Free Every Shallow Cut by Tom Piccirilli Page B

a junkie or to have hit the wall and come crawling back home to practically cry on the doorstep of your childhood love, who double-locked you out of the house?
    “I had some powerful green tea,” I said.
    “Are you using a euphemism for marijuana?”
    “No, I am not.”
    “I see, sir.”
    I hadn’t expected the police in the Bronx to be so friendly. I just figured the guy would grab my wrist and wrench my arm up my back, cuff me, and throw me in the back of the patrol car.
    “Sir, what’s in the bag?”
    “My novel,” I said. “Or a part of it anyway. My agent’s girl is going to type it up. He’s sure something will break for us soon. And he’s going to keep pushing the other manuscripts. I’m keeping the faith. He’s going to get me a nice fat cheque soon. Hollywood is always after new material. This new book, he’s got a good feeling about it. Everything is going to turn around. He’s going to get me back on top.”
    “Please open the bag, sir.”
    I had a feeling my rights were being violated. I wanted to beat his young, handsome face in. Wasn’t there anyone anywhere who would just let you go on your way without making you try to explain yourself? How could you articulate what you didn’t understand yourself?
    I smiled pleasantly. I opened the rucksack.
    “Do you mind if I take a look at what you might have inside?”
    “Not at all, officer.”
    I tossed the rucksack at his feet. He bent to examine it and realized his mistake almost instantly. I brought my knee up hard into his chin. It was my signature move now, I supposed. An ugly crunch echoed across the busy street as blood burst from his mouth. The bodega boys stopped all the buying and selling of fruit on the sidewalk and froze to the spot. I didn’t want to fight a cop. I didn’t want to fight anybody. I wanted to be left alone, but I couldn’t even walk down a street in the south Bronx with an illegal gun packed in my bag without some bastard with his whole shitting life in front of him and the power of right and might on his side bothering me. The cop rolled and tried to reach for his gun. I nearly shut my eyes and waited for it to be over. Instead I booted him in the nuts. The gun fell out of his hand. A bus pulled up to the curb and a dozen people got off and nearly walked over the kid. I picked up my rucksack and got on the bus. The driver barked at me in Spanish and I handed him a bunch of coins. He tried to give them back and yelled louder. I pulled out a twenty and threw it at him, then went to sit. I didn’t know where the bus was going and I didn’t care. I haven’t killed anyone yet, I thought. I stared at the back of the driver’s head for miles.

It took me six hours to get back to Penn Station. The whole day was a blur of bus transfers and trains heading in the wrong direction. I finally figured out the way to get back home, caught the L.I.R.R. out of Penn and made it back to my brother’s house. I rushed up his driveway and threw the rucksack in the back of my car. There wasn’t any reason to go back inside except to get Church.
    I walked in and my brother slid the ottoman out from under his feet and jumped out of his chair.
    He hissed, “Where’ve you been? You’ve been gone for almost three whole days!”
    “I had to see my agent,” I said. “I had a manuscript to drop off. His girl is going to type it up. He’s sure something will break for us soon. And he’s going to keep pushing the other books. I’m keeping the faith. He’s going to get me a nice fat cheque—”
    “I had to take care of your dog. That’s not my responsibility.”
    “Thank you. Where is he?”
    My brother had the temerity to look a little self-satisfied. “In the garage.”
    I glared at him. “You piece of shit.”
    I went to the kitchen and through the door to the garage. Church was tied to a nail hammered into a work bench, sitting, waiting, looking a bit stunned. There was a bucket of water and an open can of tuna fish in front