Detective

got to get him to a doctor.”
    I pulled a hundred dollar bill out of my pants, and handed it to one of the waitresses. “Here,” I said. “This should cover it.”
    I hoped the hundred dollar bill would do the trick, but it didn’t. It was too much money. As with Rosa, it only made them suspicious. The maître d’ came rushing over.
    “Is something the matter?” he said.
    “This man is sick,” I repeated. “I’ve got to get him to a doctor. I gave the waitress a hundred bucks to cover the charges. Hold my order. I hope to be back to eat it. I doubt if he’ll be back for his.”
    The maître d’ didn’t look convinced, but I kept moving toward the door. I had to get out of there fast, before someone used the john. Shit. I should have propped Pedro up on the toilet, the way he would have done with Murphy if he’d gotten to kill him. But I’m an amateur, and then again, Murphy didn’t weigh any 220 pounds.
    I was about halfway across the room when I saw what I’d been dreading. A guy at a table against the wall was rubbernecking around the room, looking for something. I dug my elbow into Murphy’s ribs, trying to get him to hurry. He moaned slightly, but didn’t seem to pick up the pace. Shit. The guy I saw at the table was getting up. He was heading for the curtain at the back of the room.
    I half lifted, half dragged Murphy through the front door. The car was still there, double-parked right outside, as was Pedro’s. Christ, we hadn’t even gotten tickets. How lucky can you get? I threw Murphy into the back seat of my car, jumped in, gunned the motor, and got the hell out of there. In the rearview mirror, I could see the maître d’ come running out onto the sidewalk. He looked excited.
    I got on the FDR Drive and took it and the Harlem River Drive to the George Washington Bridge. I went over the bridge, got off at the Ft. Lee exit, and took 9W north till I found a motel. I left Murphy in the car, went in, and registered as Murray Cross from Buffalo. The clerk never batted an eye. I went back out, drove the car around to the unit, got Murphy out of the car and pushed him inside.
    Murphy was a little more coherent now, perhaps having realized that he was still alive. I took out a written set of instructions I’d typed that afternoon and slapped them into his hand.
    “All right,” I told him. “You’re out of danger, at least for now, but you gotta do exactly what I tell you. It’s all in the instructions, you can read them after I go. Basically, it’s this: you stay here, you don’t go out, and you don’t call anyone. Particularly, you don’t call anyone. I don’t care if there’s some girl who’s gonna think you’re dead, better she thinks you’re dead than you are dead, if you know what I mean. And don’t go out, not even for meals. They got room service here, you have your meals sent in. You stay here, watch TY and wait for my call. If I call and you’re not here, you’re in trouble, cause if Tony Arroyo doesn’t kill you I will. You got it?”
    Murphy was staring at me bug-eyed. He managed to nod.
    “You got any money?” I asked him.
    He wet his lips. “Ah, yeah, I got some.”
    “Fine,” I told him. “If you can sign for your meals, great. Your name’s Murray Cross. If you can’t and you run short, go hungry. Don’t under any circumstances get cute and use one of your credit cards. Not unless you wanna wake up with your dick in your mouth.”
    I left him there, got in my car and drove home.
    I’d never been so tired in my life.

33.
    M Y W IFE K NEW AT O NCE something was wrong. She always does. I can never hide anything from her. I had to say something, so I told her about the double-amputee I’d photographed in Rosedale the day before. It hadn’t touched me at all, things being how they were, but I had to tell her something, so I told her how badly it had upset me.
    She was all sympathy. Don’t get me wrong about my wife. She does drive me crazy with her constant exhortations to better myself, to “be all that I can be,” as the army would put it (I can never see that commercial without conjuring up the mental picture of a private on K.P. duty sitting peeling a mountain of potatoes, with the sergeant standing over him saying, “ This is all that you can be”), but basically she’s a very good person and I love her very much.
    After the amputee story, I told her about the flop house and the bums watching “The Newlywed Game.” I told her about the