Again, Noam nodded. But deep inside he knew something wasn’t right. He shouldn’t be talking to Hersh, he should be talking to his mother or uncle or aunt. Or Bubbe. But they never listened to him. Hersh…at least, he would listen. Or seemed to be listening. Vey is mir, he was so confused. His head hurt from the bang on the wall. His hands were shaking. All he wanted to do was curl up and die.

“Lookit,” Hank said. “You wear a ski mask over your head, no one will know who you are, all right?”

Noam paused a long time. Finally he agreed.

“Good guy, man, good guy.” Hank picked up the gun. “You gotta get comfortable with it, Nick-O. You gotta hold it. Touch it. It’s like girls, Nick-O. You gotta start sometime. At first, it’s gonna feel weird, but after a few times…” He snapped his fingers. “You get the hang of it. Hey, after we pull this thing off, I’ll get us another girl—”

“No,” Noam shook his head. “Not for me.” His stomach started to churn. He remembered hearing all those grunts, those slurping noises. The smell of raw fish oozing under the bathroom door.

“You gotta start sometime.”

“Not yet,” Noam insisted, his voice cracking.

“Okay, buddy,” Hank said. He offered him the gun. “But this. You gotta get comfortable with it.”

Noam took a deep breath, then clasped his fingers around the gun.

“Ain’t so bad,” Hank said.

No, Noam thought. No it wasn’t so bad. All it was was a piece of metal. A piece of metal…

“Is it loaded?”

“No,” Hank said.

“Will it be loaded when we…” Noam’s voice trailed off. He looked up at the lopsided smile.

“Up to you,” Hank said. “You can convince the mark it’s loaded, I don’t care if it is or isn’t. But if it isn’t, you’d better not fuck up.” He paused a moment. “Course, I’ll have my gutting knife for a backup.”

“Then I don’t have to do it with a loaded gun?” Noam said.

“Can you pull it off?”

“Yes,” Noam said. “Yes, definitely. No problem.”

“Then it won’t be loaded.”

Noam broke into a big smile. “I’ll do it, Hank. I can do it for you.”

“Hey, buddy,” Hank said. “That’s what I like to hear.”

22

“Why am I obsessing on the fish?” Decker said to Marge.

“Someone gets head while cleaning a fish…” Marge rubbed her arms. “Somehow that has to be significant.”

She wore a white cotton blouse, a pair of Levi’s, and a yellow windbreaker. But the zipper on the jacket was broken and every time the wind kicked up, she felt tiny electric shocks prick her skin.

“You want my jacket?” Decker asked.

“You’re not cold?”

“No.” Decker handed her his denim jacket. It would have swallowed up any ordinary woman. Marge filled it nicely.