In the backseat of the DeVille.
Chicago.
Summer.
His whole life in front of him.
His mother, Arlene, “I’ve got a feeling about today, baby. I’ve got a feeling today changes everything.” Fixing her hair in the mirror. Spraying a bit of perfume on her neck.
And then.
A Cadillac pulled in front of them.
A Cadillac pulled in behind them.
Mom said, “No, no, no.”
Three Black men got out of the first Caddie and disappeared into the building.
One Black man got out of the Caddie behind them. “Morning, Arlene,” he said. Everyone called him 8 Ball Randall, because he sold eight balls, had an eight-ball tattoo on his chest, the personalized plate on his car said 8Ball, and every Gangster Disciple on the planet knew you didn’t want to be behind the 8 Ball. Sal thought he was the coolest man alive. Dark Billy and 8 Ball went to high school together. Played football. Now they ran the city, the prisons, the world, as far as Sal knew. “What’s up, Big Sal?” he asked.
“The IBM building is fifty-two stories,” Sal said.
8 Ball Randall looked up. “Maybe fifty-one and a half right now,” he said.
“What do you want, Randy?” Arlene said. She always called him that, just to piss him off.
“Pop the trunk,” he said. “And you can call me Randall now; I ain’t eleven.”
“I ain’t eleven either and you’re not the cops,” she said, “so I don’t have to do anything.”
“You’ll wish I were the cops,” he said, “if you don’t do what I ask.”
“Billy will be down in a minute,” she said. “Until then, fuck off, Randy; you don’t scare me.”
8 Ball Randall grabbed Arlene by the throat with one hand and pinned her head against the seat. “You got a mouth,” he said, then opened the glove box with his other hand, hit the yellow button to pop the trunk, and noticed the gun. “Look at that,” he said. “Got a license for that, ma’am?” He let go of her, stuffed the gun in his waistband. “I’ll hold this, just in case.”
“Fuck off, Randy,” Arlene spit out again. 8 Ball Randall was already inspecting the trunk, yanking shit out and tossing it on the pavement.
8 Ball closed the trunk, walked over to Arlene. “You going off to war, girl?”
“I don’t know what Billy keeps back there,” she said.
“I’ll tell you,” he said. “An arsenal and a bunch of money that don’t belong to you.” He looked up at the top of the building, then back at Sal. “Fifty-two stories? How many feet is that?”
“Five hundred and sixty-two,” Sal said. “Give or take.”
“That’s pretty high.” He smiled at Sal, reached over, mussed his hair, then turned his attention back to Arlene. “Sorry about your throat, didn’t want to get rough, but you made me.” He patted the hood of the car. “Don’t be trying to leave, all right? This’ll all be over in a minute.”
8 Ball stood against the building, lit up a cigarillo, winked at Sal.
“Stay in the car,” Arlene said, but then there was an otherworldly caterwauling, a scream that Sal would hear for the rest of his days, on birthdays and funerals, during those colicky early nights of William’s life when he cried for hours, in the back of that frozen meat truck as he bounced across the Midwest, as he came out of surgery four months ago, as he dunked himself in the tub minutes ago, the sound of a life ending and beginning all at once, the sound of no turning back, the sound of the end of his peace, forever.
It stopped when Dark Billy Cupertine met the pavement at terminal velocity.
He’d hear that, too.
His entire life had been about terror management. How not to think about what it must have been like to jump or be thrown from a fifty-two-story building. How not to constantly be counting out six seconds, because that’s how long it takes to fall fifty-two stories. How not to know, absolutely, that he’d met his father’s gaze a millisecond before he hit the ground, how he’d seen the last of him in his entirety, how he looked . . . at peace? Was that possible? Or was that memory fucking with him? It could be all those things, he understood, because that’s what terror management was all about, making the ends of this life seem tolerable.
And so Rabbi David Cohen prayed.
To find his wife.
To find his son.
To not lose himself in the process.
He stood. Let the water drip from him. He cataloged the scars on his body. He could take a few more, if need be.
He adjusted his necklace, centered the Star of David.
And then he prayed for retribution: If I walk in the midst of distress, keep me alive; against the wrath of my enemies stretch out your hand, and let your right hand deliver me.
NINETEEN
SATURDAY, APRIL 20, 2002
LAS VEGAS, NV
