Adrian McKinty - Dead I Well May Be

I shuffled back from the car and made as if to puke. (I’d been crying the whole time, hamming it up as you do if you’re still figuring what you’re capable of doing and what you’re going to do.) The copper turned his head to spit. I tensed, and the copper was looking up and was about to say something, but by then I had jumped straight up and was making my body go horizontal. With my good foot I kicked him in the balls. He was wearing a cup, but I heard it crack. He went down in a sitting position against the door. I landed hard on the ground on my side, got up-try doing that with your hands cuffed behind your back and with a prosthetic foot-and set off running.

The other cop would take a half a minute or so to get his partner away from the door or else he’d have to climb out the driver’s side. It would be enough.

I ran up Amsterdam and kept running and cutting streets until I was at Morningside Park. The only people around did that New York thing and completely ignored me. I was handcuffed and crying and running and not a man jack chose to see me. Not even at the Columbia law library, where you’d think they’d be a bit more public-spirited. At the brow of the hill I stopped, took a quick breath or two, sucked in the deep cold air, and ran down into the park, slipping on the big wide steps after a few feet and almost doing a header and breaking my neck. Instead, I righted myself, got my balance together, and skipped on down. I didn’t look back once until I was safe in the park at the basketball courts. There were no signs of pursuit. Jesus H. Christ. I’d bloody lost them.

I laughed and jumped about. I’d lost them. I’d lost them. Peeler Pete and his Porky Pals.

Bastards, I yelled, delightedly.

Aye, I’d lost them, but suddenly it put the fear of God in me. It was close. And Jesus, I was on a list somewhere. My name was on a list. My real name. Shit. Drunken Mick stupidity had almost got me lifted. Fucking Paddy Curse.

Farther into the park I found a bloke with a quarter, and he was nice enough to dial the phone for me too. He was a good guy, well into his sixties, skinny, really sweet, and sadly some kind of downer junkie. He didn’t like the look of me one little bit, but since I was cuffed, he figured I couldn’t be all bad. Ramón came down half an hour later, and I asked Ramón to give the bloke twenty bucks. Ramón did just that.

Ramón and I went back to his place and they cut the cuffs off me in about five minutes.

I haven’t seen you for a long time, man, Ramón said later.

We were alone now, the boys gone. I sipped some of Ramón’s hot chocolate mixed with cream and brown sugar and wicked Dominican rum.

No.

We’re ok, aren’t we? he asked.

Yeah.

Good.

He stuck his hand out over the couch, and I shook it. He gave me the gangbanger shake and I went along with it.

You want something for the pepper spray? he asked.

What ya got?

Home remedy.

Ok.

He went off to his kitchen and made a poultice to shove on my bad eye. I thanked him and he said it was no problem. We sat for a while, silent. I had nothing to say and Ramón didn’t want to upset me again. I was the first to break the ice:

Listen, I, I probably won’t see you again, Ramón. It’s going to be this week. I’ve delayed too long. Darkey’s boys are after me and I think the cops now, too. They’ve forced my hand. It has to be now. After it’s done, I’m leaving.

Where to?

I don’t know. Australia, Ireland, I don’t know.

Ramón looked at me. I couldn’t tell what he was thinking. I never could. He was a smart guy in a dumb guy’s business, though like I say, all those brains couldn’t do a thing to stop the gun of edgy young Moreno F. Cortez, a gun and nineteen fucking bullets (and Moreno a cousin and trusted lieutenant). Moreno, incidentally, got shot in the head about a month later by José Ramírez, who in turn… but you know how it goes.

We sat there and talked about trades and signings during the offseason. In Tampa there was some kid from Michigan who was going to be the future shortstop. 1993, Ramón predicted, was going to be the Yankees’ year, this year, next year, very soon, he said. He didn’t live to see the World Series, or Sosa in the Home Run Derby-it would have pleased him very much.

So, Michael, it will be soon, because of the heat, he said.

Yeah.

You will be careful?

I will.

Do you need any help?

No.

I stood up. We embraced. I didn’t say goodbye and afterwards I didn’t see him again. His death was just one more stat in the bloody catalog of uptown deaths in the early nineties.

The next day I went down to Gray’s Camping and Sport. I looked at camping equipment and sleeping bags. I decided against a tent. I placed an order for a down sleeping bag, which would take two days from the warehouse. That was ok, I said, I’d be back. I bought a big bowl rucksack that was like a Royal Marine Bergen.

I dyed my hair black and shaved everything but a mustache, which I also dyed black. I dressed in jeans and desert boots and a sheepskin coat. I got on the Metro-North at 125th. I took an early morning train to Peekskill, got off, and went to the nearest bar. I found a place to observe the railway platform. I sat there all day. There were no watchers, or if there were, they were very good. I went back to Manhattan and adopted a dog from the ASPCA volunteers on Union Square. They needed my name and address but that was ok too. I took the dog up to 181st Street. I called him Harry. He was a mongrel. A lazy character, who had been housetrained for a house and not an apartment. There is a difference, and I soon discovered what this was. I bought a Peekskill town map and studied it. I found Darkey’s place. I lost the mustache and dyed my hair red with blond streaks in it. I dressed in a black coat and brown cords and tasseled brown loafers. I bought myself a pair of clear-lens glasses and a walking stick. I caught the train from Grand Central. I got off at Peekskill. I walked the dog and found the house. From the map it had seemed to be about a thirty-five-minute dander from the Metro-North stop, but when I got up there, the walk ended up taking over an hour. (The map lacked contour lines.) I strolled past the property and checked the initial security. No gatehouse, and I couldn’t see anyone in the grounds. A Jeep and a Bronco in the driveway. A Jag in the open door of the garage. I went by, and I let the dog off in the trees. The dog and I found a back area that was thickly wooded and seldom trekked through. There was a boggy wee swamp that you had to wade through, knee-high, to get to a convenient little copse with thorny bushes. If you could make it through the swamp to the bushes, and you had a good pair of binocs, it would make a wonderful place for lying up. Your average private security guard wouldn’t think much of it because your average private security guard was a lazy arse and he’d have to wade through the little swamp to get there; and in any case, it seemed far too far from the house. If, however, your average private security guard was a thorough bastard and had a dog sniffing about, well, then you’d be fucked.

I hopped the train back to Grand Central and took a subway to Union Square. I gave the dog back, using the pooping problem as an excuse. I donated fifty bucks to cover my embarrassment.

I washed the dye out of my hair and packed a rucksack with a week’s worth of pork and beans and digestive biscuits. Seven cans of beans, seven packets of digestive biscuits. Multivitamins. I bought some Marie biscuits for variety. I bought some water purification tablets and two plastic liter bottles. I bought a funnel with a connecting tube, so I could take a piss without moving. I bought a large bivouac bag and spent a day scraping it from emergency orange to white. I bought the expensive down waterproof sleeping bag and a pair of night-vision binoculars. I bought silk undergloves and thick ski gloves. I bought long johns and sweatpants and fatigues. I bought a stopwatch and binoculars that came with a tripod. I bought a snow camouflage jacket, a snood ski mask, a black wool hat, a black cotton scarf, and a wind-breaker. I bought two pairs of wool socks and a pair of cotton ones. I bought a flashlight and boots and, unable to find a knife I liked, I sharpened a long screwdriver and bought a nice new Stanley box cutter. I bought two T-shirts, a sweat top, and a black sweater. I bought a notepad, pens, pencils, and plastic bags. I bought rope, duct tape, and thin leather gloves. On impulse I bought a pneumatic nail gun, but I didn’t bring it. I bought matches, a water can, a big bag of Peanut Butter Cups, and a toothbrush. Finally I bought a box of AA batteries, a Walkman, and an audio version of War and Peace . Some people think you should get listening gear or infrared body-heat sensors or motion detectors or a device for tapping into cellular phones, but then some people are fucking eejits.