Текст книги "The Fuck-Up"

Автор книги: Arthur Nersesian

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Текущая страница: 13 (всего у книги 17 страниц)

“Get the hell out of my store!” The lady spoke with a full maternal authority. Abruptly it felt like an anvil dropped on my head. I was dropped flat on my back and resisted passing out. The lady walked over and stood between me and the pack. Pointing the revolver at Junior, sternly she said, “Get the hell out of my store this instant.”

“Fine,” Junior said with a smile, and then addressing me he added, “We’ll wait for you outside, coach.”

Out they filed, one by one, waiting for me just beyond the door. She quickly had one of the employees lock the door and instructed the other one to call the police and an ambulance. She then helped me to a comfortable position and with a wet napkin she started wiping off blood. Judging from the sorrowful expression on her face, I must’ve been a mess.

“Thanks,” I blurted.

“It ain’t even loaded,” she whispered while dabbing my face with a wet napkin. I tried to rise, but pain had replaced all senses.

“Just lie still.” She looked at me intently. “Can you see me?”

“Yeah, why.”

“There’s blood in your eyes.” There was blood oozing from everywhere, and soon, to the tune of sirens, I drifted. Through a heavenly fog I heard the queries: Why did they attack you? Who were they? Who’s your nearest living relative? It was a reenactment of the Blimpie’s aftermath weeks earlier only this time I had advanced from secondary character to lead victim. After a long wait, lying numbly in a gurney in the emergency ward of Long Island College Hospital, I was stripped, cleaned, bandaged, X-rayed, given a skull series, spine tapped, and ready to roll again. A calm doctor itemized my bill; I had a slight concussion, several broken ribs, a broken nose, a deep knife wound in my right thigh, and a large side order of bruises and abrasions. Then I was injected with some antibiotics and a local anesthetic. The bones were realigned and the thigh stitched up. When they found out I was financially unprotected, I was ready to roll yet again, this time to the overcrowded charity ward where I spent the night. I no longer got as many miles to the gallon but I still had some tread left.

A charity ward is not a quiet place, and the next morning when I awoke, a cliché was sitting in the visitor’s chair at my right. I knew he was a cliché because he looked like every detective I had ever seen on TV from “Dragnet” through “Hawaii Five-0” to “Barney Miller.” He wore the bland suit and had the badge hanging out of his outer jacket pocket. A wheeled curtain was pulled tightly around my bed; privacy.

“How are you?”

“Fine, thank you.”

“What happened?”

“An altercation.”

“It looks like someone altercated the hell out of you. Wanna tell me who did it?”

I asked the cliché if he would pour me a cup of water. He did and I quickly considered the situation. I had beaten on Junior pretty brutally, and I wasn’t a particularly bitter person. Although he didn’t succeed in either maiming or blinding me, he had broken a front tooth. But none of the injuries were really debilitating. Perhaps I realized that despite the pain and agony I was pretty lucky and it was a good time to cash my chips in and vamoose.

“I don’t want to press any charges.”

“Pardon me?”

“What good would it do?”

“What good? I’ll arrest him, stick him behind bars.”

“Can you arrest his mother’s loneliness? Or put my greed behind bars? Can you arrest his father’s neglect? ‘Cause they were all accomplices.”

“Spare me the melodrama. I get that in court,” he said and then as if I didn’t know, the cop explained. “This kid pounded the shit out of you. Now, why don’t you tell me who it was and I’ll make sure he doesn’t do this again.”

“He’ll never do this again. He’s actually a pretty decent kid.”

“I don’t believe this…” the officer pressed further. He wanted righteous outrage, but I was tired. He pressed until I feigned a massive headache, and only then did he go away. The rest of the day I spent asleep; I was still pretty drugged out. The next evening, I was allowed to make a local call. I called the theater. As soon as Miguel recognized my voice he hollered, “What the hell’s going on?”

“What do you mean?”

“Marty called and the police came by here. Where are you? What the fuck is going on?”

“What did he tell you?” In other words, do you know the truth?

“No one would tell me a thing. Marty said you raped somebody. But then he hung up and said he’d call me back later.”

“I accidentally slept with Ternevsky’s girlfriend.”

“Jumping Jesus!”

“But I didn’t rape anybody. She was just as high as I was. I’ll deal with it.”

“Where are you anyway?”

“I’m at the hospital, I got banged up a bit.”

“Which hospital?”

“Beth Israel, why?”

He then paused, and I thought I heard someone whispering to him, and then he asked, “What happened?”

“I got mugged.”

“Well, are you okay?”

“Slightly busted up, but I’ll recover.”

“It’s not at all related to the Ternevsky episode, is it?”

“No, ’course not.”

“Well, how long will you be out?”

“I should be coming by soon. First I’m gonna straighten things out and then I’m going to be staying a bit with Donny.”

“Listen, what’s your number? I’ll call you right back.”

“I’m at a public phone in the hall and there are people waiting for it. I’ll call you later.” Quickly I hung up and dialled Ternevsky. I didn’t mind helping Janus out, but there was no way that I was going to end up in prison over it.

“Hello.” I heard that cute little voice of hers.

“Janus, thank God I got you. What the fuck is going, on?”

“Sorry, but there’s no Henry here, you must have the wrong number.”

“Don’t fuck with me. I’ll tell Ternevsky the truth.”

“Absolutely.”

“Is he there?” I asked.

“Exactly.”

“Do I have any reason to be worried?”

“None at all.” She kept her delightful tone.

“I’m at Long Island College Hospital in Brooklyn. I got busted up pretty badly and…”

“Fine, sorry, bye.” And she hung up. An attendant wheeled me back to my room. For the next twenty-four hours, sleep was pills and wakefulness was pain. Finally, on the third day, the nurse woke me with a paper cup filled with pills of different colors. I spent that morning thinking about Miguel. Incipient anxieties took a paranoid turn for the worse. Gradually each of his reasonable questions seemed to have a duplicitous underside. For the first time I realized that Miguel had all my money. Questions blistered: Who was the other voice in the room? Why did he want my number? Why did he want to know how long I was going to be away? When the doctor made his morning rounds, I asked him what time I’d be able to check out.

“Hopefully, in another week or two.”

“Another week or two! You don’t understand, I’ve got to go today.”

“Today’s out of the question.”

“Look this isn’t a prison, and I can heal at home for free.”

“You’re in a charity ward. You’re not paying a cent.”

“I might lose a lot more than you can imagine.”

“The X-rays show that your skull was fractured. But the brain is much softer and far more delicate, and there is a short grace period between the time we can detect damage and the time the damage becomes fatal.”

“As soon as I feel faint I’ll hop in a cab and rush right over.”

“You’re still here for observation. We haven’t even made a full diagnosis yet. For all we know, you have a hemorrhage and if the inter-cranial pressure gets too great, and we’re not there to operate immediately, you could die.”

“Doctor, I know that you’ve got my interest at heart, but if I stick around here I’m definitely going to lose my business and I won’t have any life to return to.”

“Would you rather have the luxuries or the life to enjoy them with?”

“Let me put it this way: I’d rather live a short high-quality life than a long bitter existence to mock myself with.”

When he started nodding his head in resignation, I replied, “I’ll make you a deal. As soon as I secure all my loose ends, I’ll check back in.”

“This isn’t a hotel. The bed space in the charity ward is always in short supply. If you leave here, I can’t guarantee a return ticket.”

“Look, don’t try to scare me. I got to go. This is my life.”

“Fine,” said he, and was gone in a huff. A few seconds later the nurse came in with a clipboard. On it was a form freeing the hospital of all liabilities. She said I had to sign it before I could go. I signed it, and for the last time, she sponged me, redressed my bandages, and got my clothes. As I slowly dressed, she asked the name of the recipient picking me up. It was for the records.

“Irving R. Towers,” I replied, “but he’s as shy as the moon in the daytime, and he’s probably waiting in his car around the corner.”

“Fine.”

She was gone. The doctor returned and handed me a small menu of prescriptions. He quickly reviewed the particulars of how, when, and why each pill should be taken. I didn’t listen because I couldn’t even afford a cough drop. I was issued a cane, but then helped into a wheelchair and the hospital attendant quickly wheeled me out to the front lobby. Slowly I angled my bulk between my legs and cane and wobbled down Atlantic Avenue.

Everything reflected my aches. The sky was overcast. The air was still cold and uncirculated. The streets were still filthy and hard. The people were still bitter and ugly. The entire city of New York was sick and in desperate need of a vacation. Turning down Court Street, 1 finally found my old and undiscrimmating friend Irving, a.k.a. the IRT. After the patient wait came the not-empty train. I took the closest seat and counted each stop with a silent scream. As the train screeched into the stations, the metal bar jawed my foot-stomped ribs, taking sharp bites out of my lungs. Quickly I thought of a game plan. First, I had to secure my holdings with Miguel, and next I had to go somewhere and recuperate. In order to check into the YMCA, I remembered that I needed money and ID. I could borrow the money but I’d lost my ID ages ago.

FOURTEEN

I got offat Union Square and slowly caned it over to the Zeus. The office door was unlocked, but the office was empty. Miguel was probably coming right back. Opening the lost-and-found drawer in the desk, I saw there were a bunch of wallets. Pickpockets usually worked the theaters; swiftly they’d grab the money and dispose of the evidence and we’d be too lazy to call the dispossessed. Looking at his ID, I realized my name today was Sven Cohen. Suddenly Miguel opened the door.

“What the fuck happened to you?” he gasped. Then, helping me into his swivel chair, he mumbled, “You poor baby.”

“Nothing happened! I got into a fight. I’m better now.” I shoved the wallet into my pocket.

“Are you sure Marty or Ternevsky had nothing to do with this?”

“Yes.”

He glared at me with such dismay that I was curious to see myself. Looking into the small wall mirror, I saw my face filled with Halloween colors and inflated like a balloon. The streaks of blood in the pupils of my eyes accented the nightmarish effect. It hurt me when I laughed.

“You really should go to a hospital.”

“I just checked out of one.” I held up my wrist to show him the plastic ID bracelet.

“They should’ve been able to do a lot more for you than this,” he pointed to my face, a case in point.

“They wanted me to stay for a week.”

“Why didn’t you?”

I stared at him for a moment until he looked away. He probably sensed my worry, my distrust of him. “I’ll be ready to work tomorrow.”

“Don’t be silly. You’ll scare people away.”

“Miguel, how close are we to finishing up here?”

“Huh?”

“Toward Hoboken.”

“Real soon.”

“I’d like you to sign some kind of document stating that I have at least twenty-five percent of this business.”

“If I signed something like that it might imply our little situation here.” He pointed to the gauge.

“I’m completely unprotected. If I can’t get some kind of documentation, I want my share of the money.”

“Even if I did try to screw you, all you’d have to do is turn me in. That’s pretty good insurance.”

“Yeah, but after all this is done …”

“Look, there’s still a lot of time before we’re finished here, and you’ll see the title of the place in your name by then.”

“Listen,” I replied, using his line of reasoning against him, “if you can trust me about this little secret then you can certainly trust me not to turn you in. Besides, if I turned you in, I sure as hell don’t gain anything by it.”

“All right!” he finally said, and sitting at the desk he took out a piece of paper and said, “Now, what would you have me write?”

1 dictated some feeble statement saying that he owed me thirty percent of any movie theater he might buy and operate. He signed and dated the document and gave it to me. I knew that it and a nickel couldn’t get me a ride on the Staten Island Ferry. But it offered some psychological comfort.

“I’m sorry,” he finally said. “I don’t know what prompted all this, but I’ve been a little edgy lately.”

“Why are you edgy?”

“Because I saw someone in a car across the street most of yesterday.”

“Probably some pimp.”

“Maybe, but I figure that the only way they can catch us is by counting exactly how many people come in over the course of a day and then checking it with our figures.”

“Maybe we should stop for a while.”

“Well, you can if you want, but we’re very close and time’s getting shorter. I’m making a dash for the finish line.”

“Then I’m with you.”

“Well, you’re no use to me like this. Straighten things out with Ternevsky, heal some, and then I’ll give you your shifts back.”

“Fine.”

“Oh, by the way,” he concluded, “I heard that Tanya’s going to be back in town in a couple days.”

“Who?”

“Tanya,” he said and then I remembered how I had fraudulently gotten the job. “We’ll all get together.”

“Great,” I replied blandly. I had enough to sweat over for the time being. I told Miguel I was staying with the fictitious Donny, but that I was broke and needed a couple bucks. Miguel opened the petty cash box, and counted out five twenty dollar bills. If memory served, that much should be able to float me for the better part of the week if I ate shitty food and checked into the Sloane House on Thirty-fourth. Even though it was a bleak outlook, I thanked him and told him all would be fine. I’d be well soon and wouldn’t disappoint his faith in me. With one hand on the cane and the other on the unclaimed documentation in my pocket, I made my way out of the theater.

It was now about five, rush hour, and the recurrent nightmare of a packed subway seemed unbearable. I took a cab to the Sloane House; my bruised body begged for that one indulgence. But the cabby knew only two speeds: accelerate like a rocket and stop on a dime. After all the potholes, I felt like a golf ball after a tournament. Abandoning the cab on Thirty-fourth and Eighth, I breached through the repeated breakers of retreating commuters heading toward Penn Station and aimed my cane toward a cheap deli with blinking Christmas lights circling a big poster in the window written in day-glow pink, “Cold cut sandwiches, only $1!” I went in and asked for a dozen sandwiches.

“What kind?” a drab Arab asked.

“Bologna, liverwurst, salami, and ham—all on rye with mustard.” All the processed meats looked alike, but didn’t look like anything resembling meat. For dessert, I got two boxes of Entenmann’s chocolate chip cookies and a big bag of Wise potato chips. It was enough to convert someone to anorexia. They shoved the shit in a white plastic bag and it came to eighteen bucks. I walked over to the Sloane House. The front desk was thronged with a group of foreign students passing through New York for a couple days or so. I stayed closely behind them. Then came my turn, “Where are you from?”

“Here.”

“I’m sorry but the Sloane House is only for people from out of town.” I quickly took out the bogus wallet. Sven had a New Jersey drivers license. “I’m sorry I thought you said where was I presently. I’m from”—I checked the address—“Fort Lee.”

“Why don’t you go home?”

“I want to visit for a while.”

“May I see your ID?” I showed her Sven’s drivers license.

“You don’t look anywhere near thirty-six.”

“Thank you. The living’s been easy,” I said, hunching over my cane. She let me sign; she then told me more rules and details and said I could either pay up front or pay on a day-to-day basis. I paid for four days in advance, which left me with about ten bucks to rebuild my life after I had recovered.

“Don’t you have any luggage?” the desk clerk asked. I held up my white bag of groceries and explained that I travelled lightly. She made me sign a small white piece of paper and gave me a room on the eleventh floor. I waited for the elevator, which took forever, and soon found my tiny room and locked the door behind me. The narrow view of a courtyard emptying into a parking lot could make a Salvation Army Band suicidal. Tying a knot around my food bag, I let it dangle out the window in order to keep it preserved during the length of my convalescence.

A towel was provided by the hotel, so I stripped down to my bruises and bandages for a shower. With my right hand gripping the towel and the cane in my left, I limped out through the hall to the communal bathroom. Passing the stalls and sinks I moved toward the rear, approaching a racket of babbling voices, but I couldn’t make out a single word. The shower room was tiled water-tight with a single large drain in the center of the floor. Everything tilted toward the center. Grouped around the drain was a crew of Indian-looking sailors who were squatting naked scrubbing their salty uniforms against the rough floor just as their fathers probably had. Under the spout furthest away from them, I carefully washed away all the caked pus and dried blood. As the water jetted against my skin, I felt increasingly more sensitive. I figured that pain killers had to be among the dose of pills I was given at the hospital that morning. When their effects began to taper, agony slowly replaced it. As I stuck my face under the stream of water, the dull pain reminded me that my nose was broken. The pain started getting worse and aside from feeling faint I realized that the hot water was making the bruises swell and the unhealed scabs were reopening. Nodding farewell to the crew, I returned to the front part of the bathroom.

Gingerly I dried off and found dabs of blood on the towel. Relying increasingly on the cane, I slowly made it back to my room and locked the door. It was dark out and I didn’t turn on the lights. Slowly, carefully, I balanced myself on the hard bed. It reminded me of Helmsley’s hard couch and that reminded me of Helmsley. As I got tangled in the skein of memories I slipped toward sleep. Still in that intermediary state, I suddenly saw all those boots raining down on me and bolted up painfully into a seated position, wide awake. Slowly I angled up and with the cane moved over to the window. Only the city lights were visible, and over low roof tops, and through that empty lot in the distance, I could see tiny cars flowing down some avenue. A black sky of night crushed the scene. I hated long views of life when the infinite overwhelms the finite subjects. Not even forever lasts forever, and again I thought no matter what I do, someday I’d be nothing.

Aside from all the bad luck, I was a shamelessly ordinary guy, wholly dispensable. Counterparts of me must have inhabited all times and places. Packs of me must have malingered through the Mayan, the Minoan and Babylonian civilizations—societies that flourished and spanned centuries with vast cities, expansive domains, and great armies—now even those great cultures were barely known. Once again, I felt entirely severed from old mankind and needed some kind of distraction. I thought of all the little comforting thoughts that Helmsley had passed along to me, with the help of Plato and the greats: “Beauty is truth” and crap like that.

But Helmsley had committed suicide, so he must’ve been wrong somewhere in the addition. For tentative peace and sedation, I ended up abusing the sacred memories of a young, leggy girl that 1 had known years ago back home. Then I took another stab at sleep and, after bolting up once more with the boots dream, I finally punctured through into hard sleep.

A tearing pain awoke me almost twenty-four hours later when I tried turning my head. A steady ooze of blood and other humors that had loosened during the shower had solidified and fused my head with the pillow. My sinuses felt sealed as if by cement. I felt like I had just awakened from a coma. Other pains, new and great, trumpeted as I tried to move.

The regress report: My back was a shattered windshield with nerves, the stitches in my thigh were cold and sticky. The right side of my rib cage, which looked as if it had boot-shaped tattoos, was not the same shape it was when I went to sleep, the loose bones had shifted. All the medication was gone from my system and now the vultures were descending. Still lying supine, I slowly worked the pillow out from the pillow case and wrapped it around my head like a turban. I limped naked through the hall, clinging to my cane, and passed a group of fascinated Europeans en route to the bathroom. Under a warm shower I slowly peeled the pillow case off my face and head. I could hear the Europeans in the adjacent toilets; wonderful people—free of hangups, like shitting together.

I limped back, dripping through the hall, too much in pain to mind the cold. Back in my room I locked the door and dried off. I ate one of the ledge sandwiches, lay down, and went back to sleep without a pillow.

For the next three days or so, I slept without a pillow and awoke to increasing pain. The ledge sandwiches, which slowly filtered the New York air, tasted more and more like car fumes. The slow persistent pain made sleep increasingly shallow, until it dwindled into just a constant dazed state of repose. On the morning of the fourth day I awoke exhausted to a knock at the door.

“Sven Cohen,” asked a voice behind the door.

“Who is it?” I called from the bed.

“You’re paid up until noon today. If you wish to continue your visit please come down to the front desk and re-register.”

Convalescence was over. In the space of the next hour or so I tried to get up; my back and the other conspiring pains limited my moves. The aching and pulsating muscles were too swollen for the tight skin. Rising in order to get the last ledge sandwich was excruciating. As I chewed it down, I hungrily remembered the menu of prescriptions that I tossed out upon release from the hospital, pain killers probably among them. Checking through the pockets of my pants, I found ten dollars and fifty-three cents. My body was a study in pain. In order to limit the suffering, I sat very still at the bed’s edge. With little else to do, I differentiated the pain into three levels. First, there were the sharp sporadic stabs that dug deep through my lower back without warning. This pain was the worst and I could find no remedy for it. Next, there was the blunt throbbing, which was like having a toothache in my arms and legs. I found that lying very still could limit the throbbing, but in exchange I had uncontrollable twitches. Lastly, there were the scabs, which probably masked most of my face and head. There was a fiery sensation like a very bad sunburn, but next to the two other, more aggressive, pains this was only a trifle and was soothed by the cool air.

Spiritually the only difference between dying and healing is the energy to resist. 1 was running dangerously low on this energy. The doctor was right, I never should have left that hospital and if I didn’t get into one soon, I could conceivably die.

I spent the remaining hour dressing, and then with the help of my cane, which was my only luggage, I hobbled over to the elevator and down to the front desk. Upon returning my room key and signing out, I asked him where the nearest hospital was.

“Probably Saint Vincent’s over on Twelfth.” But I already had an outstanding balance there, which I couldn’t pay.

“Do you know of any other hospital? Aside from that one and Beth Israel,” I had already gotten my calf sewn together there.

“Boy, you’re picky. Roosevelt, I suppose, over on Fifty-ninth and Eighth.”

I thanked him, left, and waited on the corner for a cab to Roosevelt Hospital. I was down to six dollars when I finally, slowly got out of that cab in front of the Emergency entrance.

I used that cane to the fullest as I hobbled through a full waiting room to the nurse sitting behind a wall with a sliding glass. I saw gurneys in the hall behind her with still bodies on them. Realizing that I had to compete with all this suffering, I dramatically moaned and rasped about my sufferings. With minimal eye contact, she asked me several academic questions and told me to have a seat. Most of the people were just sitting quietly. It was hard at first glance to guess why they were there. I took the last available seat, next to the quietest inmate, an old guy who was very still and very white. A Puerto Rican child sitting on his mother’s knee was holding her with both arms, whining in a sustained key. His mother was pressing a rag against his bleeding forehead and rocking him back and forth. Another man was quietly contorting his face in order to restrain his pain. As time tortured on, the little things took greater proportion; more people came, few left. The still, white man was stiller and whiter. The bleeding child required another rag and his plaintive cry dropped an octave. The facial contortionist was now venting his woe in twisting his arms and limbs; I sensed that his pains were abdominal.

I tried not to look at the new people. We had waited longer and I wasn’t going to empathize with any new suffering. At one point, one of the recent entries started crying aloud. He was a black infant, and his mother started rocking him, but finally put her hand over his mouth in order to silence him. People appeared guilty and ashamed that they were sick and weak. I closed my eyes and tried to think about only nice things until I heard something disgusting. It was a rattling sound, phlegm deep in someone’s throat. Above me a young guy was leaning against the wall. He was well-dressed, wearing a three-piece suit; his tie was slack around his neck and the top buttons of his shirt were undone. I could see that his T-shirt was covered with sweat. His eyes were closed and I watched him concentrating on breathing, accepting only the little pockets of oxygen his lungs permitted. He looked about my age. I knew he was going through an asthmatic attack because my sister had had asthma. I rose and steered him into my seat. With his eyes closed he took it. All his energy was focused on the breaths.

“Would you like some water?” I asked.

He nodded yes. I went over to the fountain. Filling a Dixie cup, I limped back over and gave it to him. Then I walked over to the nurse and asked her whether or not she had forgotten about me.

“There are people in front of you.”

“Okay, did you forget about them?”

“Look, we’re understaffed and overloaded. I’m here on mandatory overtime myself.” Before she could continue, someone started hollering from down the corridor behind her. A gurney had appeared at the ambulance entrance. She ran over, joining a group in white who were working on the body as they wheeled it in. Turning into a side room, I watched through a door ajar as they stuck tubes into the body and cut off the clothes. Then the door was closed.

Pain or no, it cost too much to stay there. I couldn’t compete. In fact, I felt stronger witnessing how much farther others had ventured into agony, realizing how much farther I could go. As I walked down Eighth Avenue, under the twilight sky, street lights slowly started flipping on automatically. The sidewalk was empty, but the street was crowded with cars racing homebound. For no apparent reason, I suddenly remembered that tonight was the night of the contributor’s party for the Harrington.If Miguel went to the party, he’d discover my deceit in getting published. When he added that to the Ternevsky scandal, Miguel might begin piecing together what kind of person I was: someone not to be trusted. While thinking about Ternevsky, I remembered that I was still an outlaw and only Janus could issue clemency. At a corner public phone, I dialled her and put my finger to the clicker; if any male voice answered I was ready to hang up, but she did answer.

“Can you speak?”

“Yes, and I’m so happy. Ternevsky’s proposed to me. We’re going to Europe and there we’ll be married.”

“Just tell me one thing,” I interrupted. “Am I still being hunted by the cops?”

“No, not anymore. When Sergei calmed down, I reexplained it. I told him we both got drunk, but he threw out your clothes just the same. He made me take an AIDS test.”

“All my clothes are gone?”

“Yeah, then we both cried and he proposed to me. Isn’t it wonderful? I’m now Mrs. Ternevsky. God, I am so pleased. I wanted this all along.”

“All along?” I asked.

“Sure, I now feel some legitimacy.”

“But he’s old enough to be your father, and you said yourself that he’s a horrible lover and he just uses you.”

“I said we use each other.”

“How about us?” I asked.

“We had a wonderful time and now it’s over.”

“But if I had the same amount of money and all …”

“Shit,” she suddenly whispered, “I just heard the elevator, I’ve got to go.”

“Good luck,” I replied, and hung up slowly.

I searched through my pockets for another quarter in order to call Miguel and see what developments had occurred in the last four days. But I couldn’t find another quarter. After the conversation with Janus, I had this overwhelming fear. In my back pocket, crumpled up, I found the legal document he signed stating my interest in his company. With cane in hand, and pain in back, I went over to Columbus Circle and caught the IRT number one to Fourteenth. I then hobbled down the long uriney tunnel to the L, which I took to Third Avenue. Walking up to the box office window, I saw the face of a young white lady, which was a race we’d never hired before in filling this post. I smiled at her.

“Four dollars,” she commanded rather aggressively.