care of, I’ll have bullets left. I can handle them. I can handle them and I can get away. David sees me.
I walk toward him.
I put out my hand.
He starts to rise.
Words are coming out of my mouth, something about being early. Something about being sorry for making trouble.
His hand is out.
Branko walks out of the shadows inside the Moscow Cafe, a glass of tea in each hand.
BRANKO AND I had a conversation once.
I was still at the Suites. It was after my face had healed. We had worked together a couple times, but it was before The Kid. We had just come back from beating someone. Branko had watched, I had beaten. The knuckles of my right hand were swollen and the skin over them split and bleeding. Branko looked at them, then filled a bowl with ice water and had me soak my hand.
– If you are going to beat someone with your fists, you want always to have gloves. Leather work gloves are best. Better is to beat a person with a tool. Something that will not break. Something that will not break bones, unless you want to break bones. A shoe. A rolled magazine. A book. Bars of soap in a sock. These are all good. If you use your hands, always you will break your fingers. You see?
He showed me his hands. Large working hands, but no scars or knobs on the knuckles; signs he had already taught me to look for, indications that
– I have always protected my hands. My hands will never fail me when I must hold a knife or a gun. When you are holding a knife or a gun, these are the times you must be able to trust your hands. Save your hands for these times.
He took my hand from the ice water and inspected it, blotting the blood with a dishrag.
– David tells me you have killed men.
He put my hand back in the water.
– He says you have killed some the TV does not know about, but not all they say you have. Do you know how many?
I did. And I told him the number.
He nodded.
– It is likely you will never meet someone who has killed more.
He leaned back in his chair.
– I have killed more. But that is different.
He took off the reading glasses he had worn as he inspected my hand.
– Do you like to kill?
I told him I didn’t.
He folded the arms of his glasses and tucked them away inside his Windbreaker.
– Few men do. Only the sick. But all men, I think, get used to it.
He leaned forward again.
– Have you gotten used to it?
Under the ice water, I made a fist of my hand. It felt tight and I could only close it halfway. I told him I was starting to.
He stood up.
– That will make it easier.
He went to the door, stopped, pointed at my hand.
– Keep it in the water as long as you can. Next time, we will try it with a shoe.
BRANKO WALKS OUT of the shadows inside the Moscow Cafe, a glass of tea in each hand.
He sees me. I freeze. David sees me freeze. Sees what is in my eyes as I look at Branko.
David looks down. I look down. He is not looking at my left hand, at the ridiculously obvious bulge beneath the jacket. He is looking at my wrist, at my right wrist sticking out of my shirtsleeve. He is looking at the red welts on my wrist.
– Henry?
And then Branko is between us, the glasses of tea still in his hands.
– Go inside, David.
And David does. He turns and walks quickly into the Moscow without another look.
I look at Branko. He is looking at the welts.
David is gone.
I have failed.
Branko sets the glasses of tea on a table.
I run.
I RUN PAST the cafes and the comfort station and the shelter and the park. I’m winded. I’m worse than winded, I am fat and covered in sweat and gasping. I quit smoking long ago, but my lungs burn. My legs feel wobbly and unwilling to move. And every pounding step I feel in my face. I should have taken more Motrin. I should have never flushed the pills. I should be sitting on the floor of my shitty apartment zoned on Demerol, listening to music and staring at the carpet with spit running down my chin. That would be nice.
People look at me as I run past them, a man in black jeans and shirtsleeves running on the boardwalk, sweat rolling down his face. I pass the handball courts. My lungs are still heaving.
I look back over my shoulder. There is no sign of Branko. Of course not. He would never run after me, never risk attracting attention. Where will he be? The streets? He will be
Branko is in New York.
Why?
To kill me.
And it’s not because of the fucking picture in the paper. There’s no way Branko could have gotten here since that picture came out. They wanted to use me to kill Mickey’s mother and then get rid of me.
I stop running. Running, I am an easy target.
I stroll toward Coney Island and the thick crowds around the amusement park. I watch the faces. The further I get from Brighton, the fewer are stamped by Russia. I’m past the Aquarium, just ahead is the fence surrounding the Cyclone.
Hiding in that crowd won’t be enough. I need to think. I need a Percocet. I need a plan. I need a Darvocet. I need to know what Branko is doing, where he is. I need-
Shit.
Oh, shit.
Branko isn’t hunting for me. Branko is in a car going to the airport. Branko is calling the airline and booking a flight to Oregon.
I turn around and start heading back.
I have to kill David. I have to find a way up into his office and kill him. I. No. I have to go to him and beg. I have to explain. No. Kill him. That’s. Wait.
Branko won’t be on a plane. They can’t have me running around. There’s too much I can tell the police if I’m caught. David won’t just kill my parents. He’ll use them. He’ll. What? He’ll.
I lean against the chain-link around the Cyclone. I tilt my head back and close my eyes, letting the sun fall on
