I SPEND THE rest of the evening cleaning. I clean myself and I clean the shitty apartment. I clean the broken mirror out of the sink and I bandage my wrist. I go through the pills. I flush the Demerol and the OxyContin and the Quaaludes and the Lithium and the Xanax and the Percocet and the Darvocet and the Morphine and the Klonopin and the Librium and the Adderall and the Dexedrine and the Desoxyn. It’s not the first time I’ve flushed an addiction down the toilet, but it needs to be the last.
By eleven the place looks half decent and I’m thinking about going to the twenty-four-hour supermarket to buy some real food for a change.
Then David calls and tells me that he wants me in New York.
– Branko is on his way to pick you up. It will be good for you. Almost a homecoming, yes?
After I hang up I go in the bathroom and stare at the toilet. I get as far as taking a wrench from my tool kit and turning off the water pressure, but I stop myself before I can unbolt the toilet from the floor and check the bends in the pipe for any pills that might have gotten stuck.
PART TWO
FRIDAY, JUNE 24, 2005
GAME ONE
– Henry.
That’s me, that’s my name. Henry Thompson.
– Henry.
But no one uses it anymore.
– Henry. You must tell me.
No one uses it because Henry Thompson is a man most everyone would like to see dead.
– Henry. How does it feel to be here?
But David is using it.
– Henry? To be home?
I don’t answer. Because this is not my home. Not even close.
BRANKO PICKED ME up at the crappy apartment.
He comes in and sees the bandage on my wrist, but says nothing. He uses my bathroom and sees the broken mirror, but says nothing. He takes me out to his car and drives me to the airport. And finally he says something.
– You cleaned your apartment?
– Yeah.
– It was dirty?
– Branko, it was filthy.
– Yes, but it is always filthy.
– I got tired of it.
He points at the bandage on my wrist.
– You hurt yourself cleaning?
– Yeah.
He nods. William DeVaughn croons “Be Thankful for What You Got” on the Camry’s CD player.
– You packed no contraband?
– You watched me pack.
– The security, it is very strict.
I haven’t flown in the U.S. since 9/11 and Branko is worried that I left a toe clipper in my bag or something.
– There’s nothing.
– Good. You need money?
– No.
The song plays. We turn off at the airport and Branko takes us down the departures lane.
– If they pull you out of line, it is nothing. Go with them. They will open your bag and ask you to take off your shoes. In case there is a bomb.
He grunts laughter at the ridiculousness of a shoe-bomb, knowing better places to hide explosives.
– I know.
– You will fly coach. First class I would have booked, but people, they walk past you and stare at your face. The people in coach, they hate the people in first class.
– No problem.
He starts to say something else. Changes his mind and pulls the car to the curb at the United gate. He puts the car in park.
– You need money?
– No. You asked.
– Yes.
He looks past me, through the car window and the glass doors, into the nearly empty terminal. It’s just after midnight, Friday morning. A few people who were in town for midweek specials are taking a red-eye back east, but the real traffic will be coming into the airport around eight when the weekenders start to arrive.
– Branko.
He doesn’t say anything.
– What’s this about? Me in New York. That’s.
He shakes his head.
– You have somewhere else you would go? Yes? No. Go to New York. Do as you are told.
– Yeah. Sure.
He fishes a credit card out of his breast pocket and hands it to me.
– At the automatic kiosk, you zip this. The ticket will appear. In the name on your driver’s license. The card, you throw away.
– Right.
I open the door and climb out. Branko gets out as well and comes around the car to my side. He reaches into the backseat, grabs my bag and hands it to me.
He takes out his billfold and offers me a stack of cash.
– I have plenty left from the other day.
– Take it.
– Branko.
– Take the money.
– Sure. Thanks.
I take the money. He nods, puts his billfold away and walks back around the car. Before he gets in, he points at me.
– Do as you are told.
Then he gets in and drives off.
I walk through the automatic doors, find the ticket machine and swipe the card. I take my ticket to the security line and show it and my driver’s license to a polite woman in a blue blazer. I shuffle through the short line and my baggage is X-rayed. No one asks to look inside. I board the plane and find my window seat. A middle-aged man sits on the aisle and when the door is sealed without anyone having claimed the seat between us he gives me a tired half smile, tilts his seat back and falls asleep. I stare out the window, watch the ground fall away, and try to remember what it was like the first time I flew to New York. Try to remember being very young and starting something new. But I can’t. I look at the sleeping man. I could be sleeping. I could be chewing down a couple
