Hawkins waited in the huge living room of Garfield’s apartment on Central Park West. It was filled with dark overcarved furniture, and bad paintings in ornate gilt frames covered the walls. The room itself was hushed, but Hawkins heard sounds in the rest of the apartment. Phones rang­, women talked and laughed somewhere. He sat on a rose velvet settee and tried to relax, but his uniform was new and stiff. It bound in the crotch, the cloth scratched his legs, and he started to sweat. A door slammed in the hall, a man screamed something in Russian or Yiddish, and Meyer Garfield raced into the room. He was in his forties then, but he looked much younger. His face was sweet and fine, and the sandy hair was still thick. A tall, dark-­haired man with oily skin was with him. Hawkins stood up but Garfield waved at him to sit down. He pulled up a spindly carved gilt chair, sat across from Hawkins, and took his hand. He held it for a moment, patted the back of it, then let it go.

“You tried to save my son’s life,” he said softly with a thick Russian-­Yiddish accent.

Hawkins didn’t say anything.

“At the risk of your own,” Garfield said.

“It was reflex,” Hawkins said.

“Reflex shit. You tried.”

“I’m sorry it didn’t work,” Hawkins said. He remembered the skinny-­faced kid and tears stung his eyes.

Garfield looked away. “You want a job?” he asked.

“I have a job, thank you,” Hawkins said politely.

Garfield eyed the uniform. “Some job,” he said. “You could get your ass shot off any minute, and for that they pay you, kom, kom,¶¶¶ twenty thousand a year.”

Hawkins didn’t answer and Garfield shrugged. “Nu, it’s your ass.” He snapped his fingers. The tall man handed him a card, he handed the card to Hawkins. “If you change your mind, call this number. If you ever need anything, anything at all, call this number. Remember, I owe you, and I pay my debts. Ask anyone in this town and they’ll tell you, Meyer Garfield’s word is gold, pure gold. You can put it in the bank.” Garfield stood up, leaned over, and kissed Hawkins’s cheek. “Thank you for trying,” he said hoarsely. He crossed the room and stopped at the door. “Don’t forget,” he yelled, “anything. Anything at all.”

Garfield was convicted of jury tampering and sent to Atlanta for five years, of which he served two. Hawkins heard about it and, on impulse, sent Garfield a box of Hershey bars. Twelve years after that Garfield was indicted for murder, and the big soft-­voiced man called Hawkins.

Hawkins and Garfield sat across from each other at a dented metal table in a downstairs room of the Tombs. The oily-­faced man, who was bald by then, leaned against the wall.

Garfield took Hawkins’s hand and held it tight. “I want you should do something for me,” he said. He felt Hawkins’s reaction in his hand and laughed.