“Let me ask you this,” Decker said. “Think he might have holed up in Prospect Park?”

“Not likely,” Weiczorek said. “Being a native, he’d know better. Besides, it’s cold outside.”

“Well, maybe I’ll take a look anyway.”

“Up to you,” Weiczorek said. “Just keep the door locked and the engine running.”

Decker said, “’Preciate your help.” He pulled out an identification card and gave it to the desk sergeant. “You ever need a favor from our boys in blue, give me a call.”

Weiczorek studied the card, nodded. “Detective Sergeant First Grade—you must be a hot dog.”

Decker said, “No, not a hot dog. I’m like your pit bull posted on the board. I go for the nuts.”

Weiczorek laughed. “I’ll pass the word along, tell the cruisers to pay special attention to this one. New York, Los Angeles, it don’t matter. We cops take care of our own.”

12

Waiting, waiting, waiting.

He’d had enough of waiting.

Sitting in school waiting for the bell to ring, sitting at home on Saturday waiting for the sun to go down, sitting at the dinner table waiting to be excused. Waiting around for the old man to clean and clear the fish cases.

The old man. It took him a long time to do that, each fish counted and put into the freezer or cooler. Then he had to drain all the ice. Old man used to buy him a soda to drink while he waited. But the soda didn’t last long enough and he was forced to wait, wait, wait.

Once, while the old man was packing fish, he went out back to the trash barrels—the ones with the entrails. It was cold outside; he could still remember shivering, the wind whipping through his flannel shirt, pricking him on the neck. The back lot was wet and damp, reeking with stink. But something drew him to that damn barrel.

He popped open the lid, the sickening sweet smell filling up his head. It gave him a rush. He dipped his finger inside, swirled it around. The guts were still pliable but were coated with thin slivers of ice. Shaking, he rolled up the sleeves of his shirt, the air causing goosebumps on his naked arms. With one sudden motion, he plunged his arms into the barrel and squeezed his fists, feeling the frosted blood and guts ooze through his fingers. It felt so neat…so, you know…whatever. He kept doing it and doing it, knowing he had to stop. For one thing, his fingers were nearly frozen, the smell was making him dizzy. But he continued until the innards were nothing more than a bloody slush.

Then the old man caught him at the barrel, asked him what he was doing.

He was paralyzed with fear, couldn’t answer him. How could he explain how good it felt without making himself look like a freak?