'Not going to forget that.'
He shook his head, which made his face hurt. 'No.'
A few minutes later they were close to Bellevue and pulled over at the light.
'Rick, the hospital is up the block.' Morris watched in the rearview mirror. 'You go just up the block and there it is.'
'Get me out first.'
'First talk about the money.'
'Outside. Get me out.'
They opened a door. Gentlemen. Of course, they could shove him back into the car if they wanted. He dragged himself over the seat and put his feet on the pavement. He could barely move, his ankle and foot and arm hurt so much.
'We've been very cool here, Rick. Now you come through.'
'Yellow truck. My truck.' Something was wrong. His ears pounded.
'He looks weak to me.'
'Where is the truck?'
'Ask the Russian guy.'
Tommy slapped him. 'What?'
'Garage, across from the gym. Lafayette. Grand Street. Second floor. Ask the Russian guy.'
'The money's in the truck?'
He nodded exhaustedly. 'Radiator. Pull the wire.'
'What's at the end of the wire?' came the voice in his ear.
'Plastic bag. Filled with hundreds.' Also the traveler's checks that Paul had given him.
The men looked at one another. 'Let's go.'
They opened the car trunk and dropped the big sealed ice chest on the pavement. 'See, Rick, we're very cool here,' said Morris. 'You're one block from the hospital. The cooler is here, your arm inside. Everything is cool. Now you can stand up and get out.'
He rose uneasily in his long coat, his foot hurting like broken fish bones, leaking blood, and staggered over to the cooler and sat on it. They yanked the car door shut and pulled into the traffic. Then up the avenue, then a turn at the light, then gone. He picked weakly at the duct tape around the cooler. Stand, he told himself. He couldn't stand. He stood anyway. Get someone to help. Who would help? Not many people out this late. He knelt and grabbed the ice chest by the handle and lifted one end. It was shockingly heavy. How could that be? Somebody had made a mistake. Too much ice. No way he could actually carry it. But he could drag it, he knew that, and he waited for the light. Don't think, don't worry, he told himself, just drag this box across First Avenue. Make your legs do the work. Worry about the police later, you want your arm back on. That's the thing. The pain chewed at his left side. Guys in wars do this shit, Rick thought, so can I. The light changed to green and he pulled. The fucker was heavy; it must have weighed three hundred pounds, all that ice in there. It was too big, that was the problem, they didn't need a chest that big. He bumped the thing off the curb and began to drag, knees bent, back bent against the weight, his left arm, the stump, doing nothing, just jerking around strangely, hurting like hell, and he pulled the thing across the first lane of traffic, scraping the shit out of the bottom of the chest, but who cared. The taxi drivers watched him; in the darkness nobody noticed he was missing his arm because of the long coat or saw his bloody foot, nobody understood, and that was fine because he was going to make it, he was going to do all good things
… Halfway across he saw a van turning onto First, going too fast, and he was unsure whether to run or stay, and instead he pulled harder to make sure the ice chest was out of the path of the van, but the effort did not produce commensurate progress and the van honked in irritation, not slowing exactly but cutting its wheels sharply, not to avoid Rick but rather an old man ten steps behind him on First Avenue-the van had a choice of hitting the old man or Rick's ice chest, and so it hit the chest, the corner of the bumper catching the back of the box and spinning it out of Rick's hands. He jumped back, foot on fire with pain.
The van stopped. 'Yo,' said the driver, jumping out, a man in his twenties, head a bullet. 'What the fuck you doing, you goddamn-' He saw the blood on Rick's T-shirt, stopped, and jumped back into the van.
Rick reached the cooler, which was dented but undamaged, and dragged it over to the curb. He noticed the cooler's drainage plug and pulled it. Water gushed out. Was there a bit of color in the water? He could do it, he was almost there.
He dragged the trunk through the emergency ward's electronic doors, right past the guard up to the nurses' desk.
'I got my arm cut off,' he croaked.
'What?' asked the nurse.
He shrugged his big coat to the floor. His shirt was a bloody mess.
'Lie down!' she commanded. 'Clyde, I have a priority! Call Dr. Kulik.' She turned back to Rick. 'Sir, lie down! You need-'
'It's in here,' he said, pounding the cooler. 'Get someone down here who can put it back on!'
'What? The arm?'
'Yes,' he said, suddenly dizzy.
She picked up a phone. 'I need a gurney and saline and a quick blood match.'
'The cooler…' Rick muttered.
'Clyde,' ordered the nurse, 'cut open that cooler. But don't touch anything. Sir, lie down! We're getting a gurney in here, sir.'
The guard stepped over to the cooler and produced a pen knife. He slit the tape with four hard strokes and lifted the top. Then he looked back at Rick.
'Get it out! ' Rick called.
The guard took his flashlight and stirred around the ice. He struck something and bent closer.
'Don't contaminate any body parts,' called the nurse.
'You can contaminate my body parts,' muttered the guard, digging in the ice. 'This is fucked up.'
An orderly pushed in the gurney. 'Sir?'
'What-wait,' pleaded Rick. 'I have to see my arm.'
The guard reached in, spilling ice. 'I got it, I got it.'
'Let me see!'
The guard shook his head in disgust. 'This ain't no arm.'
'What?' cried Rick. 'Look!'
'No, you look, my man.' The guard tugged upward, using his weight, this time spilling most of the ice, and pulled out the frozen head and neck of a huge turkey, its pale plucked body following, maybe thirty pounds in all, something asymmetrical about it, frozen black feet sticking out awkwardly. The guard examined the turkey, then pointed. 'They took off one wing, right here.' He dropped the carcass back into the cooler, looked at Rick. 'That's it, my man.'
He pushed away the gurney and sank down on one knee, then two, thinking he might vomit, but he did not, although a sickening shiver went through him, a cold shot of pain and grief that ended in stillness. The dog, eating. He put his remaining hand against the tile floor, supporting himself, then fell forward as they gathered around. His head rested against the floor. That was it. You can't give frozen turkey to a dog.
Sir, they said, we're going to start an IV. He was somebody else now, forever. He collapsed onto his right side, lifting his legs to his chest like a child curling beneath a blanket. Yes, now he was released. He'd waited years and years and finally it had happened. He had received his punishment.
Peace Hotel, Shanghai, China September 24, 1999
His taxi raced recklessly from the airport over an elevated highway that snaked past hundreds of enormous construction sites extending every direction into the haze. This Shanghai, new yet already retro-futuristic, forced
