– Forchrissake, Hank. Will you quit, like, hitting me on the fucking head!

I squat down and look at his eyes. Again, the left pupil is a little bigger than the right. No wonder he can’t walk a straight line. I check the clock: 7:49P.M. The fucker switched off the alarm. I climb up on the bed, grab the remote, switch to Channel 11 for the Mets game, and turn up the sound. Bottom of the first: zip, zip. I wait for them to flash a score from the Giants game. At the end of the inning, they tell me what I want to know: Giants 1, Dodgers 0, top of the third.

Russ gets himself up off the floor. He looks for something but can’t find it.

– Hey?

I watch TV.

– Hey, what happened to my last beer?

– I drank it.

– Fuck.

He digs in one of the grocery bags until he comes up with a six-pack of Coke, a bag of chips and a can of peanuts. He comes over to the bed and stands there, waiting. I look up at him,then scoot over to make room. He climbs onto the bed, hands me a soda, and puts the chips and nuts between us.

– So, what’s the score?

8:45P.M. I’m sitting on the bottom edge of the bed, two feet from the TV screen.Top of the fifth, still no score. The Mets and the Braves are locked in a pitchers’ duel. The starters have combined for fifteen strikeouts already and show no sign of slowing down. Out west in Dodger Stadium, they’re jammed in the bottom of the fourth, picking away at each other, the hitters going high into the counts and knocking foul balls all over the fucking place. The Giants are still up 1-0, but L.A. has the bases loaded andS.F.’s starter is already wearing out. The announcer for the Mets game keeps giving updates on what’s happening out in Los Angeles, but the fact that I can’t actually see the game is driving me up the fucking wall. And now it’s time to go, and I can’t bring myself to shut off the TV.

I’m going to wait until the end of the Dodgers’ fourth. I can’t doit, I just can’t go without knowing if the Dodgers take the lead. The Mets knock down the Braves in order, chalking up two more strikeouts and the coverage goes to a commercial.

– Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.

Russ is still reclined at the other end of the bed. He’s a Mets fan. Every time they notch another out, he pumps his fist and gives a little whoop. I’m trying to remember that it could beworse, he could be a Dodgers fan. It’s 8:56P.M. The game comes back on and we’re informed that the Giants are in the middle of a pitching change. Meanwhile, the Braves go to work on the Mets. I look again at the clock. Fuck! Fuck me! I turn off the TV. Russ jumps off the bed.

– Whoa! Like, what the fuck?

I collect the first-aid kit and cell phone and put on the Yankees jacket, sunglasses and headphones.

– Time to go, Russ.

– Oh, man. Oh, man!

– I know. Come on.

At the door, I turn and take a look at the room.Cans and crumbs and leftover food all over the place. I take a twenty from my pocket and toss it on the bed for the maid. We walk down the hall and push the button for the elevator. Russ is antsy.

– Where do we go?

– We need a car.

– A car?

– Yeah.

He looks atme, the elevator goes ding and the doors open. We step inside and wait for the doors to close.

– Hank?

– Yeah?

– Why dowe.Mmmm. Why do we, like, need a car?

The doors are still open. I realize that neither of us has pushed a button and I lean over and press my finger against the one labeledL.

– We need a car because I don’t want to risk any more cabs or subways and so we can listen to the game while we wait.

The elevator is very slow.

– I thought we were, like, going to the.Mmmm. Going to the cops. I thought you were turning me in.

I look at him as the elevator eases its way down to the lobby.

– I’m giving you to Roman.

– What?

– I’m giving you and the money to Roman. Roman will take you in.

– What the fuck?

– I can’t just take you to the police.

– Are youfucking.Mmmm. Are you, like, fucking nuts? You’re fucking crazy. Fucking Roman?ZOMBIE MOTHER FUCKING ROMAN?

– Russ!

– Fuck that!

The doors open on the lobby and a group ofultrahip European teenagers are standing there, waiting to go up. Russ spins away from me and takes a quick step out of the elevator and trips over nothing, tumbling into the crowd of tattoos,piercings and bleached hair. They catch him and keep him on his feet while I wrap an arm around his shoulders and take a firm grip on his right biceps.

– Thankyou. Thank you very much. He’s OK.

They cram into the elevator, making cracks in French aboutdrunk Americans.Fucking French classes. I wish I’d taken Spanish in high school. I start walking Russ toward the door.

– Take it easy, Russ. Just take it easy. It’s, it’s gonna be OK. You’re gonna take the fall, but you’re gonna get out of it alive. And. It’s gonna, you know, be fine.

He’s still shaking a bit, not because of his balance, but because of how hard he’s crying.

I would rather have rented a car, but I don’t want to go someplace where I’m gonna have to stand around and let people look at me for twenty minutes, and I don’t trust Russ to go in alone. It takes me a while to talk Russ into the backup plan, but eventually he gives in. Even woozy as he is, it takes him less than a minute to break into a locked car and hot-wire it. We sit there with the engine idling. I put a hand on his shoulder.

– OK, let’s go.

He kind of shrugs my hand from his shoulder.

– No.

– Why?

– Mmmm. Apart from, like, not wanting to drive myself to my own fucking execution, I’m not sure I should, like, be behind the wheel, feeling like this. I can barely, like, walk a fucking straight line thanks to you going all, like, Babe Ruth on my head.

– You have to drive, Russ.

– Mmmm. Why? Why the fuck do I have to drive?

– Because I don’t.

He looks at me.

– Are you.Mmmm. Are you, like, kidding, man? You’re from Cali, man. All you guys know how to drive.

– I know how to, I just don’t. So let’s get the fuck out of here before the owner of this fucking thing shows the fuck up.

– Let him! Let him.Mmmm. Let him show up and call the fucking cops. That would be, like, great, man. Save my fucking life.

I make a fist and lunge at him. He flinches back and I pull the punch before it makes contact. He keeps himself pressed against the driver’s-side door and I take deep breaths.

– Why me, Russ? Huh? Why the fuck did you pick me to give your goddamn cat?

He looks out the window at Ninth Avenue.

– I figured, you know, that you’d, like, take good care of him. I mean, Bud’s a great cat. I didn’t want to leave him with just anyone.

– Yeah.

We sit for another half minute.

– Just drive the car, Russ. Take it real easy and if you start to black out or feel funny, just say something.

– OK.

He takes the wheel and puts the Celica in first.

– Like, where to, man?

– Just get us out of here. I’ll tell you where to go once we’re moving.

He pulls away from the curb nice and slow and eases us into the downtown traffic. I turn on the radio and try to find the game.

We circle the block and take Broadway back downtown to Canal Street, then take East Broadway to Montgomery. We scoot across the FDR into the Pier 8 driveway right at the bottom of Manhattan. I point the way and Russ drives us slowly down the access road past theNO UNAUTHORIZED VEHICLES BEYOND THIS POINT sign. I jog out here a few times a week and I’ve never seen a single cop, just the occasional parks department truck. We cruise along nice and easy until we reach the Houston Street footbridge where it crosses over the FDR to the baseball diamonds of the East River Park.

We park on the access road next to a baseball diamond. Nearby, I can hear the traffic whizzing past on the FDR, but it’s not nearly loud enough to cover the sound of my cursing.Dodgers 3, Giants 1. New York and Atlanta are still scoreless and the starters are closing in on a new record for combined strikeouts in a single game. Russ has lost interest in the games. He stares out at the East River beyond the playing fields and smokes Camel Lights, one after another. The dash clock in the Celica is broken, but it’s 9:47P.M. by Russ’s watch. Roman should be here just about anytime.