“Nobody knows.”

“Simon,” Lester was pleading with him, “you were there.”

“Yeah,” he said with a hiss, “yeah, I was there.” He turned back onto the front beam, the edge of the building loomed. His long flat muscles tensed and slacked to keep himself balanced, a rhythm tapped out in his flesh.

“They say Indians are better at this than blacks or Mexicans. Better than everyone. That we have a gene that makes it so we don’t get afraid of heights, that lets us keep our balance.”

“Is it true?” asked Vera.

“Fuck no. We just don’t care if we fall.”

“I care,” she stammered.

“You do?” Simon laughed. “What would you do? Would it change your life? Would you do anything different? Shit, you’d feel bad, maybe. Cry a little. Fuck my brother some more. That’s it.”

“Asshole,” hissed Lester.

“Come on, Simon, get down, just get down.” Vera was crying.

Simon stopped and sat on the beam, swung his legs to one side and eased himself off so he dangled above the floor and dropped down. He dusted his hands and looked at Lester and Vera.

“See. I didn’t fall.”

Vera wiped her face with her jacket sleeve.

“I want to go home.”

“Come on,” said Simon. “We’re just getting started. We’re gonna do the bridge next. It’s an architectural tour.”

“I want to go home.”

Simon sighed. “Jesus, a couple of swigs of T-bird and she starts crying.”

“Leave her alone, Simon. I’ll take her. I’ll take her and come back.”

“You, too? Shit.”

“I’ll come back, bro. Just hang tight. I’ll come back.”

“Please, Lester, please. Just take me home.”

Simon turned away and picked up the whiskey and drank, great sucks at the bottle, throat clenching.

They didn’t talk on the way back. Vera leaned into Lester’s body for shelter and he held her without comment, watchful for trouble on the streets. He felt strangely unarmed, vulnerable without Simon’s craziness to shield him and Vera from the world that poured around them. He thought he looked like an easy target, though he always got into more trouble when he was with Simon.