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By Root 710 0

wanted to meet someplace secluded in Red Hook. I told him to fuck off and we settled on the East River Park. It doesn’t close until midnight, but at this hour and this time of year, there’s just a few joggers and dog walkers. A ways away, some kids in jackets are playing three-flys-up under the night-lights of another diamond. Russ takes a last hard drag on his cig and flicks the butt out the window. The Braves close out the bottom of the sixth and the broadcast goes to commercial. S.F. and L.A. raced through the fifth and are wading into the sixth themselves.

Russ keeps touching his bandage where it covers the stitches I put in. There’s a tiny pink stain there and every time he pokes it, he winces a little.

—Just stop fucking with it.

He touches it again.

—Really, Russ, you don’t want to fuck around with that until a real doctor checks it out.

He looks at me out of the corner of his eye, then digs in his pocket for another smoke and lights it.

—I’m never gonna see a fucking doctor.

The game comes back on.

—The cops will take you to a doctor.

—I’m, like, never gonna see the fucking cops.

I’m trying to listen to the game with one ear and Russ with the other.

—He can’t kill you, man, you’re his fall guy. He needs you.

—You just. Mmmm. You just, like, don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.

Something’s going on. Atlanta got their lead-off hitter on first and the number two guy sacrificed him to second. Runner on second, one out, heart of the order coming up. No word from the announcer about the Giants.

—You’re gonna take the fall, Russ, because you fucked up. You’re gonna go to jail and you may fucking die there, but Roman’s not gonna kill you.

The Braves’ number three hitter smacks one straight back to the pitcher for the second out. The pitcher spins and fires the ball to second, just missing the double play. The cleanup hitter steps in. Still nothing from L.A.

—You fucking idiot. You’re, like, such a fucking. Mmmm.

—Cool it.

—Such a fucking idiot.

—Don’t fucking push me.

—Fuck you, you fucking idiot.

Two quick strikes followed by three straight balls and the catcher is going out to the mound to settle his pitcher. The announcer has mercy on me and gives an update from the West Coast: Top of the sixth and the Giants have the bases loaded with one out. The Dodgers pull their starter.

—Russ, this would be a good time for you to can it.

—Fucking idiot! Fucking idiot! Fucking idiot!

—Russ!

The Mets’ catcher settles in back behind the plate, the hitter is in the box and the pitcher steps up on the rubber.

On the other coast, the Giants counter the pitching change by bringing in a lefty to pinch-hit.

—Hey, by the way, fucking idiot, how is it you’re planning to get out of here after you send me to be killed, seeing as you don’t, like, drive or whatever?

Atlanta’s man makes loud contact. The announcer is describing the ball’s arc toward deep left field. The color commentator goes bananas, screaming that the Giants’ hitter has just smashed a monster to deep center. On opposite coasts the balls soar toward the outfield walls.

Russ turns the radio off.

—Huh, fucking idiot, how ya gonna get out?

—Fuck!

I grab his right hand with my left and try to pull it off the volume knob; he grabs my wrist with his left and I can’t pull free.

—Fucking idiot! Fucking. Mmmm. Idiot!

—Fuck, Russ! Fuck, Russ! Fuck!

Now I grab his left with my right and we tug-o’-war, grunting. The knob snaps off.

—Russ! Fuck! Russ!

I grab his throat with both hands and squeeze as hard as I can. He has a grip on my fingers, keeping them from closing completely, keeping him alive.

—Fucking murderer! Fucking all my friends! You fucking murderer!

Tears are boiling up around my eyes. I press my weight into him and force his body back against the door. I squeeze harder.

—Hank.

—Shut up!

—Hank.

—Shut the fuck up.

—Hank, he’s gonna—

—Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!

This bastard. This selfish fucking bastard.

—He’s gonna kill us both. He’s gonna fucking kill us both.

Somewhere beyond my crying and Russ’s gasping breath I register