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—Makes it hard to think clearly, doesn’t it?

Russ packs the money back in the hockey bag while I find some news on the radio. His concentration is better, but the left eye is the same and he still phases out a bit in the middle of talking. I keep a close eye on him to see that he doesn’t start pocketing any of the cash.

Paul’s is all over the local stations. My name is still out of it, but they continue to mention the “former employee.” Then I hit NPR and they’re breaking the story nationally.

—A botched robbery attempt at a bar resulted in seven dead in New York City this morning.

I switch off the radio as sweat breaks out all over my body and tears try to well up behind my eyes. How could I be so fucking stupid not to see it coming?

—Russ, we gotta go.

—Wait a sec. Mmmm. I’m almost done.

—We gotta go now.

—Just a sec.

I grab him and pull him to his feet and push him toward the door.

—Now, fucking now!

—OK, man, OK.

I start to step out of the unit, then go back in. Most of the cash is in the bag, but some is still scattered on the floor. I grab a pack of twenties and a pack of hundreds and follow Russ out.

We stand by the elevator, waiting.

—What’s up, man?

—I have to make a call.

—What about the, like? Mmmm. What about the money, man?

The elevator is taking forever. I push the button again, leaning on it hard, and hear the bell ringing loud down the shaft.

—Man, what about the money?

I jam the button down and squeeze my eyes tight. What is taking so fucking long?

—MAN, LIKE, WHAT ABOUT THE MMMMONEY?

I take my hand off the button and put it on Russ’s throat and slam him back into the wall. His eyes spin around and the concrete scrapes part of the scab from his wound and it starts to bleed again.

—Fuck, man. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

I squeeze his neck and he stops cursing and starts gasping.

—There is no money, Russ. There is no fucking money! My friends are fucking dead, they’re fucking dead! There is no fucking money because my friends are dead because you gave me your fucking cat and now there is no fucking money!

His face is going from red to purple. I let him go. He slides down the wall to the floor and sits there gasping and holding his throat while I lean my forehead against the wall.

—Fuck, Hank. Fuck.

—Yeah, fuck.

We are quiet for a moment, then he slowly climbs back to his feet.

—Hey, Hank?

—Yeah.

—Where. Mmmm. Where is Bud, anyway?

I take my forehead from the wall and open my eyes.

—Roman has him.

—Shit.

—Yeah. Russ?

—Yeah?

—You’re bleeding again. Put your hat back on.

He puts the hat on, I push the button again, and the elevator doors open. The operator is standing there.

—Get the fuck off that button, man. I’m here.

On the way down, he takes our passes. I tell him we may be back later, but he says we’ll have to get new ones then. When we get to the ground floor, I trot right over to the pay phone and pick up the handset before I notice the little OUT OF ORDER sign taped to the wall next to it.

It’s a typical day for New York pay phones. We work our way east, trying to find one that works. At Eighth Avenue, I pick up my fifth phone and get a dial tone this time, but when I try to punch in the number none of the buttons produce a tone of their own. I slam the handset against the phone over and over until the earpiece snaps off and dangles by a couple wires. I’m searching for the next one and Russ grabs my shoulder and points at the electronics store across the street. I nod and we cross over.

I pay for the phone itself with cash and open the service account with one of Russ’s credit cards. When he sees that I have his wallet, he starts to say something but stops himself before it can get out. The sales guy keeps offering me this and that. To hurry it along I tell him to give me deluxe everything and never mind the cost. It takes about twenty minutes in all and I end up with one of those phones where the antenna is angled away from your head so you don’t get tumors from the signal.

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