When the Furniture Comes

By Kevin Moccia

As the bail out of 2008 neared, Tyler Hopkins, chief negotiator
for Big Gnocchi Brothers Inc., felt the press of the white whale
beaching toward Main Street and feared the carcass implosion.
Tylers BGB, Inc. foreman, Jamber, lead singer in an AC/DC
cover band, is due in Family Court to remit forty-eight thousand
dollars in back child support of which he is forty-two thousand
dollars light. Limon, twenty-three year old American-Mexican
immigrant, is the force of the Gotham Minors, a schist breaking
division of Tylers company. Limon wields a one hundred and
twelve pound sledgehammer over the hands of splitting maul
cradler, Umberto, a sixty-two year old Puerto Rican transplant
from the Bronx. The third member of the crew, light barer, key man
and mule, is a rebellious scholar from Merida, who distinguishes
the six mauls used by the minors to slab schist, by linking the
names of the Apostles from the New Testament with those from
the Gnostic Gospels--unbeknownst to the romantic scholar, he
is also lunch fetch. It is the task of the Gotham Minors, breaking
schist below the sidewalks of Manhattan, to clear enough room
in the earth for the passage of a mans headwithout disturbing
the neighbors.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Dec 9, 2016
• ISBN: 9781532007408

Kevin Moccia

Kevin Moccia, gradute of the National Shakespeare Conservatory, appeared on Broadway as Gilley in the 1986 tony award winning play, “I’m Not Rappaport.” Kevin served as the Artistic Director of the Bach d’or Theater and is the author of the full length plays, “Winter’s Harvest”, “King Me!”, “No Gas”, “Shrove Tuesday”, “Anatole’s Leg”, “The Page”, his one man shows include “The Last Vineyard 2154” and “The Unicorn Salesman”, peformed in NYC at HERE, and upon the now raised, best off-off broadway stage, The Vortex Theater, off the gang planks in Chelsea...where Kevin met his wife of nearing 40 while Regina was filling in for an actress in “Rosemary and Gordan”, by Steve Bellwood. Kevin’s other literaray works include, “When The Furniture Comes”, a NYC construction fable about the fall of man, and the first book to the Waving Plains Trilogy, The Beagle and the Hare. Films: “Lions Den”, “PVT Chat”, “Crypto”, “Bad Hombres”.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

The Bull Moose

Friday, August 29, 2008, 4:56 a.m.

Tyler rested for the first time that morning behind the press of his kayak, as it glided over the submerged saw grass that curled about the boat’s keel like the extended fingers of rock fans caressing a passing casket.

Beyond the trail marker, a grey birdhouse, illuminated by Tyler’s hat lamp, Moosehead Lake thinned out into a maze of shallow trails; one of which Tyler hoped would lead him to an encounter with a bull moose.

Amid the siren call of the beckoning woods, Tyler’s mind lurched back to Manhattan. Poor Jamber! My linchpin! Tyler whispered, almost in prayer. Fearing when he returned to Manhattan that Jamber would already be incarcerated.

Harlem, 135th Street,

5:02 a.m.

Drawn by the pounding and screaming coming from the common hallway of his apartment building, Jamber gathered his dock rope mass of pharmacy dyed black hair, then placed his less bar-pitchered ear against the door of his illegal sublet, trying to thread the cause of the commotion through a morning beer cloud and the rattling hum of his ancient air conditioner.

The violent vibration coming from a man’s voice scrambled Jamber’s senses to combat alert status. Jamber’s face held a punch first, even if he’s not the guy expression, a virtual a red cape magnet in any otherwise peaceful situation. Jamber’s visage also sported a portfolio of ring knuckle scars, (nobody takes jewelry off in a wedding fight) but to his own admission Jamber made only one fatal error in his life. He married the wrong woman.

Jamber’s ex-wife filed for child support at the courthouse, across the street from the hospital, on the afternoon of their child’s birth. The claim gathered interest over the span of two decades. The suffocating pressure of going to jail for back child support put such a strain on Jamber’s vocal chords that it caused him to give up singing for three years. Eventually, Jamber accepted the idea of going to jail as something that could not be avoided, much like an eleven o’clock tea break with an Irish crew out of Woodlawn.

Jamber’s ex-wife, Norella Libertine Sparks, figured what Jamber owed in back child support would amount to her equivalence of a pension—though she never worked a day in her life. Especially not as a mother.

Norella punished the earth with her thoughts while juggling various law suits, using her son’s childhood as her shill; yet as a young man, Jamber and Norella’s offspring was self-reliant beyond his years. Now twenty-six, he had lived on his own since his eighteenth birthday, an event he celebrated by splurging on a six dollar milkshake, watching the clock stand past midnight, with a new set of apartment keys, and eight useless, three-quarter-inch-flat-head screws, scattered across the diner counter.

South Bronx

5:06 a.m.

Ricardo sat perched in the window waiting for the sun to reveal the dull blue span of the Willis Avenue Bridge, and listening to El Chapo, the neighborhood rooster, proclaiming his victory salutation—boasting in the dark. To Ricardo, excluding the lack of book stores, the South Bronx was New York City.

El Chapo lives to fight another day! No one believed in him but me! Now, you’re all twenty dollars poorer, before you are even awake! Ricardo jeered in a hushed whisper to all the snoring tribal members of the Mexican Inn, as he swung his feet from the window and pounced onto the wide planks of the century old pine floor.

Umberto’s not coming back. That predictable old fox must have gone ahead into the city—now all day long he’ll be telling me to sniff his mustache! Old people are so predictable…predictable!!! We should round them all up and dump them in Vermont—stop slowing the world down and getting in the way! The one day I need him to be in the same place he’s at every day of his baggy assed life, and he’s gone—typical old bastard, throwing wrenches into the works from every angle!

Ricardo studied his exit route through the cluster of bodies scattered between himself and the door at the opposite end of the twenty four hundred square foot floor-thru. Serenaded by the snores of the eleven other men; his eyes followed the exposed Douglas fir beams across the ceiling then down the bulky support posts cluttered with hats, coats, tool belts, shaving mirrors, and the oversized pots reserved for tribal ceremonies, such as celebrating fresh stitches, or the stub gift of a remaining finger.

HARLEM, 135th Street

5:08 a.m.

The smoldering temperature on this, the Friday morning of the end of Harlem Week, which lasted most of the summer, held between ninety-five and ninety seven degrees—it was ninety eight in the Bronx. The weatherman predicted the temperature could reach one hundred and ten by noon.

After a load in and sound check, members of Bulldog Tooth, the AC/DC cover band Jamber front lined, splintered the night. Jamber had played Ruby’s several times and spent the remainder of the evening on a Coney Island pier, hoisting canned beer toasts to the locals diving for crabs with chicken bait. Cradling an abandoned sand pail packed with live crabs, Jamber returned home and invited The Fellas up from the stoop to soak in the polar breeze that blew from the refurbished restaurant unit that Jamber rigged into his alleyway window. The unit was big enough to chill 10,000 square feet, yet Jamber’s room was barely 10 x 15—in addition Jamber installed a Zero Seal around his door that locked the cool air into Jamber’s room like a meat locker. Jamber opened his door and the heat that gathered in the common hallway engulfed him. It was Jamber’s immediate perception that the world outside his room was melting.

Maine

5:12 a.m.

Tyler wove through an archway that looked impenetrable from head on, but lead to an engorged crater of uncharacteristically deep water, infused with the smell of pungent scrub pines and aromatic sweet gale. Tyler paddled around three adult female moose. Only the heads of the moose were visible as they swam in single file, cutting through the water along the starboard side of the boat. Tyler sensed the musculature of the creatures against his bare legs, as the wake from the swimming moose tilted the craft against his body. When the third moose passed, Tyler dug into the lake, with several smooth strokes, barely stirring the world, then he let the kayak coast again, leaned back, and absorbed the density of quiet.

How many years? How many machines? How many rips? Tyler pondered. It was thick, the quiet—solid, without a hole for mankind to creep into. The opposite of New York City, except for those slivers of silence wedged between church bells. Tyler knew now why he’d come—his work life funneled through him, the meetings, the phone calls, the listening, all the listening led up to this. A blank slate of quiet.

South Bronx

5:15 a.m.

The lime plastering twins Javier and Orlando, turned in unison as Ricardo passed their bunk, each of their pompadours pre-combed for the evening, jelled, and tucked into hair nets. The twins seldom went out during the work week, but on Friday they tore through the improvisational tango halls on Webster Avenue.

Ricardo’s eyes fixed upon the crease on Martin Martin’s normally untouched bed. The crease denoted the code violation committed by Pedro Feliciano, one of the three bad painters, who trespassed and defiled Martin Martin’s bed in one drunken black out plunge. Umberto, patriarch of the tribe, administered the appropriate measure of justice, yanking Pedro by his boots with a violent tug, which sent Pedro’s head, bouncing, slobbering lips first, off the plush Marcus The Red Rhino rug, which marked Martin Martin’s property line with a ten by ten psychedelic plot, valued at a thousand dollars a square foot—complements of an angry man at the beginning of a nasty divorce.

The Code of the tribe, known as Umberto’s Law, enforced a strict boundary around another man’s belongings. Thieves were not tolerated, and there were tribe members, through the years, that were beaten to the point of disfiguration for staking false claim to another man’s property. Personal possessions accounted for an accumulation of hours, and those hours could not be transferred from one man to another. Tools too, were sacred. Borrowing of tools was strictly forbidden under Umberto’s Law, which also included a no return policy attached to the resale of any electronic device.

Martin Martin preserved this flop with the tribe for safekeeping. He was a wall paper hanger and faux painter by trade, who secured a niche as a house sitting, professional caretaker of other peoples’ fish—he also drifted through the world with his trumpet, blowing in wherever he could sit.

Maine

5:17 a.m.

Tyler paddled upon an older female moose with a small calf, who retreated out of the water, keeping their backs to Tyler, watching him down the length of their bodies. Tyler concentrated on the animated calf, its eyes flickering with excitement—the old female unamused. Tyler continued toward a young male that was coming out of the water an eighth of a mile off.

Harlem, 135th street.

5:19 a.m.

Jamber stepped toward the sound of the man screaming from the hallway entrance door. Jambers’ room, one of eight on the floor, (all reeking of building code violations) was directly opposite the front door, though the door was locked and triple bolted, it was only a forty-eight dollar, hollow-core-door from Home Depot.

Jamber realized he was naked as the sound of the door tearing away from its hinges, and the wood splitting from the walls, embalmed him. As he stood watching the top of the door crashing toward his feet, Jamber feared that his toes would be crushed, but when he looked down he saw that he was wearing his silver tipped-Italian half boots, given to him by a building Super’s widow. The dead Super’s kicks fit Jamber to a tee. Jamber struggled to distinguish whether or not he was dreaming—since the only time he could remember putting on his Italian half boots, was last Sunday—and he was sure it wasn’t Monday, because he had to go to court on Tuesday.

Jamber’s back child support, which Kinst, Jambers’ lawyer, had negotiated down from two-hundred-and forty-six thousand dollars, was now fixed at forty-eight grand. The lump sum Jamber was summoned to remit to the court in four days.

Kinst knew that the privatized prison ball was already in motion prior to preparing Jamber’s appeal. Lives of the men in the path of the wrecking ball became the surplus gruel that insured pervading gout for generations of their providers—even Bob Barker, whose company made disposable prison toiletries, got a cut of the action—stacking a second silo off the men who fall through holes.

A month prior to his death, Kinst offered Jamber a release from his entire legal fees, in exchange for a game of pitch and catch. Jamber arrived off the train with a catcher’s glove and a fielder’s mitt for Kinst—but Kinst had his own glove, a glove he oiled every season, walking from room-to-room, pitching around the art work of his long Island home. The pair threw in Kinst’ parking lot where Jamber could be heard on the train platform a thousand yards away, urging Kinst, To put some hot smear on his bagel!

Kinst was in his glory. He had lost his only son, to an accident, and his only daughter, a perpetually single lesbian, to the bench, when she made good on her threat to become a family court judge. The smell of the glove and the sound of the ball humming into the mitt brought Kinst back to the best of times, when all life asked of him was to be on the end of a ball tossed his direction.

Oh my boy was lovely! Kinst remembered—drawing the smell of the old glove deep into his lungs. A lovely boy with a fish bowl grin! An impeccable, lauded academic career—all vanquished in broad daylight in the middle of an intersection where people come and go. Only Kinst’ boy didn’t get through. He didn’t Go Dog Go—all wild with the orange goggles! Kinsts’ boy remained somewhere in the middle, gobbled up at an intersection by a man in a hurry. Going where? Kinst would say aloud to himself, stirring his nightly martini, the words falling from his lips like soup dribbles from a spoon. Going where? he was heard to mutter to strangers on three different continents. Going where? his wife would often hear him say, hunched over himself in his flannel pajamas, on the edge of what used to be his side of the bed.

South Bronx

5:19 a.m.

The three identical futons of the Indonesian stone masons, Jesus, Jesus, and Jesus Alfredo (the third mason’s real name was only Alfredo, but his complexion was lighter than the other two) formed a T at the foot of Martin Martins rug. The masons washed into town from Banda Aceh, and neither of them could justify investing in bedding any more permanent than a futon. On work days, the trio biked from the Bronx to the southern tip of Manhattan. Umberto dubbed them his, Three Little Pigs, since none of them had any faith in wood. The trio swore an oath to fly the others back to their respective homeland if either of them fatally ate an opening door in a bike lane.

Across from the masons’ futons, the three bad painters lashed two king size mattresses, which they dotted themselves upon much like germs in a petri dish, sleeping in their work clothes, which, too, violated Umberto’s law. The crew specialized exclusively in industrial stairwells, finishing three to six flights a day. The first bad painter, Pedro Feliciano, a black out alcoholic, miraculously unaffected by the DT’s, did all the crews’ cut work with a three inch, twelve-year-old, Purdy, which he cleaned daily with a fro-pick, then wrapped nightly, sealed with a kiss, in card board and aluminum foil. The second bad painter, Renaldo Guzman, rolled the walls and ceilings with sleeves he let pickle in five gallon pails of generic white paints. The third bad painter, Edwardo Suarez, protected the stairs and the banisters from the pigeon dripping craftsmanship of the first bad painter, and the latex-blizzard, rolling work of the second. If the third painter left an area the diameter of a dime unprotected, Murphy’s Law was enacted, and either of the two bad painters would air lift a drip specifically into that spot. Once Edwardo secured the work area he too, took up the charge, adding coils of roller drips to the tarps, while back stepping into loaded paint trays with thoughtless consistency, which was his trademark spill.

Maine

5:19 a.m.

The deeper Tyler followed the lake the quieter time rang out—merciless and penetrating. Tyler’s mind felt as it were being kneaded under the sweet pressure of the all-consuming silence—pervading at a pace as faint as the stars above, which were ever so gently surrendering into the emerging daylight.

Harlem, 135th Street.

5:19 a.m.

Jamber beheld the figure of a huge black man, in a full length leather coat, charging toward him in the collapsing doorway.

What the hell is he wearing that Shaft coat for? Jamber thought, leaping out of the way and preparing to do battle with the man hurtling forward.

The man skidded to a stop at the end of the door, standing on the prone slab as if it were a thin podium, and arching his neck at an odd angle to keep his head from scraping against the unglobed ceiling bulb, which cast an eerie forty-watt glow over the unfolding scenario. The man on the door appeared taller than Jamber, gaining an inch and three-eighths in height from the thickness of the door, but he was well over six feet, not thick and wide like Jamber, but wiry, street sturdy, and strong.

Where the fuck is Anthony—the little frog man?

The man shouted, waving his arms wildly, resembling a giant, leather bat.

I’m not, Anthony! Jamber responded fiercely—his entire being raging through his voice.

I know you are not An-tho-ny! The man shouted back, stressing each syllable of Anthony’s name and matching Jamber’s rage.

Anthony’s gone for the weekend. Jamber fired back.

The intruder recognized in that moment, that he was standing on top of the door he had just flattened, and that before him stood a naked man with an erection, crouched in a defensive fighting posture—circa John L. Sullivan.

What? The man on the door, shouted indignantly. You gonna’ bring it? With all your shit hangin’ out? Is that what you’re all about? You got your manhood up, defending your bitch back there?

Jamber heard a noise. He stole a glance with his eyes over his left ear and saw his neighbor, Sarah Gerone, scantily clad, creeping toward him. Unable to resist, Jamber’s head followed his eyes, as the man pounced on the opening, torqueing his hips into an uppercut as his combat boots collapsed through the doors luan panel, throwing him off balance. Jamber guessed right on the intruder’s intention and bent backwards, twisting his body under the punch, and causing the blow to glance off the underside of his chin. The man in the leather coat, following the momentum of the punch, completed a small circle by lifting his foot out of the punctured panel as he leapt backward, over the door, and exited down the stairs, three steps at a time.

Jamber’s naked body surfed against the grungy filth of the Monsanto era carpet, peeling patches of skin off his shoulder, knee, and cheek, as he rolled backwards, rising for battle in the direction of the fleeing intruder.

Who the fuck was that? Sarah exclaimed, side stepping Jamber’s naked circus flip.

One of Anthony’s crack-head lovers. Jamber responded, his eyes still fixed on the open doorway, half expecting a return assault.

How come normal mornings don’t ever happen in Harlem? Anthony’s out of town, I’ll have to re-hang this door before I go to work.

Jamber had lived in Harlem, off Frederick Douglas Boulevard, for nearly three years. Prior to that he served as the liquor store legs and tool for an heiress to a trucking fortune, but once Norella determined, through an investigator, who his heiress was, she filed common law claims against the heiress for Jamber’s back child support—netting a one time out of court settlement of thirty grand. Spooked, Jamber’s heiress fled south leaving her three-bedroom, rent controlled, Lexington Avenue flat, to Jamber, as full and complete compensation for their relationship. Eventually, Jamber was forced by the family lawyers to vacate the premises, for which the lawyers received a fee, from the landlord, of seventy five thousand dollars.

Jamber’s mind was beginning to sift through the whereabouts of the tools he needed to re-hang the door, when Sarah’s voice intertwined with his train of thought.

Damn Jams, that’s some serious junk!

Jamber, reminded of the fact that he was naked, and realizing for the first time that his penis was fully erect, stammered through his response.

My adrenaline must have triggered a Viagra flashback!

Without seeming to have moved, Jamber found himself back in his room searching for his pants. In the rush he tipped over an unfinished forty. The rolling beer sent one of the escaped crabs from the pier scurrying for shelter.

South Bronx

5:23 a.m.

As Ricardo gripped the doorknob on the back entrance to the loft he felt the weight of the job site keys shift in his pocket. Looking down at his wrist his eyes fixed upon the colorful strands of his bracelet, woven on the night of his departure to America by his grandmother and his three sisters. Ricardo remembered the tear streaked faces of his sisters, and how his grandmother’s eyes always sparkled whenever she boasted about being able to thread a needle while servicing her lover, riding horseback, quoting Cervantes. Ricardo waded back through the throng of snoring bodies to where Limon was sleeping.

Out of habit Ricardo seated himself on a cushioned milk crate at the starboard side of Limon’s bed, his resident spot at the Inn, where for hours he unbaled his mind to his prone companero, stationed two feet off the ground on a gigantic mattress and box spring set, compliments of Martin Martins’ rug client. Limon slept flat on his back atop his bedding in biker briefs that looked like they were cutting off his circulation because of the massive girth of Limon’s thighs. Ricardo marveled how the strength of Limon’s body was hidden within a Mexican version of a compact Wooly Mammoth, crowned with a floppy mop of dark, thick hair.

Ricardo knew it would not be an easy task to wake Limon, who recouped his strength when he slept, taking in as much as six full days of rest in any single evening. Ricardo also knew that when Limon slept he acquired Hulk sleep, his mass mysteriously tripling in density.

Limon? Ricardo whispered amid the hideous howls, and throat clutching gasps admitted from the snoring bad painters, Limon! Ricardo spoke again as he crawled onto Limon’s bed, shaking him forcefully until Limon sat up, wide eyed, but still asleep.

Limon recognized Ricardo’s scent and instinctively clutched Ricardo to his chest, strangling the life out of him.

Limon…you’re crushing me…you…fucking ape!

Ricardo used the leverage of his long legs to press against Limon’s body in order to pry himself free.

I’m putting my keys in your work pants. Ricardo said, shaking Limon’s pants at him.

Take your hands off my pants! There’s panther scent in there, that’s not for you! Limon demanded groggily, swatting at his pants like King Kong.

Make sure you wear these pants to work. Ricardo reiterated, shaking Limon’s pants in front of him, and making a grand show of placing his keys in Limon’s front pocket.

I may not make it to work early enough to open the site. Open up for me if I’m not there.

I will! I will! Limon responded dutifully, nearly splitting open Ricardo’s scalp as he rutted his forehead innocently against Ricardo’s skull, then kissed each of Ricardo’s hands solemnly, before plummeting back to sleep.

Ricardo tried to wake Limon a second time, but there was no use, Limon was already launched into Hulk sleep, and experiencing accelerated cave bear R.E.M.S.

Ricardo wriggled his bracelet off his wrist, then slid the bracelet over the thickness of Limon’s fist, cautiously as not to destroy the bracelet while trying to make it fit.

This will help you remember… Ricardo whispered, recalling that the weight of Limon’s fist felt as heavy as a fresh can of paint.

Ricardo took the back entrance down the five flights of stairs and spilled out onto 140th street and Third Avenue in full stride.

Umberto caught a glimpse of Ricardo running toward the 6 train. First he sits in the window waiting for morning, then he’s out like a cat at the stroke of dawn!

Umberto had been roused by the three bad painters, who narrowly escaped a certifiable scrape on the street below his window, then, vehemently argued amongst themselves, nearly to the point of blows, opposing the undeniable truth of the matter.

Today is payday!

Umberto twirled his mustache through his fingers, releasing the trapped scent of his lady love, which fondly stung his nostrils.

Thanks God! Friday could not have come any sooner!

Umberto had spent the last four days breaking schist with Ricardo and Limon, in a brownstone basement on the upper West Side, each day hotter than the next.

A few more years of this wrist breaking shit, and I’m going back to my wife in Rincon for good!

Umberto and his childhood sweetheart Bunita tried unsuccessfully to conceive a child. After Bunita’s fifth miscarriage and the subsequent scooping out of her ovaries, the trauma unleashed a sadness that caused Bunita’s mind to spill onto her tongue non-stop. Unable to staunch the wound, and concurrently being terminated of his ancestor’s commercial fishing rights, Umberto fled to New York City, returning to Bunita twice a year for three weeks at a time, or until his wits were scattered sufficiently and he disembarked early.

Umberto took a measure of the heat as his mind pitched forward toward the evening fiesta. The tribe planned to meet in the court yard after work, play music and drink cold beer from a keg. Umberto was looking forward to singing with Ricardo and Limon, whom he treated as his own sons, come to him by way of the trades. Of all the tribe members that had passed through the Mexican Inn, Limon was by far Umberto’s favorite.

Limon required special attention, because his unnatural strength made him dangerous. Dangerous to anyone who unwittingly tried to match his pace, and dangerous to himself, because his work, fueled by inner joy, produced an effortless output, which could easily be coveted for ill gains by any jackass with a dead line and a harness. It was Limon’s inexhaustible outpouring of good will that set him apart from others. Limon never tired of being useful, and he would lend his gift of strength to anyone in need, no matter the size of the remuneration. His inseparable companion, Ricardo, however, was the most uncharacteristic construction worker on the face of the earth—a steel toed, thirsting scholar, from Merida, sculpted in the frame of Adonis. Ricardo embraced construction to squelch the pain of the death of his father, who was still very much alive and in good health, but had squandered his intellectual prowess filling an absent need for wealthy women.

Young Turks! Umberto spat the words from his lips. All too eager for green American blood!

Maine

5:38 a.m.

Paddling around a small knoll of tangled brush, Tyler turned into a narrow passage which opened upon two thin strips of land, separated by a few boat lengths of water. On the thin strip of land, off the starboard side of the kayak, less than fifty yards from the entrance to this secluded, aquatic alley way, stood the bull moose. Its marbley, dark glare completely un-negotiable. The animal infused the surrounding atmosphere with the musky presence of male dominance. Tyler braced the paddle deep into the mud at the stern of the craft, to avoid gliding into the direct path of the moose. The moose did not appreciate Tyler’s sudden movement and lowered its enormous rack in a charging posture—making a jerk toward the kayak. Tyler leapt out of the boat, heading for the thin patch of ground, directly across from the spit of land the moose was standing on. The force of Tyler’s body, pressing out of the craft, sent the kayak veering toward the moose. The moose, seeing the red torpedo rushing toward it, retreated inland. Tyler reached the small, spongy mound and took cover behind a thin gathering of trees, none of which would stop the charging momentum of the bull moose. Looking across the water Tyler could see that the bull moose had retreated from the shoreline, and was peeking around a line of bushes to see what Tyler and the red torpedo were up to. The moose did not seem as threatening now, kneeling off the ground, its cannon bones and splayed hooves tucked beneath itself, observing both Tyler and the red torpedo, twisting slightly at the very spot where the moose was grazing. Tyler made a point not to move and after a few short moments the moose began to reassemble itself before trotting off, filling the woods with its regal presence, rattling its rack through the trees.

Tyler struggled to maintain his balance pulling his feet out of the mud with large sucking gulps as he made his way back to the kayak, wondering how he ever got across the lake seconds before. Tyler looked, but he couldn’t find his initial footprints. In Tyler’s dry sack one of his two phones rejected another of Irish Al’s calls for lack of a signal. Tyler purchased a second phone purposely to contact Irish Al from the lake, knowing Al was at the end of his rope, buried by a construction job that Irish Al had grossly under bid.

Chapter 2

Predator: Self-Employed 5:21 a.m

Instinctively Jacob slammed the brake pedal to the floor and clenched the steering wheel, his elbows locking as the sound of a body, smashing into the side of his van and rolling over the top of the hood, roused Jacob violently, from his brief sojourn into the outstretched arms of Morpheus. Through dry, unfocused eyes, Jacob watched with horror as what looked like a black leather cape twisted over the hood of his van, followed by the red stripes of a black man’s eyes, glaring at Jacob, upside down, through the tinted glass of his windshield.

Jacob watched through the passenger side window as the man landed in mid-stride with great athletic dexterity, then sped across the two-way traffic of 135th Street, which even at five a.m., was only clear for that instant, the tail end of one taxi shift rolling into another.

Oh, my god! I hope I’m not driving! Jacob exclaimed as he squeezed his last glance at the man sprinting past the police station across the street; without disturbing the conversation the three officers were engaged in on the steps.

Jacob ran a test through his body and concluded that he was indeed parked, and that the fleeing man had used Jacob’s van as a springboard, bounding from the stoop, to the van, to the middle of the street, all in one motion.

Jacob stepped from the van and shook himself out on the sidewalk. Three shirtless youths, one nineteen, the others fourteen and sixteen, each dressed in baggy jeans and carrying muddied, white tank tops, tucked into the back of their pants, sauntered around Jacob, looking over their shoulders at the curious interloper as they passed. Jacob expanded his body to its six-foot-three inch frame, as the three youths, the youngest packing a forgotten peanut butter and jelly sandwich in his back pocket, strolled the familiar sidewalk, their legs rubbery, their youthful spirits surging, having worked straight through the night for the first time in their lives.

Today! Jacob could hear the oldest boy scoff, smacking his knuckles into his open palm as he spoke.

He said he would pay us today, today! The second boy parroted in.

The foreman said his boss was straight up with money. The oldest boy continued.

He never showed! The second boy exclaimed.

We finished the job. How we gonna’ get paid if we don’t have a place to collect money from? The oldest boy asked, throwing the question into the center of the pack like a poker ante.

We got the man’s business name… The second boy replied.

Business name? That’s just a bunch a’ letters he drew on the side of his truck with a fat-ass Sharpie! The oldest boy responded.

The third boy with the peanut butter sandwich flattened in his back pocket, floated his response into the conversation as he walked along propelled by the wonder of adolescence, and the mystery of earning money.

I’m gonna get them new shoes, for me and my brother, when that money comes, and that space costume he wanted last Halloween—take out fifty—then I’ll give over all the rest—full, to Auntie Dee. Just like I set down from jump!

Jacob watched the boys as they turned off the block, their gestures exploding out from the huddle of their bodies, like bottle rockets, shooting in all directions.

Jacob stretched out his right hip, that absorbed a helmet spear while returning an interception, playing varsity football his freshmen year. The injury netted his mother an equipment failure settlement of one hundred and fifty grand. The settlement included Jacob’s ban from competing in the sport as a minor. Jacob turned his athletic attention to wrestling, winning the state championship his senior year, and placing third in the nation in the shot put. Jacob noticed that the three cops on the steps of the police station had ceased their conversation and were looking his direction. Two of the officers were in uniform; one of the cops was in shorts, a tank top, and covered head-to-toe in ink. A walking replica of Ghiberti’s doors. Jacob flashed a badge at the officers and they each chucked him a head nod.

New York City’s pre-dawn atmosphere was stagnantly hot and stale and Jacob felt as if he were standing in the gaping throat of a giant crocodile, overwhelmed by the nauseating smell of the city off-gassing around him like an undigested kill.

"Maybe this ain’t my kinda’ town?" Jacob thought, as he wiped the perspiration dripping into his eyes with the shoulder of his MMA walkout tee, then stared at the address of the perps’ building, as Jamber, Jacob’s perp, burst through the vestibule, lugging the trampled door, and the bundled remnants of splintered casing.

Jamber purposely raked a three-inch-ten-penny nail, protruding through the casing, against the sidewalk, causing Jacob to clench his shoulders, then Jamber chucked the door onto a waist-high pile of black garbage bags, heaped on the curbside of the street, causing a cloud of rats to scurry Jacob’s direction. Jamber studied Jacob furtively as he bent back and snapped each of the three-inch nails protruding through the casing.

This is my law man… Jamber thought, as he studied the young stud geeked out before him in black jeans, leather motorcycle vest, and calf-high, steel-toed-boots, (equipped with sneaker treads, and areas on the back of each boot designed to holster concealed weapons).

Hey. Jamber muttered, raising his mallet shaped jaw in the direction of Jacob’s body, as he poured the nails he snapped into the hole in the door, and rattled them to the bottom.

Hey. Returned Jacob. His stomach churning as if his organs were doing a load of laundry, his hands and feet poised to rain blows at a multitude of vulnerable striking points—the anger of his fatherless childhood raging beneath his skin.

Can you give me a hand? Jamber asked.

Sure. Jacob answered, eager to close the distance between himself and his perp.

The picture Jacob had of Jamber captured a younger man. Jamber’s features now were hardened and there were several bits of Jamber’s face that appeared to be missing.

Who hasn’t hit this guy? Jacob thought.

As Jamber drew closer Jacob was startled by the smell of Jamber’s hair, it was girlie, and hung from Jamber’s head like a slithering, gnarl of snakes. He also noted that Jamber’s lower part of his body was massively thick, especially his calves and thighs, and his shoulders were broad, resembling an ox capped in a Robert Plant wig.

Jacob squared off in front of Jamber, remembering the countless times he watched his mother rifling through her purse, searching for money that Jacob knew wasn’t there.

Take an end to this tape measure, would ya’? Jamber asked. Spreading the tape measure across the width of the door first, then handing the end of the tape to Jacob, who pressed the tape firmly to the bottom of the door. Jamber checked the measurement, then gave the tape measure a short tug, purposely pulling Jacob off the mark, then he shouted at Jacob in a playful gruff manner.

Put some pressure behind it so it doesn’t move, will ya! The new door’s gonna be metal. Ten times heavier than this piece of shit. You don’t want me to have to run a blade across a thing like that twice, on account a you havin’ a weak pussy finger, do ya?

A broad, infectious smile, spread over Jamber’s face as he looked down the length of the door, offering Jacob the opportunity to take part in the rubbing and stand-up for himself.

Jacob’s shoulders knotted as he experienced an immediate flush of shame, absorbing Jamber’s scolding and submerging the entire history of hatred that he had for the blank slate of the man in front of him, his perp, who committed the first measurement to memory, yet extended the tape measure to Jacob a second time, smiling, annoyingly, even wider.

You gotta place to stay? Jamber asked, studying the lost look Jacob cast over the prone door, strewn atop the stacked pile of garbage bags.

Just pulled in.

Jacob answered, taking the tape again from Jamber and recollecting the night his door fell from its mooring, christening his first night away from home with the fruitless effort he endured, struggling to get the stripped screws to grip the cavernous holes behind the hinge plates.

Where from? Jamber asked, drawn to Jacob in way that he could not ascertain.

Been in the desert. Now I’m here. Big Lights. Big City. Jacob answered.

Traveling? Jamber asked.

Quit the first job I ever applied for, outside of Stockton. Been on the road ever since.

Other times, Jacob lied with a smoothness and used his demeanor to appear older, while now, he purposely revealed an ability to seem naïve for the sake of concealing his intentions.

Jamber could not take his eyes off Jacob and began circling around what he was trying to say, his mind shaded by something he could not put his finger on. A familiarity, focused around an urge to keep the stranger close.

I help run this building for the landlord. The super lives in the basement, and him and his family, sort trash for rent. The landlord pays me to fix things when he’s out of town. We had a tenant move out, middle of the night, night before last, Felix the horse guy—poof! Just vanished. Nobody’s gonna be movin’ into his place until the landlord gets back, which’ll be Tuesday, so, if you need a place to crash, even for an hour or two, it’s up those stairs, second door on the right, room next to mine.

Jacob released the tape measure watching Jamber’s mouth move, his feelings of rage colliding with a collage of impressions from his childhood, made it impossible for him to follow anything Jamber said.

The door to Felix’s’ room is open, and the entrance door to the floor, that’s it right here… Jamber gave the door a kick. If you need a place to stay, you can stay in Felix the horse guys’ room until Tuesday, rent free, all you gotta’ do is be here when I get back, and help me hang the new door. I could wake the Super to give me a hand, but his cologne doesn’t gas until noon! I could need your hands to hang that new door, son. If you need it, I’ll give you a place to stay, you’re good ‘til Tuesday, rent free—you ever been in jail?

Jacob didn’t stir from Jamber’s abrupt shift in questioning.

Visited a lot. Never been in.

What about the door?

I’ll help you put the door on, I don’t know about the room, I’ll let you know when you get back. I might be just hangin’ the door, and takin’ off.

"And taking you with me." Jacob thought to himself.

Seen enough already, huh chief? Jamber questioned, smiling.

Seen all I need to see. Jacob answered, returning Jamber’s smile with a shit-eating grin of his own.

That’s why they call it the big apple. Jamber said.

Yeah, why’s that? Jacob asked.

Cause when you bite into it at first, you don’t see the worm. New York is all apple for some, all worm for others.

Hey, Jamber! You crazy fuck! One of the cops from across the street shouted.

Jamber turned his attention toward the direction of the police officers.

Isn’t it passed your bedtime? Jamber responded, pacing the sidewalk and shouting at the officers like Pacino, in Dog Day Afternoon.

Overtime. The second uniformed cop answered, glowingly.

Funny how that works! The city pays you less then you deserve to do nothing, and then, when you’re finished doing nothing, they give you time and a half to finish whatever it is you weren’t doing in the first place!

Jambers comment sent a knee-jerk reaction through the officers, who responded in unison.

Hey, shut your mouth!

What do you know about anything?

I’ll bust you for impersonating a human being.

Get a haircut!

Jamber smiled and started off down the street at a slow jog. Jacob watched as Jamber’s hair flapped up and down off the side of his head, like the wings of a large crow.

"Run old man—pound your legs out! When you get back, you’ll be cuffed in my perp van for a long ride!"

Jacob watched Jamber running, but he wasn’t covering ground—all of a sudden Jamber turned and started running backwards, shuffling sideways from the street curb, cutting between garbage cans, to the building stoops, back to the curb again. Jamber’s old man version of a cornerback drill, his hands outstretched in front of him, elicited a collective laugh from the officers, as Jamber traveled up the block on the diagonal, his feet constantly changing direction. "God, I used to love that drill—he’ll have plenty of time to work on that drill in the yard—after they lice-dust and scalp the heavy metal of his ass!"

CHAPTER 3

The Philly Damsel (5:40 a.m.)

Sarah stood in the hallway staring at the chaos that was once the main entrance to the floor of her summer rental. The shower was down the hall. How was that going to happen? Sarah thought, mulling over her options. "Another thing I’ll have to figure out for the three of us!" Sarah was the common sense portion of the Philadelphia Troika, completing their summer fashion course at F.I.T. Sarah shook her head, clearing the residual disbelief from the caffeine-less encounter with the massive bulk of her neighbor’s junk.

Sarah knew it would only be a matter of time until the eight rooms on the 2nd Floor of her six-week sublet were secured. "Jamber wouldn’t leave it like this." Sarah knew it was people like Jamber that maintained the balance of things set awry by circumstance and the corrosive pace of time. Anthony couldn’t care less, and he owned the property.

Sarah was reminded of the need to relieve herself and as she made her way toward the back of the hallway, her beach tongs accompanied her movement, with a skip-pity-clip-pity-clop-clop-clop. The singsong sound of Sarah’s flip-flops roused her always, half-dozing neighbor, who lived in the smallest room on the floor, at the end of the hallway, to the left of the bathroom. On hearing Sarah’s flip flops, Sherman Edwards sat up in his bed, rolled onto the floor, and pressed the entire weight of his body against the inside of his door, determined to pull every pore of his being nearer to the musical sound of Sarah’s being.

"Anthony would return from the country to the jungle on Tuesday, never on Monday." Sarah thought, as she performed the dance of the dying swan, hovering her body above the toilet seat and snap-kicking the door shut with her foot.

On hearing the door close, Sherman pulled his knees into the stump of his chest, clamped his hands on his ears, (in order not to hear Sarah pee), then hugged himself into a ball in the only amount of living space he had, the twenty-eight inch span, within the swing of his door. Crumpled behind his door in a heap, Sherman yearned to be connected to someone, anyone, beyond the confines of his eight-by-ten room. Sarah had never seen Sherman, but she had only lived with her two Drexel roommates, in the biggest room on the floor, for five weeks.

"Two days at home and back to Drexel after the summer." Sarah mused, comparing the difference between her dorm bathroom and this one, and wondering