Free For the Love of Money by Sam Polk Page A

was anxious about us all being together, but Ben ignored us, kept to himself.
    That Friday Edward and I decided to go to a party across town. We were waiting to be picked up by some guys I knew from high school when, at the last minute, Ben said he was coming. He sat in the backseat, silent, looking out the window. I think he just needed to get drunk.
    At the party we went our separate ways. A few hours later I was very drunk when I saw Ben getting in an argument. The guy stepped toward Ben; Ben head butted him in the face. I rushed in to help, but someone pushed me and I toppled backwards over a bush.
    By the time I got up, Ben was being pushed back toward a gate at the rear of the backyard by people trying to stop the fight from escalating. Others were trying to calm the friends of the guy Ben had head butted. I ran to Ben, and he and I were suddenly pushed through the wooden gate, which slammed closed behind us.
    We found ourselves in an alley that ran behind the house. Edward had come out of the gate before us, and was relieved to see we’d made it out safely. But Ben was screaming taunts over the fence, trying to open the gate to get back in.
    â€œWhat are you doing, dude?” I hissed. “Let’s get the fuck out of here.”
    â€œFuck them,” Ben said. The shouts behind the fence weregrowing louder, and I could hear people frantically trying to quell the fury of what now sounded like a mob.
    â€œThere are like thirty guys back there,” I said. I looked to Edward for support, but he was fading into the shadows of the hedge next to the street.
    â€œI don’t care how many there are,” Ben said and then ripped off his shirt. His thick muscles rippled under the red-and-green dragon tattoo that covered his right arm from elbow to shoulder. He’d gotten that tattoo right before college, and for the first time I saw it as more than just a symbol of toughness. Fighting thirty guys wasn’t tough—it was crazy.
    The gate swung open and a cadre of drunk, angry men streamed out.
    The first three went for Ben, and I saw him snap back the leader’s head with a left jab to the chin. The next four guys through the gate went after me, and I started backpedaling as I threw punches to keep them at bay.
    My punches were connecting, and I kept my feet moving. I wasn’t getting hit too hard, but then a punch connected with my temple, and I went down but scrambled to my feet before anyone could get ahold of me.
    I heard tires screech behind me, and I glanced back and saw the Nissan Pathfinder we’d arrived in lurch to a stop, perpendicular across the street. The back door flew open, and the guys we came with screamed for us to get in the car. Edward and I scrambled in. Then I looked for Ben, and I’ll never forget what I saw.
    He was moving backwards, with five guys after him. There was one guy in the lead, and all of a sudden Ben leaned in and hit him with a hard left hook to the body. He must have hit a kidney, because all of a sudden the guy collapsed to his knees and dropped his hands. And without even pausing, Ben pivoted on his left foot, putting all his weight into it, andslugged the guy in the temple with his left fist. A sharp crack rang out, like wood being split.
    The other guys pulled up short. The brutality of the punch stopped them in their tracks. Ben dropped his hands, stood up tall, and started walking toward them.
    â€œBen!” I screamed. “Get in the car.”
    He looked back at me, and it was as if I had woken him from a dream. He looked at the guys, who were still backing away, looked down at the guy on the ground, and then hustled over to the car. The door slammed, tires squealed, and we were gone.

CHAPTER 9
    The Burglary
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    S ix months later, I stood on the cobblestone path that bisected Columbia University. It was Christmas 1999—­halfway through my sophomore year. I’d remained in New York over the break, because I didn’t