I nod toward the fake Bolo, adjusting his wig in the rain.
—New friends?
—Shut the fuck up. I will tell you when to talk. Fuckin’ shithead Russians. I told him to pin that fuckin’ thing down, but he wanted to use fucking spirit gum. In the rain. Idiot. Now talk about pissed? I’m pretty flamed. And Roman, well, imagine. But the Russians? Shit. We tell them you kacked two of their top ex–Red Army special forces guys, and not only that, but you also took all the loot. They started talking about black market nuclear weapons and shit. Roman tells them we need two more guys, we’re lucky they didn’t send some fucking Cossack militia riding through the streets on horseback. Roman talked them down, though, explained the whole deal was too loud as it is. Once you get them settled, those guys understand terms like covert operation. All fuckin’ ex-KGB and shit. So when are the coons supposed to show?
—When I call them.
He throws a piece of croissant on the table.
—And when were you gonna fuckin’ tell me that?
—When you told me I could talk. Man, you really are kind of the stupid one.
—Watch it.
—Seriously. I mean, I thought Ed and Paris had mastered the whole Of Mice and Men thing, but Roman is so George and you are so fucking Lenny.
He holds up a giant finger and presses it against my lips and keeps it there for a second.
—OK? Enough. Where are you supposed to call them?
He takes the finger away.
—They’re nearby. I don’t know where. I’m supposed to call Ed’s cell from the pay phone.
He looks over at the pay phone and the few customers scattered through the café and takes out his own cell phone.
—Does Ed have caller ID?
—Don’t know.
He puts the cell away.
—OK. Let’s walk over there and make that call. You go first and go easy.
—Where’s Roman?
He just looks at me, gestures for me to get up. I stand. He stands. I turn and start toward the phone. He follows.
Halfway to the phone I stumble and break my fall by grabbing one of the little café tables. I freeze like that, getting my balance and taking a good grip on the edges of the table, then I speak loudly and clearly.
—I AM HENRY THOMPSON. I AM WANTED FOR MULTIPLE HOMICIDE.
It works great.
There isn’t a beat or a moment of frozen silence. I say my name and people just freak and scatter. I lean back, lifting the table high off the floor, swinging it to my left. I spin around, the table building velocity. Bolo revolves into my line of sight, standing motionless, more stunned by my announcement than anyone else in the place. Frozen, he does nothing to dodge the table.
The impact jolts the table from my hands. It flips and a corner clips me on the chin. I flinch back and the table drops and lands on my toes. I stumble back, crashing through several chairs until I hit the wall ten feet away.
Bolo is standing perfectly still in the middle of the room. A little hole has been punched into his left temple by the triangular base of the table. Blood wells up and gushes out of the gap and floods down the side of his face like it’s running from an open faucet. He puts his hands out as if trying to find his balance, his eyes locked on mine. He wobbles, rights himself and picks up his left foot to step forward. Immediately he’s out of true and his arms windmill and after that, it’s all about the bigger they are and the harder they fall. He goes down face first, sending chairs and tables skittering and crashing across the floor. Then he lies there and quickly bleeds to death while I feel at the cut on my chin and massage my throbbing toes.
The decoys must have seen people scrambling from the Starbucks. I run out the door on one side of the place and the decoy dressed like Bolo goes in on the other side. I spare a glance through the windows that line the street and see one Bolo standing over the corpse of the other Bolo, then I’m crossing the street toward the cube sculpture and the fake Roman standing there. I’m worrying about where the fuck the real Roman is, and thinking maybe that’s really him, when he lifts his arm and points it at me and it goes BANG and the bullet buzzes past me and that’s not Roman. He wouldn’t shoot me without knowing where the money is.
The Russian Roman is to the right of the cube. I run to the left and put it between us before he can take another shot. He dodges to his left and I go to my right, listening to his skipping feet as he tries to juke me into the open for a clear shot. I back away from the cube until I can see his shoes. He’s edging around to his right now, letting the sound of the rain cover his creeping steps. I move in close to the cube, put my shoulder against it, and push it counterclockwise. It’s big and doesn’t move very fast, but has tremendous mass. I feel the softest of thuds vibrate through its bulk and step back to get a look. He’s laid out on the pavement with a gash on the back of his head, his gun on the ground a few feet from his grasping hand.
I dive down on the slick cement under the edges of the balanced cube and my cap bounces from my head. I put my hand on top of his just as he grabs the gun with his right hand. I look at him. He could be Blackie or Whitey, whatever their fucking names were. I use both my hands to keep his right pinned on the gun and the gun pinned to the ground. He’s trying to pry my fingers loose with his free hand. I drag myself forward on my elbows, open my mouth wide and bite down hard on his fingers. There’s blood and rainwater in my mouth. He screams. I get the gun and hit him in the head with it. A bullet strikes the pavement next to us, skips once, peppering me with little cement chips and hits him in the face.
I hear Russian behind me. I let go of the gun and flip over onto my back. The Russian Bolo, minus his wig, stands on the edge of the traffic island, pointing his gun at me.
—Freeze and give us our money!
—I don’t have it.
—Freeze and give us the fucking money!
Sirens somewhere. I lie there next to the dead fake Roman and shake my head.
—Get up! Get the fuck up!
I stand up and behind him I see Roman come up the steps of the 4-5-6 subway station just outside the Starbucks. Guns blazing. One in each hand. Just like in a John Woo movie.
He shoots the Russian Bolo in the back. He shoots him and shoots him and shoots him as he walks over. Then he stands over the dead body and shoots it some more until his guns are empty.
—I told them not to hurt you till we had the money.
I point at the corpse at his feet.
—Well, I guess he learned his lesson.
—I told you, Hank. I told you I have a fucking temper.
He starts to reload. I start to run. I take two steps, see the gun at my feet, stop, pick it up and turn to do I don’t know what the fuck. He’s finished reloading. I go back to running. Running is something I know how to do. The sirens are very loud and, down Bowery, I can see flashing lights heading for the intersection.
I run east on St. Mark’s, cut north on Third Avenue
and east again onto Stuyvesant. I shout as I run.
—I know where the money is! Don’t shoot me, Roman! I know where the money is! DON’T SHOOT ME!
He doesn’t shoot me. Behind me, I hear sirens and screeching tires and bullhorn voices and Roman yelling. I run through the rain and the shadows and into the little square outside St. Mark’s Church at Stuyvesant and Second Avenue
. I look back up the street to the intersection at Third Avenue
. Roman is showing his badge to a bunch of cops and pointing in various directions. I see flashing lights coming up Second Avenue
. I hop over the cast-iron fence and into the small churchyard and hide in the bushes.
The cop cars drive past. I can hear sirens and megaphones at Astor Place
. And the chop of helicopter blades from above. I peek out from the bushes but can’t see much beyond the square. I scuttle to my left, hop another fence and dodge behind the pillars that support the church portico.
St. Mark’s Church is the oldest place of
Christian worship on the island of Manhattan. It says so on a plaque next to the door. Lots of important people are buried in its small graveyard. The plaque says that as well. I read these facts over and over while I hunch behind the pillar, holding a gun and waiting to be found. I get tired of waiting.
I shift around until I’m squatting with my left shoulder pressed against the base of the pillar. I flick the safety off the gun, but I keep my finger away from the trigger because I can’t keep it from clenching over and over again. I take a few breaths. I can’t hear anything nearby. I peek out and see Roman’s knee right in front of me and bump my head into the barrel of his gun.
The rain is still pouring and little beads of it run down the barrel of his gun onto my forehead and drip right into my eye. I try not to blink because he told me not to move and I think he really means it. No one else is on the street, the civilians are hiding inside and Roman has the uniforms he ran into working the other streets. He presses the gun a little harder against my head and I know it must be making a little white circle there.
—Do you have the money, Hank?
—No.
He’s standing right over me.
—Do Ed and Paris have the money?
—Yes.
The rain is starting to taste salty, but that’s just because I’m crying. It’s difficult to cry so hard and not move.
—Do you have any way of getting the money at this point?
—No.
Standing over me, looking down at my crouched and curled body.
—The mistake you made, Hank, was in thinking of it as simply money. Four and a half million dollars in cash is not the same as four and a half million in the bank. In fact, you would be hard-pressed to find a bank with resources like those on hand. Four and a half million in cash is more a symbol than actual money. For Ed and Paris, it represents their life’s work. For the Russians, it is an investment, which they can use to expand into markets that only accept cash payment. And for myself, it represents freedom, a chance to regain a life I gave up long ago. Bolo and the rest just saw the money. Like you. And they’re all dead. Do you see the connection I’m making?
Looking down at me. Looking down at me from an angle that keeps him from seeing the gun pointed at his knee.
I pull the trigger. He falls back. His gun goes off. The world explodes and starts ringing. The bullet vibrates my skull as it passes by and I feel the muzzle flash sear and blister my scalp. I lurch upright as Roman tumbles down onto the steps of the church, his gun flying out of his hand.
He sprawls there, the lower half of his right leg semidetached and pumping blood into the rain. He’s reaching inside his coat and, as he pulls out his other gun, I step forward and bring my foot down on his wrist, pinning it to the ground. I point my gun at him.
He opens his mouth and spits out a little rain.
—You . . . you really are making a mistake. You don’t know what it is, but . . . Christ, that hurts. But this is a mistake. Trust me.
I nod.
—I trust you, Roman.
—Well. OK, then.
I shoot him in the chest. He convulses when the round hits the bulletproof vest. He spits out more rain.
—Oh, for chrissake, Hank.
—Sorry, I forgot.
I point the gun at his face and pull the trigger again. He dies this time.
When I was about eleven or twelve, I was over at a friend’s house and we were messing around with his BB gun. We plunked away at cans and little green army men for a while and then we started shooting leaves off trees and stuff and then a bird came along. My friend took a shot at the bird and missed and gave me the gun to take my turn. I aimed very carefully and tried my damnedest to hit that bird, believing deep in my heart that I could never hit it. Bull’s-eye. Knocked it right off the branch. But didn’t kill it. It sat on the ground and kind of flopped around in pain and we watched it, not really knowing what to do, and my friend said we should kill it and put it out of its misery. I couldn’t do it, so he took the gun, pumped it up, put the barrel right next to the bird’s head and killed it for me. Shooting that bird felt pretty fucking bad.
I tuck the gun into the front of my pants and walk around the corner. With all the ruckus they’re making, the cops may or may not have heard my shots. I walk as far as 10th Street, sort of heading home maybe, and some headlights switch on and I stand there as the Caddie pulls up from where the brothers had it parked, waiting for my call. Ed opens the rear door and steps out.
—What the fuck, man? I told you, no fucking improvisation.
I walk past him and collapse into the car. He climbs in behind me and closes the door.
—Like I said, what the fuck, man? Where are the bad guys?
I scoop up Bud from the seat and put him on my lap.
—I’m the bad guy here. I’m the fucking bad guy. Get me the fuck out of here.
—I’ll give it to you, Hank, that is one cool cat. An’ you? Well, shit.
I’m down on the floorboards in the back, Bud curled up on my stomach. Ed is up on the seat. He talks to me without looking at me. He doesn’t want the cops at the roadblock to know there’s anyone besides two black guys in the car. Both he and Paris have removed their sunglasses and cowboy hats. In this car, they look like a record producer and his driver/bodyguard. Paris has switched tapes and we’re listening to One Nation Under a Groove, Funkadelic’s finest.
—Hey, Ed?
—Yeah?
—Aren’t you guys kind of wanted yourselves?
—Sure.
—So?
—See, Hank, all these cats are thinking about is you. I mean, your ass was just in a gunfight a few blocks from here. So they’re on the lookout for a skinny white dude, not a couple of black hard-asses wanted for robbin’ banks in the Midwest. Follow?
—Sure. But this car is kind of distinct.
—You think we robbed in this baby? No way, man. This thing has been in storage in Jersey awaiting our return. We used a whole shitload a cars to do our jobs. This honey is clean.
—Yeah, but.
—Shut the fuck up. It’s our turn.
They’ve got the traffic blocked up at Union Square
. Anything heading south is being diverted. Anything going north, west or east that might have come from the vicinity of Astor is being checked out. Paris pulls us forward and stops. The beam from a flashlight dances over the interior. Ed turns his head and nods. We pull forward. Ed glances down at me and winks.
—First time bein’ black kept me from gettin’ hassled by the cops.
We drive west. From the footwell I look up through the windows and the buildings swerve by overhead as Paris turns left on Seventh Avenue, taking us downtown toward the Holland Tunnel. We drive. Ed reaches forward and taps his brother on the shoulder.
—Here.
From my angle, I can just see the back of Paris’s head as he nods. He pulls the car over and stops. Through the window behind Ed I can see part of a tenement and an old warehouse. I think we’re somewhere below Houston, in Tribeca. I start to pull myself up onto the seat, but Ed puts his hand on my chest and gently pushes me back.
—Just stay there for now.
I settle back into my spot. My wound is throbbing. Throbbing. It feels like someone is stabbing me in the side. My feet hurt.
Funkadelic swings into “Maggot Brain,” their endless guitar solo from hell. Ed picks his hat up from the seat and holds it in his lap, fiddling with the shape of the brim.
—I’ll tell you, Hank. Me and Paris are torn.
—How’s that?
Paris swivels around in his seat so he can look down and see me. It’s the first time I’ve seen his eyes. They look anxious.
—Well, what you did back there, that’s some pretty wicked shit. Very impressive.
—But?
Ed rubs the top of his head.
—Truth is, the smart play for us would be to just bump you and dump you.
Bud purrs, sleeping on my sto
mach, rising and falling with my breath. I scratch him behind the ears with my left hand.
—See, the heat on you is gonna be pretty fucking intense. Combine that with the heat on us and things could get sultry.
—Yeah?
—So, another option, we could just drop you off and let you do for yourself. Give you some scratch and shake hands.
—Fair enough.
—Sure, that’s fair enough, but is it the right play? The smart play? Follow?
—Sure, I follow.
I scratch Bud with my left hand. My right hand is tucked under his belly.
Ed looks at his brother and Paris nods.
—Thing is, people out of the life, they always talk about “honor among thieves.” But it ain’t really like that. See, honor ain’t much of an issue, but trust is. Trust is definitely an issue. Now, all this that just happened, this whole mess, it went down because of misplaced trust. Now, we never trusted Roman or his cronies, an’ least of all the fucking Russians. But Russ? Known him since we were kids. You bet we trusted him. When he went south on us? Well, color us shocked. But more than that, color us hurt. Deeply. Something like that happens an’ a man is likely to question things, things he thinks he can believe in. Question his own judgment. That’s bad. Lose trust in yourself, that’s the final blow. You follow?
—Sure.
I scratch Bud some more. I want to keep him mellow. I want to keep him mellow because I don’t want him to jump up. Because then Ed and Paris would see the gun tucked in my waistband. The gun my right hand is resting on.
—What I told you before, about having no past, no connections. No family. That’s all well and good, as far as it goes. But the truth is that it only goes so far. Me an’ Paris, we beat the odds more than our fair share. Know why?
—No.
—Because we are greater than the sum of our parts. That greatness comes out of three things: faith, love and trust.
He offers his hand to Paris.
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