The armored truck idles at the light when Animal first sees it—two blocks up Avenue C, its boxy silhouette standing out. The late afternoon sun hits its dented side panel at a slant, making the scratched Liberty Secure Systems logo glow. He’s just stepped out of a bodega, a lukewarm coffee in one hand, the other resting on his belt where the holster should be. Habit.

Then a shopping cart rolls into the street.

Not just rolling—launched. It comes barreling out from between two parked cars, one wheel wobbling wildly, flames licking up from a ball of burning newspaper and plastic shit inside. The truck’s brake lights flare as it jerks to a stop.

Two figures in dark hoodies dart out after the cart.

At first Animal thinks they’re just running out to retrieve their runaway cart, but that’s stupid. The thing is on fire. The taller one moves toward the driver’s side with an M16 leveled. The shorter one—jittery, all elbows—goes for the rear doors, a revolver glinting in his hand.

Animal’s pulse kicks. Jesus Christ.

The coffee hits the pavement before he even realizes he’s dropped it.

–

The taller kid, short-cropped hair, shoulders squared like he’s done this before, brings the M16 up in one fluid motion. No shouting, no theatrics. Just the quiet certainty of violence.

His partner is all twitch and flinch, fingers white against the revolver’s grip as he fires a single shot into the rear door lock. The report cracks down the avenue, scattering pigeons from a fire escape. The kid flinches at his own gunshot, then scrambles for the handle like he’s surprised it works.

Money spills when he trips. The duffel bag splits open, bricks of banded cash tumbling across the pavement. The kid’s knee hits concrete as he frantically claws at the scattering bills, his hood falling back to reveal a face much younger than Animal guessed.

Christ. They’re twenty, maybe. Younger than half the rookies at the Ninth Precinct, their stubble still patchy, their Adam’s apples bobbing with every panicked breath.

Animal’s already in pursuit.

–

The kids peel east, cutting between stalled cars. The taller one moves like water, slipping through gaps in traffic without breaking stride. His partner keeps glancing back, smashing someone’s side mirror, the duffel bag bouncing against his thigh like a panicked heartbeat.

Amateurs.

A yellow cab screeches to a halt in front of Animal, its bumper kissing his shins. Animal plants one palm on the hood and vaults. The sheet metal dents under his weight. He doesn’t break stride. The kids are pulling ahead, their sneakers slapping against wet pavement. The taller one risks a look back—not afraid, calculating—then yanks his partner into a sharp turn into Tompkins Square Park.

Gravel sprays from under their sneakers. They clip a trash can, sending it rolling across the path. Animal gains on them, taking advantage of their confusion, and sees panic flash across their faces when they realize it. His fingers graze the back of the skinny one’s hoodie just as the taller kid spins around, bringing the M16 up in one fluid motion.

Animal throws himself sideways as the muzzle flashes. Three sharp reports shatter the park’s uneasy calm. Splinters of bark explode from the ancient elm tree where Animal’s head had been a second before. He hits the dirt and forces himself to lay flat, expecting more gunfire. None comes.

When he dares to peer out from behind the tree, the kids are on the far side of the park, heading north on B. Animal picks himself up and pulls his backup .38 from his ankle holster, a weapon the NYPD has to know exists, but chose not to take from him.

He keeps going.

–

The kids duck into a bodega at full sprint, the door banging open with enough force to shatter the glass. The electronic chime sings out—cheerful, absurd—as they tumble inside.

Stiles shoves Ryder hard into a display rack, sending him tumbling. As Ryder tries to untangle himself, Animal comes in through the door and runs straight to the back, Stiles in his sights. Ryder, not believing his luck, limps out the front onto the sidewalk. He looks around, trying to figure out what the hell to do next. He doesn't account for this. He has no idea where to meet back up with Stiles. They have no plan.

A thought strikes him, turning his stomach sick. Does Stiles just take off on him?

–

Animal spots the thin kid half buried in bags of Utz's, figures he doesn't have to worry about him. It is the one with the goddamn assault rifle he needs to stop.

Coming out the back of the bodega into a narrow space, he sees that the kid has managed to scale a chainlink fence, topped with razor wire for fuck's sake, and has thrown himself across the trunk of a sedan, already a half block away. The kid is laughing.

Animal stands there, catching his breath. This isn't the two kids splitting up to make Animal’s job harder. This is the tall kid leaving the skinny one in the lurch. It’s each man for himself, but the kid inside the bodega doesn't know that.

He heads back inside, taking his time, figuring the kid will probably give it up. Animal knows a thing or two about getting fucked over.

–

The rooftop door slams shut behind Ryder. He spots the cop coming back for him, so he runs directly across the street and into an apartment building. It is a tenement, and he sprints up the four narrow flights of stairs, taking in the smells that seem to come with every one of these buildings he's ever been in. Cooked food, fried, a stinking garbage bag left outside a door, a hint of cat spray, and mothballs. Where do the mothballs come from?

On the roof now, he realizes what a bad idea this is. He looks down at the fire escape and is calculating his chances of dropping down onto it and not turning his ankle. Not great. Ryder is stuck.

The sun hangs low and heavy over the city, painting the brickwork in shades of burnt orange and blood red. His breath comes in ragged gulps, each inhale tasting of iron and the sour tang of his own fear.

Stiles takes off on him. Well, fuck him, he'll be fine on his own. As soon as Ryder has that thought, he realizes what a lie it is.

Then the door bursts open behind him.

–

Animal steps onto the roof, his sneakers crunching over gravel. He holds his .38 down by his thigh. The dumb kid drops his own gun back in the bodega, and Animal has it stuck in his waistband.

"Kid," Animal begins, then stops. That kid is running towards the lip of the roof. He’s going to jump.

The gap between buildings is nothing—a sidewalk crack blown up to rooftop scale. Ryder takes it without breaking stride, his Chucks slapping against the opposite ledge. He doesn’t look back. He doesn’t need to. He can feel Animal coming, an unstoppable force. Ryder knows he’s a cop. Everyone knows Animal, and knows to avoid him.

By the time Animal clears the jump, Ryder’s sprinting to make the next one. His adrenaline is at absolute maximum. The gap is before him, the alley below a distant, shadowed slash. The duffel bag slips from his shoulder at the last minute, the weight of it pulling him off balance.

Fuck.

For a heartbeat, he’s weightless. Then his front foot hits the opposite ledge—too short—and his knee buckles. He goes down hard, his ribs connecting with the roof’s edge with a burst of white-hot pain. Bricks of cash spilling down into the abyss below.
Ryder barely registers the loss. He scrambles to pull himself fully over the ledge, gasping for air, disoriented. Animal lands to one side of him, having easily made the jump. He is barely even breathing hard.

"Kid," he says, again, "take it easy, okay?"

Ryder lies, frozen in fear. Animal glances over the edge, down where the money has fallen. "Whoever finds that cash, it's going to make their year." Animal goes over and sits on the edge of an old, metal framed double-pitched skylight, glass that hasn't been cleaned properly in the last fifty years. "Sit."

Ryder scoots over and sits on the lip, putting about five feet between himself and Animal. He feels busted, trapped, cornered, but Animal isn't acting like a cop.

"Do you know who I am?" Animal asks.

Ryder’s afraid to answer. Animal sort of laughs at him, but not because it is funny. "I'm John," he finally says. "What happened with your friend?"

"He left me," Ryder replies.

"That's the thing," Animal says, "they always do. If you remember that, it'll go a little easier next time."

He lights two cigarettes and offers one to Ryder.

–

They can hear sirens. "Don't worry," Animal says, "it'll take those jerkoffs forever to even think of looking up here."

"Are you arresting me?"

"I'm suspended. Half salary. They can go fuck themselves."

After a bit, Animal takes Ryder’s duffel bag and looks inside. "Huh," he says, impressed. He hands Ryder two fat bundles.

"If I crawl down that shaft and pick up what you dropped, it'll be enough they won't ask me what I'm doing smack in the middle of a crime scene," Animal says. "Maybe I'll get my job back."

"You think so?" Ryder asks.

"Probably not. Even if they did, I wouldn't accept." He takes a deep drag on the cig. "This might keep me out of jail, though."

Ryder's fully confused by all of this, but he's holding five grand and this cop seems like he's gonna let him go.

As if reading his mind, Animal nods at the cash in Ryder's hands. "That didn't happen."

At a loss, Ryder just stares as Animal stands up, dusts off his jeans, takes the duffel, and heads down the stairs. By the time the first patrol car arrives on the block, Ryder's already three blocks away, the money heavy in his pockets.

He walks to the 8th Ave Express subway, where he'll get off at Times Square, walk into Port Authority, and buy a bus ticket to Los Angeles. He'll think about Kristen, feel bad for a little bit, but then put her out of his mind. By the time the bus starts rolling, he'll be fully asleep.

16

The key turns smoothly in the new deadbolt—third floor walk-up above the green grocer on East 14th Street. Bare walls, a mattress on the floor, but it doesn't smell like piss and Sambuca. That’s something.

Downtown Beirut’s quiet at this hour. Animal walks in and grabs a seat at the bar. Shot of Jim Beam. He is hoping to see the blond girl but she's not working tonight. He drinks the whiskey and leaves a ten under the glass.

The whiskey warm in his gut, Animal walks east until the tenements give way to the rusted chain-link fence along the river. Beyond that, the FDR overpass, retaining wall, river. The water smells like salt and rotting piers.

For the first time in fifteen years, there's no radio chatter in his skull. No itch for the piece that isn't there. Just the lap of waves against the wall and the distant scream of the subway train on the bridge.

–

The used bookstore smells of mildew and cat. Animal runs a thumb along cracked spines until he finds it—a copy of Catch-22. He saw someone reading it at Veselka the other day. They looked happy so maybe they know something he doesn’t. Three bucks. The college kid at the register doesn't look up from his Nietzsche.

Veselka. Good eggs. The kind of spot you went to with someone.

Instead, Animal tucks the novel under his arm and walks to Tompkins Square Park. He sits with the old chess guys, the junkies, the bums, the punks, the poets, the reactionaries, and the pigeons, and opens his book.

The End.

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