Shoot the Moon by Joseph T. Klempner

door.
    “Wha?”
    “The job,” Goodman repeats. “The accounting position.”
    Nothing happens for a half a minute. Then Goodman hears locks being slid open, and the door swings out, hitting him squarely in the shoulder.
    “Careful!” says the man who’s responsible for the door swinging. “I’m Manny.”
    Manny is half human, half black bear. Goodman has never seen a human being with so much hair on his body. His arms, his neck, his chest, his shoulders - he wears a sleeveless undershirt, as though he’s proud to display his pelt - are covered with thick black hair. The back of his hands are hairy. He has hair sprouting from his ears, from his nostrils. The top of his head is bald, but it’s fringed with more of the same black hair, which seems to grow like some weed straight out of a science fiction movie.
    “C’mon in,” Manny says.
    Goodman enters and waits while Manny resecures three dead-bolt locks.
    “Have a seat.”
    The room is loaded with clutter, but Goodman sees only one chair, and that’s occupied by what looks like a tiny white inner tube. He moves toward it.
    “Not there! That’s my doughnut.” Manny ambles over to it. “Know what a sebaceous cyst is?”
    “No,” Goodman says, not sure he wants to, either. He remembers being told yesterday that Manny was having a boil lanced. That’s good enough for him.
    “Sa fuckin’ pain in the ass, is what it is!”
    Manny lowers himself gingerly onto his doughnut. He points to the other side of the desk, where there is indeed a second chair. This one contains a stack of tire catalogs, magazines, and loose papers. The stack is probably no more than two feet high.
    “Put that shit on the floor,” Manny tells him.
    Goodman complies, locating a bare spot only with some difficulty.
    “Whadjousay your name is?”
    “Goodman. Michael Goodman.” Though he’s sure it’s the first time he’s said it.
    “Right. Goodman. You come in two aftanoons a week, Monday and Thursday, one to five. You can use my office right here, plentya privacy. Twenty-five bucks an hour, cash. Okay?”
    “Okay.”
    “Come in Thursday. That way, Marlene’ll show you what to do. That’s her lass day. Stupid broad got herself knocked up. Tell you the truth, I’m supprised she could figger out how to do it. Okay?”
    “Okay what?”
    “Okay Thursday?”
    “Okay.”
    Michael Goodman has a job.
    Raul Cuervas has a problem. He smokes twelve more cigarettes while he tries to think of places to go where Mister Fuentes and his people won’t be able to find him. But with no friends or family, and no money to speak of, he realizes that Mister Fuentes and his people are Cuervas’s only people, too: He has no one else to turn to, no place to hide.
    So he showers and shaves and dresses, and prepares to take his chances with el viejo. He will acknowledge that he made a mistake. He will humble himself and ask forgiveness. Surely his record is such that he’ll be given another chance.
    Instead of heading down to 140th Street, where he’s known, Russell Bradford walks north towards 150th. He’s never done anything quite like this before. Sure, he’s done a little boosting from cars from time to time. He’s shoplifted. He’s even sold a little crack when somebody’s given him some on consignment.
    But his situation is different now. A couple packages of frozen meat or a Blaupunkt tape deck aren’t going to do it this time. What he needs is cash, and he needs it fast.
    Almost involuntarily, his hand moves to his midsection, where he feels the outline of the gun beneath his clothing. He no longer regards it as a toy. He thinks of it as real. It’s going to help him get paid, get what he’s entitled to for all he’s had to put up with.
    He reaches 150th Street, continues walking uptown. He imagines he’s a panther out looking for prey. Nobody ever blames the panther, after all, do they? He’s just out there doing what comes naturally, doing what he’s got to do to survive.