Bert and Ernie. I see Blackie on the floor in the bar almost headless. I wonder which one he was.
—The deal is, Ed and Paris, they, like, ship the bank money to me, just, like, Federal Express it, man, if you can believe that shit. I pass it on to Roman, who moves it through the Russians till it’s washed and he hands it back over to me, at like which point I put it in safekeeping. Ed and Paris get caught, they don’t want to be holding the bag, right. For my services, I’m paid a flat fee. The Russians slice a big percentage out of the gross, Roman takes a cut of the, like, net and the boys and Lum will split the rest. And it goes fucking perfectly. Mmmm. Ed and Paris go on a full-out crime spree, straight-out holdups, real, like, Dodge City shit. They are fully notorious and on the FBI Most Wanted, but they’re, like, uncatchable. Just so fast and mean they can’t be caught. They pull those hit-and-runs for almost two years and the money piles up and up and, well, man, look at it.
He opens his eyes and we both look at the money. There’s a lot.
—A couple weeks back they say, that’s it, they’re coming to town to pick up their jack. They send the dough from the last bank, I have it laundered, bring it here, pack it with the rest and I guess that’s when I, like, started getting, like, sick thoughts and, well, you know, things got all, like, fucked up. But, man, it’s just, it’s just, like, so much fucking money, ya know? It just, it just made me, like, stupid. Mmmm. Man, I don’t feel too good.
He passes out. I lay him out on the floor and check his eyes again. The left one is still kind of funky. I take off his ski cap. The toilet paper mostly falls right off, but some of it is sticking to the wound on his scalp. I try to pick it out, but he winces a few times in his sleep, so I just leave it as is. It needs to be cleaned out and stitched up, but for now the bleeding has stopped and that’s gonna have to be good enough.
I park myself in front of the door and stretch out with the Yankees jacket as a pillow. I haven’t slept since I first showed up at Yvonne’s, whenever that was. Once I’m still, I realize just how bad the pain my wound is and I have to take a full Vic.
I lie there and stare at the money as the fog rolls into my brain. It’s just over four and a half million and I know exactly what Russ is talking about. I’m starting to feel stupider by the second.
It comes as no surprise when the nightmare wakes me up. Cold has begun to creep up out of the floor and into my bones, I sit up slowly, stretching out the kinks and shrug my way into Russ’s Yankees jacket. He’s still asleep, his breathing is deep and even, I leave him alone. Sleep is certainly the best thing for his head right now. Looking at him, I realize for the first time the slight resemblance he bears to Rich. Same color of curly brown hair, though not nearly as long. A similar toothy grin. The same wiry build. They couldn’t be brothers, but perhaps cousins. I leave it alone and look at the cash instead.
I do some math in my head. Four and a half million divided by nine comes out to five hundred thousand. As far as I know, nine people have died for this money at a price of half a million each. I think about Yvonne’s family. Her crazy philosopher father and yoga-teaching mother. I think about Wayne’s daughter and Amtrak’s ex-wife that he still lived with and loved. My stomach flops. I can’t want this money. And yet I do. I have the key and Russ and the money. For the first time since I was seventeen I have everything everybody wants, and I don’t want to lose it this time.
I close my eyes and, yet again, Rich shoots past me, through the exploding windshield and into the tree. The mediocre years of my life pile up around me. This money is not mine. It is not meant for me, but for someone either more deserving or more ruthless. For me, it is a tool that will allow me to rebuild what is left of my life. I inhale, exhale, until my heart stops jumping and I feel I am myself again.
I open my eyes and see that Russ is awake. He’s looking at me with a little smile on his face.
—Makes it hard to think clearly, doesn’t it?
Russ packs the money back in the hockey bag while I find some news on the radio. His concentration is better, but the left eye is the same and he still phases out a bit in the middle of talking. I keep a close eye on him to see that he doesn’t start pocketing any of the cash.
Paul’s is all over the local stations. My name is still out of it, but they continue to mention the “former employee.” Then I hit NPR and they’re breaking the story nationally.
—A botched robbery attempt at a bar resulted in seven dead in New York City this morning.
I switch off the radio as sweat breaks out all over my body and tears try to well up behind my eyes. How could I be so fucking stupid not to see it coming?
—Russ, we gotta go.
—Wait a sec. Mmmm. I’m almost done.
—We gotta go now.
—Just a sec.
I grab him and pull him to his feet and push him toward the door.
—Now, fucking now!
—OK, man, OK.
I start to step out of the unit, then go back in. Most of the cash is in the bag, but some is still scattered on the floor. I grab a pack of twenties and a pack of hundreds and follow Russ out.
We stand by the elevator, waiting.
—What’s up, man?
—I have to make a call.
—What about the, like? Mmmm. What about the money, man?
The elevator is taking forever. I push the button again, leaning on it hard, and hear the bell ringing loud down the shaft.
—Man, what about the money?
I jam the button down and squeeze my eyes tight. What is taking so fucking long?
—MAN, LIKE, WHAT ABOUT THE MMMMONEY?
I take my hand off the button and put it on Russ’s throat and slam him back into the wall. His eyes spin around and the concrete scrapes part of the scab from his wound and it starts to bleed again.
—Fuck, man. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
I squeeze his neck and he stops cursing and starts gasping.
—There is no money, Russ. There is no fucking money! My friends are fucking dead, they’re fucking dead! There is no fucking money because my friends are dead because you gave me your fucking cat and now there is no fucking money!
His face is going from red to purple. I let him go. He slides down the wall to the floor and sits there gasping and holding his throat while I lean my forehead against the wall.
—Fuck, Hank. Fuck.
—Yeah, fuck.
We are quiet for a moment, then he slowly climbs back to his feet.
—Hey, Hank?
—Yeah.
—Where. Mmmm. Where is Bud, anyway?
I take my forehead from the wall and open my eyes.
—Roman has him.
—Shit.
—Yeah. Russ?
—Yeah?
—You’re bleeding again. Put your hat back on.
He puts the hat on, I push the button again, and the elevator doors open. The operator is standing there.
—Get the fuck off that button, man. I’m here.
On the way down, he takes our passes. I tell him we may be back later, but he says we’ll have to get new ones then. When we get to the ground floor, I trot right over to the pay phone and pick up the handset before I notice the little OUT OF ORDER sign taped to the wall next to it.
It’s a typical day for New York pay phones. We work our way east, trying to find one that works. At Eighth Avenue
, I pick up my fifth phone and get a dial tone this time, but when I try to punch in the number none of the buttons produce a tone of their own. I slam the handset against the phone over and over until the earpiece snaps off and dangles by a couple wires. I’m searching for the next one and Russ grabs my shoulder and points at the electronics store across the street. I nod and we cross over.
I pay for the phone itself with cash and open the service account with one of Russ’s credit cards. When he sees that I have his wallet, he starts to say something but stops himself before it can get out. The sales guy keeps offering me this and that. To h
urry it along I tell him to give me deluxe everything and never mind the cost. It takes about twenty minutes in all and I end up with one of those phones where the antenna is angled away from your head so you don’t get tumors from the signal.
Back on the street, I drag Russ to a quiet doorway off the avenue and make my call.
It’s Saturday. They’re both home.
—Hi, Mom.
—Henry! Oh, God, Henry! Oh, God! Oh, God!
—Mom.
—Henry. Oh, my God, Henry.
—Mom! Mom, I’m OK, Mom. I’m. Listen to me, I’m OK.
—Henry, We’re so, just so. People called, and the news, we saw the news, we saw the bar. Oh, Henry, the police and all those people.
—Mom, it’s OK, I’m OK.
—We’ve been so, so scared, Henry. Oh, God.
She cries and can’t get any more words out. I hear the phone being fumbled around and my dad comes on the line.
—Henry?
—Hey, Pop.
—Jesus, Hank, are you all right?
—Pop, oh, Pop.
—What’s going on, Hank? Thank God you’re OK, but we just need to know.
—I know, Dad.
—Oh, son. Jesus, I’m glad to hear your voice.
—Dad. I’m in some trouble here, Dad.
—What is it? What do you need us to do?
—Dad, it’s big trouble.
—The police called, we’re . . . They want to know where you are.
—Big trouble, Dad.
—Tell us.
—Dad, I can’t, but I was there, at the bar and the police, Dad, the police think I did it.
—What?
—Dad, they think I did it, but I didn’t and I needed to call to tell you I was OK and that I didn’t do that. I would never do that, Dad, I would never kill people. But they think I did.
—Why, what the hell is going on?
—I just, Dad, I just fell into some trouble.
—Well, let’s get you out.
—It’s, uh, it’s not that kind of trouble, Pop, and I need you and Mom to just be ready, because I’m not sure how I’m gonna work it all out.
—Ready for what?
—I may, I may need to go somewhere. I don’t know, but I may, it’s big trouble and I may need to go away and I don’t know.
I stop. I can see them standing next to the kitchen counter, my dad with the phone held away from his ear so my mom can listen, leaning against each other.
—What do you need us to do, Hank?
—Just, Dad, I just need you to know I didn’t do it. These people, they did it and, oh, fuck, they, they killed Yvonne, too, Dad.
—Jesus.
—And, Dad, I’m trying to do the right thing, Dad. I need you guys to know I didn’t hurt anybody, no matter what you hear.
—I know, Hank, I believe you.
—Thanks, Pop.
We both go silent for a moment.
—Hank, what about the police?
—Just don’t lie to them. If they ask, tell them you talked to me and tell them what I said, just don’t lie.
—Sure.
Russ is leaning in the doorway, trying not to look at me, but I know he can hear everything I’m saying.
—I got to go, Dad.
—Well, you better say good-bye to your mom first.
—Yeah. I love you, Dad.
—I love you, too, son.
He passes the phone to my mom.
—You get all that, Mom?
—Oh, Henry, how could anyone think you’d do something like that? How could they?
—I just. It’s just a mess, Mom, that’s all.
—I love you, Henry.
—I love you, Mom.
—Be safe, OK?
—I will and I’ll call very soon, just, just as soon as I can. OK?
—Be sure you do. Don’t say you’re going to call and forget. You know I hate that.
—I know.
—We love you so much.
—I love you guys, too, Mom.
—Be careful.
—I will, Mom, I’ll be careful.
—OK. Good-bye, Henry.
—Good-bye, Mom.
The line is silent except for her breathing and I know she can’t hang up, so I take the phone from my ear and push the little END button and the light on the liquid crystal display goes dark.
At the funeral, Rich’s parents had slumped against each other, rocking back and forth. They were alone. They had no other children. Only Rich. And I’d killed him. They didn’t blame me. They didn’t have to. I blamed myself.
I picture my parents at my own funeral: alone, inconsolable.
I will not die. I will not die for money, or even for another man’s life.
I look at Russ and watch him stare at something fascinating on the ground.
—I’m gonna give up the money, Russ. I’m gonna give up the money and I’m gonna give you up, too.
He tilts his head up and looks me in the eye.
—That, like, sounds about right.
At a Duane Reade, I grab one of those prepacked first-aid kits and a couple Ace bandages. My stuff is still in Roman’s car. Russ gets a carton of Camel Lights. At a bodega, we fill two bags with fruit, snacks, cold cuts and soda. Russ wants a six-pack and I don’t argue. We walk a couple blocks to 23rd Street
and check into the Chelsea Hotel. It may be hip now, but it’s still a flop. The desk clerk is so jaded that we don’t raise an eyebrow even when I pay with cash.
Russ is pretty quiet the whole time and once we’re in the room, all he wants to do is take a shower. I flip on the tube and check out the most recent updates. I don’t have to look far. It’s all over the dial. Someone’s been digging. All the stations are running breaking news about a dishy new rumor. I catch a replay on NY1.
—The suspect most sought in connection to this morning’s barroom massacre had escaped from police custody just hours before the murders took place, according to a source within the New York City Police Department. Furthermore, the source claims that the suspect was in custody for another murder that had taken place just yesterday. As of now, there is no response from the NYPD, but a statement is expected at a press conference later today.
It’s not really good news, but it makes me just a little bit happy. If questions are being asked about me, then some heat must be getting close to Roman and the thought of Roman in the fire tickles me to no fucking end.
Russ comes out of the shower in his underpants with a towel around his shoulders. His head is bleeding yet again.
—Mmmm. Man, can you do something about this or what?
Russ sits in a chair and drinks tallboys of Coors Original while I take care of his wound. I use the scissors from the first-aid kit to cut away some of the hair, then I bathe the whole wound with hydrogen peroxide. Russ jumps a bit when the burning starts, but I push him back into the chair and he drains his beer and opens another. Once I blot away the blood and clip off some dead skin and scabs, I can see what we’re dealing with and it’s all fucked up. I tell Russ to keep drinking and get the needle and thread from the sewing kit that comes with the room.
He doesn’t like it much, but I convince him that the wound isn’t gonna close up on its own. The smell of the beer creeps right up my nose, but I keep my hands steady and focus on not hurting the poor bastard too much. It’s not easy. When I thought I might be an EMT, I took all these first-aid classes. Back then, we practiced this on pieces of steak. That was a long time ago and the steaks didn’t move around or bleed. It takes a while. Russ finishes his story.
—Once I, like, fuck! Watch that shit, man. Once I, like, disappeared, I knew all bets would be off and they’d all be after me. Not just Ed and Paris. Like, the way those other guys think, if I make off with the loot, then it’s up for grabs and let the best man win. I didn’t figure I’d, like, get too far with that damn. Mmmm. With that damn sack on my back. Plus which, if they caught me with the, like, cash, then they co
uld just waste me and that’s that. But if the money is, like, stashed, then I’m thinkin’ I might be able to bargain a little. I’ll blow town and, fuck! Oww! Fuck! Shit, man. I’ll, like, blow town, be mobile for a while, let things cool a bit, then slip back into town for the bag and split for good. So I rented that locker, left the cat and the key with you and took off. Mmmm. Sure enough, as soon as I dropped out, the boys heard about it and, like, sent in Lum to scout for me, seeing as they were still too hot to break cover themselves. Way I put it together from there is that Roman hears I’ve lit out and that Lum is around, so he, like, makes an offer to Lum to sell out Ed and Paris, hook up with him and take a bigger cut.
You have to stitch the live skin together, otherwise it just won’t heal properly. It’s gory work, but what has me freaked out is the close-up look I’m getting at the dent I put in Russ’s skull. I can see and feel just how crushed the bone is and the picture I’m getting of what’s on the other side has my stomach flopping around. But there’s nothing I can do about it, so I wipe some sweat out of my eyes and keep going.
—Mmmm. Of course, the Russians catch wind of all this, so they send Bert and Ernie around to take a piece for the workers of the world and Roman fits them into the machine rather than having them out on the street going batshit. Me, I’m, like, taking it easy watching the fall colors upstate, moving around, but laying low. Oww! Oww! Oww. Not good, man. Not good! Watch it! Fuck!
I get him settled back in the chair. He cracks another brew and starts up again.
—Ed and Paris, once they got some info and started putting it together, they must have realized they were getting, like, sold out all over town and it was time to roll onto the scene and take care of some fucking business. About that same time, I, like, pulled into Rochester to check on my dad real quick, cuz, ya know, ya know, he really was sick back there for a while. And when I get there, turns out. Mmmm. Turns out he, like, really has taken a bad turn and how about fucking that for irony, right?