now-bad strategy, bad timing, bad self-control-but there it was.
“What’re you getting at?” Freedy said.
“If you think you’re some sort of daring risk-taker, you’re full of shit,” Nat said. “That’s what I’m getting at.”
Had he heard right? Freedy couldn’t believe it, couldn’t believe this college kid would say something like that to him, but he had to trust his hearing; his hearing, like all his senses was very sharp, the best. No one could talk to him like that without being punished. He’d handed out punishment for a lot less. But was this the time? Not quite. Instead, he thought of something amazing to do, something cool and amazing, while everything bottled up in him had a chance to get bottled up more. He reached across the space between them, not much of a space now, reached real slow, and laid his finger on the lips of the college kid. Shushing him, like. Was it the coolest thing he’d ever done? And at the most important moment in his life? What did that say about him?
The college kid got this pissed-off look in his eyes, more than pissed off, angry you could call it, and batted- yes, batted-Freedy’s arm away. With some force, even, a surprising amount. Thing was, since Freedy’d been intent only on shushing, he’d used his right arm, the one that wasn’t working so well on account of that tire iron business. Also, the one that would hurt if someone batted it. And now someone had.
“You know what I’m going to do to you for that?” Freedy said.
“You’re going to take me to where she is,” the college kid said. “I’m going to give you the money. After that, you can try whatever you want.”
The answer confused Freedy. Truth was, he couldn’t recall a moment of confusion like this, ever. Made him look away for a second, almost like he needed a break from staring the college kid down. Good thing, though- momentum was still on his side-because in that moment of looking away, he saw someone else in the alley.
“What the fuck?” said Freedy.
The college kid turned to see what he was talking about.
“Get back,” he called to whoever it was.
Making that turn, of course, the college kid took his eyes off Freedy. Mistake. Beginner’s mistake, taking your eyes off old Freedy, especially at a moment like this, when things were a bit confusing, maybe even getting out of hand, and when there was so much bottled up inside him, due to all the composure he’d been keeping. Freedy let him have it. A left hand, yes, not like his right, not like another whole person, but still, he put everything into it, legs-those legs of his! — hips, back, chest, all those reps, all those sets, all those curls, dips, presses, raises, all those years in the gym, all those supplements, all that andro, he put that kind of everything into it, and hit the college kid a good one, bang on the side of the face, a crusher. Orgasm? Orgasm had nothing on the feeling that spurted through him at that moment.
College kid went down, no surprise there, and Freedy grabbed the backpack. Bit of a surprise there; he didn’t grab it clean. The college kid kind of held on to it, kind of fought him for control of the thing, didn’t let go-never let go, in fact-until Freedy booted him one in the gut, making his grip soften enough for Freedy to snatch the backpack away.
Turned out a million was easy to carry. Freedy slung it over his good shoulder, gave the college kid another boot, aiming for the head, but maybe not connecting square, what with all the snow on the ground. No time to do any better, with whoever it was in the alley, and the alley the only way out.
Freedy ran into the alley, a funny, heavy run in the deepening snow. Out on the street the storm was howling now, but between him and it stood this other person, at the edge of the orange light. Freedy switched the backpack to his other shoulder even though it smarted at bit, freeing his left arm.
This other person stepped right into the middle of the alley, blocking his way.
“Stop,” she said.
Turned out to be a she, and with a familiar voice. Then Freedy got a good look at her-snowflakes in her light brown hair-and it gave him a shock. She’d somehow gotten free! Undone all that tape, climbed out of the tunnels, come after him. Was it possible? No, not with her face like that. Not a mark on it, both eyes open, no sign of all they’d been through. Somehow, this had to be the other one.
“Stop right there,” she said, in a real commanding voice, like he was a dog.
He was no dog. Two more steps and he let her in on the secret of that left, caught her a nice one, marking her, making them more like twins again. But: something hurt. In his left forearm, something hurt awful, awful enough to make him cry out. He looked at that forearm, held it up in the orange light, that mighty mighty forearm: and what was this? A knife, a goddamn switchblade, angled deep into it, deep in the heart of the muscle. Freedy boiled over. He hit her again with his left, the knife still in it, but didn’t connect the way he’d wanted, only staggering her. She was moving away, running now, down the alley, calling, “Nat, Nat.”
Freedy looked at that knife in his arm and felt like puking. Funny, to be puking again at the Glass Onion. He didn’t let himself. Get a grip, he thought, or maybe said aloud. Getting a grip meant figuring out what to do. First, the knife. He got his right hand on it-right hand not at its best either, they were maddening him, maddening him like a bull-sucked in some air, yanked out the switchblade knife. That hurt too-even though there wasn’t much blood- hurt enough to make him cry out again, although he kept it inside. Or maybe not. Meth: oh, how he wanted it, and lots of other drugs. He dropped the knife in the snow and stepped out into the street.
At least he had the money. At least? What was he thinking? That was the whole point. No pain, no gain: how true. A millionaire! A millionaire at last! And right away, his life started changing, because parked by the curb, just a few feet away and motor running, was a Mercedes convertible. An old one, but immaculate, and very cool. Not only that, but the top was down, like it was all ready for Florida. Did he need an invitation? He did not. Freedy slipped behind the wheel. No CD player, but he could always add one later. Which way to Miami?
The girl? What about her? The girl maybe wasn’t so perfect after all. That part was confusing too. These girls, coming at him with jagged glass, with switchblades, could he ever really trust one of them? Could he ever really be sure she was broken like a horse? He made a decision, an executive decision: forget her. There were girls in Florida, girls who’d be hopping into this new car of his every time he stopped to take a piss, for Christ’s sake. No, he would start his golden future alone, like a man.
Miami: what a word, a perfect match for millionaire. Which way to Miami? He knew: south. South meant the turnpike; the turnpike meant Route 7, Route 7 meant driving his cool new car down the Hill and taking a right on Main. Freedy was doing that, had switched on the headlights and released the clutch, was actually rolling, when he realized he’d forgotten something important, maybe even basic. He hadn’t checked the money. He pulled to a stop beneath the nearest street-light and picked up the backpack. What if they’d cheated him? Was it possible? He tore it open: no, it wasn’t possible, because there, inside the backpack, was money, beautiful, beautiful money. Hundred-dollar bills, in thick wads held together with rubber bands, wads and wads and wads of them. He pawed through. This wasn’t orgasm time, but a pretty good feeling just the same. He was rich! It was that easy. Real life begins.
But hey, what was this? Another little wad down in there, a little deeper, held together by a rubber band like the others, but didn’t feel like the others. In fact, it felt like-he held it up in the orange light-it was: just a stack of goddamn note cards. And here was another. And another, and another, and another. He was hurling them around now, out of the convertible, into the snow, maybe hurling around some of the money too. A million dollars? Wasn’t anything like that here, not even close. He wasn’t a millionaire. He wasn’t rich.
They were maddening him, maddening him like a bull, inciting violence. Wasn’t that a crime? He wheeled the car around, tires spinning crazily in the snow, skidded to a stop outside the Glass Onion, jumped out, slamming the door shut hard, but nothing like the way he was going to slam them around. Slam. The street-lights went out.
The whole town went dark. Everything disappeared: the street, the buildings, the ground, the sky. Even the blowing snow was now invisible, but Freedy could feel it stinging his face, maddening him more. He entered the alley, felt his way along to the space behind the Glass Onion.
Couldn’t see a goddamn thing, no people, no footprints, only darker shadows and lighter shadows. He slogged his way through the snow, bumped into what had to be the overhang of the loading dock. A good hiding place, as he knew well. He lashed out with his boot a few times, hit nothing.
“I want the money,” he said, not hysterically, just making an announcement. He found the Dumpster, one of the darker shadows, kicked out at any small dark shadows he saw around it, connected with nothing human.
He made another announcement: “I’m going to murder you.” Then he had a disturbing thought. What if they’d slipped by him, were already out of the alley? What about the car? Freedy hurried back to the street, slipping once
