Noam straightened his shirt and wiped his face. He was scared, but not as scared as he had been in the past. He had two choices: He could go along with Hersh or he could refuse. The look in Hersh’s eyes told him he couldn’t refuse right now without getting beat up. Better to go along with him now, decide what to do later. Figure out what’s going on when Hersh wasn’t around.

“So what do you want to do?” Noam whispered.

The lopsided smile appeared. “Now you’re talkin’.”

“Know what?” Noam suddenly blurted out.

“What?”

Noam paused. Shut up, he told himself. Don’t say it; just shut up.

Hersh said, “What’s on your mind, Nick-O?”

“Nothing.”

“Go ahead,” Hersh said. “I won’t do nothin’.”

Noam’s words came out in a rush. “I think we need the money. But I also think that you like to hurt people.”

The smile vanished. Noam braced himself for punishment, the sudden attack. Hard fists in his already bruised face. He balled up his body and tucked in his head. But whenever he expected the worst, he never got it.

That’s what was so weird. Hersh was so unpredictable. Noam lifted his head. The lopsided smile had reappeared.

Hersh said, “So what’s wrong with that?”

The setup was almost identical to the first one, except this time Hersh went to a queer bar full of queers who admitted they were queers. Queers, Hersh said, were the best victims ’cause they were like women. All they did was scream and prance around, but they never fought back.

A crock, Noam thought. The guy that Hersh had killed had fought like a tiger!

Noam felt his stomach buck. He let go with a series of dry heaves. He’d been vomiting off and on for an hour. He felt weak, but was afraid to say anything to Hersh.

One more time. This was it!

This time they were in western Hollywood, far, far away from Grauman’s Chinese. Everything in this section of western Hollywood was fancy, fancy. Big health clubs, lots of shops, lots of restaurants. And lots of queers. All sorts of them. Some of them looked like women. Some even wore makeup. But some of them looked tough and wore leather and long hair and had earrings and mustaches and beards. They looked as tough as Axl Rose. It was weird to see tough guys holding hands with other tough guys.

He had so many stories he wanted to tell his brothers.

His brothers.

He’d always hated them. Now he missed them. Missed the tiny room they shared. When he lived at home, he could never get any privacy, never do anything. Now he had more freedom than he had ever had in his life and never had he felt so trapped.