Shoot the Moon by Joseph T. Klempner Page A

Why should we think of people as any different?
    Rather than retracing his steps back up to 161st Street, Goodman decides to walk down to the 149th Street station. As he walks, he replays in his head the interview - if you could call it an interview - with Manny. Four hours at twenty-five an hour is a $100; double it and it comes out to 200 a week, cash. Cash is good: It means no withholding, no taxes. But it also means no benefits: no health insurance, no workmen’s comp. And while it’ll pay the rent and put some food in his refrigerator, it sure isn’t the answer to Kelly’s MRI bill or the rest of Goodman’s mounting debts. But they say beggars can’t be choosers, and Goodman was coming pretty close to being a beggar. So he’s grateful to have the job, and for the moment it takes his mind off everything else. Which is a mistake, because, as he nears 150th Street, he forgets to pay attention to his surroundings.
    Halfway between 151st and 152nd, Russell Bradford spots an elderly black woman pushing one of those fold-up grocery carts. The cart’s empty, so he figures she’s headed to the supermarket. That means she’s got money on her.
    Russell sizes her up. She’s got a purse slung over one shoulder. He could grab it before she’d even know what’s happening.
    But something makes Russell hesitate. The woman reminds him a little bit of Nana, and that causes him to hesitate - not so much because of the resemblance, but because he remembers that Nana generally uses food stamps to shop with. He doesn’t want to risk everything for a handful of fucking food stamps. He lets her pass by him.
    Closer to 152nd, there’s a wino going through someone’s trash. Russell figures the guy probably doesn’t have a dime on him; he walks by him.
    Then he sees the white dude. This guy is made to order. He’s short; he’s got narrow shoulders, glasses. He’s wearing a sport jacket and a tie, like this is fucking Wall Street or something. Dude doesn’t look like he ever gets his hands dirty. And on top of everything, he looks like he isn’t even paying attention to what’s going on.
    Russell does a quick check across the street, then up and down the block: nobody but the old lady and the wino. There are some kids up ahead, but they’re all the way up at 153rd, playing some game on the sidewalk. Couldn’t be better.
    He waits till the guy’s almost alongside of him before he says something to him.
    “Hey, man, you got the time?”
    The dude stops, startled by Russell’s voice. Almost involuntarily, he raises his left hand to look at his watch.
    “Five after eight,” he says.
    “Nice watch, man,” Russell tells him. The truth is, Russell can’t tell a Rolex from a Timex. The dude doesn’t say anything.
    “Think you could help me out with a little change?” Russell asks him.
    This seems to make the guy uncomfortable. He starts looking around. But, of course, there’s no one there.
    “I’m afraid I don’t have any change,” he says, and then adds, “sorry.”
    “Any folding money?”
    “Sorry,” he says again.
    “Me, too,” Russell says. And to show how sorry he is, he reaches to his waistband and lifts the bottom of his T-shirt just enough to reveal the handle of his gun.
    Goodman’s first thought upon seeing the gun is that he’s about to lose control of both his bowels and his bladder at the same time. So intense is his concentration in attempting to keep this from happening that he’s unable to react to the situation in any other way: Not only does he say nothing; he can’t even begin to think about speaking.
    “Putchya hands down,” the kid says.
    “What?”
    “Your hands. Put ‘em down.”
    Goodman looks, and sure enough, he’s raised both hands slightly, the way a stagecoach passenger might once have signaled surrender to the bad guys in an old Western. He tries to lower them, but they won’t go all the way down.
    “Give it up,” he hears the kid telling him. “Your money, your