by Jason Starr
Kenny laughed again, then said, “Charlotte tell you about my will?”
I didn’t bother answering.
“I made up a will,” he went on. “I paid a lawyer to do it, so it’s real official and everything. When I die an envelope gets opened. I wrote out the whole thing—how I saw you kill Ricky, how you said you’d kill me if I went to the cops. I got copies of the pictures in there too, with your name and everything. So you see how you can’t win, Davey boy. You better hope I live a long life, because when I die you go to jail. Until then, you gotta do whatever the fuck I tell you to do. I don’t know if you knew this, but there’s no statute of limitations on murder. I could die thirty years from now and they’d still put you away.”
I looked at Kenny deadpan for several seconds, then said, “I don’t have any money.” I let this sink in, then added, “I gave everything I had to Charlotte that night, and I don’t know what happened to it, if she spent it on drugs or whatever, but I don’t have any more. That’s the God’s honest truth.”
Kenny’s eyes narrowed. “Listen to me, you fuckin’ dick. I don’t think you understand what’s going on here. I’m the one calling the shots, not you. You think I don’t know you’re full of shit? I know more than you think I know, and don’t you worry, I’m gonna make you pay for what you did. Charlotte was a nice little whore and I’ll miss her, but Ricky was my homeboy. We dropped out of high school together—I knew him twenty years and loved him like a brother. You took my brother away from me, you scumbag, and I’m gonna make you pay for it.”
“It was an accident,” I said. “He was coming after me—”
“I did some research,” Kenny went on, ignoring me. “I called here the other day, and my friend the receptionist told me you’re the associate editor—just got promoted. Congratulations, by the way. So then I went to the library—you know, the big one on Fortieth—and they got this book there. You look up somebody’s job; they tell you how much they make. The book says an associate editor takes in thirty-five to seventy-five a year. So I figure you’re probably making fifty a year now, give or take. After Uncle Sam, you probably take home about two grand a month. I don’t want you to go broke—that won’t help me any. What I’m gonna do is take half. I figure if I leave you with a thousand a month you’ll be able to pay your bills, buy some food, and I’ll get the rest.”
“My rent’s sixteen-fifty a month,” I said.
“That’s your problem, not mine,” Kenny said. “If you can’t get by, you’ll have to get a night job, scrub floors or some shit. But you’ll get by somehow, and as long as you get by, I get by. See how this is gonna work?”
“What if I lose my job?” I said.
“I guess you’ll have to find another one. But first—just to get us started—I want that twenty grand.”
“I don’t have twenty grand.”
“Get it.”
“I can’t get it. I have nowhere to get it from.”
“You must got retirement money, a 401(k) or some shit like that.”
Last time I checked, I had about fifty thousand dollars in my 401(k), and I also had a Roth IRA with about fifteen grand.
“Sorry,” I said. “I got wiped out when the market crashed.”
“You must got something in it.”
“Maybe a couple grand.”
“Take it out and give it to me.”
“I can’t. There’re forms to fill out—paperwork. It could take a few days to get the money, and I’ll have penalties and—”
“Look, I don’t wanna hear any more of your bullshit,” Kenny said. “I want at least two grand tonight. If you don’t bring it, I’m gonna go to the cops. You think I’m fucking around?”
Kenny stood up. I couldn’t tell if his gut was bigger than I’d remembered or if he just had bad posture.
“Tonight,” he said, “ten o’clock—Tompkins Square Park.”
“I can’t tonight,” I said.
“Yes, you can,” he said. “You know, it’s kind of—I don’t know the word—funny. Not funny, but you know what I mean. That’s where Charlotte said you were gonna dump Ricky’s body and now that’s where you’re gonna be making your pay-offs. Hopefully every time you go there it’ll remind you what you did, you piece of shit. The last Friday of every month you’re gonna be there with my thousand bucks, but tonight it’s gonna be two grand or I’m going to the cops. Ironical. That’s the word I was looking for. It’s ironical.”
Kenny explained which bench in the park he’d be waiting on, and then he left my office, leaving his odor of Old Spice and BO behind. Gradually it set in that my life was ruined.
I didn’t move for a while, and then I called Angie at home and left a message on her machine, canceling our date tonight. I told her that there had been an emergency with my aunt and I had to go to Long Island for the weekend. I didn’t know how I’d come up with Kenny’s payments. With the rest of the money Aunt Helen had lent me and the paycheck that had been direct-deposited into my bank account this morning, I could scrape up the money for the first two grand. After that, unless I drained my retirement accounts, I was in trouble. I’d have to live on Kraft macaroni and cheese and Ramen noodles, and I’d probably have to work nights and weekends.
Since I didn’t have to meet Kenny until ten and I had no reason to go home, I stayed late at work. When Jeff left for the day, at around six-thirty, he poked his head into my office and said, “I love your work ethic, David. You’re showing true commitment to this job. See ya tomorrow.”
A couple of people in Production stayed until around seven, and then I had the office to myself; the only sounds were the hum of the air-conditioning system and an occasional horn or siren from Broadway. I didn’t feel like sitting around doing nothing, so I wrote a final draft of my article on PrimeNet Solutions. Earlier in the article I’d mentioned how PrimeNet had been the major sponsor of a sailing competition, so, continuing with the metaphor, I wrote:
PrimeNet has weathered a great storm, and if the company stays on its current course, and market winds remain steady, the future for this DSL firm will be full of blue skies and clear sailing.
When I finished the article, I did some editing, then left my office at about nine-fifteen.
The businessmen who cluttered the midtown streets during the day had been replaced by tourists and teenagers. I went to an ATM, withdrew the rest of the money I needed from my bank account and by taking a cash advance on my Discover card, and then I took the subway downtown.
I arrived at the Avenue A entrance to Tompkins Square Park at five to ten. The park at night didn’t seem nearly as spruced up as it did during the day. As I headed along the path toward the middle of the park, I passed groups of seedy-looking guys, obviously drug dealers, huddled around trees or benches. One skinny black guy rushed up to me, walking alongside me, and asked if I was buying. I shrugged him off without saying anything and continued straight ahead.
I passed the circular, courtyard-like area in the middle of the park, and kept going. On the bench where Kenny had said I should meet him, a big, bearded homeless guy was sprawled out with an old baby carriage filled with bottles, cans, and other junk parked in front of him. The guy’s head was hanging to the side and his eyes were half-open; he looked dead, but he was probably just sleeping. I sat on the opposite end of the bench and checked the time on my cell phone—two minutes to ten.
Two minutes later, Kenny arrived. He was walking along the path, coming from the direction of the Avenue B entrance. I waited until he reached me before I stood up.
“On time, I like that,” he said. “This is how I want it to go every time, you get my drift? None of that waiting-around-for-you-to-show-up bullshit.”
I’d been planning to give him the money and leave without doing or saying anything, but I hesitated, asking myself if I really wanted to give in to this scumbag. Maybe he was lying about having a will and other pictures put away. Maybe there was another way out.
“What’re you waiting for?” he
said. “Dig.”
I continued staring at him.
“Come on, stop bullshitting around,” Kenny said. “I got a whore to fuck tonight and she doesn’t like it when I keep her waiting. Come on, just give me the fuckin’ money.”
“Maybe we should go someplace else,” I said, glancing toward the homeless guy.
“What, that fuckin’ bum?” Kenny said. “He probably doesn’t know what year it is. Just gimme the money so I can get outta here.”
The homeless guy stirred, his head jerking a couple of times.
“All right, all right,” Kenny said.
He walked along the path, back toward Avenue B, and I followed him. The path was well lit by a small lamppost.
“This way,” I said.
I veered off the path, through an opening in the short fence, onto an area of dirt and grass.
“What the fuck?” Kenny said.
I kept walking. Looking over my shoulder slightly, I saw that Kenny was following me. I stopped in a dark area between two trees.
“Are we done walkin’ now, Moses?” Kenny said. He was two or three feet away from me. “You better have that fuckin’ money, because if you’re shittin’ me around, I swear, I’m goin’ to the cops.”
“Who’s that?” I said.
When Kenny turned his head I grabbed his throat. I was in an awkward position, too far away to strangle him effectively, but I’d surprised him, which gave me an advantage. I squeezed harder and his neck seemed to be shrinking between my hands, and then he reached up and grabbed my wrists and my grip loosened.
“You fuckin’ crazy?” he said in a gargled, muffled voice. “I got the pictures, I got the—”
I forced him back against a tree and squeezed harder. I wasn’t letting go this time; I’d keep squeezing for as long as I had to. My nails were digging into his throat, and I figured it couldn’t take much longer, maybe five or ten more seconds. Then Kenny forced me backward and I stumbled. I tried to grab his throat again, but he tackled me hard to the ground. He tried to pin me down, but I fought back and managed to get up again. He came after me and I grabbed him around the shoulders and got him in a headlock. I remembered ramming Ricky’s head against the door, and I wanted to ram Kenny’s head into the tree. But the tree was behind me somewhere, and Kenny was fighting hard and wouldn’t let me turn him around, so I started twisting his head, trying to break his neck.
“Let go,” Kenny said. “You stupid piece of shit. Let—”
I twisted his head further, waiting for his neck to break, and then I heard the shot and felt the excruciating pain in my stomach. Kenny was kneeling over me, holding a gun.
“Fuckin’ moron,” he said. “What the fuck’s wrong with you, you dick?” He reached into my pocket and took the money out of my wallet, and then he stood up all the way and ran.
I tried to go after him, but when I got up onto my knees, I crumpled right back down onto my side. My stomach killed, as if the bullet were still working its way inside me. I felt the warm, wet area where the pain was centered; then I looked at my bloody hands.
I lay still, with my face pressed against the dirt, waiting to die. It was hard to breathe and I was too weak to get up, so I knew it would happen soon. I was very dizzy and I was having flashbacks. I was five years old and Barbara was seven, but she looked younger. We were playing in the snow in Aunt Helen’s backyard. We were laughing, running around, throwing snowballs at each other. Then the images started coming faster. We were in Helen’s finished basement, thumb-wrestling. We were adults, walking up Broadway and laughing. We were kids, playing on a slide in a park as our parents watched. We were lying in the sun in the Sheep Meadow. We were on campus at Syracuse. We were at our parents’ funeral. We were Rollerblading down the steep hill near the Met. We were watching Pretty Woman. We were shopping at Banana Republic. We were walking in the rain along West Eighty-first Street. We were fighting about Jay. We were throwing snowballs at trees. We were laughing in Aunt Helen’s basement. We were listening to the Police. We were running around Aunt Helen’s backyard. We were thumb-wrestling. We were in a snowstorm. We were—
My body tingled and there was sudden pressure in my head and throat. I felt numb and weightless, and then, an instant later, I was dead.
15
A MAN WITH a thick gray mustache and cigarette-stained teeth said, “I saw his eyes open; I saw ’em open.”
A woman next to the man was doing something to my stomach. Something was over my face, and my throat killed.
I DIDN’T KNOW where I was. I tried to scream, but I couldn’t. I was fucking freezing.
I WOKE UP, still very weak. I turned my head to the right and saw the tubes or IVs or whatever was connected to my body.
A nurse appeared over me and said, smiling, “Look who’s awake.”
I couldn’t speak.
“This’ll make you feel better,” she said. A few minutes later I was dreaming again.
THE NEXT TIME I opened my eyes I was angry because my throat still killed. I pressed the call button on the string next to my bed, and a Haitian or West Indian nurse came. I lifted my hand toward my mouth, as if lifting a cup to drink.
“Sorry, you won’t be able to drink for a while longer. Let me check your stitches.”
The nurse lifted my gown and examined my stomach area.
“Looking good,” she said.
She said that a doctor was going to see me soon, and she left the room. I stared at the TV hanging over my bed, which was blasting CNN. About an hour later, a skinny, balding doctor who looked about five years younger than me came into my room. He looked at my chart, then said to me, “I know you can’t talk, so just nod yes or no. Can you do that?”
I didn’t feel like having to talk to this asshole, but I figured if I answered his questions he’d leave me alone sooner. I nodded slowly.
“You’re a very lucky man,” he said. “Do you remember what happened to you?”
I nodded again.
“That’s good,” he said, “that’s very good. Do you remember how it happened?”
I changed my mind—I didn’t feel like cooperating. I shook my head.
“You don’t know how it happened?”
I nodded.
“Ah, so you know how it happened, you just don’t know who did it to you.”
I looked away, shaking my head.
“Well, your injury was quite severe,” the doctor went on. “You lost quite a bit of blood, and the EMS workers said you didn’t have a pulse when they arrived at the scene. You had two transfusions and seem to have stabilized, although your spleen was ruptured and you sustained a serious stomach injury. Physically, you’re doing much better, but you suffered a period of anoxia, a cutoff of blood flow to the brain, the effects of which we’ll need to monitor. But, I have to say, you’re a lucky man, Mr. Miller. If that homeless man didn’t find you and call for help, you probably—no, you definitely wouldn’t’ve made it.”
I remembered seeing the homeless man lifting me up and dragging me out of the park. I’d been standing off to the side with Barbara, watching it all happen.
“By the way,” the doctor continued, “there’re quite a large number of reporters downstairs. I had to comment on your condition, but I’m trying to respect your privacy as much as possible. There’s also a Detective Romero who wants to speak with you, but I told him that wouldn’t be possible until we remove you from the respirator, which should be later today.”
I tried to ask the doctor if I’d been legally dead, but with the tube in my mouth I couldn’t speak.
“Don’t waste your energy,” the doctor said. “Just get some rest.”
THAT NIGHT, AFTER I was taken off the respirator, Detective Romero insisted on questioning me. He pulled up a chair next to my bed, but I looked away, refusing to make eye contact.
“How you feeling?” he asked.
I continued staring away.
“Take this,” he said. “I know it’s hard for you to talk, so I figure
d you could write down answers to my questions.”
I looked over and saw he was holding a pad and a pen out to me. I hesitated before taking them from him.
“Who shot you?” he asked.
I wrote on the pad, I don’t remember.
“What were you doing in the park?” he asked.
I underlined what I had already written.
“Were you going to meet somebody? Maybe a friend, a drug dealer?”
I underlined the words two more times and added, Leave me the fuck alone.
Romero continued to question me, but I stuck to my story that I didn’t remember anything that had happened after I left my office. Romero finally got frustrated and said he’d come talk to me again in a couple of days, and then he left.
I knew Romero hadn’t bought my amnesia story, but I was going to stick with it anyway. The idea had come to me earlier in the day—if I kept my mouth shut about who had shot me, Kenny wouldn’t be able to blackmail me anymore. Now we had something on each other—if he tried to blackmail me, I could have him arrested for attempted murder. As for the police, I’d just continue to play dumb about everything and eventually they’d leave me alone.
I slept miserably. I woke up every few minutes with a dry, irritated throat, and they must not’ve been giving me enough Percocet, because my entire body killed. In the morning, after my first solid food in nearly three days, my strength started to return. Around noon, a short-haired, very thin, dykey-looking woman came into my room. She said she was a neuropsychologist. After she asked me to say my name, my age, what city and state I was in, the date, and a bunch of other things, she made me repeat numbers and words back to her.
