Billy Straight

“Maybe two days,” said Petra, thinking: Had the car exchange been just a cover for Balch's trip? “Older Hispanic female? Approximately five-two, one-forty?”

The razor-cut eyes dipped at the outer corners. “You know her?”

“I believe I do. You might also want to have a look at that black Lexus.”

“Look for what?”

“Blood.”

54

Sleeping indoors is great. At first I woke up every hour, but then I was okay.

The brown blankets Sam brought me are rough but warm. The sheets and pillows smell of old guy. Before I turned out the lights, I lay there looking up at the shul's ceiling, the red bulb in the silver holder hanging in front of that ark. Sam never said not to sleep in the shul, but I figured it wouldn't be respectful, so I set myself on the floor near the back door, next to the bathroom. Every so often I could hear a car drive through the alley, and once I heard someone's feet shuffling outside, probably someone Dumpster-diving, and it made me lose breath for a few seconds, but I was okay.

I think I fell asleep watching the red bulb. Sam told me it wouldn't go off, was something called an eternal light to remind the Jews of God. Then he laughed and said, “Wishful thinking, eh, Bill? The bulb dies every couple months, I get up on a ladder, take my life in my hands.”

He tossed me a bagel, left, and locked the door.

It's 5:49 and I've been up ten minutes. I can see the colored glass windows in front of the shul get brighter. I want to go outside and have a look at the ocean, but I don't have the key to the front door. Shaking out and folding the blankets and sheets, I wash off in what Sam calls the gents' and finish the rest of last night's bagel. Then, opening the back door an inch, I look through.

The air's cool- cold, even- with tons of salt in it. The alley is empty. I step outside, make my way around the side of the shul to the front of the walkway. No one's out, just gulls and pigeons. The ocean's dark gray with spots of light in a few places, like orange-pink freckles. The tide's coming in very softly, then rolling back out like someone tilted the earth, back and forth, this whoosh-whoosh rhythm. I think of something I once saw on TV: pa

I stand there, watching and listening. Then I think of that woman in the park and how she'll never see the ocean again.

I shut my eyes tight and blow out those thoughts.

Thinking of the ocean, the air, how salty it smells, how I like that smell. How this is the end of the earth, this is as far as you can run. There's some litter on the walkway- papers and beer bottles and soda cans- but everything still looks beautiful. Quiet and empty and beautiful. Not a single other person.

I will always love being alone.

Now the sky behind me starts to brighten up more and the skin of my arm turns gold and I spot the sun, rising, humongous and egg-yolk yellow. I can't feel any heat yet, but with a sun that big I know it will be coming.

Now I'm not alone anymore: From the south, maybe a block away, I see a guy coming toward me on roller skates, wearing nothing but a bathing suit, holding his hands out like he's trying to take off and fly.

The picture is ruined. I go back to the shul.

Sam's Lincoln is there, parked crazy as usual; and I find him in the shul, looking at a book.

“Good morning,” I say.

He turns around fast, closing the book. He doesn't look happy. “Where were you?”

“Outside.”

“Outside?”

“To see the ocean.”

“The ocean.” Why is he repeating everything I say? He puts the book down, walks toward me, and for a second I think he's going to hit me and I'm ready to defend myself, but he goes past me and checks the back door to make sure it's locked, stands with his back to the door, definitely unhappy.

“Do you want me to leave?” I say. “Did I do something wrong?”

He blows out air and rubs his neck. “We got a problem, Bill.” He takes something out of his pocket. A piece of newspaper. “This is yesterday's edition,” he says. “Dealing with you kept me busy; I didn't get to it until this morning.”

He unfolds it and shows it to me. I see the word murder. Then a drawing of a kid.

Me.

I try to read the article, but the words are jumping up and down. So is my stomach. My heart starts pushing against my chest, I feel cold, and my mouth is dry.

I keep struggling to read, but nothing makes sense, it's like a foreign language. Blinking, I clear my eyes, but the words are still weird and jumping. I grab the paper from him and hold it close, finally start to understand.

The woman who got killed in the park has a name. Lisa. I have to think of her as Lisa now.

Lisa Boehlinger-Ramsey. Her ex-husband's an actor, Cart Ramsey. A show called The Adjustor. I've heard of it; I think Moron used to watch it.

Someone's offering twenty-five thousand dollars to find me.

I run for the back door. Sam doesn't try to stop me.

As I reach for the knob, my feet freeze.

Where can I go?

It's going to be a hot, bright day full of people out for that money; the sunlight will uncover me. Someone- maybe a bunch of them- will grab me and tie me up and turn me in.

Sam's still standing there. “You can stay here all day, but remember, tonight's Friday services, thirty, forty alter kocker- worshipers showing up a half hour before dark, nothing I can do about it.”

I'm not breathing great and my chest feels tight; I open my mouth wide to capture some air, but not much comes in. My stomach hurts worse than it ever did and my heart's still bumping against my chest- chuck chuck, just like what happened to… Lisa.

“One thing you might consider, Bill: Twenty-five thousand's a lot of money. If you do know something about this, why not be a good citizen and help yourself in the bargain?”

“I don't know anything.”

He shrugs. “Fine. I accept that. It's not you, just some kid who looks like you. But with the resemblance, how are you go

I slept so well last night, but now I'm tired, just want to lie down.

I sit down on a shul bench and close my eyes.

“To see something like that, Bill, of course you're scared. I know. I saw terrible things too.”

I keep my eyes glued shut.

“You see things like that, you wish you didn't, because you know it'll change you. That's the big difference in this world, Bill. People who're forced to see terrible things, and everyone else, getting away with the easy life. I won't tell you it's good to see. It stinks- no one would choose it. The only good thing is, you can get strong from it- I don't have to tell you that, you already got strong. Being out there, taking care of yourself, you did a good job. Considering what you been through, you did great. It's true, Bill. You're handling things great.”

He's saying nice things, trying to make me feel better. Why does it feel like a punch in the stomach?

“One part of my brain,” he goes on, “is saying call the cops, protect him- No, no, don't worry, I'm not go

He reaches out and touches my shoulders. “Don't worry, you're safe with me.”

He means it. It makes me feel good.

Why does it also make me bend over, so low my forehead's almost touching the floor and now my eyes hurt, too, and I can't stop myself from rocking back and forth and my body's shaking and I'm crying.