Sports in America

While they waited for Milchuk to show, Carnes leafed through Sports Illustrated, the N.F.L. Preview Issue, and Penner checked out the baseball scores in the Globe. They were parked on Main Street in Hyannis, across from the Copper Kitchen, where Milchuk--so they had been told--liked to have his breakfast. It was a quarter to seven of a bitter September morning, a few raindrops spitting down and ridges of leaden cloud shouldering in off the harbor. Carnes, pinch-faced and wiry, with sprays of straw-colored hair sticking out from beneath his Red Sox cap, betrayed no sign of anxiety. But Penner, who had never done this sort ofwork before, shifted restlessly about, flexing his neck muscles, reshaping the folds of his newspaper and glancing this way and that.

Christ, he thought, I don't want this. He had been insane to go along with it. His mind had not been right. Too much pressure. Too much drink, too many sleepless nights. He would run, hedecided, lose himself among the houses down by the ferry dock. His hand inched toward the door handle.

Carnes coughed, noisily turned the pages of his magazine, and Penner, stiffening, gave up any idea of running. He touched the pistol stuck in his belt, the envelope stuffed with bills in his wind-breaker, as if acknowledging the correspondence between his salvation and another man's extinction.

To strengthen his resolve, he pictured himself returning home, with Barbara warm and sweet in their bed, hair fanned out across the pillow, her cheekbone perfection evident even in sleep.Fifty grand, he'd say to her, tossing the money onto the sheet as if it were nothing. Fifty fucking grand. And that's just for starters. Then he would show her the gun, tell her what he had done for her and how much he intended to do, maybe frighten her a little, make her understand that she might be at risk here, that the next affair might not be so readily forgiven, and that perhaps she had not chosen wrongly after all; perhaps this newly desperate, bloody-handedPenner was just the man to guarantee her summers in Newport and winters in Bermuda.

He gazed out the window, searching for favorable signs, something to restore his sense of purpose. Overhead, a pair of laced-together sneakers looped over a telephone line heeled and kicked in a stiff breeze, bringing to mind a gallows dance. The deserted sidewalks and glass storefronts with their opaque wintry reflections had the look of a stage set waiting for lights, camera, action.

"Y' see this article here 'bout the guy owns the 'Niners?" Carnes said with sudden animation. "Y" know, that guy DeBartolo?"

"Fuck the son of a bitch," said Penner glumly.

Carnes folded his magazine into a tube and stared at him deadpan. "Lighten up, will ya?" hesaid. "Ain't no reason you gettin' nervous. The man shows...bing! We're outa here."

"I'm not nervous," Penner said. "I just don't feel like bullshitting seven o'clock in the morning 'bout some dumbass owns a football team."

"The guy's OK, man! He ain't nothin' like the other schmucks owns teams." And he explained how DeBartolo was in the habit of lavishing gifts on his players. Ten-thousand-dollar rings, trips to Hawaii. How he sent their wives on shopping sprees at Neiman Marcus.

"Just 'cause he treats 'em like prize poodles, that makes him into Albert Schweitzer?" Penner said. "Get real!"

"I'm tellin' ya, man! Y' should read the article!"

"I don't have (continued on page 88)Sports in America(Continued from page82) to read the article, I know all about the bastard. He's a short little fucker, right? 'Bout five-five or something?"

"So?" Carnes said stiffly; he stood about five-eight himself.

"So he's got a Napoleonic complex, man. His dick's on the line with the goddamn team. He could give a shit about 'em, really, but long as they win, sure, he's gonna throw 'em a bone now and then."

Carnes muttered something and went back to reading. The silence oppressed Penner. Carnes's conversation had stopped him from thinking about Barbara. It struck him as an irony that Carnescould in any way be a comfort to him. In high school, 15 years before, they had taken an instant dislike to each other. Since that time, they had maintained the scantiest of relationships, this due only to their roots in the same neighborhood, the same gang. As boys, both had been groomed for positions in the Irish Mob: providing cheap muscle, running drugs. After high school, Carnes had continued on this track, whereas Penner, dismayed by the bloody requisites of the life, had attended Boston College and then gone into real estate. Yet here they were. Partnered again by hard times and a common heritage.

"You still root for the 'Niners, huh?" he asked, and Carnes said, "Yeah," without glancing up.

"How come you root for a team like that, man? Fucking team's got a quarterback named for a state, for Chris-sakes! Joe Montana! Sounds like some kinda New York art faggot. Some guy takes pictures of dudes with umbrellas stuck up their ass."

Carnes blinked at him, more confused than angry. "Fuck you talkin'?"

"Man was named for another state, then I could relate," Penner went on.

"Like New Jersey. I could support him, maybe, he was named Joe New Jersey. Maybe he'd play alittle tougher, too."

"You're fuckin' crazy!" Carnes looked alarmed, as if what Penner had said was so extreme it might be symptomatic of dangerous behavior. "Joe Montana's the greatest quarterback in the history of the N.F.L."

Penner gave an amused sniff. "He's history, all right. Sorta like the Red Sox, huh? What's it they lost, now? Six in a row? Seven? The tradition continues."

Carnes glared at him. "Don't start with that, OK?"

Penner fingered out a pack of Camels. In school, he had delighted in mind-fucking Carnes, pushing him to the brink of rage, making the creepy little mad boy twitch, then easing up. Pushing and easing up, over and over, until Carnes was punchy from surges of adrenaline. The trick was not to push too hard, because once over the brink, Carnes became uncontrollable. The Red Sox, to whom he was irrationally, almost mystically devoted, had been a particular sore point.

"Course," Penner went on in a light-hearted tone, "soon as Clemens comes back, he'll make itall better. Isn't that right, man? Ol' Rocket Roger! This good old boy with the I.Q. of a doughnut, guy doesn't have the brains to lift himself from the game when his shoulder blows up the size of a watermelon, he's gonna walk on water and win three in the series." He shook his head in mock sympathy and lit up a Camel. "Don'tcha ever get sick of it, man?"

"I'm fuckin' sick of you," Carnes said angrily. "You're just a front runner, man. You don'tknow how it is, you grow up with a team, you follow 'em your whole life."

"Bullshit, I'm a front runner!"

"Hell you ain't! Every team gets goin' good, you jump on the goddamn band wagon. First you're a Lakers' fan. Then the A's start winnin' and...."

"I told you, man, I lived four years in Oakland."

"Big fuckin' deal! I lived in Houston, and I ain't no Astros fan."

"What'd be the point? They're even more pathetic than the Sox."

"Goddamn it! I don't hafta take this crap!" Carnes pounded a fist against the dash. "I told McDonough I couldn't work with you, man! You ain't professional! Fuckin' guy's gotta be crazy thinkin' I can spend a coupla hours in a fuckin' car with you!"

This broke Penner's mood. "I can't figure it either," he said, remembering McDonough in the lamp-lit gloom of his study, his white hair agleam, patrician features seamed with anguish, noble head bowed under the weight of a daughter's dishonor. And yet, afterward, he'd had the thought that the scene seemed posed. A cinematic version of Celtic woe.

"What can't you figure?" said Carnes fiercely.

"Everything, man. Like why'd he pay us so much? And in advance. He coulda hired somebody half the price. Less, even."

"He's always doin' shit like that. Remember when Bobby Doyle's kid needed a new liver? Fuckin' McDonough, he just digs down in his pocket. Like the man said--we help him, he helps us. We whack out the guy did his daughter, he takes care of us. That's how he's always been."

"Sure, he's a fucking saint."

"Hey, man! He's a mick's got some power in the Statehouse and ain't forgotten where he comesfrom. In Southie, that amounts to the same thing."

"That still doesn't explain why he'd put the two of us together."

It appeared that Carnes was about to speak, but he remained silent.

"What were you gonna say?" asked Penner.

"Nothin', man!"

Penner, edging toward paranoia, could have sworn he detected the beginnings of a smirk.

•

A gray Lincoln Town Car came quiet as a shadow past them; it pulled into a parking space 30 feet farther along. Carnes's hand went inside his jacket. A cold, crawly trickle inched down between Penner's shoulder blades. He stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray. His fingers lookedoddly white and unreal the way they pushed and worked at the butt, like the segmented parts of some weird animal. Please, God, he said to himself, unsure whether he was praying for strength or permission to chicken out.

"Just you get in back of him." Carnes's voice was tight. "I'll handle the talkin'."

They waited until Milchuk started to climb out of the Lincoln. Then they walked rapidly toward him, their breath steaming white. Milchuk was bending down into the car, fussing with papersin a briefcase. He straightened, looking puzzled. He was younger and bigger than Penner had figured. Early 30s at the most. And he must have gone six-three, six-four, maybe two-twenty. His handsome, squarish face had a rosy-cheeked pallor. His black hair and mustache were neatly trimmed, but his jaw was dirtied with stubble. He had on a very nice herringbone-tweed overcoat withvelvet on the lapels. Penner himself owned a similar coat, though it was several years older and far more worn. He felt a measure of resentment toward Milchuk for inadvertently showing him up.

"'Scuse me, Mr. Milchuk. We have a minute of your time?" Carnes took a (continued on page159)Sports in America(continued from page 88) stand that forced Milchuk to turn his back on Penner.

Milchuk made an impatient noise and said, "I got an appointment."

When Penner poked him with his automatic, he stiffened but did not turn his head as someone might who had never been that route before. Penner could feel Milchuk's pulse in his gun hand, he could feel the whole breathing mass of nerves, bones and meat. In the chill air, Milchuk's cologne had a stinging, astringent scent.

"Awright, be cool, guys," he said. "I got a coupla hundred in my wallet. Inside pocket of the overcoat."

"How 'bout you takin' a stroll over to the car," Carnes said. "The blue Caddy back there."

"What?" said Milchuk. He snuck a peek at the car, and Penner, in a sympathetic reaction, hada peek along with him. With its vanity plates that red sox fan 1 and the Red Sox logo painted on the hood, the Caddy had an absurdly innocent look.

Carnes let out an exasperated sigh. "Hope you ain't gonna give us no trouble, Mr. Milchuk, 'cause this is a very simple deal, what's happenin' here. Now, I wantcha to get in the back seatof the Caddy with my associate there, OK? We're gonna drive you down the Cape a ways to where aman's waitin' for us. He's gonna talk to ya, tell ya a few things. Then we'll drive you back toHyannis so's you can have your breakfast."

Milchuk darted his eyes from side to side. Searching for police cars, brave strangers. "Listen," he said, talking fast. "I don't know what this is all about, but we can work somethin' out, you guys and me."

"Either get in the fuckin' car," Carnes said flatly, "or swear to God I'm gonna knock you cold and throw y' in it. Now, I'm very sincere about this, Mr. Milchuk. Nothin' bad's gonna happen long as you don't give us no shit. Little drive in the country, little conversation. But dickus around, man, I'm gonna put lumps on your lumps. OK?"

Milchuk drew a deep breath, blew it out. "OK," he said, and took a step toward the Caddy.

"Hey!" Carnes pulled him back. "You gonna leave your car wide open? Your briefcase just lyin' there?" He seemed appalled by the prospect.

Milchuk glanced at Penner, as if seeking a form of validation. Penner tried to keep his face empty.

"Lock the bitch, will ya?" Carnes said. "If you want, take the case with ya. You leave a fuckin' car like that unlocked, man, some asshole's gonna be ridin' it around Roxbury."

This solicitude was a beautiful touch, Penner thought. Extremely professional. He could not help admiring Carnes for it. Milchuk collected his papers, locked up the Lincoln. And as they walked to the Caddy, Penner could tell by the firmness of his step that the dead man felt much better about his future.

•

Ten minutes out of Hyannis, heading toward Cotuit, the overcast started to break. There was the merest line of blue above the islands, and directly ahead, a blare of silvery sunlight in roughly the shape of a cross seamed the division between mountains of black clouds, making a dark and mysterious glory of the eastern sky. Now and then, Penner saw flashes of sun-spattered water between the sparsely needled pines along the roadside. Despite the tackle shops, the clam shacks, motels and souvenir stores, there was something eerie and desolate about the Cape. It was a flat, scoured jumble of a place, flat rocks and flat fields, thickets and stunted trees, moors punctuated by the blue dots of glacial ponds, sloping shingles figured with capsized scallop boats, cork floats, torn fishing nets, all surrounded by the dreary flatness of a gray sea.

Static burst from the radio as Carnes spun the tuning dial, settling on a talk show--some asshole with a sardonic baritone goading housewives into bleating out idiot opinions on the economy. Penner kept his gun pressed against Milchuk's side and watched him out of the corner of his eye. He halfway hoped he would try for the gun. But Milchuk sat like a man in a trance, holding the briefcase to his chest, staring straight ahead. Once he asked how far they had left to go, and Carnes, with folksy amiability, said damn if he knew, he'd never been out on the Cape before, but it couldn't be much farther.

The talk-show host began discussing the Red Sox, their recent decline, and Carnes said over his shoulder, "Ever play any ball, Mr. Milchuk? You look like a ballplayer to me."

Milchuk was startled. "I played in college," he said after a second.

"I thought so. What's your position? First base? Outfield?"

"Right field."

"So I guess you a Sox fan, huh?"

"Yeah, sure."

"Follow 'em your whole life, didja?"

Milchuk said yes, yes, he had.

"Then maybe you can explain to my pal there what it's like to be a true fan." Carnes filled him in on the argument they had been having about the Red Sox and their alleged penury.

Penner did not think Milchuk would respond, but it may have been that Milchuk, like Penner, was using the argument to escape from the turmoil of his thoughts.

"Seems to me he's got a point." He spoke dully, as if it were a litany in which he no longerbelieved. "Lookit how they let Bruce Hurst get away. You got a left-hander wins fifty-five in Fenway, you don't just let him walk."

"Hurst was gone no matter what they offered," Carnes said. "Guy's a religious fanatic. He didn't go for all the shit about Boggs porkin' that cunt what's-her-name."

The tension in the car was dispelled to a small degree. Penner maintained vigilance, but with part of his mind, he slipped beneath the moment. It seemed he had been liberated, that the extreme nature of what he was about to do had freed him of the past. His life was a transparency.It could take on any color, any condition. He threw himself into the baseball argument with uncharacteristic vehemence.

"Look at Burks, now," he said. "He's gotta be one of the fastest guys in the league, right?"

"That's right," said Milchuk, nodding vigorously. "You're absolutely right."

"So what is it with him? He gets on first, he looks lost. What's he got now? Seven or eightstolen bases? You figure they'd hire somebody to teach him how to steal, wouldn'tcha? But naw!"He tapped Carnes on the shoulder. "What's that all about, man? They just too damn cheap? Or maybe they're trying to make Burks look so bad they'll have to trade him, then they can have the only all-white team in the league."

"Sox ain't prejudiced against niggers," Carnes said; from the hunched set of his neck and shoulders, Penner knew that he was fuming.

"Hear that, man?" said Penner, giving Milchuk a nudge. "They ain't prejudiced against niggers."

Milchuk grinned, shook his head in amusement.

"I didn't say I wasn't prejudiced, motherfucker!" said Carnes. "I said the Sox wasn't."

"Bull," said Penner. "Fuckin' town's built on prejudice. Y' hear about what happened to Dee Brown? OK, Brown-- he's the Celtics' number-one pick, right? So he's sitting out front the post office in Wellesley with his fiancée. He's in his car, and he's reading his mail. He just picked it up, see? Next thing, some broad in the bank across the street spots him and says, Holy shit, a Nee-gro! Why, that must be the same Nee-gro robbed us a few weeks back. Makes sense, right? I mean, what would a Nee-gro be doing in Wellesley he wasn't there to rob a bank? So here come the cops. Seven of 'em. They roust Brown and his girlfriend and force 'em to lie facedown on the sidewalk for twenty fucking minutes. At gunpoint, man! Twenty fucking minutes! You believe that?"

"No shit!" said Milchuk.

"It don't matter," said Carnes. "If you're a true fan, none of that crap matters."

"True fan!" said Penner disparagingly. "What the hell's that mean? The Red Sox front office screws everybody over. Fans, players. They're no different from the Government, man. They're not gonna be able to re-sign half their fucking players, their top pitcher prob'ly needs psychiaric help. Their manager looks like an old man talkin' about his freaking vegetable garden 'steada his problem at shortstop. You have to go back to prehistory to find when's the last time theywon the series. Nineteen fucking eighteen! And the Celtics, man, they're just watching their players grow old. Fucking Larry Bird's starting to look like Freddy Krueger with a limp. And the Patriots...Jesus Christ! Only thing they're good at's waggling their dicks at female reporters."

Penner heard the reediness of fear in his voice, yet he had the idea that if he kept on ranting, he might accidentally work a spell.

"And still you people keep going to the goddamn games," he went on, his voice shrilling. "You support this crapola. I mean, nothing stops you. The fact that these assholes in three-piecesuits are selling your dreams down the fucking river, it just doesn't sink in. Here they go gettin' rid of your best reliever, pickin' up white guys with bad backs and dead arms, and you think it's wonderful. They lose your best pitching prospect, 'cause they forget to put his name on the protected list. And whaddaya do? Do you boycott, you try and change anything? Fuck, no! You go on buying your dumb hats and your T-shirts, your shamrock jackets. You make stupid into areligion. You stand around chanting, Ooh, ooh, ooh, like pathetic rejects, and you don't even notice the whole thing's down the toilet. You just sit there and babble about next year, while everything turns to shit around you. True fans, my ass! All you guys are is a buncha fucking lemmings!"

Carnes made no sound or movement, but his anger was as palpable as heat from an open furnace. The silence grew long and prickly. The humming of the Caddy's tires seemed to register the increase of tension.

"That Lisa Olson deal," said Milchuk tentatively. "Those assholes flashin' her in the Pats' locker room?" He glanced at Penner, his face stamped with an expression of concern. "I ain't sayin' I don't have problems with women in the locker room, y' know, but geez."

"Now, that's terrific, that is," said Carnes. "It's really great gettin' an education on howto treat broads from the guy corn-holed Lori McDonough."

A look of bewilderment washed over Milchuk's stolid face. "What're you talkin', man?"

Carnes slammed his hand against the steering wheel and shouted, "You raped her, you fuckin' Polack sleaze! You raped her, then you fucked her up the ass!"

Milchuk sat stunned for a few beats. Then he said, "Fuck I did! Hey!" He turned to Penner. "That what this is all about, man? I didn't do nothin' to Lori. I been goin' out with her six months. This is fuckin' nuts! We been talkin' about gettin' married, even!"

Penner said, with unconvincing sternness, "Take it easy," and poked him with the muzzle of the gun as a reminder. He felt queasy, nauseated.

"It was Lori's old man hired you guys, wasn't it?" said Milchuk. "It hadda be. Look, I swear to fucking Christ! It's her old man. He's against me from the start; he told me he didn't want me sniffin' around her."

"Guess you shoulda listened, huh?" said Carnes brightly.

"I didn't do nothin', man. Swear to God! All ya gotta do is to give Lori a call."

"Maybe we should," said Penner, trying to hide a certain eagerness.

"You musta done somethin'," Carnes said to Milchuk. "Maybe all you are's a pain in the ass to McDonough. But a guy like you, you musta done somethin'."

Milchuk put both hands to his face. "This is crazy," he said into his palms. "Crazy!"

"How you figure?" Penner asked of Carnes. "You don't know the guy!"

"Oh, I know him," Carnes said. "He pals around with the Vitarellis down in Providence. He's a wise guy. You better believe this fucker's got blood on his hands. Whackin' him out ain't no worse than steppin' on a cockroach."

"He's with the Mob?" Penner said, incredulous. "We're supposed to hit a Mob guy?"

Without reducing his speed, Carnes swung onto a gravel road that wound away through low thickets, the leaves mostly gone to brown. The Caddy soared over bumps and ruts, landing heavily, its rear end sluing. Black branches slapped at the windows.

"Nobody said anything 'bout hitting a Mob guy!" Penner yelled.

Milchuk gripped the front seat with both hands and began talking, half sobbing the words, offering a string of temptations and threats of Vitarelli vengeance, like a strange, primitive prayer. Carnes's only response was to increase their speed. The Caddy seemed to be trying to liftoff, to go sailing up into the sky of broken silver light and black clouds. The world beyond the side windows was a chaos of tearing leaves and clawing twigs.

"So whaddaya wanna do, man?" Carnes shouted. "Wanna let him go?"

"Yes!" said Penner. "For Chrissakes, yes!"

"OK, say we do it. Know what happens next? The son of a bitch goes to the Vitarellis, he says, Chuckie, man, Chuckie, he says, that fucker McDonough tried to put a hit on me, and Chuckiesays, We can't have that shit, now, can we? and he sends his people up to Southie. And you knowwho gets it? Not McDonough. Nosir! It's you and me, buddy! We wind up on a beach somewheres with our balls hangin' out our mouths." He swerved the Caddy around a tight bend. "We're fuckin' committed, man!"

The thickets gave way abruptly to a grassy clearing centered by the gray-shingled ruin of aone-story house, nearly roofless, with a shattered door and glassless windows; it looked out over the Atlantic toward a spit that rose at its seaward end into a pine-fringed pinnacle standing some 60 feet above the water, the highest point of land in sight. Games brought the Caddy to a shuddering halt and switched off the engine. The rush of silence hurt Penner's head. Carnes turned to them, resting his elbow on the seat. A silver-plated gun dangled from his hand. Hegrinned at Milchuk.

"Party time," he said.

Milchuk met his eyes for a second, then hung his head. All thought of resistance seemed to have left him.

"Outside," Carnes told him, and without hesitation or objection, Milchuk opened the door andclimbed out. He still clung to his briefcase, still held it against his chest. His face slack, eyes empty, he stared off over the water.

Penner slid out after him. After so many hours in the car, standing in the open disoriented him. The world was too wide, too full of light and color; the soughing sounds of the waves and the seething wind; he could not gather it all inside him. He kept his gun trained on Milchuk.

"Drop the gun," said Carnes, coming up behind him.

Startled, Penner made to turn but stopped when the muzzle of Carnes's automatic jabbed into the side of his neck. He let the gun fall, and Carnes kicked him in the back of the legs, driving him to his knees in the tall grass. Another kick, this directly on the tail bone, sent him onto his stomach.

"Still curious 'bout why McDonough paid so much, are ya?" said Carnes. "Want me to fill ya in on the program, motherfucker?"

Penner rolled onto his back. Carnes straddled him, his feet planted on either side of his thighs, the automatic aimed at his chest. Milchuk, whom he could not see, was somewhere behind him.

"This here's gonna be a double-header, pal," said Carnes gloatingly. "Man's payin' me to whack you out, too. Betcha can't guess why."

Penner was afraid, but the fear was dim. Looking up at the muzzle of the gun, feeling the stony shoulder of earth beneath him, seeing the dark clouds wheeling like great slow wings above Carnes, he felt oddly peaceful, even sleepy. It would be all right, he thought, to close his eyes.

"It's your fuckin' old lady," said Carnes. "Her and McDonough been bumpin' bellies for a year now. Whaddaya think about that, shithead?"

The news surprised Penner. And hurt him. Yet because of the numb drowsiness that had stolen over him, the hurt was slight, as if a heavy stone had been placed on his chest, making him sink deeper into the cold grass. Carnes seemed disappointed in his reaction. His eyes darted elsewhere--toward Milchuk, probably--then he looked down again at Penner, a nerve jumping in his cheek.

"McDonough tells me she can't get enough of his dick," Carnes said. "Says her pussy's, like, twitchin' alla time. Says he's gonna marry the bitch."

Penner did not believe McDonough would have confided in Carnes, but the words opened him to visions of Barbara and McDonough in bed, to the bitter comprehension that this was everything she had wanted, a man of wealth and power. He should have guessed, he should have known that McDonough would never have concocted such a simple scheme as the one he had laid out. McDonough had seen a way to kill two birds with one stone and had orchestrated it beautifully. His throat tightened, his eyes filled. His sadness was a reaction not only to the betrayal but to how easily he had been taken in.

"Man, I can't tell ya how good this feels. I fuckin' cannot tell ya!" Carnes let out a lilting, girlish laugh. "I been wantin' to do you since I was fifteen fuckin' years old. Just goes to show, man. Don't never give up on your dreams." He took a shooter's grip on the automatic. "Wanna gimme more bullshit 'bout the Sox? C'mon, man! Let's hear it! Y' ain't gonna have no chances after this."

Penner was unable to speak, and Carnes said, "What's your problem, fuckhead? This is your big moment. Talk to me!" And kicked him again.

The kick dislodged something in Penner, tipped over a little reservoir of loathing that for the moment washed away fear.

"You're fucking ridiculous!" Penner said. "Both you and the fuckin' Sox!"

Muscles twitched in Carnes's jaw, that weaselly face jittering with hate. "I am gonna kill you a piece at a time," Carnes said.

Something black and fiat and augular--Milchuk's briefcase, Penner later realized--smacked into Carne's gun hand and knocked it aside. The automatic discharged, the round burrowed into the earth close to Penner's cheek, spraying him with dirt. Penner was not sure if he hadactually thought of kicking Carnes or if the movement of his leg had been a startled reaction to the gunshot; whatever the case, his foot drove hard into Carnes's balls. Carnes screamed and dropped to his knees, then pitched onto his side, curling up around the pain. With his Red Sox cap and the tears, he looked like a savage, terrified little boy. Then he puked, heaving up a geyser of coffee and bad fluids.

Penner saw his own gun gleaming in the grass. Luminous with fright, he made a dive for it and came up firing. The first shot half deafened him, ranging oil into the sky, but the second hammered a red nailhead into Carnes's jacket just below the collar. And the third blew bloody fragments from his lower jaw. There was no need for another.

Penner came unsteadily to his feet. His ears were ringing, his legs shaking. He gazed out over the thickets, the dry, turned leaves rippling with the same agitated motion as the chop onthe water, then looked back down at Carnes. The jellied eyes and ruined jaw sickened him and hurt his heart; but then, thinking of the man, he was furious. Carnes's Red Sox cap had fallen off and Penner gave it a vicious kick.

Then he remembered Milchuk. He went quickly along the edge of the clearing, peering into thethickets. It was doubtful that Milchuk would contact the police, but he would certainly have a talk with the Vitarellis.

After a moment, he spotted him. Surfacing' among the camouflage colors of the bushes. Running fast. Hurdling a fallen log. Zigzagging around some obstacle. Moving like a halfback in the broken field. Penner might have admired his athleticism had it not been so futile--Milchukwas headed not for the highway but toward the spit of land. He would not be able to see it because of the low ground over which he was running, the bushes and a few trees obscuring his view; any moment now, however, he would realize that he was trapped, that he would have to make his way along the shore. Because the spit formed the eastern enclosure of a bay, because the bay wascut back behind the clearing, the shore line lay close to where Penner was standing. He should be able to catch up to Milchuk without much difficulty.

He started toward the shore linewest of the spit. He ran easily, confidently, with what seemed to him astonishing grace, twisting to avoid the clutches of twigs and branches. Not a misstep, not a stumble. He felt chargedby this simple physical competence. It was as if the pure necessity of the moment had invoked acorresponding purity in him, eliminating clumsiness, fear and hesitancy. But on reaching the shore, he saw no sign of Milchuk, and once again, he became confused.

Where the hell was he?

The sun broke through again, turning the water a steely blue, and Penner, scanning the shoreline, had to shade his eyes. Milchuk had outsmarted him, he thought, he had doubled back to theclearing. But then he saw him among the pines that sprouted from the rocky point at the seawardend of the spit. Apparently, he had not seen Penner. He was just standing there, looking towardthe clearing.

Penner was baffled. What could he have in mind? Did he intend to swim for it? If so, becauseof Penner's position and the cut-back curve of the shore line, he would have to swim about a mile in freezing, choppy water to the opposite side of the bay--where there was a motel and some houses--in order to ensure his safety. A mile. That would take...what? At least an hour. Hypothermia would set in before then. And yet the man was obviously in excellent shape. Maybe he could make it.

But if that was the plan, why didn't he just dive in?

It took a minute's consideration before Penner understood Milchuk's tactic. From his vantage, Milchuk could see not only the clearing and the house but also the dirt road. Perhaps even the highway itself. It would be impossible for Penner to pretend to leave; in order to persuade Milchuk to abandon his position, he would have to drive a considerable distance away, far enoughto allow Milchuk to escape along the shore. If he were to try to take Milchuk on the spit, Milchuk would risk the swim; he would likely have decided how closely he would let Penner approach, and once that line was crossed, he would swim for the far side, quickly getting out of reasonable pistol range. Very smooth, very economical.

He would not be able to kill Milchuk, Penner realized, and the Vitarellis would learn what had happened. He could not risk returning to Southie. That was OK. He had his 50 grand. And Carnes's money, too. It would be a bloody business, tugging off Carnes's money belt. Have to see those eyes again, that marbled cross section of gore and splintered bone. But he could manage it. A hundred grand would buy a lot of future in the right place. The thing to do now would be to neutralize Milchuk. He'd ditch the Caddy in Hyannis, take the bus into Boston. Fly out of Logan. Maybe buy a junker and drive south. Whatever. He could decide that later.

There was a flaw in Milchuk's plan...or, if not a flaw, an inherent softness. Penner pulled out his handkerchief, wiped his gun with meticulous care, then, wadding the handkerchief in hispalm to prevent further contact with his skin, he gripped the gun by the muzzle and set out walking toward the spit. He called to Milchuk as he went, not wanting to startle him into a hasty dive. "Hey!" he shouted. "Don't be afraid, man! It's over! It's OK!"

Milchuk started down the slope of the point toward the water; he was shrugging off his overcoat.

Penner paused at the landward end of the spit; the opposite end was 30, maybe 40 yards distant.

"It's OK, man," he yelled. "Here! Look!" He waved the gun above his head. "I'm leaving thisfor you! Leaving it right here!"

Milchuk stopped his descent and rested in a crouch halfway down the slope, peering at him.

Penner tossed the gun out onto the spit, surreptitiously pocketing his handkerchief. "I'm outa here, OK? No more shooting! No more bullshit!"

Being unarmed made him feel exposed, but he knew that Milchuk would wait until he had retreated more than a pistol shot away before going after the gun. More likely, he'd wait until he watched the Caddy pull down the highway. There would be plenty of time for Penner to make it backto the clearing and collect Carnes's money and his gun.

"You hear me?" Penner called.

A beam of sunlight fingered Milchuk among the stones, accentuating his isolation and the furtiveness of his pose. The sight caught at Penner. He could not help but sympathize with the man.

"If you hear me," he called, "gimme a sign! OK?"

Milchuk remained motionless for a bit, then--reluctantly, it seemed--lifted his right arm as if in salute; after a second, he let it fall back heavily. The sun withdrew behind the clouds and he was reduced to a dark, primitive form hunkered among the rocks. Behind him, toiling masses of black and silver muscled toward the top of the sky, and the sea, dark as iron, moved in a vast, uneasy swell, as if the entire world had been nudged sideways.

"OK, I'm outa here, man!" Penner half turned away, and then, moved by a fleeting morality, avestigial remnant of innocence, he shouted, "Good luck!" It amazed him, the sincerity he had felt while saying it.

•

Penner was more than satisfied with his performance during the phone call to the police. He had exhibited, he thought, just the right mix of paranoia and breathless excitement.

"The little guy knew the shooter," he'd said. "I heard him say his name, anyway. Millbuck, Mil...something. I don't know. He might still be around there, man, you hurry."

After hanging up, he decided to get coffee before hitting the road, but, as he stepped around the corner from the pay-phone into the dining area of the roadside McDonald's, through the window he saw a green Buick pull up behind the Caddy, blocking it in. Two men climbed out of the Buick. Beefy, florid men, one--the taller--balding, with a fringe of dark hair curling low on his neck, and the other with straight red hair falling over'his collar. Irish-looking men. Cops, was Penner's first thought; they must have traced the call. But then he realized that their hair was too long, their suits too expensive. They peered in the windows of the Caddy, at the hood, exchanged a few words; then the red-haired man slid back into the Buick and drove it into a parking space. The other headed for the front door.

A weight shifted loosely in Penner's bowels. Christ, he should have figured! McDonough couldnot allow a loose cannon like Carnes to jeopardize his position. Carnes had likely been instructed to drive somewhere after the job, to follow some specific course; these men had been set to meet him and--no doubt--to dispatch him and reclaim the money. The advance payment made perfect sense now.

Wrong again, Carnes.

We're talking a triple-header here.

Beautiful, thought Penner. This was McDonough functioning at the peak of his political acumen. Minimal involvement of his people. Minimal risk to himself. A neat system of checks and balances. Snick, snick, snick. Three problems solved, all's right with the world, and the great mancould look forward to a lubricious future with the former Mrs. Penner. After an appropriate period of mourning, of course. What a player he was! What a master of the fucking game!

Penner retreated around the corner. The primary colors of the walls were making his skin hot, and the merry babble of the diners generated a fuming commotion inside his head. Hostages, hethought. Grab somebody off line, drag him into the parking lot. The idea had an outlaw charm that appealed to the absurdist witness who seemed to be sharing the experience with him. Mad Dog Penner. But instead, he ducked into the bathroom. The windows were high and narrow. A skinny dwarf might have managed an escape. He flattened against the wall behind the door, holding Carnes's gun muzzle-up beside his cheek. The white tiles were vibrating. The stainless-steel fixturesglowed like treasure. Every gleam was a splinter in his eye. His thoughts were singing. Oh, Jesus, Jesus, Jesus, please! What if some cute little tyke comes in to take his first solo piss, and you splatter the wee fuck's brains all over the hand drier? God, let me live, I'll say a billion Hail Marys, I swear it, right here in this holy nowhere of a bathroom. This is one of Your chosen speaking, an Irishman, a former acolyte, as sorry a lamb as ever strayed, and I'm begging, no, I'm fucking demanding a religious experience!

•

The big, balding man pushed into the bathroom, his entrance accompanied by a venting of happy chatter from the restaurant, and said "Shit" under his breath. He bent with hands on knees topeek beneath the doors of the stalls, exposing the back of his head. Joy surged in Penner's heart on seeing that tonsured bull's-eye, and, as the man straightened, he stepped forward and smashed the gun butt against his scalp. The blow made a plush, heavy sound that alarmed him. But he struck again as the man toppled, rills of blood webbing the patch of mottled skin, and then dropped to his knees beside the man and struck a third time. He remained kneeling there with gunheld high, like a child who hits a spider with a shoe and watches to see if its legs wiggle. More blood was pooling inside the man's ear. Penner's mind went skittering, unable to seize upona thought. The white tiles seemed to be exuding a thick silence.

The red-haired man, he said to himself at last, he would exercise extreme caution when his friend failed to reappear. Nothing to be gained by waiting for him. He, Penner, would have to balls it out. Take a stroll off into Ronald McDonaldland and see what we can see. Tra-la. He laughed, and the hollowness of the sound sobered him, heightened his alertness. He caught the handle of a stall door and pulled himself up.

"Stay right there," he told the balding man, and gave him a wink. "One false move and I'll hafta plug ya."

He squared his shoulders, took a deep breath. Maybe they were still looking for Carnes, maybe the red-haired man wouldn't recognize him. Who could say on a day like today? He stuffed the gun into the pocket of his windbreaker. He felt giddy, but the giddiness acted as a restorative, a nervy drug that encouraged him.

"Yoicks," he said. "Tallyho!"

•

It was a fabulous day in Ronald McDonaldland. The sun had come out, the restaurant was thronged with golden light and pleasant smells, young secretaries and construction workers were stuffing Egg McMuffins into their mouths, and the red-haired man was just turning from the line of waiting customers when Penner stepped up and let him feel the gun muzzle in his side.

"Why don't we take a walk outside?" Penner said. "I mean, that's what I'd like to do. But I don't really care what happens, so you choose, OK?"

The man scarcely hesitated before obeying. The act of a professional, thought Penner, submitting by course to the rule of might. Beautiful.

They pushed through the glass doors out into the sun. The freshness and brightness of the air infected Penner, making him incredibly light and easy on his feet. He felt like weeping, like singing.

"What's the story here?" he asked, screwing the muzzle of Carnes's gun deeper into the man'sside. "How'd you find me?"

"You kiddin'?" said the man. "You drivin' a Cadillac with vanity plates and a pair of red socks painted on the hood, you think you're hard to find?"

His disdainful attitude unnerved Penner.

"Where's Carnes?" the man asked.

"Well, now," Penner said blithely.

"That's one for the philosophers, that is."

He forced the man to deposit his gun in the Dumpster at the side of the building. The man's doughy face registered an almost comical degree of worry, and Penner considered telling him everything was going to work out but realized that the man would not believe him. Instead, he asked for the keys to the Buick.

"Beautiful," he said, accepting the keys, and he pushed the man forward, moving through the asphalt dimension of the parking lot, the humming of traffic like the dark noise of life itself.

He had the man sit on the floor of the front seat with his back to the engine, his head wedged under the dash, legs stuck between the seat and the side panel. A tight fit, but manageable.It pleased Penner to have devised this clever prison.

"Comfy?" he asked.

The man gave no reply.

Driving also pleased Penner. In the golden light, the cars shone with the luster of gem stones, and he cut in and out of traffic with the flash of a Petty, a Yarborough. Lapping the fieldin the Penner 500.

What to do, what to do? he thought.

South on I-95 to New York, Washington, Miami and points beyond?

Brazil?

Just the place, so they said, for a man with a gun on the run.

He let the rhyme sing inside his head for a minute or so, liking the erratic spin it lent to all his thoughts. He switched on the radio. He heard the amplified crack of a bat and brash music. Then a man's voice blatted from the speaker, saying that his guest was Mike Greenwell of the Boston Red Sox. Penner had to laugh.

"What the fuck's goin' on?" asked the red-haired man; he crooked his head to the side so he could get a look at Penner.

"You got a name?" Penner asked.

"Yeah ... Tom," said the man with bad grace.

"You a Sox fan, Tom?"

The man said, "What?"

"I said, You a Sox fan? It's not a trick question."

Silence.

"Know what I think about the Sox, Tom? They're God's baseball joke. A metaphor for man's futility. The Sisyphus of the American League East."

The man's face showed no comprehension. A serpent, Penner thought. There is a serpent in my garden.

"Where's McDonough?" Penner asked him.

More silence.

"Now, you don't have to answer." Penner jabbed the muzzle of the gun into the man's neck. "But I just bet he's waiting for a call from you."

"Home," said the man. "He's at home."

"Anyone with him? A woman, maybe?"

"How the fuck should I know?"

"Right," said Penner, pulling back the gun. "How, indeed?"

But Penner knew his Barbara. She would be with McDonough. She was part of this. And she would be able to live with it, to make that kind of moral tradeoff. He experienced a hiccup of emotion and pictured pale limbs asprawl, a gory tunnel burrowed into a shock of white hair. Could he really waste them? he wondered. How would it feel? Amazingly enough, it had felt prettydamn good so far. Since blood from the ears was not considered a healthy sign, he figured his score for the day was two.

But, after all, it would be nice to survive this. As Barbara herself was wont to say, The best revenge was living well.

He had not, he realized, been considering the prospect of survival until this moment. Not really. Not with the calculation you needed to weigh the possibilities, nor with the calmness necessary to believe in them.

On the radio, Mike Greenwell was saying there was no reason to panic, they just had to take 'em one at a time.

Sound philosophy. Words to live by.

A pickup truck roared past, somebody screamed a curse at Penner. He noticed that he had letthe speed of the car drop to 30.

Brazil.

Take the money and run. What could be the problem with that?

He caught movement out of the corner of his eye. Ol' Tom shifting about ever so slightly, preparing to try to kick the gun. Penner couldn't much blame him for trying--unless he were a cockeyed optimist, he could not like his chances very much.

"You can't do better than your best," Mike Greenwell was saying. "You give a hunnerd and fifty percent, you got no reason to hang your head."

Amen to that, Mike.

The red-haired man had worked a leg up onto the seat, and Penner thought a confrontation might be just the way to decide such a momentous issue as one's future or the lack thereof. Let him make his play. If Penner won, he would do ... something. He'd figure out what later.

To make things interesting, he boosted the speed to 50. Then to 60. He pressed his foot harder on the gas, watching the needle climb, feeling pulled toward something. There was a curve coming up about a mile ahead, and he wondered how it would be just to keep going straight when hereached it. To go arcing up into storm light over the water, into the golden glare and big-muscled clouds. And then down.

Do I hear any objections? he asked himself.

Fucking A, I object, he answered. Fuck all that remorseful Catholic bullshit! This is your goddamn life, Penner. This is the Hundred Thousand Dollar Challenge! Are you man enough to accept it?

"You play a hunnerd and sixty-two games," Mike Greenwell said, "you gotta expect a few bad days. But we'll be there in the end."

Dead on, Mike, me boy-o!

Penner saw that the red-haired man was waiting for him to look away, to do something that would give him an advantage; but that was no longer a problem. The game was in hand, and all the signs were auspicious. Light was flowing around the car, fountaining up behind in an incandescent wake, and the green world was blurring with their momentum, and the corners of Penner's, mind were sharp and bright as never before. Life hot as a magnesium flare, as Brazil, as freedom and the future, all the love in him sizzling. He boosted their speed to 65 as they approached the curve.

"Hey!" said the red-haired man; he had curled his fingers around the door handle; his eyes were round with fright. "Hey, you're going too fast!"

"Not me," said the Wild Blue-Eyed Penner, lifting his gun. As the Buick swung into the sweetgravity of the curve, he trained the gun at his enemy's heart, seeing only an interruption of the light, a dark keyhole set in a golden door. The thunderous report and the kick made it seem that the man's life had traveled up his arm, charging him with a fierce new spirit. He took in the sight without flinching. Blood as red as paper roses. The body, with its slack, twisted limbs, looked larger than before, more solid, as if death were in essence a kind of important stillness. He stared at it until he was completely at ease. A smile sliced his face, the sort of intent expression that comes from peering into strong sunlight or hard weather.

He thought about the disposal problem, a passport, opportunities for tropical investment. He spun the tuning dial, found an easy-listening station. Paul Simon was going to Graceland, andhe was going with him.

"Not me," said Penner the Implacable, the Conscienceless, the Almost Nothing Man. "I'm just hitting my stride."

"'He's history. Sorta like the Red Sox. What's it they lost, now? Six in a row? Seven?'"