
The gang applauds and cheers. They pour beer into Edwin’s open mouth and dig bills from their pockets to throw at him.
It’s a good party.
Edwin spots me when he boosts himself back up on the bar.
—Sailor! There ya are, ya fuck!
Everyone turns to see me, and they send up a new cheer.
—SAILOR!
They all toast and take a drink.
—Sailor, how goes it?
—Hank. How’s it hangin’, Hank?
—Did you see the fucking Giants game, man? Mets, man, it’s all about the Mets now.
Edwin vaults down from the bar and rushes me. He wraps h
is arms around my middle, lifts me from the floor and squeezes. All the air rushes out of me and I make little squealing noises.
—Ya little girl, ya little fucking girl. Get the beat shit outta ya and ya quit! Ya little fucking girl.
His arms are locked around the wound and my arms are pinned to my sides and I can’t get enough air to tell him to let me the fuck down.
—What’s a matter, little girl? Looks like he’s gonna cry here.
Edwin starts to swing me around and around. Everyone is crazy, laughing. Amtrak shakes up his beer and sprays me with it while someone else pelts me with peanuts. Lisa picks herself up from behind the bar and sees the action.
—Edwin! Edwin, for chrissake, Edwin, put him down. EDWIN!
She walks over to the juke and pulls the plug.
—Edwin, for fuck sake put him down, he just had surgery.
Edwin stops spinning and sets me gently on my feet.
—Oh, fuck! Fuck, Hank, I’m fucking sorry, man. I wasn’t thinking, man, I’m just glad to see you, man.
—It’s cool, Edwin, I’m, man, I’m really glad to see you, too. It’s great to see all y’all.
This sets off another round of cheers and Edwin grabs me by the back of the neck and shakes me a little. He’s totally fucking loaded. He’s got booze-sweat pouring out of his skin and his pupils are pinned up tight from the coke and the whole place reeks of weed. He steers me over to the bar by my neck and waves to Lisa.
—Set ’em up, Leez. Gobble gobble, Wild Turkey all around, all around.
Lisa grabs the bottle of Wild Turkey 101 and starts filling shot glasses while everyone packs around us at the bar. Someone turns the music back on, but it’s not Sabbath anymore. There’s a wind sound and a bell and the opening organ notes to Elton John’s “Funeral for a Friend” fill the bar. I put my mouth close to Edwin’s ear.
—Edwin, man, I need a favor.
He looks at me and nods and smiles.
—Sure, sure, man, anything.
—No big deal, but that little envelope I gave you to put in the safe the other night, I need it now.
—What?
—The envelope, man, I need it.