"A little. Tom, look, I can't talk. I want you to do me a solid. I'm comin' home tomorrow. Please, you an' Stony, go up there tonight and clean the place, O.K.?"

"You wanna live with us until Phyllis gets out? Stony'll sleep on the couch."

"No... no, just clean it up."

"It's no hassle, if you wanna..."

"No, no, babe, just clean up my place."

"Sure. You want me to get you anything?"

"No thanks. Look, I'll be home tomorrow morning. I'll talk to you then, O.K.?"

"Sure, babe."

"Tom? I love you."

"I love you too, Chub."

***

Stony lay on his bed in the rainy darkness. The shades were drawn. He lay with his hands behind his head staring at the skyline of books. Thinking about Monday. Back to the hospital. Derek. Tyrone. Spit brothers. Construction work. Doctor Harris. Butler's Hosiery Palace. Anything but Chubby.

A knock on the door. "Yeah."

"Can I come in?" Tommy sounded almost apologetic.

"Yeah."

Tommy sat on the bed next to Stony's legs, putting a hand on his stomach. "We got a job, kiddo."

As father and son approached the door to Chubby's apartment, Stony was shaking. He had walked to this door a million times before, but now it seemed unfamiliar—sinister. Murderous. Tommy carried a mop and a red plastic bucket filled with sponges, dustcloths and Comet. Stony also held a mop. They were silent as Tommy dug into his pocket for the keys. He fumbled at the lock. Cursed. Dropped the keys. Dropped the bucket. The Comet rolled down the hallway. Stony chased after it. When he stooped to pick it up he felt dizzy and almost keeled over.

"Pop?"

Tommy didn't answer. He kept fouling up opening the double locks. Locked one, unlocked the other. Unlocked one, locked the other. Finally the door swung open. Tommy and Stony stepped back then. Tommy strode in; Stony hesitated, then followed. The apartment was like a haunted house. Cautiously they walked down the long foyer, holding their mops like carbines. Everything was immaculate but it felt like someone might jump out any second and dismember them both. They heard laughter from the living room. Music. The television was still on. Stony was relieved that everything was in order. They walked into the kitchen. Stony gasped. Cold enamel blazing white under the fluorescent overhead light splashed with brown blood. Splattered linoleum. A smashed blender on the floor. A bloody handprint blurred on the washing machine. Tommy whistled long and low. The light chain swung lazily over their heads like a noose. Stony felt nauseated, dropped his mop. Bent down to pick it up and fell backward on his ass. Automatically he reached for a cigarette.

"Oh, my God," Tommy groaned. Stony followed his stare into the dinette. A smashed chair lay like the carcass of a rotting animal. A broad stroke of blood was smeared on the dinette wall, as if it had been laid on with a paintbrush. Stony crawled through the dinette into the living room. Ran his hand lightly over the stained rug. The stiff fibers were caked with blood. Stony scraped a tiny ball of crust off the rug with his nails. Sat there rolling it between his fingers like snot.