in the safe at the bar!
They pull out the sock so they can understand what I’m saying.
– On the roof, the key. Gasp! It’s on the roof. Gasp!
There is a pause. I breathe.
– Where on the roof?
– My. Gasp! My laundry bag is up there. Gasp! I did, I did my laundry yesterday. I. Gasp!
– Why is it with your laundry?
– I putit, I put the key in my pocket when I found it. And. Gasp! Later I did the laundry and I washed those pants. Gasp! It’s. It’s gotta be on the roof. I left it there.
– Why on the roof?
– Yesterday. When I saw you guys yesterday and I went to the roof. Gasp! I had it with me. I left it there. I forgot about it.
The Samoan still has hold of Bud’s leg, but he’s not twisting it anymore. Roman lets go of my head and I breathe and breathe. He turns to the Samoan.
– Go check.
The Samoan drops Bud. Just lets him flop to the floor into the little puddle of cat pee. Bud lies there, like me, and breathes. The Samoan is heading out the door.
– There’s a lock.
Roman looks at me.
– Where?
– The door to the roof has one of those push-button lock things.
– And?
– Three-nine-eight-nine-two.
Roman looks at the Samoan to make sure he’s got it and the Samoan nods once and goes out the door. Roman drifts into the living room and this seems to indicate a time-out. The Russians let go of my arms and light cigarettes and Red climbs off my legs and walks around, stretching his own. I watch Bud. He doesn’t look very good.
A couple minutes pass.
That’s when the Samoan pushes in the wrong combination for the door to the roof, tries to force it open, and sets off the fire alarm for the building.
Things go about as well as you could hope for I suppose. Roman looks at me. He just stares into my swollen eyes as he tells Red and the Russians to get out. They leave just as the Samoan is coming back down the stairs and, over the alarm, I can hear them shouting at him to get out. I can hear people starting to drift out into the hall as Roman pushes my door closed and comes back over to the bed. He is careful not to step on Bud, which I appreciate. He sits on the edge of the bed. I can move a bit, so I roll onto my right side to look at him. Everything hurts. People are talking in the halls, but no one seems to be evacuating the building. This is the nature of New York City: alarms go off so often that no one wants to respond to them until things start burning down or blowing up in front of their eyes. Nonetheless, the NYFD should be here in a moment and that gives me comfort. Roman rubs the back of his neck.
– Is it up there, the key?
I would like to smile at him enigmatically. I would like to rip off some cunning bon mot or scintillating repartee. I settle for spitting up some blood.
– If you know where either the key or Mr. Miner is, you should really tell me now.
I look at Bud. He’s a mess. I look back at Roman and keep my mouth shut. He gets off the bed and heads for the door. He opens the door and takes a last look around the apartment like he’s reliving fond memories from his wistful youth of bygone days.
– I really do need that key. So get it and call me or I’m going to start hurting your friends. Don’t call the police. It won’t help. I know everyone. Good-bye.
And he waves as he goes out, the door swinging shut behind him.
The alarm turns off, which means the fire guys must be out there now. I could yell. I could yell for help and they would come and take me and Bud to a hospital and make us better. And then someone would ask questions and someone would call the cops and I won’t know who to trust. I need to get up and help Bud. And I will in just a second. The phone rings. I let the machine pick it up.
– Hey, it’s your mom. Are you there? OK, I just called to say hi and check up on you. We didn’t hear from you yesterday when you got home from the hospital… Anyway, give us a call when you get in so we know you’re all right. Dad’s at a soccer game today, but I’ll be around. Oh, did you get a package? I sent a care package with some stuff to make you feel better while you rest. Just stupid stuff, but let me know when it shows up so I don’t worry about it. OK, we miss you, can’t wait to see you at Christmas. We love you. Call soon.
I miss you, too, Ma.
Mom and Dad still live in the house I grew up in. Mom is the principal at a continuation school, and Dad has a little garage and spends his days working on specialty cars. I love going back to visit. And I always go home for Christmas. I get my ticket a couple months early because it’s cheaper. The ticket is in my desk drawer right now, and I’m gonna use it to get the fuck out of here.
I get off the bed and everything hurts. My legs are stiff and asleep, my arms and shoulders are sore and feel unnaturally heavy. My nose pulses hotly with every beat of my heart. The flesh around my wound feels grated. I stand and I can feel blood running down my side, into the waistband of my jeans. I limp over to Bud.
He’s breathing very rapidly and shallowly and his broken leg is still twisted around. I bend over stiffly and, with as much care as possible, I try to untangle his limb. He jerks a bit and makes a slight sound but remains unconscious, which I take as a very bad fucking sign. I leave him on the floor for now and head to the bathroom. On the way, I remember something and grab the air freshener from under the kitchen sink before I go in. Good call; it reeks in here.
I can’t get my shirt off over my head, so I take the scissors from the medicine cabinet and cut it off. They ripped out about nine staples and left a tear in my side just above my left hip. I drench a towel in hydrogen peroxide and use it to clean the hole. It’s bleeding, but the bulk of the stapling is intact. I get a huge wad of gauze and use it to cover the bad stuff. I have to get some electrician’s tape out of my toolbox to hold the bandage in place.
My nose is a real mess. I clean up all the goop to get a good look.It’s bright red, squashed, and bent to the left, but it has stopped bleeding. I touch it gingerly with my fingertips until I get a sense of how it has been broken and what belongs where and then I give it a rasping twist and a yank.
– Mother! Fucker!
It gives a little crackle and starts to bleed again. I tilt my head back and stuff some more gauze into the nostrils and that’s about all the time I figure I have for first aid.
The fire department has left the building and I have no idea how soon Roman and Co. might return, so it’s time to go. Bud hasn’t moved, but he’s still breathing. I get an athletic bag from the closet. I grab some clothes, my plane ticket, my ID, keys, credit cards, about a grand in cash tips from the bar. I stuff it all in the bag. Then I put in a couple towels, molding them to create a little hollow. I could put Bud in his case, but I’m afraid he’ll bounce around in there. I pick him up and tuck him snugly into the little nest of towels and zip the bag about halfway. I have him on his back so the broken leg won’t fold up underneath his body and it’s easy to imagine he’s sleeping peacefully, but he’s not. I have to get out of here.
I get a cab right away and sit in there with my head back against the seat until the driver snaps me out of it.
– Where to? This is not a taxi for sleeping in, it is for driving in. Where to?
Which is a great fucking question, I suppose.
I give the driver an address across town just off the West Side Highway. I can’t get on a plane yet. I need to get cleaned up, I need to think.
I pass out.
I met Yvonne right after she showed up in New York about six years ago. She was hanging out at Paul’s and mentioned she needed a job. Edwin put her to work. She was a few years younger than me, twenty-two at the time, and we hit it off because we were both from California. But she had a boyfriend, so I backed off. One night, I was working and she came in, her boyfriend had just dumped her. She stayed till closing and took me home.
