He’s packing his stuff away. Yvonne grabs his coat from the bed and brings it over.

– Anything else. Yeah. Call the cops and stop fucking around. Whoever did this to you needs to be lockedup.Before they hurt someone who cares about their life.

I try to give him money.Bad call.

I’m sitting at the table now instead of lying on it, fingering a deep knife scar in the oak grain and watching Yvonne in herKnicks jersey while she makes me a waffle. She’s doing a great job of not asking questions, but the way she clunks down the waffle plate on the table in front of me is a good indication that the levee will soon break.

I tear into that waffle. She makes great waffles, warms up the real maple syrup and everything. Besides which, I really don’t want to see her sitting across the table from me, drinking her coffee and rolling up a Drum cigarette.Waiting. I finish the waffle and the half grapefruit she cut for me and my water and the O.J. and, man, was I hungry. I look at the empty plates and close my eyes for a second. I want to stay here. I want waffles three times a day and the smell of her cigarettes and the sound of her kiln roaring, firing a new piece, and Bud sleeping on her too-hard futon and just to stay here. I open my eyes, push back from the table and look at Yvonne. She’s leaning back in her chair, feet up on the table, staring across the room out one of the windows that looks toward the Hudson. Her jersey has slipped up her thigh just enough for me to see that she has no underwear on andI feel a little horny all of a sudden. She takes a sip of coffee and drags on the cigarette. I make a little throat-clearing noise and she turns her head slowly to look at me and hear what I have to say.

– Baby, I have to get out of here.

She takes another drag. She put a Leonard Cohen album on her old turntable earlier and now “Suzanne” is playing; such a beautiful song. She exhales a cloud of smoke and looks back out the window.

– Fair enough.

I stand up. It’s so nice in here, so warm.

– Do you, babe, do you know where my stuff is?

She looks at me.

– Sure.

She takes her feet off the table and the legs of her chair bang down on the floor. She gets up, takes a last drag off her smoke, drops the butt on the floor, and grinds it out with her bare foot. She walks over to the living area and digs around under the futon frame until she comes up with my bag and then sits on the bed and reaches over to stroke Bud where he lies still sleeping. I go sit on the bed too and start putting on my boots.

My body is sore as hell, but my head is pretty straight. A beer would help most of the aches. My boots are tied. I pull an old black sweater from my bag, stand up, and put it on. I’m looking around for my jacket, but I can’t find it. Yvonne reads my mind, gets off the futon and walks over to one of those rolling clothes racks you see in the garment district. It’s what she has instead of a closet. She pulls an old leather jacket off a hanger and holds it out to me.

– You didn’t have one when you showed up yesterday. Take this. It’ll fit.

I come over and take the jacket. It fits perfectly and has a nice lining.

– Thanks.

– Sure.

I go back to the bed, get my bag, and zip it up.

– Something else.

– The cat?

– Yeah.

– How long?

– I’m not sure.

– Fair enough. I’ll get his stuff from your place, OK?

I look at her. I look her in the eye.

– No. Don’t go there, OK? Don’t go there at all.

I reach into the bag and take out some cash.

– Don’t.Don’t even fucking try to give me money.

I toss it on the bed anyway.

– For Bud.For the vet. And he’ll need new stuff.

– Fine.

I walk over to her and put a hand on her head and we wrap our arms around each other. Her face is in my chest and her voice is muffled.

– You gonna be OK?

– Sure.

– You gonna be safe?

– Sure.

– You gonna call me if you need help?

– You know it.

She squeezes me and then pushes me away. I take a look at Bud sleeping,then I head for the door. She calls.

– Hey.

– What?

– I’ve been rooting for the Giants.

I stop with the door half-open.

– Yeah?

– Yeah.

– Well, they’ll choke in the clutch.

– I’ll keep rooting for them anyway.

– You always like the underdogs.

– Yep.

I leave and close the door behind me. I have to get the key. I have to get the key, get it to Roman and get lost before any of my friends get hurt. I repeat this to myself over and over as I go down the stairs, leaving that warm room farther and farther behind. It’s noteasy, none of it is easy, because she’s so cool.And me? I’m just a fucking idiot.

Out on the sidewalk in front of her building, someone grabs me from behind and someone else punches me in the crotch. They drag my doubled-over body to the curb, throw me in the trunk of a car, and close the lid. I hear the driver’s and the passenger’s doors open and shut. Then the engine starts and the car pulls away from the curb.

As it turns out, the small one is Ed and the big one is Paris. And I was right, they do wear cowboy boots. Matching black snakeskin boots with rattler heads on the toes.

I’m rolled up in a little ball, blinking up at them from the trunk they’ve just opened. After about an hour of me bouncing around in here, we stopped. I heard the doors open and close, then the lid popped open and there they were. The little one took off his hat and smiled.

– I’mEd, this is my brother, Paris. Sorry about the ride.

It’s bright out and I can see dozens and dozens of seagulls wheeling in the sky behind Ed’s and Paris’s heads. There is a terrific stink in the air. Ed puts his hat back on and reaches out his hand to me.

– Let’s get you out of there.

I blink. I take his hand and let him help me out. My legs are cramped up and I almost fall over, but Ed catches me and holds me steady while I get my balance. Paris just stands there a few feet away and watches. We’re in a landfill. We are way out in the middle of what must be a New Jersey landfill and there is no one in sight except ourselves and the seagulls. Paris reaches inside his vest, pulls out what looks like a vintage.45 Colt Peacemaker revolver and starts walking around the dunes of garbage, shooting rats.

– The Chinkdo that to you?

CRACK!

– Huh?

– Your face, the Chinkdo that to you?

CRACK!

– Uh, yeah.The guy with the red hair.

– Yeah, the Chink is a mean motherfucker. No doubt.

CRACK!

Every time Paris shoots a rat, his gun makes a nice firm crack that ripples across the landfill and sends any nearby seagulls leaping into the air. He’s emptied and reloaded the revolver twice now and doesn’t seem to be getting bored. Ed and I lean against the lip of the open trunk and converse.

– Paris and me, we met him, he was straight out ofjuvie.Crazy little fucker.

CRACK!

– Who?

– The Chink, the guy busted your nose there.

They know him.And why not? Why shouldn’t goons know each other?All members in the goon union, no doubt.

– You know him?

CRACK!

– All of ’em, we know all of ’em.

– All of them?

CRACK!

Paris flips the cylinder on the revolver and dumps the empty shells onto the ground. He feels around in his pockets and, not finding what he wants, walks back over toward the car. Ed reaches behind himself in the trunk, finds something and tosses it to Paris. It’s a full box of cartridges. Paris loads up and goes back to work.