push it counterclockwise. It’s big and doesn’t move very fast, but has tremendous mass. I feel the softest of thuds vibrate through its bulk and step back to get a look. He’s laid out on the pavement with a gash on the back of his head, his gun on the ground a few feet from his grasping hand.
I dive down on the slick cement under the edges of the balanced cube and my cap bounces from my head. I put my hand on top of his just as he grabs the gun with his right hand. I look at him. He could be Blackie or Whitey, whatever their fucking names were. I use both my hands to keep his right pinned on the gun and the gun pinned to the ground. He’s trying to pry my fingers loose with his free hand. I drag myself forward on my elbows, open my mouth wide and bite down hard on his fingers. There’s blood and rainwater in my mouth. He screams. I get the gun and hit him in the head with it. A bullet strikes the pavement next to us, skips once, peppering me with little cement chips and hits him in the face.
I hear Russian behind me. I let go of the gun and flip over onto my back. The Russian Bolo, minus his wig, stands on the edge of the traffic island, pointing his gun at me.
– Freeze and give us our money!
– I don’t have it.
– Freeze and give us the fucking money!
Sirens somewhere.I lie there next to the dead fake Roman and shake my head.
– Get up! Get the fuck up!
I stand up and behind him I see Roman come up the steps of the 4-5-6 subway station just outside the Starbucks.Guns blazing.One in each hand. Just like in a John Woo movie.
He shoots the Russian Bolo in the back. He shoots him and shoots him and shoots him as he walks over. Then he stands over the dead body and shoots it some more until his guns are empty.
– I told them not to hurt you till we had the money.
I point at the corpse at his feet.
– Well, I guess he learned his lesson.
– I told you, Hank. I told you I have a fucking temper.
He starts to reload. I start to run. I take two steps, see the gun at my feet, stop, pick it up and turn to do I don’t know what the fuck. He’s finished reloading. I go back to running. Running is something I know how to do. The sirens are very loud and, down Bowery, I can see flashing lights heading for the intersection.
I run east on St. Mark’s, cut north on Third Avenue and east again onto Stuyvesant. I shout as I run.
– I know where the money is! Don’t shoot me, Roman! I know where the money is! DON’T SHOOT ME!
He doesn’t shoot me. Behind me, I hear sirens and screeching tires and bullhorn voices and Roman yelling. I run through the rain and the shadows and into the little square outside St. Mark’s Church at Stuyvesant and Second Avenue. I look back up the street to the intersection at Third Avenue. Roman is showing his badge to a bunch of cops and pointing in various directions. I see flashing lights coming up Second Avenue. I hop over the cast-iron fence and into the small churchyard and hide in the bushes.
The cop cars drive past. I can hear sirens and megaphones at Astor Place.And the chop of helicopter blades from above. I peek out from the bushes but can’t see much beyond the square. I scuttle to my left, hop another fence and dodge behind the pillars that support the church portico.
St. Mark’s Church is the oldest place of Christian worship on the island of Manhattan. It says so on a plaque next to the door. Lots of important people are buried in its small graveyard. The plaque says that as well. I read these facts over and over while I hunch behind the pillar, holding a gun and waiting to be found. I get tired of waiting.
I shift around until I’m squatting with my left shoulder pressed against the base of the pillar. I flick the safety off the gun, but I keep my finger away from the trigger because I can’t keep it from clenching over and over again. I take a few breaths. I can’t hear anything nearby. I peek out and see Roman’s knee right in front of me and bump my head into the barrel of his gun.
The rain is still pouring and little beads of it run down the barrel of his gun onto my forehead and drip right into my eye. I try not to blink because he told me not to move and I think he really means it. No one else is on the street, the civilians are hiding inside and Roman has the uniforms he ran into working the other streets. He presses the gun a little harder against my head and I know it must be making a little white circle there.
– Do you have the money, Hank?
– No.
He’s standing right over me.
– Do Ed and Paris have the money?
– Yes.
The rain is starting to taste salty, but that’s just because I’m crying. It’s difficult to cry so hard and not move.
– Do you have any way of getting the money at this point?
– No.
Standing over me, looking down at my crouched and curled body.
– The mistake you made, Hank, was in thinking of it as simply money. Four and a half million dollars in cash is not the same as four and a half million in the bank. In fact, you would be hard-pressed to find a bank with resources like those on hand. Four and a half million in cash is more a symbol than actual money. For Ed and Paris, it represents their life’s work. For the Russians, it is an investment, which they can use to expand into markets that only accept cash payment. And formyself, it represents freedom, a chance to regain a life I gave up long ago. Bolo and the rest just saw the money. Like you. And they’re all dead. Do you see the connection I’m making?
Looking down at me.Looking down at me from an angle that keeps him from seeing the gun pointed at his knee.
I pull the trigger. He falls back. His gun goes off. The world explodes and starts ringing. The bullet vibrates my skull as it passes by and I feel the muzzle flash sear and blister my scalp. I lurch upright as Roman tumbles down onto the steps of the church, his gun flying out of his hand.
He sprawls there, the lower half of his right leg semidetached and pumping blood into the rain. He’s reaching inside his coat and, as he pulls out his other gun, I step forward and bring my foot down on his wrist, pinning it to the ground. I point my gun at him.
He opens his mouth and spits out a little rain.
– You… you really are making a mistake. You don’t know what it is, but… Christ, that hurts. But this is a mistake. Trust me.
I nod.
– I trust you, Roman.
– Well. OK, then.
I shoot him in the chest. He convulses when the round hits the bulletproof vest. He spits out more rain.
– Oh, forchrissake, Hank.
– Sorry, I forgot.
I point the gun at his face and pull the trigger again. He dies this time.
When I was about eleven or twelve, I was over at a friend’s house and we were messing around with his BB gun. We plunked away at cans and little green army men for a while and then we started shooting leaves off trees and stuff and then a bird came along. My friend took a shot at the bird and missed and gave me the gun to take my turn. I aimed very carefully and tried my damnedest to hit that bird, believing deep in my heart that I could never hit it.Bull’s-eye.Knocked it right off the branch.But didn’t kill it. It sat on the ground and kind of flopped around in pain and we watched it, not really knowing what to do, and my friend said we should kill it and put it out of its misery. I couldn’t do it, so he took the gun, pumped it up, put the barrel right next to the bird’s head and killed it for me. Shooting that bird felt pretty fuckingbad.
I tuck the gun into the front of my pants and walk around the corner. Withall the ruckus they’re making, the cops may or may not have heard my shots. I walk as far as 10th Street, sort of heading home maybe, and some headlights switch on and I stand there as the Caddie pulls up from where the brothers had it parked, waiting for my call. Ed opens the rear door and steps out.
– What the fuck, man? I told you, no fucking improvisation.
I walk past him and collapse into the car. He climbs in behind me and closes the door.
– Like I said, what the fuck, man? Where are the bad guys?
