Selig joins them.

They pray a long time.

Then they turn to the Strongman and start working to pull their other friend free of the arrows that pierce them both.

That takes much longer.

Deep inside Washington Cemetery, they’ve left us bound at the edge of one of the roads that wanders back and forth between the fenced burial plots. Off blessed earth. Or whatever the fuck they call it.

Now, all the stiffs six feet under and on their way to wherever, they come for us.

Axler and Selig, a half dozen others in black coats and wide-brimmed hats. Some limping or cradling limbs that took shells from Lydia’s gun. A couple others waiting in the cars, the headlights dark.

Time for Selig to get his wish.

Axler bends and rips the leather strap that winds over Stretch’s face.

Stretch snaps his bare gums.

Axler reaches into a pocket and pulls out the steel dentures.

– Looking for something, old man?

– Fuck you, punk.

Axler puts the teeth back.

– You, old man, you should have known better than to keep what’s ours from us.

– They ain’t yours.

– They are. And they know it. That’s why she came back.

– Vendetta doesn’t want to be here. She wants her sister and her own life.

– She wants her home and family, her own kind. That’s why she betrayed you and signaled for us.

Stretch tries to spit, can’t without his teeth and it dribbles on his chin.

– Fuck, we signaled you. We came to you. We came for Harm.

Axler reaches inside his vest and brings out a long sheathed knife.

– Don’t lie now, old man, of all times.

– We signaled you for a swap. For Harm.

Axler draws the blade from its sheath.

– You have nothing to trade. And we don’t deal in flesh.

Stretch’s eyes shoot at me.

– I have him.

Axler sets the sheath aside and lays the long blade at Stretch’s throat.

– No, we have him. And he’ll die just like you. Easier, actually. He’ll simply die for having killed Chaim. You, we’ll divide you together with your bones in twelve pieces, and we’ll send you into all the neighborhoods of Brooklyn. So they’ll know we’re coming.

– Asshole, he’s not from Brooklyn.

Axler’s fingers shift on the handle of the knife.

He looks at me.

He looks back at Stretch and presses the knife into his skin and draws blood.

– Where?

– Kid, what do you think you can cut on me that will make me tell you shit if I don’t want to?

Selig steps up.

– We have to kill them, Axler. Now.

– Shut up.

Stretch bares his neck further.

– Yeah, kill us. Kill me, the one guy who can tell you who he is and where he’s from and what he wants. Then kill him, the guy from Manhattan. And see what kind of hell comes down. Your papa will be so proud. ’Course he’s gonna be pretty pissed as it is if I know the man at all. But I might be able to put a spin on the deal that’ll make things shine a bit brighter for you.

Selig touches Axler’s shoulder.

– Don’t listen to him, we have to do it now. And we can’t lie about it. We have to accept the punishment we have earned. We’ve sinned, Axler.

Axler pulls the knife back.

– Put them in the cars.

– Axler!

He sticks the long knife in Selig’s throat just below the chin and pushes and the point rips out the back of his neck at the base of the skull and he holds him in the air while his legs dance for a moment and then he drops him from the blade to the ground.

A couple of the others take a step back. None step up.

He wipes the knife.

– And we must dig another grave. For Selig, who died bravely with his brother Chaim.

And they do as he says.

But his mom is pissed.

– Axler, Axler, what did you do to the car?

– It’s nothing, it’s some Bondo.

– Look at it, it’s a cavern. It’s a crevasse. That dent, it’s an abyss in the fender. You can’t fill that with Bondo.

– You pull it out, you put some Bondo in there, you sand it and you primer it and paint it and it’s as good as new.

– What are you talking about, new? It’s not like new. It’s ruined. Look at it, look at it. How did this happen?

– We hit his van.-You hit his van? This is what comes of driving on Sabbath. Accidents. God’s judgment on you.

– It wasn’t God. We drove into him on purpose.-On purpose? You did this to my Cadillac on purpose?

– And I wasn’t driving. Rachel was driving. -Rachel drove the car? You steal my car and you give it to Rachel and you tell her to drive it into a van?

– I didn’t steal it.-Didn’t steal it? You call it what, when you don’t ask to take my car and you take it and you let someone else drive it and you wreck it? You call that borrowing?

– Ma, please.

The big old lady raises her hands, turns and walks into the house.

– Yes, of course, you have things to do. What business of mine is it what you do in my house or how you stole my car and what you did to smash it up? Do what you have to do.

Axler watches her with his hands on his hips.

– Fuck.

He kicks the crumpled fender of his mom’s car.

– Fuck.

He looks at me lying between the two cars on the concrete garage floor.

– Are you smiling at something?

I don’t say anything, my mouth still being gagged by leather straps.

He points.

– Get that off him.

Someone cuts the straps around my head.

I work my jaw, but I don’t bite anyone.

Axler looks at me again.

– I asked were you smiling at something?

I tongue a thick scab at the corner of my mouth.

– Naw, I wasn’t smiling at nothing.

– Good.

– Just kind of surprised.

He pushes his hat to the back of his head.

– About what?

I look at the door into the house where his mom disappeared.

– About how all those Jewish mothers jokes are so dead-on.

He starts kicking my face.

OK, figure talking about someone’s mama is never a good idea.

– Axler!

He stops kicking my face.

– Papa.

Through the blood in my eyes I see the man in shirtsleeves who has come out of the house, a wreath of dark curly hair around the bald spot not quite covered by his yarmulke, a book in his hand, index finger tucked between pages to mark his place.

He looks at me and Stretch on the floor. He looks at the blood-spattered young men shifting from foot to foot. He looks at the ruined fender of his wife’s car. He looks at his son and rubs his forehead with the back of his wrist.

Axler opens his mouth.

His father holds his hand out.

– No. Not now.

He points at Stretch and me.

– Cover their heads and bring them to the temple.

He looks at the fender again and shakes his head.

– Your mother’s car, of all things.

Harm is already in the temple in an ankle-length skirt, loose blouse and headscarf, sitting erect on a bench. Vendetta’s head is in her lap, the healing bones back inside her skin.

Across the aisle with the other men, I shake my head, trying to do something about the itch under the small circle of black felt they pinned to my hair.

I look at one of the young men that bracket me.

– Buddy, could you scratch my head?

He looks at his partner. His partner shrugs. He looks to the altar where Axler and his father stand in front of the arc, whispering.

– Rebbe?

Axler’s father turns.

– Yes?

– He wants me to scratch his head.

The Rebbe pats the top of his own head.

– A man with his hands tied has an itch on top of his head and asks you to scratch it for him. This needs a Rebbe to tell you what to do?

The kid raises his hand toward my head, hesitates, looks again at the Rebbe.