What he really should do was drop the gun and run as fast as his legs could carry him. But where? He didn’t have any money. And chas vachalelah—God forbid—he should bump into these crazy street people at this hour at night without a gun.

So confused.

Then he heard the noise—voices. People talking.

This time it was for real. The words garbled and echoing.

Getting closer and closer. Hersh’s voice talking and laughing. A deep voice answering him. It also sounded happy.

Noam looked up, couldn’t see a thing. Slowly he rose and flattened himself against a brick wall. He didn’t move.

The deep voice was louder—he was slurring his words.

Who was this guy?

Noam inched his way to where the alley met the surface street and peeked around the corner. The two shapes took on recognizable forms. Hersh all dressed up in his Shabbos pants and coat, shiny boots on his feet. The big figure in a suit and tie.

A big guy.

Maybe six feet.

Hersh said the mark would be little.

The big guy was staggering as he walked.

Was he drunk?

Noam had never known any real drunks. Some of the rabbis got drunk on Purim, but they weren’t drunks. Noam didn’t know whether the big guy’s drunkenness would make him easier to rob or if it would make him mean and eager to fight.

They approached, closer and closer.

No one on the streets except Hersh and the mark.

Deserted. Alone.

They talked loudly. Hersh was talking with a half-German, half-Yiddish accent. He seemed like he was having a good time.

Sweat pouring into Noam’s ski mask, turning it damp. The smell of wet wool. It made him nauseated. He pleaded to God to get this over with!

They were coming.

Closer and closer.

His heart was beating out loud, the gun quivering in his hands.

The salty smell of his sweat.

The blood rushing through his head.

Closer and closer.

A high-pitched ringing in his ears. Then it stopped and his head was filled with a whoosh, whoosh, whoosh.

His heart hammering against his chest.

Lub dud, lub dud, lub dud.

Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh.

Lub dud. Whoosh.

Faster, faster.

Now!

He leaped out and stuck the gun in the mark’s back. Said his practiced lines.

But it didn’t go as planned.

A large arm pivoting, turning.

A heavy thump across his head.

Losing balance.

Something warm and wet inside his mouth. Something hard floating in his saliva.

But the gun in his hand.

Move and I’ll kill you! someone screamed.

Someone screaming in his voice. He spit out the hard thing as he screamed.

Blood pouring from his mouth.

An arm going around his throat, choking him.

Noam pushed the gun deep into a soft gut. Pulled the trigger.

Nothing.

Pulled harder and still nothing.

The arm choking harder, his head becoming light. Blood choking him.