While eating, I thought about what to do. To me she was still the killer of Helmsley, and despite the charity I still didn’t like her. I hated the fact that I needed her, and revenge was something I still desired. Opening a window, I noticed it was unusually warm out. On a shelf in the kitchen cabinet, I found a jar filled with coins. I extracted a bunch of quarters and left.
I went to the F train and lingered awhile looking at the posted subway map. When a Manhattan-bound train came into the station, I opened the gate, crossed the platform and boarded. The token clerk deliberately looked away; none of them cared anymore. I got off at the Second Avenue stop and walked northward. I reached Saint Mark’s Place just as the police were arresting a group of street vendors. I saw Flowers, my old friend, standing across the street, looking sadly at his compatriots being ushered into police-cars.
“What happened?” I asked him. “I never saw them arresting anyone before.”
“I just got away in time,” he said.
“You’re lucky.”
“Lucky, hell, they got my stuff,” he said. “Four hundred dollars in leather jackets and clothing.” I stood with him awhile and watched as they collected all the merchandise into plastic bags and loaded them into the trunk of their cars.
Looking up the block, I noticed something much sadder. On the marquee of the Saint Mark’s Cinema black letters spelled out, “Closed for Renovation.” Whoever Pepe was trying to fool, he didn’t fool me. I remembered what Angel had said about the yuppie mall.
I walked up Second and stopped in at the Second Avenue Deli. I got a coffee and a homemade knish with sauerkraut and mustard to go. I paid for it in quarters. I walked over to Third Avenue and sat in front of Hudson’s Army Surplus store, across the street from the Zeus, and ate my food. I watched the theater, hoping to see either Miguel or Ox, but neither appeared.
When I finished eating, I wondered what else to do. I considered going to the Strand Bookstore. I walked over to the Strand and looked at books until someone yelled out the name Kevin. I looked up and saw Kevin, an old friend of Helmsleys. I couldn’t socialize. I snuck out so he wouldn’t see me. Heading down Broadway, I walked slowly back toward Brooklyn. When I got to the base of the Brooklyn Bridge, I had to walk over some scaffolding; the bridge was undergoing a renovation. Stairs were being removed and the wooden slats were being replaced with a concrete walkway. The Statue of Liberty, too, was still under scaffolding. I lingered for a while on the bridge and wondered from which part Helmsley had taken his last step. I started feeling bad, so I jogged over the bridge, down Clinton Street, through the Heights, into Cobble Hill, finally reaching Angela’s place.
I knocked first to give her warning. The door whipped open. Some middleaged guy—a stocky, short, and close-to-the-earth type—looked me over. He wore a filthy white tank top T-shirt with suspenders pressing into his furry, fleshy shoulders.
“Who the hell are you?” said he.
“I’m a house guest of Angela’s.”
“She don’t have no house guest. She’s sick. Come back another day.” He slammed the door on me. My heart was slammed in that door; it started palpitating wildly. I walked around a bit to calm down. The sound of change rattling around in my pocket offered some comfort. But the more I thought about living out on the street… sleeping in the subway… eating food out of garbage cans, I became aware that my reprieve was over. Maybe I could kill myself. After walking an hour or so, I thought for no good reason that maybe the gorilla had left her house. I finally became shackled to a reckless decision: a raid on her house in an attempt to salvage some supplies suddenly made sense. I returned to her door.
I pulled out my key and quietly slipped it into the cylinder. Softly I opened the door; I wanted at least to get some more of Helmsley’s clothes. Maybe I could also steal some money. At least, I’d had the foresight to bury the food. I stepped into the living room and scanned for anything small of value. I spotted some knickknacks—a polished stone egg standing upright in a holder, a small oriental style vase, a miniature glass bell—which I slipped into my pockets. Good folks love trinkets, I told myself, and slowly moved deeper into the house. I could hear them talking in her bedroom.
“Come on,” I heard him say.
“No, I’m sick.”
“What’s it gonna hurt?”
“No,” she said weakly.
I dropped a broom to the floor.
“Who the fuck is that?” she said, and the guy charged out at me. He threw me on the ground, pinning my arms down with his knees. I didn’t resist.
“It’s that guy who was here earlier,” he yelled out to her in the next room, and then grabbing my throat between his thumb and forefinger he bellowed, “What the fuck’s wrong with you?”
I didn’t say anything. Then she was there, wrapped in a sheet, looking sweaty and white. She held the sheet in one hand and the wall in the other.
“Get off of him,” she whispered hoarsely.
Punctuating each word with his hand on my face, the guy answered, “I”—slap—“told”—slap—“this”—slap—“guy”—slap—“earlier”—slap—“that…”
With mustered force, she kicked the guy hard in the ribs. He didn’t budge. He looked up at her.
“Are you insane or what?” she croaked.
“Fuck you!” he roared. He got up and smacked her hard across the mouth. Her eyes squinted and rolled; he held her face tightly. I jumped on his shaggy back. He effortlessly tossed me off and was about to punch me in the face when she shrieked.
“For Chrissake, just leave the house! Please Dana!”
“You called me,” he heaved. He stomped into the other room and emerged, heading toward the front door with his hat and coat. All the while he was talking at her, mimicking her voice, “I’m sick, Dana. I think I’m dying, please help. I rush right over, shower your own vomit offa you, get you chicken soup. And you treat me like this. Well, next time, have this clown come to your rescue. You fuckin’ drunk.” He slammed the door with a vibrating force. I was alone with her.
She collapsed into an upholstered chair and spoke in her hoarse whisper, “I got alcohol poisoning.”
“1 thought you just get drunk.”
“No, you can poison yourself,” she said. “I yelled for you for hours. Where the fuck did you go?”
“Just for a walk.”
“Didn’t you find it weird that I wasn’t up?”
“I didn’t think about it.”
“Taking care of number one, is that it?” I didn’t know what to say. I kept silently chanting, she killed Helmsley right? But the hatred that was once hard and tangible was getting harder and harder to hold on to; it was melting in my hands. She rose and went to her bed. Not knowing what else to do, I followed her in.
“I need help,” she said quite matter-of-factly. “Are you going to help me or do I have to find someone else?”
“I guess I’ll help you,” I replied.
“You guess?” she asked, and through squinted eyes she looked at me. “You ungrateful bastard. Just get your things and get out of here—I’ll call back Dana.”
“Fuck that!” I broke. I couldn’t hold it anymore. “Helmsley killed himself because you dumped him. And you couldn’t give two shits. Of course, I hate you!” She rolled over and looked up at me in surprise.
“That shouldn’t come as a shock,” I babbled. “I always hated you. And I’m not vain enough to believe that you love me, so what gives here? What the hell am I here for?”