They all bob and nod their heads as a substitute for outright laughter, for there is a night hush, a pattern of sound that tells them a laugh would die out into the night.

“Let’s go,” whispers Simon, as he takes a deep pull of his cigarette.

“One last thing,” says Split.

He picks up the tie-rod again and walks to the front and punches it at an angle under the right front tire. He works it back and forth, pausing to pull his jacket cuffs up over his chafed hands.

Simon and T-Man retreat into their coats and look out at Split. They hear a deep pop and seawater welling around the hole. Split grunts and moves the point six inches away. Another pop and water skates over the ice. Split lowers the bar and works it back and forth like a lever until there is a jagged line through the ice. Simon and T-Man back away from the car, lifting their feet high like dancers as the slushy water moves and channels over the blackening ice.

“Ready?” asks T-Man, watching the advance of water.

“My tickets say tomorrow and it’s gonna be tomorrow,” Split gasps, walking through water that is already two inches deep.

He paces around the front bumper, dragging his toeless foot behind him. He positions himself with his legs spread over the left front wheel. He raises the iron bar in both hands and aims for the ice as if offering a blood sacrifice. The ice booms again, closer this time. They hear a grating sound, like newspapers being crumpled in their ears. Another shot rings out. Water splashes up from the holes and Simon sees the front of the Fairmont shudder down into the water.

“Holy shit!” yells T-Man. He dives and scrambles away from the car. Split teeters, holding the iron bar above his head. He looks around, not sure where the sound and water are coming from.

There is another crash, and the rear of the Ford sinks to the bumper. A gout of water, black in the moonless sky, rises high above Split and crashes down. Split falls and the iron bar skids along the ice. Simon throws himself flat and tries to see Split through the water that spills and spreads in all directions. The Ford tilts front and back, sawing through the water as it begins to sink. Simon’s hands are numb but he can feel the ice groaning and shimmying. He tries to scoot back farther toward shore, but the water-coated ice is too slick. He scrambles to his hands and knees and backs away, looking for a sign of Split.

The Fairmont is in the river up to the windows. The water gushes and slops over the sills and onto the floor until only the turtle-like top of the car is visible. Then that, too, is gone, and the river is calm.

“You okay?” calls T-Man.

“Yeah,” says Simon.