Write me a Letter

succession. Two small indentations appeared in the dummy. Off went the light. Swearing under my breath, I pulled out my firearm and stuck my head gingerly out the bathroom door, almost at floor level. I snapped my light on and gave the room a quick sweep. The slight swaying of the window blind told me the would-be assassin had retreated the same way he’d come—along the fire escape, which had always been the logical choice. The window was partly open; I eased it up the rest of the way, took a cautious peek out, saw nothing, then slid through it like a greased eel and crawled toward the stairs. I’d just got to the top of them when I heard the muffled footsteps of someone ahead of me heading down to terra firma and not wasting any time about it, either. I followed, in a crouch, both afterburners ignited.
    I was on the fourth or fifth step down when one of my size twelves broke through the rotted timbers, closely followed by the rest of me. I landed on a rain barrel, back first, then bounced off that onto a pile of wooden boxes and discarded flowerpots. I thought at first I’d broken my back; when I tried to move, I was sure of it.
    A dark shadow hurtled down the stairs above me. More coughs. I’d only heard that sound once before in my life, not counting upstairs; it was the sound a silenced handgun makes when it is loaded and someone pulls the trigger, as is no doubt highly obvious by this time. And, like the sound of a revolver being cocked by someone else an inch away from your ear, it is one of the truly chilling listening experiences. Moreover, like a Brooklyn accent, once heard, never forgotten.
    Ka-pew ! is what I heard next, ka-pew ! twice, if that is the way to describe the noise an unsilenced, high-caliber side-arm makes when it is fired. Then a third ka-pew ! Then, mercifully, silence, except for someone moaning. I thought it was me for a bit, then I belatedly realized it was coming from a shape lying on the ground almost right beside me. I turned my head and almost passed out from the pain. When the dizziness subsided somewhat, I saw, in the half-moon light, that the shape was Henry C. Clam, alias Nature Boy, also alias my best friend Benny, and he was bleeding to death from a gaping hole right in the middle of his back.
    I shouted something, or tried to shout something, I don’t remember what. I tried to crawl the few feet to him; it was a nightmare, I couldn’t move. Blood was pouring out of him, I had to do something. I unbuckled my holster strap trying to stay calm, trying not to fumble. I got it off and chucked it and the revolver in the rain barrel I’d landed on; they made a satisfying splash. I was going to be in enough trouble without getting done for illegal possession. Anyway, I needed what was under the holster, my favorite wool shirt. I managed to fumble it off, wadded it up, got my courage together, and made a kind of lunge toward Benny, the hand with the shirt in it outstretched. I half fell, half collapsed on top of him but I had the goddamned shirt over the hole and that’s all I cared about. Lights came on around us. I shouted some more and lay there until help came. Benny. Benny the Boy.

16

    When I woke up, I was wearing a corset.
    No, I had not died and gone to some sort of transvestite paradise. It wasn’t that kind of corset, there wasn’t a bit of lace to be seen, and no peek-a-boo top, darn it. It was made of white, elasticized material, held together by a strip of Velcro down one side, and covered the area from the small of my back to the upper middle of the chest. Oh—my hands were tied by bandages to the sides of the bed, likewise my feet to the bottom. My head I could move; I moved it, carefully. I was alone in a four-bed hospital ward. There were no tubes coming out of me or IVs dripping into me, always a good sign. I was pretty groggy from whatever it was they’d given me to put me to sleep, but I’ve had a lot groggier awakenings in my life and ones that weren’t the result of medication, either. Lubrication, maybe.
    Benny. Silly fucker! What was he doing getting all shot up? Watching my back is what he was doing, instead of watching his own. My left hand touched something—it was one of those call things dangling from a cord that you press and then in rushes a pretty nurse to plump your pillow.
    I pressed it. A minute later in walked a highly unpretty state cop, a tall, lanky type with a bushy mustache, one hand on his holster. He gave me an unfriendly