again.
By the time he got to Grande Street a pandemonium of gunfire had broken out behind him. He
didnt think he could run any more. He saw himself limping along in a storewindow across
the street, holding his elbow to his side, the bag slung over his shoulder and carrying
the shotgun and the leather document case, dark in the glass and wholly unaccountable.
When he looked again he was sitting on the sidewalk. Get up you son of a bitch, he said.
Dont you set there and die. You get the hell up.
He crossed Ryan Street with blood sloshing in his boots. He pulled the bag around and
unzipped it and shoved the shotgun in and zipped it shut again. He stood tottering. Then
he crossed to the bridge. He was cold and shivering and he thought he was going to vomit.
There was a changewindow and a turnstile on the American side of the bridge and he put a
dime in the slot and pushed through and staggered out onto the span and eyed the narrow
walk ahead of him. Just breaking first light. Dull and gray above the floodplain along the
east shore of the river. God's own distance to the far side.
Half way he met a party returning. Four of them, young boys, maybe eighteen, partly drunk.
He set the case on the sidewalk and took a pack of the hundreds from his pocket. The money
was slick with blood. He wiped it on his trouser-leg and peeled off five of the bills and
put the rest in his back pocket.
Excuse me, he said. Leaning against the chainlink fence. His bloody footprints on the walk
behind him like clues in an arcade.
Excuse me.
They were stepping off the curb into the roadway to go around him.
Excuse me I wondered if you all would sell me a coat.
They didnt stop till they were past him. Then one of them turned. What'll you give? he
said.
That man behind you. The one in the long coat.
The one in the long coat stopped with the others.
How much?
I'll give you five hundred dollars.
Bullshit.
Come on Brian.
Let's go, Brian. He's drunk.
Brian looked at them and he looked at Moss. Let's see the money, he said.
It's right here.
Let me see it.
Let me hold the coat.
Let's go, Brian.
You take this hundred and let me hold the coat. Then I'll give you the rest.
All right.
He slipped out of the coat and handed it over and Moss handed him the bill.
What's this on it?
Blood.
Blood?
Blood.
He stood holding the bill in one hand. He looked at the blood on his fingers. What
happened to you?
I've been shot.
Let's go, Brian. Goddamn.
Let me have the money.
Moss handed him the bills and unshouldered the zipper bag to the sidewalk and struggled
into the coat. The boy folded the bills and put them in his pocket and stepped away.
He joined the others and they went on. Then they stopped. They were talking together and
looking back at him. He got the coat buttoned and put his money in the inside pocket and
shouldered the bag and picked up the leather case. You all need to keep walkin, he said. I
wont tell you twice.
They turned and went on. There were only three of them. He shoved at his eyes with the
heel of his hand. He tried to see where the fourth one had gone. Then he realized that
there was no fourth one. That's all right, he said. Just keep puttin one foot in front of
the other.
When he reached the place where the river actually passed beneath the bridge he stopped
and stood looking down at it. The Mexican gateshack was just ahead. He looked back down
the bridge but the three were gone. A grainy light to the east. Over the low black hills
beyond the town. The water moved beneath him slow and dark. A dog somewhere. Silence.
Nothing.
There was a stand of tall carrizo cane growing along the American side of the river below
him and he set the zipper bag down and took hold of the case by the handles and swung it
behind him and then heaved it over the rail and out into space.
Whitehot pain. He held his side and watched the bag turn slowly in the
By the time he got to Grande Street a pandemonium of gunfire had broken out behind him. He
didnt think he could run any more. He saw himself limping along in a storewindow across
the street, holding his elbow to his side, the bag slung over his shoulder and carrying
the shotgun and the leather document case, dark in the glass and wholly unaccountable.
When he looked again he was sitting on the sidewalk. Get up you son of a bitch, he said.
Dont you set there and die. You get the hell up.
He crossed Ryan Street with blood sloshing in his boots. He pulled the bag around and
unzipped it and shoved the shotgun in and zipped it shut again. He stood tottering. Then
he crossed to the bridge. He was cold and shivering and he thought he was going to vomit.
There was a changewindow and a turnstile on the American side of the bridge and he put a
dime in the slot and pushed through and staggered out onto the span and eyed the narrow
walk ahead of him. Just breaking first light. Dull and gray above the floodplain along the
east shore of the river. God's own distance to the far side.
Half way he met a party returning. Four of them, young boys, maybe eighteen, partly drunk.
He set the case on the sidewalk and took a pack of the hundreds from his pocket. The money
was slick with blood. He wiped it on his trouser-leg and peeled off five of the bills and
put the rest in his back pocket.
Excuse me, he said. Leaning against the chainlink fence. His bloody footprints on the walk
behind him like clues in an arcade.
Excuse me.
They were stepping off the curb into the roadway to go around him.
Excuse me I wondered if you all would sell me a coat.
They didnt stop till they were past him. Then one of them turned. What'll you give? he
said.
That man behind you. The one in the long coat.
The one in the long coat stopped with the others.
How much?
I'll give you five hundred dollars.
Bullshit.
Come on Brian.
Let's go, Brian. He's drunk.
Brian looked at them and he looked at Moss. Let's see the money, he said.
It's right here.
Let me see it.
Let me hold the coat.
Let's go, Brian.
You take this hundred and let me hold the coat. Then I'll give you the rest.
All right.
He slipped out of the coat and handed it over and Moss handed him the bill.
What's this on it?
Blood.
Blood?
Blood.
He stood holding the bill in one hand. He looked at the blood on his fingers. What
happened to you?
I've been shot.
Let's go, Brian. Goddamn.
Let me have the money.
Moss handed him the bills and unshouldered the zipper bag to the sidewalk and struggled
into the coat. The boy folded the bills and put them in his pocket and stepped away.
He joined the others and they went on. Then they stopped. They were talking together and
looking back at him. He got the coat buttoned and put his money in the inside pocket and
shouldered the bag and picked up the leather case. You all need to keep walkin, he said. I
wont tell you twice.
They turned and went on. There were only three of them. He shoved at his eyes with the
heel of his hand. He tried to see where the fourth one had gone. Then he realized that
there was no fourth one. That's all right, he said. Just keep puttin one foot in front of
the other.
When he reached the place where the river actually passed beneath the bridge he stopped
and stood looking down at it. The Mexican gateshack was just ahead. He looked back down
the bridge but the three were gone. A grainy light to the east. Over the low black hills
beyond the town. The water moved beneath him slow and dark. A dog somewhere. Silence.
Nothing.
There was a stand of tall carrizo cane growing along the American side of the river below
him and he set the zipper bag down and took hold of the case by the handles and swung it
behind him and then heaved it over the rail and out into space.
Whitehot pain. He held his side and watched the bag turn slowly in the
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