Bud is back in my lap. I scratch his ears and nod.

– OK.Now, the credit cards? Those are different. I do most of my business in high-end plastic. Carlyle is a fake identity, but he has an actual credit history. You could use those cards and as long as you paid the bills, you could just hang on to them. Don’t. Use them for plane ticketscuz they look for people booking last-minute trips in cash. Use them for the tickets,then get rid of them. You got a wallet?

– No.

He digs in a crate under the table and pulls out two cardboard boxes. One is filled with used wallets, the other with photos.

– Take a wallet. Bend it around, twist it up a bit. Also take a couple pictures. Don’t go crazy,cuz if someone asks you who’s in the picture, you need to be able to answer. Carlyle is single according to his credit applications, so take a girlfriend and maybe a nice middle-aged couple to be your folks, but no kids.

I sift through the photos in the box. I find one of a pretty brunette leaning against a tree. I find another of a couple in their early sixties standing in a kitchen somewhere, looking happy.

– And give meall your old ID. Carry that shit around and you’ll end up giving it to some teller, she asks for a second piece of ID to cash a check.

I hand himall my ID, everything that says Henry Thompson.

– Don’t talk to people, but don’t be rude. If they ask you where you’re from, say New York. Keep the details to a minimum and don’t improvise. You get on a plane, tell some hag in the next seat you live on West Eighty-second, next thing you know, she lives there, too. Give her a bogus address, turns out it’s hers. Then you got to kill the bitch or something. Best bet, wear that Walkman and don’t play it too loud and no one will fuck with you. And don’t try to fly in those clothes; they reek.

I tell him thank you and collect the papers and plastic: passport, driver’s license, Social Security, gym membership, bank card, library card, Blockbuster membership. I put Bud in the bag and head for the door, followed by Billy. He stands aside to let me into the little exit hall.

– You should get rid of the cat.

I stare at him.

– You’re carrying around a cat, man. I can give you papers and bleach the hair, but you’re still a dude walking around with a cat and that’s a pretty big fucking identifying feature. “Did you notice anything unusual about the man?” “Weeelll… He was carrying a cat, if that’s any help, Officer.” Get what I mean? Leave the cat here. I’ll take care ofit, I know a chick who digs cats.

– I can’t.

He looks me over like I’m just about the stupidest sack of shit he’s ever seen.

– Some mad dog. OK, look: It’s dark out and it’s supposed to rain some. Plus, with the big game, there shouldn’t be a lot of people out tonight. You try to stay away from bright public places and, uh, keep the cat in the bag.

– Great.

I open the outer door. Sure enough, it smells like rain and I can feel the muscles in my damaged calf starting to cramp. I scratch at my head; it itches and burns from the bleach job.

– I’ll send you more cash when the dust clears.

– Whatever. Look, don’t scratch like that or it’ll scab up, look like shit and feel even worse.

I stop scratching.

– Thanks.

– No problem. Well, you go get ’em,Maddog.

I let the door fall closed behind me. John Peter Carlyle and I head for the L train back to Manhattan.Me, myself and my cat.

The asshole in the seat across from mine won’t stop looking at me. He’s got a goddamn magazine. Why doesn’t he just fucking read it? He’ll look at it for a couple seconds, then glance up and check me out again. Fuck! I’ve got my Walkman and my sunglasses and my new blond hair and myreeky clothes and this guy just can’t take his eyes off of me. He looks at me again and I stare right back at him. He puts his eyes in his magazine,then glances back up to find me still staring at him. He looks back down.

– Hey.

He keeps his face in the magazine, I think it’sFilm Comment or some shit.

– Hey!

Man, he can really read that magazine when he wants to.

– Hey, you.Scorsese.

He looks up a little.

– Yeah, you. You got a problem?

He looks back at his magazine.

– Hey. I said, “Do you have a problem?”

He doesn’t look up, but he mumbles something.

– What was that? I didn’t hear that.

– I don’t have a problem.

– So then mind your own business and don’t stare at people. It’s rude.

He gives a tiny nod and keeps his eyes locked on the page in front of him. I stare at him for a few more seconds,then take a quick look around the car. Passengers with something to look at are doing so and the ones without are either staring off into space or have their eyes closed. No one will look at me or that other guy for the rest of the trip. My heart goes BANG-BANG-BANG!

The train passes under the East River and stops at First Avenue in the heart of my neighborhood. The guy with the magazine and several other passengers get off, but I see him and a few of the others board the next car down.Trying to get away from the smelly freak. I watch the people getting on the train, fearing a familiar face, but I don’t recognize anyone. Most of the new passengers are wet. The rain must have started up.

The train moves on. I think about the chase last night, on this train, through these same stops. I still don’t know what happened to Russ. He must have been found by now. I looked at a little news on the TV back at Billy’s, but they didn’t say anything about Russ. It was all about the murders and the search for me. I turned it off before I could get too freaked out.

At Union Square, some yahoos wearing head-to-toe Mets gear get on. They’re mouthing off to one another and talking real fucking big for a bunch of fans whose team is skidding hard. I want to say something and put them in their places, but I keep my head down and my mouth shut. If I ever had any good karma, it’s been cashed in and then some.

The train stops at Eighth Avenue, end of the line. The Mets fans pile out in a herd, jostling their way to their favorite sports bar. I trace the path I took with Russ last night, up the stairs and the ramp. This time I take the turnstiles out of the station and go up to the street. There’s a nice soft shower falling. I left Billy’s around 6:30, so it must be just about 7:00. The Mets game starts at 7:30 if this rain doesn’t cause a delay and fuck things up. I walk west on 14th into the meat-packing district.

Past the actual meat markets and the underground sex clubs and the new chichi restaurants, 14th Street runs into Tenth Avenue. The street is half cobbles and half ripped-up tarmac here, crosshatched by old train tracks and shadowed by an industrial skyway that links two warehouses. I wait in a patch of darkness, leaning against a billboard’s support pillar. Up the way is a gas station for cabs and the street is dotted with Yellows waiting to be retrieved by drivers on coffee and piss breaks. The Metro buses do driver swaps here as well, so there’s a short line of buses parked along the block. But the real trade is still the hookers. The area is essentially devoid of residential housing or retail, so no one has bothered to clear out the whores, which is good news for all the businessmen who stop here in their SUVs on weekdays to get a quick hum job before they split back to their families in Connecticut. Most of the trade is pretty bent, not the little-boy hustlers you find on Christopher Street so much as transvestites and transsexuals. I wave off a couple offers. All and all, things are pretty slow, what with it being a Sunday and the rain and the big game. Come by here after the game if the Mets win and the place will be hopping.

I think about these things and they mostly keep me from thinking about Yvonne’s apartment being a short walk away and that helps me not to think about Yvonne and that helps me not to think about Paul’s and that helps me not to think about Russ and how I really did fucking kill him. Shit, oh, shit.