Black Fridays Read Online Free PDF Page B

be a hump. It’s gonna hurt you to do a good deed?”
    I stopped. I was in a hurry, but he was right. Besides, it would make a good story for the guys on the desk. I helped a clown.
    Together we wrestled the trunk up onto the sidewalk.
    “You’re all right. Hey, I seen you. Over to the bar. Am I right or what?”
    Was he one of the sad-eyed regulars who could be found propping up the bar at P&G’s any hour of the day or night?
    “I’ve never seen any clowns in there,” I said.
    He laughed. “Sure you have. The joint is full of ’em.” He reached into a pocket. “Here, take my card. You never know, you might need a clown someday.”
    “JACQUES-EMO and WANDA the WANDAFUL—From Birthday Parties to Corporate Retreats—We’ll make you smile.”
    “What does Wanda do?”
    “It’s my act,” he said. “She’s just there for color, know what I mean? I do some magic and she keeps the rubes from watching too closely.”
    I pocketed the card. “Nice to meet you, Jacques. I’ve got to run.”
    “It’s Roger. Jacques is the name of the clown.”
    “I’ll remember,” I said.
    I ordered us a round.
    “So how ya been?” He did a little hop that got his butt up onto the barstool.
    It could have been a loaded question—my picture had been plastered all over the news two years earlier—but maybe I was being paranoid. I didn’t want to talk about where I had been the day before or the two years prior. But I trusted Roger. We’d been friends—bar friends. We didn’t vacation together or even send cards at Christmas, but we had spent hours together talking about everything and nothing once upon a time.
    “I’ve been away, Roger,” I said, hoping he would hear my reluctance.
    “I ain’t talkin’ about that,” he said. “You moved downtown, what? Five years ago? Six? And you never once come uptown to see your old friend? You should be ashamed.”
    Something else to be ashamed of. Pile it on.
    “I got married. Had a kid. Things got a little crazy with work for a while.”
    He was shaking his head. “I coulda read all that in the paper. I’m asking, how you been?”
    I had no prospects of a career. Few friends. An ex-wife, who I may still have loved, but maybe not, and maybe I didn’t really know what that meant anyway. And a son. Sick and a thousand miles away and being cared for by the alcoholic ex. It was all rather complicated.
    “I’ve been better.”
    “I hear ya.”
    “And worse,” I said.
    “Ain’t it always the way.”
    And something went click and I felt like I was home. The wolves were still outside, there was a hurricane brewing, and madmen ruled the world. But for the moment, a cold beer in a comfortable bar was pure bliss.
    —
    FRIDAY MORNING I MET with my parole officer. He had bad hair plugs and breath that stank of cigarettes and coffee. The man who would have absolute control over my life for the next three years didn’t bother to hide his boredom. He rattled off all the restrictions I would have to live with—including no travel outside the five boroughs without his written permission and don’t expect it anytime soon—then he gave me a list of ten employers who would hire ex-cons. I ran my eyes down the page. Terrific, I could become a bicycle messenger or a dishwasher. He saved his inspirational speech for last.
    “Listen up.” For the first time, he made eye contact. They were not kind eyes. “I wish you the best of luck and I hope you make it. Nobody wants to go back, but it happens. It happens often. I’ve got a good record with my clients and I’d like to keep it that way. But have no doubt—you screw up, you start missing meetings, you get caught hanging with the wrong people—I will file a request for an arrest warrant and never give it a second thought. Are we clear on that?”
    For a moment, I felt the walls closing in and thought I smelled the stench of prison. “Understood,” I managed to say.
    Still, the interview marked my first official act as a free