not with twilight starting to thicken), and the darkening red sky overhead. Later, he didn’t see the basement at all when he looked back, not even a flash of it. Just the road leading back to Herkimer, and eventually to Poughkeepsie.
He knew perfectly well what he was looking back over his shoulder for: headlights.
The headlights of Freddy’s Dodge Ram, if you wanted to get specific about it. Because for Berkowitz and his crew, bewildered resentment had given way to anger. Carlos’s suicide was what had tipped them over the edge. They blamed him and they were after him. And when they caught him, they’d-
What? They’d what?
Kill me, he thought, pedaling grimly on into the twilight. No need to be coy about it. They catch up, they’ll kill me. I’m in the serious williwags now, not a town on that whole damn plat map, not so much as a village. I could scream my head off and no one would hear me except Barry the Bear, Debby the Doe, and Rudy the Raccoon. So if I see those headlights (or hear the motor, because Freddy might be running without lights), I would do well to get the hell back to SoHo, alarm or no alarm. I’m crazy to be here in the first place.
But he was having trouble getting back now. When the alarm went off the Raleigh would remain a Raleigh for thirty seconds or more, the road ahead would remain a road instead of reverting to blobs of color on cement, and the alarm itself sounded distant and strangely mellow. He had an idea that eventually he would hear it as the drone of a jet airplane high overhead, an American Airlines 767 out of Kennedy, perhaps, headed over the North Pole to the far side of the world.
He would stop, squeeze his eyes shut, then pop them wide open again. That did the trick, but he had an idea it might not work for long. Then what? A hungry night spent in the woods, looking up at a full moon that looked like a bloodshot eye?
No, they’d catch up to him before then, he reckoned. The question was, did he intend to let that happen? Incredibly, part of him wanted to do just that. Part of him was angry at them. Part of him wanted to confront Berkowitz and the remaining members of his crew, ask them What did you expect me to do, anyway? Just go on the way things were, gobbling Krispy Kreme donuts, paying no attention to the washouts when the culverts plugged up and overflowed? Is that what you wanted?
But there was another part of him that knew such a confrontation would be madness. He was in tiptop shape, yes, but you were still talking three against one, and who was to say Mrs. Carlos hadn’t loaned the boys her husband’s shotgun, told them yeah, go get the bastard, and be sure to tell him the first one’s from me and my girls.
Sifkitz had had a friend who’d beaten a bad cocaine addiction in the eighties, and he remembered this fellow saying the first thing you had to do was get it out of the house. You could always buy more, sure, that shit was everywhere now, on every streetcorner, but that was no excuse for keeping it where you could grab it any time your will weakened. So he’d gathered it all up and flushed it down the toilet. And once it was gone, he’d thrown his works out with the trash. That hadn’t been the end of his problem, he’d said, but it had been the beginning of the end.
One night Sifkitz entered the alcove carrying a screwdriver. He had every intention of dismantling the stationary bike, and never mind the fact that he’d set the alarm for six P.M., as he always did, that was just habit. The alarm clock (like the oatmeal-raisin cookies) was part of his works, he supposed; the hypnotic passes he made, the machinery of his dream. And once he was done reducing the bike to unrideable components, he’d put the alarm clock out with the rest of the trash, just as his friend had done with his crack-pipe. He’d feel a pang, of course-the sturdy little Brookstone certainly wasn’t to blame for the idiotic situation into which he’d gotten himself-but he would do it. Cowboy up, they’d told each other as kids; quit whining and just cowboy up.
He saw that the bike was comprised of four main sections, and that he’d also need an adjustable wrench to dismantle the thing completely. That was all right, though; the screwdriver would do for a start. He could use it to take off the pedals. Once that was done he’d borrow the adjustable wrench from the super’s toolbox.
He dropped to one knee, slipped the tip of the borrowed tool into the slot of the first screw, and hesitated. He wondered if his friend had smoked one more rock before turning the rest of them down the toilet, just one more rock for old times’ sake. He bet the guy had. Being a little stoned had probably stilled the cravings, made the disposal job a little easier. And if he had one more ride, then knelt here to take off the pedals with the endorphins flowing, wouldn’t he feel a little less depressed about it? A little less likely to imagine Berkowitz, Freddy, and Whelan retiring to the nearest roadside bar, where they would buy first one pitcher of Rolling Rock and then another, toasting each other and Carlos’s memory, congratulating each other on how they had beaten the bastard?
“You’re crazy,” he murmured to himself, and slipped the tip of the driver back into the notch of the screw. “Do it and be done.”
He actually turned the screwdriver once (and it was easy; whoever had put this together in the back room of The Fitness Boys obviously hadn’t had his heart in it), but when he did, the oatmeal-raisin cookies shifted a little in his pocket and he thought how good they always tasted when you were riding along. You just took your right hand off the handlebar, dipped it into your pocket, had a couple of bites, then chased it with a swallow of iced tea. It was the perfect combination. It just felt so good to be speeding along, having a little picnic as you went, and those sons of bitches wanted to take it away from him.
A dozen turns of the screw, maybe even less, and the pedal would drop off onto the concrete floor-clunk. Then he could move on to the other one, and then he could move on with his life.
This is not fair, he thought.
One more ride, just for old times’ sake, he thought.
And, swinging his leg over the fork and settling his ass (firmer and harder by far than it had been on the day of the red cholesterol number) onto the seat, he thought: This is the way stories like this always go, isn’t it? The way they always end, with the poor schmuck saying this is the last time, I’ll never do this again.
Absolutely true, he thought, but I’ll bet in real life, people get away with it. I bet they get away with it all the time.
Part of him was murmuring that real life had never been like this, what he was doing (and what he was experiencing) bore absolutely no resemblance whatever to real life as he understood it. He pushed the voice away, closed his ears to it.
It was a beautiful evening for a ride in the woods.
VI. Not Quite the Ending Everyone Expected
And still, he got one more chance.
That was the night he heard the revving engine behind him clearly for the first time, and just before the alarm clock went off, the Raleigh he was riding suddenly grew an elongated shadow on the road ahead of him-the sort of shadow that could only have been created by headlights.
Then the alarm did go off, not a bray but a distant purring sound that was almost melodic.
The truck was closing in. He didn’t need to turn his head to see it (nor does one ever want to turn and see the frightful fiend that close behind him treads, Sifkitz supposed later that night, lying awake in his bed and still wrapped in the cold-yet-hot sensation of disaster avoided by mere inches or seconds). He could see the shadow, growing longer and darker.
Hurry up, please, gentlemen, it’s time, he thought, and squeezed his eyes closed. He could still hear the alarm, but it was still no more than that almost soothing purr, it was certainly no louder; what was louder was the engine, the one inside Freddy’s truck. It was almost on him, and suppose they didn’t want to waste so much as a New York minute in conversation? Suppose the one currently behind the wheel just mashed the pedal to the metal and ran him down? Turned him into roadkill?
He didn’t bother to open his eyes, didn’t waste time confirming that it was still the deserted road instead of the basement alcove. Instead he squeezed them even more tightly shut, focused all his attention on the sound of the alarm, and this time turned the polite voice of the barman into an impatient bellow:
HURRY UP PLEASE GENTLEMEN IT’S TIME!
And suddenly, thankfully, it was the sound of the engine that was fading and the sound of the Brookstone alarm that was swelling, taking on its old familiar rough get-up-get-up-get-up bray. And this time when he opened his eyes, he saw the projection of the road instead of the road itself.
But now the sky was black, its organic redness hidden by nightfall. The road was brilliantly lit, the shadow of the bike-a Raleigh-a clear black on the leaf- littered hardpack. He could tell himself he had dismounted the stationary bike and painted those changes while in his nightly trance, but he knew better, and not only because there was no paint on his hands.
This is my last chance, he thought. My last chance to avoid the ending everyone expects in stories like this.
But he was simply too tired, too shaky, to take care of the stationary bike now. He would take care of it tomorrow. Tomorrow morning, in fact, first thing. Right now all he wanted was to get out of this awful place where reality had worn so thin. And with that firmly in mind, Sifkitz staggered to the Pomona crate beside the doorway (rubber-legged, covered with a thin slime of sweat-the smelly kind that comes from fear rather than exertion) and shut the alarm off. Then he went upstairs and lay down on his bed. Some very long time later, sleep came.
The next morning he went down the cellar stairs, eschewing the elevator and walking firmly, with his head up and his lips pressed tightly together, A Man On A Mission. He went directly to the stationary bike, ignoring the alarm clock on the crate, dropped to one knee, picked up the screwdriver. He slipped it once more into the slot of a screw, one of the four that held the left-hand pedal…
…and the next thing he knew, he was speeding giddily along the road again, with the headlights brightening around him until he felt like a man on a stage that’s dark save for one single spotlight. The truck’s engine was too loud (something wrong with the muffler or the exhaust system), and it was out of tune, as well. He doubted if old Freddy had bothered with the last maintenance go-round. No, not with house-payments to make, groceries to buy, the kiddies still needing braces, and no weekly paycheck coming in.
He thought: I had my chance. I had my chance last night and I didn’t take it.
He thought: Why did I do this? Why, when I knew better?
He thought: Because they made me, somehow. They made me.
He thought: They’re going to run me down and I’ll die in the woods.
But the truck did not run him down. It hurtled past him on the right instead, left-side wheels rumbling in the leaf-choked ditch, and then it swung across the road in front of him, blocking the way.
Panicked, Sifkitz forgot the first thing his father had taught him when he brought the three-speed home: When you stop, Richie, reverse the pedals. Brake the bike’s rear wheel at the same time you squeeze the handbrake that controls the front wheel. Otherwise-
This was otherwise. In his panic he turned both hands into fists, squeezing the handbrake on the left, locking the front wheel. The bike bucked him off and sent him flying at the truck with LIPID COMPANY printed on the driver’s-side door. He threw his hands out and they struck the top of the truck’s bed hard enough to numb them. Then he collapsed in a heap, wondering how many bones were broken.
The doors opened above him and he heard the crackle of leaves as men in workboots got out. He didn’t look up. He waited for them to grab him and make him get up, but no one did. The smell of the leaves was like old dry cinnamon. The footsteps passed him on either side, and then the crackle abruptly stopped.
Sifkitz sat up and looked at his hands. The palm of the right one was bleeding and the wrist of the left one was already swelling, but he didn’t think it was
