6

SATURDAY, 5:30 A.M., Stony moved under the covers like a shifting mountain range. Only his hair was exposed like a small black shrub. Albert had been up a half-hour, teeth brushed, hair combed, shoes tied. He sat on the edge of his bed watching Stony's sleeping shape. Every time Stony's snoring pattern changed or he rolled over or he scratched himself, Albert jumped up, and when Stony settled into sleep again, Albert plopped down on his bed in anguish. Between five-thirty and six-thirty he changed his shirt five times. At a quarter to seven he brushed his teeth again. At seven the sound of cartoons and the shifting silver reflections of the TV screen had Stony sitting up in bed dazed blind and fuckfaced.

Albert sat cross-legged on the rug in front of the TV. He turned when he heard Stony struggling. "Is it too loud, Stony?" Stony grunted and coughed. His eyelids were sealed with crud. "You want some coffee, Stony?" Stony coughed again, a noise like some prehistoric bird in a Japanese monster movie. He groped under his pillow for his Marlboros. Albert's stomach twisted when Stony lit up but he was afraid to bug his brother this particular morning so he didn't say anything.

"Wha' the fuck time 'zit?" Stony mumbled.

"It's about eight o'clock, Stony. We gotta go soon." He moved toward the kitchen.

"Wait wait wait." Stony waved him back with a clumsy motion. Grabbing his clock he held it in front of his face. "Aw jeez fuckin' Christ, Albert, it's fuckin' seven a clock." He ditched the cigarette, fell back on the bed. Albert started twisting his fingers anxiously. He felt a lick of panic under his skin.

"Stony? Stony, we gonna be late, we gotta go soon."

Stony exhaled heavily through his nose, rubbed his hands over his closed eyes but made no motion to sit up again. "Hey, Albert, the fuckin' movie don't start till noon, O.K.? That's five fuckin' hours. Gimme a break, O.K.?"

"But they could get sold out." Albert fidgeted and squirmed in his insistence.

"Hey, the goddamn box office don' open until eleven-thirty, O.K.? Look, lemme sleep till nine o'clock. Nine o'clock, and we'll go right down there an' buy tickets, O.K.?"

It wasn't O.K., but before Albert could respond Stony was snoring away. Albert went into the dinette and opened the Friday New York Post to the movie section for the sixteenth time since Stony told him last night he'd take him to a movie today, and studied the red-tinted ad for any minute detail he might have missed. Across the top of the ad in letters of broken bamboo read THUNDER PUNCH—KUNG FU THRUST OF DEATH! Under that was a gigantic bloodstained fist smashing through what looked like the paper the ad was printed on. Over the fist was the face of its owner. A long-haired head-banded Chink with eyes clenched shut in rage and a mouth frozen open in the middle of a kill-shriek. On each side of the fist were two more Chinks locked in mortal kung fu combat. At the bottom of the ad, two eyeballs lay in a pool of blood staring up at the fist. Albert knew every drop of blood by heart.