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Bud watches me from the bed until I come over and sit down next to him. Then he climbs into my lap, stretches, and rubs the top of his head against my chin.

—Sorry, Buddy. You’re a good cat. Not your fault, I know that.

He jumps off the bed and walks over to the cabinet where his food is. I take the hint and get off my ass to feed him.

—Yeah, I know, apologies are like assholes, right? Want to make me feel better, feed me.

I leave him to eat and go into the little bathroom. It’s just a tiled chamber with a showerhead at one end and a small commode at the other. A rain tank with a filter unit is on a small tower right outside. That takes care of my washing-water needs, and Leo brings me a few five-gallon jugs of drinking water every week.

Where I really luxuriated when I had this place built was the septic tank. That cost a pretty penny, as does getting it pumped. But, trust me, when you grow up with indoor plumbing, you are simply not prepared for the places most people in the world have to crap.

I wash up and find several cuts on my arms, legs, and feet from my run through the jungle. I sterilize those and take care of them with a few Band-Aids. Then I go for my morning swim, get my ears clogged so that I have to do the cigarette trick, put on shorts and a guayabera shirt, lock up, and walk over to The Bucket, where I find Mickey already sitting on my swing, drinking from my coffee cup, and reading my paper. And I start to remember very clearly just what it feels like when you really want to kill a man.

I MADE that call to Tim back in August. I’d been going out to the pay phone by the highway every three months to call him at home. He’d let me know what was up, if the cops were still poking around. And they poked. I mean, in the forty-eight hours I spent running around Manhattan getting chased, the death toll reached fourteen. At the time, it was a pretty impressive number. Then some really fucked-up people rammed a couple airplanes into these tall buildings in New York and I dropped off the radar.

So things had been quiet for awhile. That shit never seems to last. After Tim told me his story about people maybe looking for me in Mexico, we changed our MO. I started calling him every week at a pay phone in Grand Central.

And it didn’t take long for Tim to start noticing some things.

—What do you mean, “things”?

—I don’t know, man.

—Well that helps, Timmy.

—OK, so people, they like to talk to me, right? Always, on the bus, whatever, I’m the guy people sit next to and like to just start talking to. And, mostly, so, OK, I got ears, use ’em, right? But then, lately? I think I may have noticed something, a trend in the topics of conversation.

It’s starting to rain on me; fat, warm drops.

—Timmy?

—Yeah?

—Can you please get to the point?

—Crime, seems like people, all the time, want to talk to me about crime.

The rain gets heavier and, all at once, is a deluge.

—Want to talk about, Is it better now than it was before? Is the mayor doing all he can? Seems it was better when Rudy was around. With exceptions, of course. Shit happened even when big bad Rudy was sheriff around these parts. And then, some guy might chime in, Yeah, like remember that time? And guess what time he means?

Water is pouring down my body. I might as well be in the ocean.

—And even one of the guys at work one day pops out with, Hey, remember that guy went berserk, that guy you knew him? What the hell was that about?

The dusty ground has already turned to mud.

—So what I’m telling you here is that I think I’m noticing some things. A trend in conversations wherein people, some I know and others I don’t, are asking questions of me that frequently lead to you.

The rain stops and the sun comes out and hits my drenched body. And I tell Tim, fuck it, get your boss to give you a transfer and get the hell out of town. Now.

That’s what he did, got his boss to move him to his western operation. I sent money to cover moving expenses and whatnot, because it pays to take care of the