dwellings, providing surreptitious trash collection, ease of delivery, and ample space for garages, in many cases spacious garages which had once, a century ago, housed the last remains of the horse-and-buggy era, a mews, as it were, where the care of both animals and of leather coexisted in ironic harmony in those halcyon years before the advent of the internal combustion engine. Paul leaned back against the thick ivy and caught his breath. His head throbbed to the rhythm of his heart. A dull roar filled his ears, and for the first time since he’d regained consciousness in the hospital . . . for the very first time . . . he wished he could go back to who he was before . . . the shuffling specter they called Paul Hardy, the unresponsive guy so completely lost in his own little world of half thoughts and repeated phrases as to render himself virtually invisible, a state that at the moment held great appeal. His ankle was on fire as he hustled north along the alley, working his way up the hill toward the bright lights of Landon Street, a place where he thought he might be able to lose himself in the crowd. He got about a third of the way down the alley when the sound of an engine snapped his head around in time to see the silver Town Car slide into view, its tires churning up a maelstrom of dust, closing the distance in a big hurry.
The speed at which the car was approaching greatly limited Paul’s options. He dodged to the right, into a shallow indentation in the brick retaining wall, throwing his back hard against a pair of green Dumpsters, as the car slid to a halt about a foot in front of his face. From within the massive cloud of dust, a running figure appeared. The apparition circled the front of the car, arms extended in the combat position, gun pointed at Paul’s face as he stiff-legged his way over to where Paul stood.
The barrel of the gun looked as big as a tunnel. “Don’t move!” the guy yelled over and over. “Don’t move!” He held the gun an inch from Paul’s face. “Turn around!” he shouted. When Paul didn’t move, the agent reached out with his left hand and tried to move him manually. Paul stood his ground. The guy mashed the gun barrel into Paul’s forehead. He repeated his command to turn around. Again Paul ignored him.
And then Paul Hardy seemed to relax, almost to resign himself to his fate. He smiled, and then he reached up and slapped the weapon aside as it if were a fly, sending the automatic flying end over end through the air, banging off the fender before finally falling to the ground, where it discharged on impact.
That’s when everything seemed to go slow motion. The agent froze. The grip on Paul’s shoulder relaxed. He cast a quizzical look Paul’s way and then used the hand he’d had on Paul to search the back of his thigh. That the hand came back red seemed to puzzle the guy no end. He dropped to one knee and allowed a low moan to escape his throat. A sticky-looking pool of blood was forming on the ground. The agent’s eyes bulged at the sight of his own fluids seeping into the ground among the patchwork of oil stains. His look of astonishment changed to something more akin to fear. Then his G-man training took over. He pivoted on his knee and made an all-out dive for the gun. Paul jumped completely over the straining body. He clamped a boot onto the stretching arm and kept adding pressure until the G-man stopped straining to reach his weapon and began to yell, “Okay . . . okay!” over and over, at which point Paul bent and picked up the automatic and then released the guy’s arm from beneath his boot.
The black steel felt hot in his hands. The feel told him he’d had one of these in his hands before. He looked down. On the ground, the G-man had pulled off his belt and was applying a tourniquet to his upper thigh. Paul reached to help but the guy cringed out of reach.
“Your radio thing work?” Paul asked, pointing to his own ear. The guy didn’t answer,
The speed at which the car was approaching greatly limited Paul’s options. He dodged to the right, into a shallow indentation in the brick retaining wall, throwing his back hard against a pair of green Dumpsters, as the car slid to a halt about a foot in front of his face. From within the massive cloud of dust, a running figure appeared. The apparition circled the front of the car, arms extended in the combat position, gun pointed at Paul’s face as he stiff-legged his way over to where Paul stood.
The barrel of the gun looked as big as a tunnel. “Don’t move!” the guy yelled over and over. “Don’t move!” He held the gun an inch from Paul’s face. “Turn around!” he shouted. When Paul didn’t move, the agent reached out with his left hand and tried to move him manually. Paul stood his ground. The guy mashed the gun barrel into Paul’s forehead. He repeated his command to turn around. Again Paul ignored him.
And then Paul Hardy seemed to relax, almost to resign himself to his fate. He smiled, and then he reached up and slapped the weapon aside as it if were a fly, sending the automatic flying end over end through the air, banging off the fender before finally falling to the ground, where it discharged on impact.
That’s when everything seemed to go slow motion. The agent froze. The grip on Paul’s shoulder relaxed. He cast a quizzical look Paul’s way and then used the hand he’d had on Paul to search the back of his thigh. That the hand came back red seemed to puzzle the guy no end. He dropped to one knee and allowed a low moan to escape his throat. A sticky-looking pool of blood was forming on the ground. The agent’s eyes bulged at the sight of his own fluids seeping into the ground among the patchwork of oil stains. His look of astonishment changed to something more akin to fear. Then his G-man training took over. He pivoted on his knee and made an all-out dive for the gun. Paul jumped completely over the straining body. He clamped a boot onto the stretching arm and kept adding pressure until the G-man stopped straining to reach his weapon and began to yell, “Okay . . . okay!” over and over, at which point Paul bent and picked up the automatic and then released the guy’s arm from beneath his boot.
The black steel felt hot in his hands. The feel told him he’d had one of these in his hands before. He looked down. On the ground, the G-man had pulled off his belt and was applying a tourniquet to his upper thigh. Paul reached to help but the guy cringed out of reach.
“Your radio thing work?” Paul asked, pointing to his own ear. The guy didn’t answer,
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