“Hobo, hows about givin’ me a lift inta d’ City?”
“George, It’s late. An’ whats for anyhow? Y’er tapped out.”
“Don’t worry, I gotta good connection ove’dere. He’ll front me.”
“Y’er payin’ f’r d’ gas an’ d’ tolls?”
“Y’spring an’ I’ll treat’cha.”
“OK.”
– – –
Coming out of the Holland Tunnel.
“Nah, nah, don’ take Canal. We’s headin’ uptown.”
“If we’s goin’ t’ Harlem, shouldn’t we took da Bridge?”
“Nah, we ain’t goin’ tha’ far uptown.”
– – –
Somewhere in the Thirties.
“OK. Next block make a left. At the corner, a left. Here, here, left again. Slow now. Stop. Keep the engine runnin’.”
The dark street was filled with stores, all now closed. Most seemed to sell used cash registers. For no apparent good reason, a man was standing in front of one of the locked doors. A gust of wind sent an empty paper coffee cup skidding along the sidewalk into his feet. George walked up to the man and said something. The man handed George a folded manila envelope. George reached into his pocket, produced a small handgun, and then fired one shot. As if the strings of a puppet were cut, the man collapsed.
Getting in the car, “Take the Lincoln Tunnel back.”
