advertising 'soul food.' Up ahead he noticed that the rear door of a Budweiser truck had been rolled up and folks were helping themselves to cases of beer and passing out the cans to anyone who wanted one. The driver was nowhere in sight.
The result was an impassable vehicular thicket. He could walk his bike along the crowded sidewalks but time was running out.
Jack needed 125th Street. It led directly to the Triboro Bridge. Only a few more blocks and he'd hit its ramp. The Triboro, true to its name, was actually a series of three bridges linking the Bronx, Manhattan, and, most important, Queens, where it led to the Grand Central Parkway, which in turn led to LaGuardia Airport. The bridges were linked by a long, high viaduct with no lights to slow the flow. Traffic should-should-open up there.
Well, he could try a parallel approach. He turned around and headed back down Madison against the traffic, then turned east on 124th.
Much better. Not good, but at least he was able to find a path through the cars. At Second Avenue he saw a sign to the Robert F. Kennedy Bridge. What the-?
Oh, yeah. They'd renamed the bridge back in '08, but nobody called it the Kennedy or the RFK. It was the Triboro and would always be the Triboro. Even the traffic guys on the radio still called it the Triboro.
Jack angled left onto the ramp and ran into real trouble.
15
'Lady?' Weezy said, edging into the darkened bedroom.
She'd never had to address her before by name and 'Lady' sounded kind of awkward. But awkwardness be damned, she wasn't answering.
'Lady?'
Still no response.
Weezy stopped at the bedside and turned on the lamp. The Lady lay stretched out in her housedress, her arms at her side, her expression peaceful. She said she didn't sleep but her eyes were closed and She wasn't breathing.
Weezy dropped to her knees beside the bed and shook her. Her whole body moved. She seemed to be hollow, made of papier-mache.
'Lady!'
A breath, then a barely audible, 'Yes.'
'I thought you were dead!'
Her eyes remained closed as she spoke. 'So weak.'
Too weak to open her eyes?
'You weren't breathing.'
'I don't need air to exist, only to speak.'
'Anything I can do?'
A thin smile. 'Just go on being you. Now… I must conserve my strength.'
'Sure. Of course.' Weezy rose and backed away. 'Conserve it. Every ounce. I'll be outside if you need me.'
Need me? For what? What could she do?
She reached for the lamp. 'Do you want the light out?'
'It doesn't matter.'
Weezy left it on and returned to the front room.
'She's fading away,' she whispered to no one. A sob broke free. 'We're losing her.'
16
The Triboro ramp was at a complete standstill. The tollbooths were bad enough. Each of the narrow lanes between them was blocked by a car that couldn't move forward or backward. Jack inched his bike past a Mini Cooper only to face the worst jam yet. Cars feeding toward the first bridge were packed so close they couldn't open their doors. Certainly no room for his bike.
He spotted open space far to the left-the exit to Randall's Island. Nobody seemed interested in that. Well, why not give that a try? Maybe he could find a way back up to the viaduct that would put him past this logjam.
A real rush to be able to feed the bike some gas down the empty ramp. After what he'd been through, thirty miles an hour felt like ninety.
He'd been here once or twice since moving to New York. Mostly a sports park with tennis courts, soccer and football fields, a couple of baseball diamonds, but also home to an FDNY fire academy and some sort of mental hospital.
Down on solid ground again, he followed a road paralleling the phalanx of huge columns that supported the viaduct looming a good hundred feet overhead. The light was poor down here and he had to depend on his headlight. He was rolling along, looking for a way back upstairs when the light picked up a hint of movement up ahead on the right near one of the columns. Could be nothing, could be bad news, like someone ducking out of sight. His headlight would have been visible for a while now, allowing time to set a trap.
As he sped through his options, he pulled the sap from his jacket and looped the thong around his wrist. He could have gone for the Glock nestled in the nylon holster in the small of his back, but he was going to need two hands to handle the bike. Still…
Thick brush lined the left side of the road, creating a gauntlet of sorts. He could stop and go back and look for another route, but there might not be one. He needed a way through here that would avoid trouble without slowing his progress.
As he closed in on the column, he made up his mind. Leaning low over the handlebars, he maxed the throttle and veered left, away from the column. The bike leaped ahead -and someone jumped from behind the column, swinging what looked like a two-by-four. It passed through the space where Jack's head would have been had he remained upright, but now it missed both high and wide.
As Jack glanced right to see if his would-be attacker was alone, something hit him from the left. He felt an arm go around his waist in a partially missed tackle. He slipped free but the impact was enough to unbalance him. He squeezed the brakes for all they were worth as the bike tipped. It went over, but he had his arms and legs tucked as metal scraped pavement. He was into a roll as he hit the ground, minimizing the impact. Still it knocked some of the wind out of him, and pain knifed through his right hip as it caught on the rim of a pothole.
Damn. Same leg that Valez had gouged.
The failed tackler was on him before he could regain his feet. In the glow of the bike's headlamp, he saw a boot flashing toward his face. He managed to block it and keep rolling. The move caused a stab of agony from his hip, and then a second kick caught him in the ribs-a glancing blow because of his roll, but it still hurt like hell.
Continuing to roll, he spotted the Buford Pusser wannabe approaching, two-by-four raised. He found the handle to the slapper-still attached by its thong-and took a wild swing, putting as much arm and wrist into it as he could manage from the ground. Nearly a pound of whipping lead connected with the tackler's knee. The guy let loose a cry of pain as his leg gave out. He pitched forward, landing next to Jack. With a howl of rage he made a gouge move at Jack's face, going for the eyes. Jack grabbed his wrist and rolled him atop him just as his buddy took a fence-buster swing at Jack's head. The board caught the tackler across the back; ribs cracked like twigs as the air went out of him in a strangled whoosh.
Jack took another wild swing with the slapper and caught the batter's ankle. With a surprised yelp he hopped backward, grabbing at his lower leg. Jack lashed out with a kick from his uninjured leg, hooking the good ankle and unbalancing him. He landed hard on his ass with a pained, stunned look.
Jack rolled the grunting, gasping tackler off him, struggled to his feet, and hobbled over to the batter before he could recover. The guy took a wild swing at Jack's legs with the board but missed. Jack stepped in and
