by Jake Coburn
“You gotta quit hiding from your past, kid.”
“I’m not,” I said, wondering if it were true.
“Well, you could’ve fooled me.” Greg pulled out his vibrating Nokia and lifted it to his ear. “Jason, shit’s on for six in the evening, okay. . . . Nah, his head’s too cut up,” he said, glaring at me. “Okay. . . . Peace.” Greg slapped the cell shut. “I gotta bust.”
“All right.”
We started walking toward Fifth. Up the block, two suits were loading the trunk of a Lincoln with their carry-ons.
“They landed one good one on you?” I asked, pointing at his cheek.
“Lucky first jab,” Greg said. “Wassup with your head?”
“Stitches. That girl blackjacked me from behind.”
“Fucking savages,” he declared. “They deserve this crazy ambush we’re cooking.”
A taxi pulled up to the red light on 22nd, and Greg raised his arm to hail it.
“See you around,” I said, reaching out my hand.
He smiled. “I’ll never figure you out, kid.” We shook hands and he swung the cab door open.
The light clicked back to green, and the cab turned onto Fifth. I stood on the corner, watching Greg’s taxi drift down the avenue.
I stretched my arms in the air and searched Fifth for a deli or diner. I felt like walking back to the hospital, and I needed something to keep me going. Kris might be asleep, but she was waiting for me.