Dead and Gone

I stepped into the crowd, followed the signs to the ER. Nobody paid the slightest attention to me as I walked through that frantic, noisy, bloody mess and continued right on through to the exit.

A couple of bluecoats were standing outside, smoking. They gave me cops’ glances. I didn’t look at them, just limped away, the bandages around my head all the evidence they’d need that I’d just been “treated and released.”

As soon as I turned the first corner, I realized I wasn’t in the Bronx. I could see the FDR in the distance, so I was in Manhattan, on the East Side. A wave of panic welled up inside me. A setup? Would they be waiting? I breathed deep through my nose, steadied myself. If it was a trap, they’d be watching—I had to keep playing my role.

My hands were shaking. My fingers wouldn’t work right. I couldn’t tie the damn sneakers, and I was afraid of tripping. I sat on the curb and pulled the laces out. The sneakers were too big—they flopped when I walked, and I had to move slow, arching my feet deeply to keep from losing them.

But I had to move. I could make a collect call, but the cops might know about the pay phones at Mama’s. I could call the Mole—his number was off their radar—but the cops would be checking every pay phone around the hospital once they found out I was gone. It wouldn’t take a computer long to run all the numbers within a certain time frame, and that could open doors the Man never knew even existed.

All right. No calls. And going to Mama’s was out. The Mole’s junkyard was in the Bronx. The Prof and Clarence cribbed in Brooklyn. Michelle changed hotels like she changed hairstyles. All too far to go unless I could bum some change for the subway. And at way past midnight, I didn’t like my chances.

I kept moving east, toward the river. Under the FDR, there’d be all kinds of places to hide. From the cops, anyway.

But I was weaker than I’d thought. Every step was slow. I passed a homeless man, asleep in a doorway. Maybe I could just find a spot like that, become part of the landscape.…

I knew what that meant, those kinds of thoughts coming. Just another way of going to sleep in a snowbank. After a while, you’re not cold anymore.

I stopped walking. Leaned against a building, my hands auto-groping for a pack of cigarettes that wasn’t there. Okay, the street signs were coming into focus. I knew where I was. And that I wouldn’t survive the night outdoors. Only one way to go, then. I about-faced and headed west, toward Park Avenue.

The Thirty-third Street subway was deserted. No clerk in the token booth. I slipped under the turnstile, grunting with the pain. Made my way down to the platform, found a bench. A young couple were on the next bench over, still party-blissed, not in a hurry.

Time passed. I was alive in every nerve ending, but I didn’t have much left in my tank. If a roving wolfpack of teenagers decided to have some fun with the bum, I wouldn’t be able to stop them. And if the cops were close by, if they had an alert out to Transit, I’d have to keep faking it. Tell them some story about “going home” to … I don’t remember.

The downtown No. 6 finally pulled in. I shuffled aboard. The car was about half full. I wanted to keep away from people, but I needed to sit down, too. I was still making up my mind when a woman who looked like she worked till midnight cleaning offices got up. I took her seat. I wanted to thank her, but her face told me why she got up—she figured I must come with a smell to match my looks, and she didn’t want any part of that.

The train let me out at Canal and Lafayette. Plenty of people; plenty of traffic, too. I couldn’t tell if anyone was paying attention. I started my walk.

Chinatown runs twenty-four/seven, but most of the activity isn’t on the streets once the tourists clear out. And I was close enough to a batch of different homeless camps so that I didn’t get a second glance as I shuffled along, watching as close as I could to see if I had company.

The way you signal Max’s dojo is to push the bell for the warehouse loading bay three times, fast. A light flashes in Max’s place, on the top floors. He’s deaf. If he’s around, the side door will click open. You step into murk, even in daylight, but Max can see you from the landing.

I prayed for that click. When it came, I slipped inside and pulled the door closed behind me. There was a blur in the blackness as Max vaulted down. I felt him land next to me. Opened my hands to tell him I was …

I woke up inside Max’s temple. I recognized it right away. No disorientation. Just … weak. Sunlight slanted in through a window above me. I was under a sheet, naked. And safe, for the first time since I wrapped myself in Kevlar and went out to trade some money for a kid. I felt myself drifting off. Didn’t fight it.

Max was there when I opened my eye. I shaded that eye with my left hand, turned my head from side to side, signing “looking.” Then I pointed at myself. Max shook his head “No.” I used both hands, made the sign for opening a newspaper, moved my head to show I was scanning it. He shook his head “No” again. Then he put his fists in front of his eyes, opened them to make the sign for glasses. Thick glasses. The Mole. On his way.

I made a gesture of thanks. Max ignored it, stepping over to me, running his fingers all over my body, checking. When he pushed against any part of me, I pushed back, letting him test.

Then he moved away from me. Held his hands far apart, pointed two fingers at each other, and brought them together so they touched. I sat up. Tried the same thing. Missed by a few inches. Shook my head, concentrated. I couldn’t make the connection. I tried it again, slower. No go. One finger was closer to my body than the other. Instead of touching, they kept overlapping.

Max closed one eye. Used the other to make sure I was watching him. Then he brought his two fingers together so quickly it was like watching a vapor trail. They hit as precisely as if they’d been on rails. He pointed at me. Then at his wrist, where a watch would be if he wore one. Sure.

It would take time, but I could do it.

Max bowed slightly, disappeared.

I started to practice.

The Mole was cutting through the bandages on my head, using scissors with the lower blade in the shape of a spoon. As soon as he finished, Michelle unwrapped them, slowly.

I looked around the room. Nobody said anything.

“Do you want a mirror, honey?” Michelle asked.

“I … guess so. It’s that bad, huh?”