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—For chrissake, Hank. Will you quit, like, hitting me on the fucking head!

I squat down and look at his eyes. Again, the left pupil is a little bigger than the right. No wonder he can’t walk a straight line. I check the clock: 7:49 P.M. The fucker switched off the alarm. I climb up on the bed, grab the remote, switch to Channel 11 for the Mets game, and turn up the sound. Bottom of the first: zip, zip. I wait for them to flash a score from the Giants game. At the end of the inning, they tell me what I want to know: Giants 1, Dodgers 0, top of the third.

Russ gets himself up off the floor. He looks for something but can’t find it.

—Hey?

I watch TV.

—Hey, what happened to my last beer?

—I drank it.

—Fuck.

He digs in one of the grocery bags until he comes up with a six-pack of Coke, a bag of chips and a can of peanuts. He comes over to the bed and stands there, waiting. I look up at him, then scoot over to make room. He climbs onto the bed, hands me a soda, and puts the chips and nuts between us.

—So, what’s the score?

8:45 P.M. I’m sitting on the bottom edge of the bed, two feet from the TV screen. Top of the fifth, still no score. The Mets and the Braves are locked in a pitchers’ duel. The starters have combined for fifteen strikeouts already and show no sign of slowing down. Out west in Dodger Stadium, they’re jammed in the bottom of the fourth, picking away at each other, the hitters going high into the counts and knocking foul balls all over the fucking place. The Giants are still up 1–0, but L.A. has the bases loaded and S.F.’s starter is already wearing out. The announcer for the Mets game keeps giving updates on what’s happening out in Los Angeles, but the fact that I can’t actually see the game is driving me up the fucking wall. And now it’s time to go, and I can’t bring myself to shut off the TV.

I’m going to wait until the end of the Dodgers’ fourth. I can’t do it, I just can’t go without knowing if the Dodgers take the lead. The Mets knock down the Braves in order, chalking up two more strikeouts and the coverage goes to a commercial.

—Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.

Russ is still reclined at the other end of the bed. He’s a Mets fan. Every time they notch another out, he pumps his fist and gives a little whoop. I’m trying to remember that it could be worse, he could be a Dodgers fan. It’s 8:56 P.M. The game comes back on and we’re informed that the Giants are in the middle of a pitching change. Meanwhile, the Braves go to work on the Mets. I look again at the clock. Fuck! Fuck me! I turn off the TV. Russ jumps off the bed.

—Whoa! Like, what the fuck?

I collect the first-aid kit and cell phone and put on the Yankees jacket, sunglasses and headphones.

—Time to go, Russ.

—Oh, man. Oh, man!

—I know. Come on.

At the door, I turn and take a look at the room. Cans and crumbs and leftover food all over the place. I take a twenty from my pocket and toss it on the bed for the maid. We walk down the hall and push the button for the elevator. Russ is antsy.

—Where do we go?

—We need a car.

—A car?

—Yeah.

He looks at me, the elevator goes ding and the doors open. We step inside and wait for the doors to close.

—Hank?

—Yeah?

—Why do we. Mmmm. Why do we, like, need a car?

The doors are still open. I realize that neither of us has pushed a button and I lean over and press my finger against the one labeled L.

—We need a car because I don’t want to risk any more cabs or subways and so we can listen to the game while we wait.

The elevator is very slow.

—I thought we were, like, going to the. Mmmm. Going to the cops. I thought you were turning me in.

I look at him as the elevator eases its way down to the lobby.

—I’m giving you to Roman.

—What?

—I’m giving you and the money to Roman. Roman will take you in.

—What the fuck?

—I can’t just take you to the police.

—Are you fucking. Mmmm. Are you, like, fucking nuts? You’re fucking crazy. Fucking Roman? ZOMBIE MOTHER FUCKING ROMAN?

—Russ!

—Fuck that!

The doors open on the lobby and a group