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By Root 657 0

by old train tracks and shadowed by an industrial skyway that links two warehouses. I wait in a patch of darkness, leaning against a billboard’s support pillar. Up the way is a gas station for cabs and the street is dotted with Yellows waiting to be retrieved by drivers on coffee and piss breaks. The Metro buses do driver swaps here as well, so there’s a short line of buses parked along the block. But the real trade is still the hookers. The area is essentially devoid of residential housing or retail, so no one has bothered to clear out the whores, which is good news for all the businessmen who stop here in their SUVs on weekdays to get a quick hum job before they split back to their families in Connecticut. Most of the trade is pretty bent, not the little-boy hustlers you find on Christopher Street so much as transvestites and transsexuals. I wave off a couple offers. All and all, things are pretty slow, what with it being a Sunday and the rain and the big game. Come by here after the game if the Mets win and the place will be hopping.

I think about these things and they mostly keep me from thinking about Yvonne’s apartment being a short walk away and that helps me not to think about Yvonne and that helps me not to think about Paul’s and that helps me not to think about Russ and how I really did fucking kill him. Shit, oh, shit.

The Caddie glides to a stop at the curb several feet away and the rear passenger door swings open.

I walk over and stick my head inside. Paris is behind the wheel, not looking at me, Ed reclines at the far side of the backseat. It’s dark inside the car and looks even darker because of the sunglasses I’m wearing. The sunglasses, I now realize, that are just like the ones Ed and Paris sport. Ed is looking at me from over his glasses and below the brim of his cowboy hat. He pats the seat next to him. I look at the street around me and let a few more drops of rain fall on the back of my neck, then climb in and close the door. Paris puts the Caddie in drive and Ed shakes his head.

—Christ, you stink.

I crack the window to let some of the smell out and take off my headphones.

—Look at you. Man, Paris, take a look at the boy.

Paris turns his head to take a look at me.

—Looks like crap.

He turns back to the road.

—No, nah, man. He looks tough. You lookin’ tough, Hank.

—Thanks.

—Sure, sure. So, not to be rude, but where the fuck’s our money?

I take off the sunglasses.

—Drive over to Twelfth and Twenty-eighth. Chelsea Mini Storage.

—No shit?

—No shit.

Paris makes a turn at 23rd and takes us to Twelfth, then heads north. Ed is watching me and smiling.

—Really, man, I can’t get over it. Couple days ago, you were just some cat with the shit beat out of him, but now you got something. You look like a player now, son. Focused, determined. Look at me.

I look at him.

—No, man, look me in the eyes.

He takes off his sunglasses.

—That’s it, stare right in there.

I stare into his sleepy, bent eyes for a couple seconds, then fear crawls all over me and I look away. He slips his glasses back on.

—That’s all right, man. That is all right. You definitely got a little Eastwood going on in there. Without a doubt. Way to go.

I unzip the bag. Bud sticks his head up and forces the zipper the rest of the way open so he can slide out. He stretches and starts to groom. Ed frowns.

—A cat, huh?

—Yeah.

—That’s cool, I guess. Just don’t let it fuck up the upholstery.

The Caddie pulls to a stop and Paris turns off the engine.

—We’re here. It’s closed.

I look out the window and see the sign posted on the office door, which very clearly sets out the weekly hours for Chelsea Mini Storage. I take special note of the fact that they are open until 8:00 P.M. every night of the week except for Sunday, when they close at 7:00 P.M. I freak.

—Fuck! Shit! Piss! Tits! Motherfucker! Shit!

I pound my head against the back of the front seat and Bud hops from my lap down to the floor.

—Un-fucking-believable! One, just one fucking fucked-up fucking thing can’t fucking work. FUCK! Fuck me! Fucking God! I. I. I.

I