– Yourhand, let me see your hand.
– Yeah, yeah.
The safe is a deep cylinder set in a concrete block. Edwin told me once that it took him a while to find one deep enough to fit the Remington 12-gauge, even with the sawed-off barrel and the pistol grip. He drops his left shoulder, rolling onto his back as his right hand arcs out of the safe with the shotgun. I jump as far to my left as I can and fall to the floor. Roman is trying to step back out of the room and stumbles against Bolo, who is trying to step forward for a clear shot. Edwin sprawls on his back with the stubby barrel of the.12 pointed up at them and pulls the trigger. It’s loaded with birdshot, but from a few feet away the load has little room to spread. Roman takes it in his upper chest and it shoves him back into Bolo and they both fall into the hall. From out in the bar I hear the sudden rattle of the Russians’ tiny guns. Bullets rake the office. Edwin twists on the floor, kicks the door shut and from his knees shoots the twin bolts, locking us in. The door is wrapped in steel, with a mail slot cut into it so you can make cash drops on late nights. Bullets ping against the door but don’t penetrate. Edwin stands up, crams the barrel of his gun through the mail slot and unloads several rounds.
The office is clogged with smoke and tears flood down my cheeks. Edwin grabs a box of shells from the desk and reloads.
– Cocksuckersmust die. Allcocksuckers must die. Gonna kill all thosecocksuckers.
The mail slot flips up and the barrel of one of the machine guns pops through. It waves around and makes a sound like aminibike and everything in the office explodes. We press against the door while wood splinters and shattered glass pepper us. A bullet ricochets and embeds itself in the wall next to Edwin’s head.
– Fuck!Cocksuckers die!
Edwin shoves the Remington through the slot and opens fire again. He empties the gun and starts once more to reload. We huddle against the door and wait, but the machine gun doesn’t come back.
– Fuck! OK, fuck! OK, we go. Fucking Butch and Sundance in Bolivia, OK, Hank? Let’s do it, let’s go.
He’s filling his pockets with extra shells.
– Edwin, man, the cops,wait for the fucking cops.
– Fuck that, man. Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, that’s us, man, that’s us. We’regoin ’. Go, let’s go!
There is no way I’m gonna go, no way I’m gonna run out there screaming to die. There is the rip of a machine gun again, but no bullets bang against the door. Instead we hear muffled screams from behind the bar.
– That’s our song, Hank. Open the door! Open the fucking door!
I do it.
I stand next to the door and we both scream at the top of our lungs as I pull the bolts and jerk the door open and Edwin’s body collapses in on itself as dozens of bullets seem to strike him at once.
I shove the door closed, shoot the bolts and huddle against it, trying not to sit in too much of Edwin’s blood. Outside the door, Roman starts talking.
– That didn’t go well at all, did it?
Not far away, there are sirens.
I wait as long as I can before I go out. The sirens are getting very close and I need to get out of here. Roman, Bolo and Whitey are gone. Blackie is just outside the door to the office, his head dangling from his torso, unprotected by the body armor I can now see beneath his shredded tracksuit. They must all be wearing it.
Everybody is behind the bar.All of them.In a big pile.
Amtrak John used to let me ride the train for free when I went upstate to see friends. Wayne helped to move that big table into Yvonne’s place, and Sunday would make me little herbal remedies whenever I was sick. Dan would bring his pirate cable box into the bar on big fight nights and we’d watch them for free,then spend the rest of the night watching porn.
Lisa.
Edwin.
The sirens are just up the street. I go out the back door and up one of the fire escapes. I cross over the rooftops to Avenue A, my street, just a block from the bar. I climb down and cross the street. Jason is up and digging through the pile of garbage on the sidewalk in front of my building. I walk past him and take out my keys to open the front door. I stop and look back at Jason. He’s carefully untying the bags, picking out the aluminum cans and retying the bags. I walk over to him and start looking through the piles. Jason looks at me resentfully but goes about his task undaunted. I toss aside several bags until I find the one that smells more like crap than the others. I open it up and pull out the jeans I shit in.It’s right there where I forgot it, stuffed in the back pocket, waiting for me to give it to Edwin to put in the safe, except I got drunk and forgot about it and all those people are dead because I couldn’t remember where it was. I take the key out of the envelope, put it in my pocket and let myself into my building, leaving Jason to his work.
My door has police tape sealed over the jamb, just like Russ’s. The cops must have been through here after they picked me up at Yvonne’s. I don’t want to cut the tape, so I go up to the roof. My laundry bag is still up there, so I take it with me down the fire escape. I have to climb over the rail again to get in the window. Once inside, I reach out and pull in the laundry.
The cops did a pretty good job on the place, but I don’t really care at this point. The light is blinking on my answering machine. Mom is there three times, but I don’t listen to any of her messages. I can’t. I sit on the couch and look at the key. It’s notched along both edges and the base is a big square of blue plastic with the number 413d cut into it. It’s for a storage locker. This is a key to a rented storage locker. I know because I keep stuff stored at one of the big warehouses on the West Side and have a pink key similar to this one right on my key ring. I sit there and stare straight ahead and suddenly realize what I’m staring at.It’s Bud’s carrying case. Bud is still in Roman’s car. Outside my door someone tears the police tape and starts picking the lock.
I get the aluminum bat from my closet and stand to the side of the door and wait. The lock snaps open, the knob turns and someone comes in.
It’s a man. I plant the bat in his gut and as he folds over I whip it up and clip him across the back of the head and he drops flat. I ram the door shut with my shoulder and lock it before anyone else can get in. No one tries. I look at the guy on the floor, shove my toe under him and flip him over. It’s Russ.
I tuck the bat under my arm and walk over to the sink. I take a big plastic cup from the dish rack. It’s an old souvenir cup from Candlestick Park. Willie Mays is on the side. I fill it with cold water, walk over to Russ and pour it out on his face. Some of it goes in his mouth and up his nose, making him choke, and that brings him around. He rolls onto his stomach and coughs and catches his breath. He reaches up and feels at the lump on his scalp where blood is slowly trickling out. He looks up and sees me for the first time.
– Hank! Oh, man, Hank! Good, good. Look, man, I need my cat.
I hit him with the bat until he’s unconscious again, but I stop before I kill him.
They’re talking about me on TV. A block away, NY1 and all the other local stations are live on the scene of the worst massacre in recent New York history and, from time to time, they replay the official police statement.
A cop in a fancy uniform with a lot of medals on his chest for catching criminals stands in front of Paul’s and reads from a piece of paper.
– This is. Excuse me, please, I have a statement and I will read it just once. This is a very preliminary statement. As of now, we know, we believe, that a short while ago a gun battle took place between the owner of Paul’s Bar and an unknown number of assailants who appear to have been attempting to rob the establishment. We have… we have seven confirmed dead, including one of the assailants. We are asking that anyone in this area who may have seen or heard anything suspicious in the early morning here to please contact us. We are… we are also seeking a former employee of Paul’s for questioning in connection to this tragic crime. That is all.
