grenade skedaddle to the far side of the room. I was on my knees when it went off, a bang like a truck backfiring, followed by the sound of splintered wood and shrapnel ricocheting off the walls and skittering around the floor.
Bursting out of the room in full flight, I was confronted by hands and wide eyes in the stairwell: It was Smiler’s fat bodyguard, sweat running down his face. I grabbed him by the lapels to throw him out of my way, but that was like trying to fling aside a hippo. He threw his arms out to the side, waving them in a desperate attempt to keep his balance on that top step. Our eyes were locked in panic as we teetered, a couple of ballerinas in a wind tunnel.
“Oop!” he grunted, wet jowls trembling.
One of his tiny feet waved in the air desperately, a dancer’s
balançoire.
“Oop!” Ballet Boy’s arms waved, a veritable
grand port de bras.
“Oop!”
Adiós, Swan Lake—
we both knew we were going down those stairs.
He toppled hard, and through his prodigious belly I felt the reverberation of his spine cracking. My grip on his lapels almost gave way, but the shelf of his stomach helped hold me in place. My feet thunked along as I sledded down the stairs on all that erstwhile Balanchine blubber.
I closed my eyes reflexively, but when I opened them again, we’d stopped at the bottom of the stairs.
Panting with desperation, I looked up from where my face was buried in Ballet Boy’s navel. Before me was the flickering green fluorescent light of a short hallway and an open door filled with the orange glow of streetlight at its end. It was the way I’d come in.
Ballet Boy’s weapon was suddenly wobbling in my shaking hands. It was a slick-looking automatic. Was it empty? Was the safety on? Was it cocked and ready to fire? I can tell a lynx from a bobcat at a glance, but I know almost nothing of guns.
I rolled off my chubby toboggan, got to my feet, and hid around the corner from the hallway, my chest heaving.
To my left was the dark recess of the rest of the meat-processing plant; Lord knew what gun-slinging monsters were lurking in the cave. To my right was the open door; at least I knew the terrain outside. I can run damn fast when I have to and could envision myself making some serious tracks down the street.
But I waited, frantically hoping to see flashing lights, some cops, some sign of safety beyond. Hadn’t this racket, this O.K. Corral under Riverside Drive, alarmed somebody enough to dial 911? Of course, from the time the shooting started, to the exploding couch, to my little ride on the Tubby Express, this brouhaha had probably lasted all of sixty seconds. To me it seemed like sixty minutes.
I squeezed back into my niche, a bat in the shadows. My breath seemed like the roar of a jet, and I tried desperately to slow it down as my heart pounded, my head throbbed, my ears sizzled.
Someone had said it was the Fu-King tong. A rival Chinese gang? Where was the cavalry? What was keeping them? Of course, it seemed like I’d been hiding in my cubby for another hour instead of a drum roll.
My heart stopped, I swear it did; one step, then another, scuffed in the hallway. I needed all the oxygen I could get but had stopped breathing. If a gnat had burped, I would have heard it. The footsteps drew closer.
I blinked and my eyes stung with sweat, either mine or Ballet Boy’s. How could this have happened? How? I sell taxidermy. I’m not a gangster. I had definite plans to die in my sleep, preferably while taking an afternoon nap after a nice lunch, maybe some wine. Getting shot in a meat-processing plant was way, way off target.
My eyes refocused—a foot slid around the corner. Rats! My reverie and outrage had wasted a few precious moments of mental preparation. Something felt funny about my neck, and I realized it was the short hairs standing straight up. My entire body was tingling in dread and anticipation.
My hand tightened around the barrel of the gun. I lifted it, like a
Bursting out of the room in full flight, I was confronted by hands and wide eyes in the stairwell: It was Smiler’s fat bodyguard, sweat running down his face. I grabbed him by the lapels to throw him out of my way, but that was like trying to fling aside a hippo. He threw his arms out to the side, waving them in a desperate attempt to keep his balance on that top step. Our eyes were locked in panic as we teetered, a couple of ballerinas in a wind tunnel.
“Oop!” he grunted, wet jowls trembling.
One of his tiny feet waved in the air desperately, a dancer’s
balançoire.
“Oop!” Ballet Boy’s arms waved, a veritable
grand port de bras.
“Oop!”
Adiós, Swan Lake—
we both knew we were going down those stairs.
He toppled hard, and through his prodigious belly I felt the reverberation of his spine cracking. My grip on his lapels almost gave way, but the shelf of his stomach helped hold me in place. My feet thunked along as I sledded down the stairs on all that erstwhile Balanchine blubber.
I closed my eyes reflexively, but when I opened them again, we’d stopped at the bottom of the stairs.
Panting with desperation, I looked up from where my face was buried in Ballet Boy’s navel. Before me was the flickering green fluorescent light of a short hallway and an open door filled with the orange glow of streetlight at its end. It was the way I’d come in.
Ballet Boy’s weapon was suddenly wobbling in my shaking hands. It was a slick-looking automatic. Was it empty? Was the safety on? Was it cocked and ready to fire? I can tell a lynx from a bobcat at a glance, but I know almost nothing of guns.
I rolled off my chubby toboggan, got to my feet, and hid around the corner from the hallway, my chest heaving.
To my left was the dark recess of the rest of the meat-processing plant; Lord knew what gun-slinging monsters were lurking in the cave. To my right was the open door; at least I knew the terrain outside. I can run damn fast when I have to and could envision myself making some serious tracks down the street.
But I waited, frantically hoping to see flashing lights, some cops, some sign of safety beyond. Hadn’t this racket, this O.K. Corral under Riverside Drive, alarmed somebody enough to dial 911? Of course, from the time the shooting started, to the exploding couch, to my little ride on the Tubby Express, this brouhaha had probably lasted all of sixty seconds. To me it seemed like sixty minutes.
I squeezed back into my niche, a bat in the shadows. My breath seemed like the roar of a jet, and I tried desperately to slow it down as my heart pounded, my head throbbed, my ears sizzled.
Someone had said it was the Fu-King tong. A rival Chinese gang? Where was the cavalry? What was keeping them? Of course, it seemed like I’d been hiding in my cubby for another hour instead of a drum roll.
My heart stopped, I swear it did; one step, then another, scuffed in the hallway. I needed all the oxygen I could get but had stopped breathing. If a gnat had burped, I would have heard it. The footsteps drew closer.
I blinked and my eyes stung with sweat, either mine or Ballet Boy’s. How could this have happened? How? I sell taxidermy. I’m not a gangster. I had definite plans to die in my sleep, preferably while taking an afternoon nap after a nice lunch, maybe some wine. Getting shot in a meat-processing plant was way, way off target.
My eyes refocused—a foot slid around the corner. Rats! My reverie and outrage had wasted a few precious moments of mental preparation. Something felt funny about my neck, and I realized it was the short hairs standing straight up. My entire body was tingling in dread and anticipation.
My hand tightened around the barrel of the gun. I lifted it, like a
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