downstairs.”
There is a trapdoor in the back. Vince lowers himself down a ladder, to a close, dark space—something between a basement and a crawl space. He pulls a string and a single bulb lights the dirt floor and foundation walls. The floor is littered with sprung rat traps, concrete bags, and old coffee cans, and in the far corner a pile of empty oil tins, flour crates, and sugar bags. Vince pushes the garbage aside until he finds an old coal chute, opens it, reaches high into it, and pulls out a metal box, the size of a small shoebox, secured with a padlock. He looks over his shoulder, then opens the lock with his key. Fifty-dollar bills are stacked sideways the length of the box. It’s been a while since he’s counted…who is he kidding: $30,550; he keeps the tally in his head. He takes out handfuls of bills and begins counting, sets them in piles of twenty, rubber bands each pile, counts out ten of those piles and then puts the money—$10,000—in the manila envelope and slides it into his waistband. Then he takes another ten fifties and puts these in his pocket. He closes the box, pushes it back into the coal chute, and covers the opening with empty bags again. Upstairs, Tic is standing in the kitchen, right where Vince left him, staring at the balls of dough and the mixing bowls of frosting.
“Listen,” Vince says, and he steps in close to Tic’s face. “This is important. You’re going to have to make the donuts yourself today. You and Nancy. She’ll be here in a few minutes. You can do it. Right?”
Tic nods.
“Some guys are going to come in here later,” Vince continues, “looking for me. Don’t lie. Tell them I was here, but I left. Don’t get smart with these guys. Don’t tell stories. Just keep it simple. ‘Vince was here. He left. I don’t know where he went.’”
“Don’t worry.” Tic’s head begins bobbing. “If those fuckerstry to stop me, man…I’ll pull my balls up in my torso and do some tae kwon do on their punk asses…”
“No. Tic. Listen to me. I need you to concentrate. No tae kwon do, no conspiracies, no balls. I need you to concentrate.”
Tic settles down and nods earnestly. “Yeah. I’ll be cool.”
“I know you will,” Vince says, and he pats the young man on the shoulder. “Look, I need you to do something else for me.” Vince pulls the last bundle of fifties from his waistband, peels off two. “This is for you,” he says.
“No shit!”
“And this”—he hands Tic the other eight fifties, four hundred bucks—“is for a friend of mine.” Vince writes the address down. “Her name is Beth Sherman. You take her this money. Okay? But you can’t tell anyone about it.”
He walks to the back door, sticks his head out, and looks both ways.
“You coming back, Mr. Vince?”
“Sure,” Vince says. Then he looks over his shoulder and steps into the alley.
THE LACK OF sleep shouldn’t be so powerful. It has no quality of its own; it is simply a hole, an absence, like the lack of sex or water or any other hole. Down side streets and alleys, Vince bobs in and out of cars, stopping to look both ways at every intersection. Vince wishes he could just stop and close his eyes. Sleep. Just for a minute. He looks down at the black slacks and red button shirt that he went out in last night. The math is tougher than it ought to be. Let’s see: You last went to bed Tuesday night, after the presidential debate. You woke up Wednesday morning at two. It’s now…6:40 Thursday morning. Going on twenty-seven hours without sleep.
He’s done that a hundred times, gone a day or two without sleep. So why is he so tired? The surge and drain of adrenaline. Or something else? Vince thinks about what Beth said, the willful delusion in her voice— You’ll just have to come to the next one —and he slams his eyes open and closed as he works his way down the alley behind Sprague Avenue. He finally emerges onto Sprague and stops cold at what he sees in the
There is a trapdoor in the back. Vince lowers himself down a ladder, to a close, dark space—something between a basement and a crawl space. He pulls a string and a single bulb lights the dirt floor and foundation walls. The floor is littered with sprung rat traps, concrete bags, and old coffee cans, and in the far corner a pile of empty oil tins, flour crates, and sugar bags. Vince pushes the garbage aside until he finds an old coal chute, opens it, reaches high into it, and pulls out a metal box, the size of a small shoebox, secured with a padlock. He looks over his shoulder, then opens the lock with his key. Fifty-dollar bills are stacked sideways the length of the box. It’s been a while since he’s counted…who is he kidding: $30,550; he keeps the tally in his head. He takes out handfuls of bills and begins counting, sets them in piles of twenty, rubber bands each pile, counts out ten of those piles and then puts the money—$10,000—in the manila envelope and slides it into his waistband. Then he takes another ten fifties and puts these in his pocket. He closes the box, pushes it back into the coal chute, and covers the opening with empty bags again. Upstairs, Tic is standing in the kitchen, right where Vince left him, staring at the balls of dough and the mixing bowls of frosting.
“Listen,” Vince says, and he steps in close to Tic’s face. “This is important. You’re going to have to make the donuts yourself today. You and Nancy. She’ll be here in a few minutes. You can do it. Right?”
Tic nods.
“Some guys are going to come in here later,” Vince continues, “looking for me. Don’t lie. Tell them I was here, but I left. Don’t get smart with these guys. Don’t tell stories. Just keep it simple. ‘Vince was here. He left. I don’t know where he went.’”
“Don’t worry.” Tic’s head begins bobbing. “If those fuckerstry to stop me, man…I’ll pull my balls up in my torso and do some tae kwon do on their punk asses…”
“No. Tic. Listen to me. I need you to concentrate. No tae kwon do, no conspiracies, no balls. I need you to concentrate.”
Tic settles down and nods earnestly. “Yeah. I’ll be cool.”
“I know you will,” Vince says, and he pats the young man on the shoulder. “Look, I need you to do something else for me.” Vince pulls the last bundle of fifties from his waistband, peels off two. “This is for you,” he says.
“No shit!”
“And this”—he hands Tic the other eight fifties, four hundred bucks—“is for a friend of mine.” Vince writes the address down. “Her name is Beth Sherman. You take her this money. Okay? But you can’t tell anyone about it.”
He walks to the back door, sticks his head out, and looks both ways.
“You coming back, Mr. Vince?”
“Sure,” Vince says. Then he looks over his shoulder and steps into the alley.
THE LACK OF sleep shouldn’t be so powerful. It has no quality of its own; it is simply a hole, an absence, like the lack of sex or water or any other hole. Down side streets and alleys, Vince bobs in and out of cars, stopping to look both ways at every intersection. Vince wishes he could just stop and close his eyes. Sleep. Just for a minute. He looks down at the black slacks and red button shirt that he went out in last night. The math is tougher than it ought to be. Let’s see: You last went to bed Tuesday night, after the presidential debate. You woke up Wednesday morning at two. It’s now…6:40 Thursday morning. Going on twenty-seven hours without sleep.
He’s done that a hundred times, gone a day or two without sleep. So why is he so tired? The surge and drain of adrenaline. Or something else? Vince thinks about what Beth said, the willful delusion in her voice— You’ll just have to come to the next one —and he slams his eyes open and closed as he works his way down the alley behind Sprague Avenue. He finally emerges onto Sprague and stops cold at what he sees in the
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