Patrick Quinlan - The Hit

‘What kind of job am I supposed to get? Everybody’s out of work around here, the whole city’s going out of business, and you tell me to get a job. That’s a big help, Ma. A big, big help. Anyway, I have a job. I told you that already. It’s a good job and it pays good money. OK? It’s just that if I want the job, I have to get to South Carolina, and I need money to do that. What am I gonna do if I stay here, flip burgers for $6.50 an hour, if anybody’s even hiring? How am I gonna live like that? Why would I want to?’

She seemed on the verge of crying. Again, no surprise there. Tears were her favorite weapon. ‘For one thing, you’d be living here, eating my food. That way you could save your money. For another, you wouldn’t be a criminal. I don’t want a criminal in my family, Davey. I can’t stand it anymore.’ She looked up at him, looked into his eyes. ‘Aren’t you tired of dealing with the police? Aren’t you tired of being afraid? I know I am.’

He smiled, a modern Jesse James. ‘I’m not tired, Ma. I’m just getting started.’

With that, he left her. He went down the hall and began climbing the wooden steps to the second floor. He remembered how those steps used to give him splinters when he was a kid. All these years later, and she had never done anything about them. The wood was still raw and rough. Well, at least he wasn’t dumb enough to go around barefoot anymore.

Halfway up the stairs, the doorbell rang. He turned and glanced back down at the door. Doorbells gave him a nervous feeling. They always had, but especially so in the last twenty-four hours.

Below him, his mother shuffled into the foyer, and Foerster continued up the stairs.

His escape set-up here was good – not nearly as good as it had been at his apartment, but good. He had put the whole thing together years ago, and when he looked at it last night, he decided it could still hold water. His room was on the second floor and he had a twenty-foot fire ladder, called the Res-Q Ladder, coiled on the rug by his window. It was a chain link ladder with metal slats. It hooked to the window sill with big iron hooks. If a fire started, you were supposed to throw the ladder out the window. It would uncoil itself on the way to the ground, ready for action in a couple of seconds. He had taken it out of the closet last night as soon as he came upstairs. He had even tested it, and it worked just as it always had.

Fire ladders weren’t just good for fires. As a kid, he used to climb out to go smoke a joint without alerting the parents. Now, if the shit happened to hit the fan again, he would be ready. He hadn’t yet worked out what his escape route on the streets would be, but he still had some time to put that together. He was thinking he would run for the vacant lots down by the waterfront esplanade, maybe even the ferry to Manhattan if a boat was in and the timing was right.

He reached the top of the landing. He listened. His mother was there at the front door now, just chatting away, probably with some crone from down the street.

He started toward his room, relaxing a bit.

Then the old bat screamed. ‘Davey, help! Help me!’

‘God is love!’ a man shouted. ‘God is love!’

Foerster bolted for his window.

Jonah ran toward the house. He went hard and covered the distance in no time, flying across the tiny front yard and vaulting up the three steps.

The door gaped wide and he flew through the opening.

The old woman sat on the floor, her back to the wall. Gordo must have knocked her down. Jonah noticed her thick legs, which had support hose pulled to just above the knees – she had the legs of an elephant. Her hands were splayed out on the floor. Her breath came in sporadic gasps. That worried him. The last thing they needed was a heart attack or a stroke victim on their hands.

‘Ma’am, are you all right?’

‘I’m OK,’ she said, gazing back into the house. ‘There’s a man in here,’ she started, but then turned to Jonah and screamed. He followed her eyes and was surprised to discover the microphone in his hand. He had forgotten about it and torn it loose from the cassette recorder.

‘Don’t kill him,’ she said. ‘Please don’t kill my son.’

‘Jonah!’ Gordo shouted from the top of the stairs. ‘He’s coming out! He’s coming out the window.’

Jonah turned and darted back outside. The blood roared in his ears. He leaped down the stairs and went around to his right, running down the narrow grassy space between houses. The grass was spare and brownish green. He looked up at the windows on the second floor, but saw no sign of Foerster. He stopped and glanced back out at the street – just in time to see Foerster chug past, arms and legs pumping up and down like the pistons of a steam engine.

‘Shit.’

Jonah ran back up the alley to the street.

Foerster’s slight figure dashed ahead toward Richmond Terrace. Jonah wouldn’t underestimate him this time. Foerster had a head start and he knew the neighborhood. All the same, there was nothing to do but chase him.

Gordo came out onto the front steps, but Jonah paid him no mind. He tore off after Foerster instead.

At the corner, Foerster turned right.

Please, Jonah thought, please don’t let him be gone when I reach the corner.

He turned and Foerster was up ahead, bursting across the street through the traffic. Jonah followed, mike still in hand. He cut across the street, eyes pinned on his prey, too much so. A woman in front of Jonah stopped short. She wore a kerchief on her head and a long coat, and she had an old supermarket cart piled high with rags and aluminum cans and chunks of scrap metal. Jonah crashed into it, knocking it over, but stayed on his feet. A car screeched and a scooter zig-zagged around them. People yelled.

Jonah kept running.

Foerster weaved through the milling pedestrians. He turned left and headed along the walkway toward the Staten Island ferry terminal. Jonah saw his head bobbing and weaving through the crowds. Jonah made the turn five seconds behind him.

The ferry was there. Its horn gave a blast, signaling it was ready to leave. The last stragglers were getting on board.

Shit! Could he have the ferries timed too?

Foerster ran past a fat couple and disappeared into the crowd. Jonah kept moving, waiting for Foerster to resurface. A moment later, he passed the fat couple himself and entered the terminal building through a double doorway. He stopped running and walked through the dismal waiting room. Foerster must have come through here, but now he was nowhere in sight. Damn! He had lost him.

He couldn’t have turned right or left, Jonah was sure of that. He must have gotten on the ferry. There was a bottleneck of people up by the ferry entrance. Jonah joined the line. A man did a double-take when he saw Jonah’s microphone. Jonah flowed along behind him and climbed on board.

The ferry was the Samuel I. Newhouse, commissioned in 1982. Jonah shuffled past a plaque commemorating its namesake. Random thoughts flashed. The boat was old, and still plying its trade. Was that good or bad?

He didn’t know whether to go right or left. If he went the wrong way, and Foerster doubled back, they were sunk. No, he had to assume Gordo had followed them to the ferry terminal. If Foerster climbed off the boat, Gordo would get him. Unless Foerster had made himself invisible, which now also seemed possible. The horn blasted again. The boat was leaving. Jonah went right, flowing along with the crowd. He moved slowly through a corridor with padded chairs arrayed along the big windows.

He felt the boat lurch, then begin to move.

He walked slowly to the end of the corridor. The ferry had left the terminal and now he was going to Manhattan. He glanced out the door at the end of the corridor. Another sitting room, filled with people. He turned around.