I guess it would help if I knew what the hell was going on. The room is so dim, all I can make out are shaky outlines-a table here, a wall there-then something flush against my face like a death mask, and only the briefest space to see through. Just my little view of the world, framed in black. My head is throbbing like I've been driven into the ground again and again and again. I've tried raising my arms for hours but it's no use. My bones, my limbs, they feel thick and heavy; like lead

When the lights come on, there are voices from somewhere, and my eyes flutter in the glare. That's when I realize why I can't move. I'm entombed. My left leg is in a cast, the plaster crawling to the top of my thigh below a khaki smock. The right leg is the same, caught in some kind of rigging, keeping it high and immobile. Both my arms are plastered. The right is lying across a fake wooden tray, a few fingers breaking free at the end. My left hand twitches, its skin surprisingly free of bandages. Only then do I notice the trace of a burn. The IV stuck in my hand, its tube trailing far out of sight.

There's a click like a key in a latch-a door opening-and then footsteps. A thin man walks into the picture wearing a lab coat with a plastic badge, a solid teal tie poking from beneath. He's got a clipboard in one hand. Definitely doctor type. I stare as he rounds the bed, leaning over me like he's taking a look beneath the hood.

"Good morning..." he says, looking at his clipboard. "Thought you'd never wake up."

My first few words die in my throat. I try again but nothing. The teeth in my mouth are set hard against each other-the vague taste of iron. I look straight ahead and I know.

My jaw is wired shut.

"I'm Dr. Sheldon," he says. The doctor takes out a penlight and flashes it in my eyes for a moment. He takes the light away, stuffing it back in his pocket. "Now I want you to relax. There's nothing to worry about. I know it'll take a while to adjust. But your body needs all the rest it can get." He taps the end of my foot with a smile. "You're lucky to be alive, my friend."

2

Nothing. I struggle to grasp any thought, any idea of who I am but my head is cloudy with the drugs they've given me. I slip in and out of consciousness. The roof of my head is beating like a demon. I try sifting through every murky image. Just as I think I've gotten a hold of one, it trickles out of sight. A grain of sand running through my fingers. Just like this one.

Everything is black. My body is coiled in a knot of broken limbs. Blood seeps into the darkness of open water. The sky above is alive, twisting with the venom of fire and raised voices. The scream of sirens along the waterfront. I float about in the tangle of burning flotsam. Trapped. Drowning. My body paralyzed with pain, my limbs failing as I sink into the cold inky depths. Unable to escape the certainty of death. For a moment, I surface.

Then a voice above the crack of blistering metal. Voices now. Closer... Please...

"Over here!"

There are sudden ripples. The comfort of hands. And the woman in the water, holding me-yelling for Jesus.

"Jesus, Mary and Joseph..."

3

They've come up with a brilliant idea now. I wake up to find a pad of yellow writing paper stuffed under my right hand. Or the few fingers that pass for a hand. I tap the white ballpoint they've left and it tumbles onto the floor. The pad stares back at me curiously. Maybe they want me to write an essay or something. How I Spent My Summer Vacation In Traction.

The sound of the door is replaced by footsteps. Guy Smiley has shown up again. Seems the Doctor and I are going to spend some more quality time together. I've come to anticipate his visits. If I stare at the sides long enough, I can make his thin body appear as a white metallic slash along the rail. He approaches with a smile and the usual pleasantries. He spots the pen and picks it up like he should win a medal.

"Looking for this?" he says, replacing the pen in my hand. "I thought today we'd let you talk for a change. Your jaw's not going to heal overnight unfortunately." He coughs. "Well, whenever you're ready."

I fumble with the pen like a toddler learning how to walk. The Doctor holds down the pad while I write. Shaky block letters come. Eventually. He looks at my note with a rub of his chin.

"WHERE?" it says.

"You're at Mount Sinai. We pulled you out of ICU a couple days ago. It was touch and go for a while there with the burns you've suffered. But I think you'll be up and at 'em in no time."

I try the pad again.

"WALK?"

"Yes... Well, your left leg was broken in three places. It should heal nicely in time." He pauses. "The right wasn't so lucky. Completely shattered I'm afraid. We've pinned it back together but I'd be optimistic if I said it'll be the same again."

There's a barren silence. If he's trying to get me worked up, he's coming through with flying colors.

"Well, Mr. X. You know my name. Tell me. Who are you?"

My fingers strain as they write each word. I drop the ballpoint and tap it over the edge with an errant finger. Smiley picks up my notepad. He isn't smiling.

"A DEAD MAN," it says.

4

They say when you die, there's always a blinding white light at the end of a tunnel. Funny. That's one thing I can vaguely see in this darkness beneath my bandages. White flickers off the dull concrete. My footsteps tapping into a puddle every few steps. I can't place the smell. All I can think of is wood. Wet, decaying wood. At each turn, a reddened bulb hangs from the rafters, so low, I have to duck each one as it comes. As I search for the end of all this. A girl stands in the doorway. Mar...tina? Her shiny black jacket glows in the yellowed light. The strawberry blonde hair tied back. Twin locks hang down around the side of her face. Her white features are cut smooth and precise like the edges of an ice sculpture. Melting fast. I take her into my arms but she has no smile. And her tone is far from pretty.

"We got trouble," she says, "Big trouble..."

5

I tried moving last night. Once when no one was around. Once. I turned in my bed and my chest caught fire on me. Like it was full of hot pokers, digging in every side. I quickly learned my lesson. All I wanted was a look around. Some other view than this same empty space and a wall of green curtains fading off to my left. Not that it would've mattered much. My body feels like a burnt stone. Besides, I could hardly hail a cab with my leg in this rotisserie. I wonder why no one's come to see me. All I've really seen is Smiley so far. When I'm awake, that is. Maybe all the other nurses come in at night to stare at me and place bets on when I buy the farm. I wouldn't put it past Smiley. All the time watching me, staring, like I'd just caught the last train out of hell. Or just got left behind. I hear the voices again just outside my door. Low. Always low. Every so often I catch a word, a phrase, but nothing more. It's like hearing your name called from a passing car as it zooms by. You don't know who it was. You only know it happened. Occasionally I think I can see blue figures moving along the chrome metal bars of my bed. But that's all there is in my little world. Nothing but drab figures. A faceless blue.

6

This time, all I can see are the lights. Shimmering beams of light flicker off the mirrored ball suspended above the runway that dominates the room. A pair of dancers walk by the entrance, cutting through the glitter like salmon moving upstream.

I buy a drink from a passing waitress, and take a seat near the runway. The place is filled with a lot of scruffy-looking types. No surprise in a joint like this.

A buxom redhead comes out in spiked heels and a white Budweiser bathing suit. She swings into action, launching herself at the stage pole, catching it near the ceiling. She spreads her legs like a 747 coming in for a landing and slides all the way down. Her body weaves back and forth as she peels back the straps of her suit, her naked skin dazzling in the spotlight.

The shot girl twists by and I spin around, grabbing the fringe of her leather mini. She bats my arm down and smacks me one across the face. Not hard. Just enough to keep me honest.

"Hey! You wanna watch those hands?"

"Heeeeeeey, c'mon baby. Whathaveya got there for me?"

She sighs then pulls opens her pouch and checks her vials. "Orange sunshine."

"I hear drinks are free tonight..."

"Look, baby," she says, "You either buy it or wear it. Your choice."

I pull out my wallet and flip her a five. "Why, hey, look at that. You got yourself a sale!"

She stands there and gives me a look like she just told me to go fuck myself. That's when she finally whips her blonde hair back and climbs into my chair, taking my shoulders, sliding easily into my lap. She draws an orange vial from her pouch and tips back my chin so she can slip it inside, letting my teeth bite down on the thin glass.

"Hold on," she says.

She takes the other end gently into her mouth and lets the shot drain back into mine, stroking the glass a few times for good measure. She puts the vial away and takes an added second to wipe the taste from my lips with hers. Then a few seconds more. More...

The waitress circles past with a well-stocked tray.

"Fuck...get a room you guys!"

Martina lets up at last. And I take another five and tuck it into the front of her blouse. She just smiles down at me.

"You're an asshole, Vic. You know that."

My laughter comes long and loud.

"Well, I try. So, what's it tonight? Your place or mine..?"

7

Something happened today. They gave me a TV. This is a dream come true, considering I ran out of things to look at about five days ago. If it was five days ago. Its small screen hangs from a swinging arm on the wall across from my me. I can't change the channel but I guess I can't complain.

I'm anxious to watch anything. Game shows. Infomercials. Hell, I'll even watch Regis. Just give me something! Anything to keep me busy. Just a glimpse of the outside world to prove it's still there. I guess the Doctor has other plans for me. He's left it on the local news. The last thing I want to see.

It's a funeral procession. The screen is a sea of black and blue. Two long ranks of teary-eyed police officers line the street as a hearse cruises silently by. Eight squad cars follow behind, their lights pulsing in a solemn blue. It's all great television. A young reporter comes on with the usual story. One of New York's finest. Died in the line of duty. Then it's the casket being carried from the chapel. Cut to the family-a woman in black, two young children, an older couple-and all of them bawling their eyes out.

Jesus. Oh dear sweet Jesus...

When Smiley gets back, I'll make sure he changes the channel. He has to.

Please.

8

In my mind, I feel my legs racing up a flight of darkened steps. But I'm not alone. Martina is following close at my heels in the long shadows. Our feet slap with a wild staccato rhythm like a stick cutting across a picket fence. I reach the landing and catch her as she springs to my side. Shaking. A bead of sweat runs down the whiteness of her neck. We don't stop until we reach the door, and search the panic in each other's eyes. Our breath laboured-almost gone.

"Baby-I'm sorry-"

She kisses me hard. Briefly.

Then, without thinking, I grab the blue metal door and throw it back. Bathed in light, our hearts stop as one. A cry rising. Rising in our throats.

9

God-I want out.

Hours and hours with nothing but boredom and TV and painkillers to keep me company. The emptiness is numbing, chilling. The delirium coating me like my own plaster shell. My mind is still a blank slate. But I can tell someone is writing on it. Quickly...very quickly.

A door opens. There are words. I pick them out of the air.

Got a crispy critter in there. Multiple fractures. First degree burns. Head trauma.

Smiley appears with the usual grin. Behind him are two men, shuffling into view with their damp camel overcoats. The first one is older. Fifty-five or so. A heavy set man with a grey mustache, he walks hunched over like he's been carrying the whole state of New Jersey around. The black man, the younger of the pair, stands off to one side. His eyes take in the room, his body tense. His face blank, unreadable.

My feet start to sweat, terribly.

"These are Detectives Rhodes and Pereira," Smiley says. "They just want to ask you a few questions." Rhodes studies my plaster body before speaking.

"This won't take long," he says. "We're trying to find out more about your accident. We need to know what you know..."

I notice Rhodes doesn't have a pad or paper. I guess taking notes isn't high on his list. Maybe he wants to borrow mine. His partner is running a finger along my TV set. Smiley just studies his clipboard. I feel like I'm in the principal's office. Rhodes continues.

"When the paramedics pulled you from the harbor, one of them said you were delirious. Do you remember what happened that night?"

His eyes look like they're just coming out of an icy fog. In his eyes...something...I...

I finally shake my left index finger. A definite 'NO.'

"There's a lot at stake here," Rhodes says. "Are you sure you can't help us?"

Again-NO. His mustache twitches. The man looks back at Smiley who only shrugs his shoulders. Rhodes points at my pad.

"Could you tell us what your name is?"

I wait. He repeats his question. I take the pen and calmly scratch into my pad. He sees my answer. He doesn't like it.

"NOTHING," it says. Smiley says the painkillers are still clouding my judgment. No kidding. Pereira remains quiet. Rhodes looks into my eyes one more time-a cold, cold stare.

"You don't know who we are...do you?"

Again. "NOTHING."

Rhodes and Pereira exchange glances, their shoulders sagging noticeably.

"Sorry to bother you," Rhodes says, gathering to leave. "Maybe we'll catch you another time." Smiley retreats with a solemn tap on my bed. Says he'll be back in a minute. The three of them shuffle from the room. I can't wave good-bye. But I'd scream if I could.

10

Lost. That's how I feel right now. Lost in the memory of that face. Peel back my bandages, unravel all this bloody, stinking mess, and you'll find her. I know that much. Yeah, even with all the goofballs they're feeding me, God, you don't forget a face like that.

Or that time I told her.

The day's early evening commuters walk crisscross in front of us. The first few drops of rain pattering across the windshield before they're wiped away without a trace. And just the two of us parked along a busy side street. I turn the engine to silence and watch Martina behind me in the rearview mirror, hovering over my shoulder from the back seat. Leaning forward like she's ready to blow out a candle.

"Run this by me again..." she says, "What happens when they ship it to Mexico?"

"Caine knows an outfit there that'll pick the gold up, and melt her all down. His family doesn't pay up..."

"If..."

"If they don't pay up-which won't happen-but if it does?" I draw my thumb across the dash. "There's nothing left to do. We'll have to send their boy back...in a box."

It's so quiet in the backseat, you can almost hear the subway rattling through the earth beneath us.

"So, we give your friend some muscle...we make-"

"Hundred grand...each. Sweet, huh?"

Martina looks out the window, stares at the little blue lights playing soft across her. "Where'd you meet this Caine guy anyway?"

"We used to work The Roulette a few years back. He saved my ass in more than a few knife fights. Caine's a standup guy. Trust me." I turn around to look into her shadowed face. The filtered light of neon dancing in her eyes. "You up to this? We don't have to..."

She doesn't say a word at first. But I get my answer. A lingering smile. A long, smoldering kiss.

"Babe," she says, pulling away with a laugh. "If you don't swing for the fences, what's the use of living?"

I drum my fingers along the steering wheel.

"God. California's sounding better all the time. How long's your sister been out there?"

"Six years now. Shannon can't stop going on about it! All that blue sky and sunshine. I've been promising for years I'll move out there, see the kids, and everything and...I just can't believe this is happening."

"Better believe it! We can even hit that place you keep talking about. Up by Lake Tahoe, right?"

"Yeah, Grover State Park...Dad took us there once when we were little. It's way up in the mountains. God, the place's so beautiful, I just didn't want to leave! They've got a mineral hot spring that's been there for years. Nothing to do but sit underneath the stars and soak it all up. Verrrrrry romantic. You know?"

I just keep kneading her hand in mine, wondering how barren her fingers' been looking these days.

"Sounds like heaven..." I say, "Good life like that beats bouncing any day of the week."

Martina rubs the back of my neck, watches the crowds as they pass by.

"Fuck...anything beats having some perv grabbing my ass all the time."

"'Cept me?"

She narrows her eyes.

"Vic. Shut up."

I peel back her collar, nuzzle at the soft curves of her ear.

"I was thinking..." she sighs, "We could get ourselves a nice little condo. Right by the water. We could walk along the beach after dark. Take a swim in the moonlight...maybe even let the...hey! There he is..."

I slide away and spot a man in a full-length leather jacket coming out the back door, merging with the crowd. The car starts up with a strangled cry and I start rolling ahead. Closing in on the leather clad figure. I drift alongside and reach across to flip the door for him.

"Get in," I say.

Caine tumbles into the front seat then slams the door with a start.

She puts the gun to his head. Flicks off the safety.

"Jesus!" he cries. "Put that thing down! I said, we'll take her-okay??"

Martina looks to me for guidance, then pulls it away. Puts the gun out of sight. Caine swivels his head at me and raises a Spockian eyebrow. His eyes shift back to Martina before the strain finally leaves his face.

"Girl's good," he says to me. "She's a keeper."

11

It's getting dark, I can tell. The edges of the room take on a resigned hue as the night leaks in on me. Drop by drop. I try staring at the shadows, hoping it can pull me closer to sleep. But sleep doesn't come these days. Only the drugs. They haven't come to shut me down. Not yet.

The TV is still flashing, taunting me with its bright pictures. Technicolor dreams. Smiley's let it run all day, slowly painting my mind with its images. Again, just the news. The usual death and destruction in business suits. I sneer at the soft pastel blues of the studio. Some prissy little network bitch begins, smiling, waiting to tell me how everything will be all
right. A small box of fire hangs in the air beside her head. Then the story. A fire down on the waterfront. The empty shell of a warehouse. Two bodies burnt beyond recognition. Still no clues. Still under investigation.

Then a little joke. The three anchors grin like someone just let one go or something. Now it's all smiles and off to Dave with the weather. My fingers twitch. None of them care, of course. There's no reason to. They weren't in that little box of fire. They don't know what went on. And they never will.

12

Martina leads me into the muddied light of the cellar. A weary bulb casts a dull glow over the proceedings. In the ring of light, the man is taped to the chair. The main event. A thick young man dressed in a mangled green jogging outfit. He looks strong enough to take on the world...if it weren't for one thing. The boyish face is swollen red like a ripe grapefruit, the blood gathered in small patches across his dark hair. The head hanging quiet and loose across the back of the chair.

"What the hell-"

I turn to see Caine, the big leather-coated man sitting in the corner, fingering his close-cropped hair. He takes some fries from the McDonald's bag at his elbow and eats them one by one.

"You missed all the fun," he says at last.

"I tried," spits Martina. "He wouldn't stop."

"Caine, what are you doing, pal?!"

"I don't owe this guy any favors. 'Kay?" He smiles a fine evil grin. "'Sides, no one said Barry had to be in one piece."

"The cops might have other ideas," she says, looking down at the man in the chair.

Caine laughs, holds out a gloved hand to me. "Got the paper?"

I pull the newspaper from my jacket and throw it at Caine. He grabs the paper out of mid-air and lays it across the table. Caine stares at the headline in deep black across the Post. His face doesn't move.

"KIDNAPPERS TARGET BOY IN BLUE," it says.

"Yep," he says, reading, "Got every cop in town after us, I bet."

"What about that letter?" I say, "You know. The ransom note. We gotta drop it-now."

"Tonight. We'll do it tonight, okay?"

"Jesus-let's get the ball rolling! We've got better things to do than hide in a shit box like this."

"Just shut up, okay! I know what I'm doing..."

"Oh god," says Martina. She leans against the wall, looks away, pushes a blonde lock from her face. "I need some air..."

I just keep staring at the bleeding man. Something...something...

"Caine. How long's Barry been out like that?"

He dips his hand into his Coke, crunching nervously on some ice.

"Long enough. Why?"

"Wake him up..."

"He's not gonna-"

"I said-wake him up!"

Caine and I trade glances. The tension building in our veins these last hours. His fingers clench the table leg. Caine thinks about it then rises to his feet. He grabs his cup from the table, snapping off the lid. He steps up to the man in the chair. Caine throws the Coke into the limp face, the colored ice raining across the floor.

I look over at Martina. She's waiting by the door, her shiny leather body rigid in the rusty light. Her eyes stare at the body. She knows I got her into this bear trap. But it's too late to turn back now. California's on the sign post up ahead, baby. We gotta see this through.

13

If I close my eyes, I can see the fire. Just the smallest of sparks at first. Back in the corner of my room. Then a wide rolling flame, following me, up the walls, across doors and hinges, licking across the ceiling. The screech of tiles curling back. My lungs searing as the smoke clouds my vision. My black little world screaming as it caves in. Melts away.

And I can't help but think of something.

When I was just a kid, sixteen or seventeen, I remember how I went through a real rough patch. Real dumb shit. Got kicked out of school. Even stole me a car or two. And my parents, looking to put the fear of God in my soul, bundled me off to Bible school every Sunday morning. Not that it helped any. All those plagues and parables are lost to me now.

But I can still recall that one story...about Shadrach, Meshach and Abed-Nego. The three of them locked in a furnace for refusing to bow down and worship another god. And how-out of nowhere-an angel of mercy appeared to protect them from the flames. Take the pain away. Sometimes it's all I think of. That wrought iron door opening up and the three of them walking out like new. Untouched. As safe as being in God's pocket with the flap turned down.

14

The Roulette is all vacant booths and long shadows this time of night. The place is empty as a church on Monday. But not as quiet, the speakers still kicking in the back with Boston's "More Than A Feeling." Caine sits on the stool across from me and nurses a whiskey. His leather coat thrown over the bar behind him. He's three years older and ten pounds heavier. But there's that same twinkle in his eyes like he knows a good thing when he sees it.

"So. I hear you're looking for work," he says, passing me another beer, my first Bud gone almost as soon as it appears.

"Yeah, I just gotta. But I'm getting sick of working the doors. Feels like I've worked every goddam fleabag and nightclub in town. And I got the scars here to prove it."

"You were the best, man," Caine says as he lights one up.

"Was. All I do now is mooch off my girlfriend. I feel like such a puss about it..."

"She's working...Scandals, right?"

"Yeah. Tips are good. But I gotta get her outta that ratbed."

"What..? You gonna marry this girl or something?"

"I have to...she brought out the shotgun!"

Caine starts laughing and lets out a smoker's hack that doubles him up for a sec.

"Same ol' Vic," he smiles. "Still driving the girls crazy! Just like old times..."

The two of us let Boston and the booze take over for a minute and Caine stares out the window a long time like he just forgot something. Like he just lost his best friend. He looks down, dots his cigarette against the bar.

"So. You in?"

"Depends, pal. What's this all about?"

Caine goes real quiet. He pulls something from his wallet, slides it across the bar to me.

It's a picture of an old man taken downtown somewhere. He's wearing a snow hat and a roughed up sweatshirt two sizes too big. Dressed up like November when it's gotta be July. The eyes are hollowed out. His face parched and cracking like the desert sands. And the guy's gotta look on him like he can't get out of there fast enough.

"Who's that..?" I ask.

But I'm looking into Caine's eyes. And I don't have to ask. I know.

"My dad broke into a pharmacy one night," he says, pointing at the photo, "Looking for a quick fix no doubt. He was never one for trouble. But when my old man got the shakes, fuck, he got it bad. Something awful. That's when this cop shows up, corners him trying to get away. They said there was a fight..." He crushes his cigarette out. "All I know is my dad took a bullet in the head. Right there. And this cop gets off scot-free. Said he shot him in self-defense..."

Caine's eyes burn in the neon light.

He finishes his whiskey off. Taps the photo again.

"You tell me how an old man like that puts up a fight," he says, "Tell me."

15

When I wake up, Smiley's staring at me with a grin eight miles wide. He's poking. Prodding. Taking inventory. I look into his eyes. You'd think he won the lottery, he's so happy. Maybe if I'm really nice, he'll give me a cookie.

I guess I must've drifted off with all the happy pills or something. I know he wasn't there a minute ago. He was testing me all morning-I remember that much. Flash cards mostly. The usual baby math questions. One plus one is two. Two plus two is four. Four plus four is-fucking enough already! I figure, play along with him. This guy is my ticket out...whenever that is. I swear, if I ever get out of this place, I'm going to do three things. One is tell Martina's sister I'm so goddam sorry. Two is buy the first ticket for Anyplace, USA.

Three is run like hell.

I start writing on my pad. This one takes me a while.

"WHEN CAN I GO HOME?"

He smiles, tapping my toe with a pencil.

"Soon, my friend. Very soon..."

What?

He must know something I don't. Last time I checked, I still look like The Michelin Man. I try to scribble out another message but Smiley turns. He looks at me, vacantly, like he's never seen me before in his life. Then he's gone. The door clicks shuts with the sound of a vault, a final hush of air seeping away. And my words staring me back in the face.

"HELP ME. JESUS!"

16

The blue metal door slams against the wall, opening onto the shaded lights of the alley. Echoing like a distant thunderclap. Four silhouettes wait out in the mist. Dark, anonymous shapes emerge from the docks. They strike in seconds. Hands coming at us like mad dogs.

Martina's screams. The rush of footsteps along the alleyway. Both come together in one frenzied sound. Quickly the gun rises, the grip of cold steel in my hand now. But it's too late. Way too late.

The shadows have only two words for me.

"Drop it!"

17

I hear a sound. A door maybe? My eyes strain in the blackness. If the room were any darker, you'd think I was underground. There are footsteps. Close. A pause. Suddenly my little TV bursts into light. Two figures materialize while the glow spreads across my room. My eyes take a long time to adjust. One man is closing my green-shadowed curtain. He turns on the lamp. The other is stuffing the pad and pen under my arm. A hunched over man. Grey mustache. Rhodes.

"Well," he says, "Been talking to Sheldon. Doc says you're sharp as a tack. I think you've been holding out on us...Mr. X."

My feet start to sweat again. I see those eyes. I try to write my way out of this.

"WHAT DO YOU WANT?"

Rhodes takes my pad, studies it. He steals the pen, clicking the tip thoughtfully. The black man turns down the TV's hiss, the barren static coloring in the blankness of his face.

"Oh, we could sit here all night shooting the shit," says Rhodes, ripping off the page. He begins to write. "But I've got better things to do. See...we know who you are."

18

Barry lies perfectly still. A drop of bloody water trickling from his chin.

"All right, Barry, you fuck," says Caine. "Wakey, wakey..." The young man makes no reply. No move. Caine spits, crushing an ice cube underneath his foot. "See. He ain't talking."

"Geez, what'd you do to this guy?"

"Nothing! Just a few good shots to the head. I've seen Tonya Harding take more than this guy."

"Let me try..." says Martina moving between us. She kneels beside Barry and tears off his blindfold, pulls his bloodied head back softly. She wipes the blood from his eyes, his forehead, and slowly listens to his chest. She pulls off her gloves, small hands suddenly fumbling for his wrist. Martina looks up at us, her eyes a blank quivering stare. Then in one second, I know, we're as good as gone. Her voice is far off, almost childlike as she says it.

"I think he's...dead."

"No," I say. "No...he can't be." I lean Barry's head back and stare into the empty eyes, the terror jumping like lightning in my veins.

"His pulse's gone...he must've had a hemorrhage or something-"

"He can't be!" I say, lunging at the limp wrapped form.

"Vic," says Martina. "Baby. We're wasting time..."

The chair tilts back, falling like a heavy cinder block-the body sinking quickly to the floor. It slumps over to one side. Martina starts to shiver at my arm. I stare at the redness of blood beading across my fingers. There's only one of us laughing at the whole hellish scene.

Caine.

"Yes!" he shouts. He kicks the still body in the head, again and again. His face beaming like a kid on Christmas morning. "Yes, yes, yes-eat this you son of a bitch!"

I throw the leather man back against the wall, screaming as it finally sinks in that we're all falling. And the ground's coming up fast.

"Son of a bitch-you just dug our graves! Who's gonna pay for a dead man??"

Caine can't keep me away, can't get my hands from his throat. That's when the words tumble loose from his lips. I'm not even sure I hear them right. But I know I did. I just wish to God I hadn't.

"There's no money, Vic."

"What??" cries Martina.

"What are you-"

"There's no gold, no Mexico. No nothing... This is just payback. Plain and simple."

It takes me two seconds to grab Caine's arm and wrench it behind his back. I feel it come free from its socket as I break Caine's head against the table. Throw him howling to the ground. I've taken on a lot of tough guys when I'm working. Beaten them 'til they start crying for their mommies. But I've never killed a man in my life.

I want to now.

"You prick! You stupid, stupid prick...get rich quick you said!"

"Vic, stop it!" says Martina. "We gotta get out! There's some gas in the storeroom. Just burn this place down-"

"Fuck that!" Caine cries. "You know what this means?!"

"I know exactly what this means..." I say.

"Shut up!" Martina says, her hand grabbing my shoulder. "Did you hear that? Listen... No. Listen..."

Our heads turn as one, eyes searching the air for a long moment. Then the rush of footsteps overhead. The darkness of a light going out.

19

Martina is curled up on the floor. She lies still, tape across her mouth, her face soiled black with their work. I sit there, running my fingers down her face, along her white neck. The soft chill of her skin. The sudden looseness of bone. As I cradle her limp body, a pool of blood curls around her head, growing at the bruised temple. And I keep waiting for the hell to start up again.

Hoping to take a few there with me...

Two of them stand by the door, their guns idle for the moment. A row of gas cans are lined up against the far wall, ready for the match. Waiting for the fireworks to start. The bastards keep on smoking, glancing at me once or twice between puffs. The sounds from the next room continue. A muffled shout. Maybe a laugh. A painful silence. The tortured words of Caine-coming quickly again-making it hard to breathe. It's been ten minutes so far.

Outside, I can hear something stir out there in the darkness. But it's not some faint Californian breeze rustling our hair as we run along the beach, our bare feet digging hard while the cresting waves burst white against the shore. Not any more. I close my eyes, finally recognizing it the sounds of New York Harbor. The water drifts by the window like a slow moving train, the occasional foghorn breaking through the night's stillness. I concentrate on its gentle hush, praying for its touch to sweep us all away. Only then do I realize the cries have stopped.

The men return with darkened shoes. One of them, a heavy set man with a mustache, regards us with a baleful stare. In one hand a metal pipe dangles from thick fingers, scraping the wooden floor. Dripping red.

Martina and I are wedged into one corner. I calmly smooth the soft blonde hair against her neck while he watches. His eyes flicker.

"Your girl was quite a screamer," he says. "Ask her if she's ready to suck my dick yet."

The cry starts deep in my throat and I lunge at him. Two of his boys scatter for me. One kicks me back to the floor. Another kick just to make sure.

I pause as he stands there, waiting. My lips barely move, barely speak. They spit instead.

"Go fuck yourself, Cowboy..."

He doesn't like that one. The pipe weaves circles in the air, his grey mustache twitching madly in the half-light. Rhodes comes closer and I can see his wet face clearly now. In his eyes-a little taste of hell. His breath hisses.

"You're a dead man," he says.

He begins.

And the water. All the time, I think of water...

20

Pereira coughs, straightening his cuffs while Rhodes continues writing. The man stops at last, holding the pad up to my face so I can't miss it. Can't escape it.

NO.

"VICTOR," it says.

"Victor Grenville..." says Rhodes, putting down the pad. He pauses to light a cigarette. "Few minor assaults, a couple month's probation...pretty clean record for a bouncer there, Vic. 'Til now, that is." His smoke gathers in the air like a dark poisonous cloud. "You know...it's tough...young kid...getting killed like that. But then you don't know jack about kids...do you, Vic? Can't even imagine what it's like...losing a son..."

MUST GET OUT. MUST-

Pereira shuts off the lamp. The TV's glow flooding the room. The grey man turns a shivering blue, his eyes burrowing into me. A grim smile appears below the mustache. His cigarette glows red in the dark.

"Oh, I know," he mutters, "We fucked up bad out there...real bad. But we can't let the papers find out." He and Pereira look at one another. "We can't let anyone find out."

He snaps his fingers at his partner, a pair of gloves coming into view.

My body tightens with fire-the muscles bursting-straining to rise.

MUST GET-

Pereira walks to the wall.