PETITION

Abel Swift bandaged up his hand as best he could, given that there were no dressings or hydrogen peroxide in the apartment. To buy that kind of stuff from a bodega he would have to hump down six floors of stairs, and Abel hated exerting himself to waste money. He mummied up his hand with one of his wife's halter tops tied in a knot, which gifted him with a bonus twinge of revenge. It served her right.

He reminded himself to ask for more money. After careful consideration, Abel Swift adjudged that he had done no more wrong in his life than the average, basically good man. His flaws were forgivable; his transgressions, minor. He constantly strove to take stock of himself, subjecting his life to microscopic scrutiny, and this bargain-basement therapy spilled over into his prayers, every night.

"Oh Lord, I know you're a kind and tolerant God, so I am hoping that you will understand about Lizbeth. I am not a violent man, Lord, you have seen that, because you see and know everything, but sometimes the Devil tries to get at me through that bottle, and sometimes I have what you'd call that moment of weakness, like I had tonight, and I swear to you that I never meant to hit her, not hard at least, and it was ole Satan himself who raised my hand in anger, because if it had been me I only woulda hit her once. Once is all Lizbeth ever needs. She's slow, Lord, and I get frustrated when she can't track what I am saying. Like how she lets them dishes pile up until they dry and get all crusty and it never occurs to her to scrape 'em or rinse 'em or anything; then she put 'em in the dishwasher and the hot water sort of vulcanized the food onto the plates, then later the chunks broke off and clogged up the dishwasher, and how now neither the dishwasher nor the disposal neither works, and after I came home she was whining about it, you know in that way she does, Lord, and then she can't understand why I get mad, she just stares at me like some sort of befuddled animal, like she's trying to smell what I want, and that makes her face get a ll squinty and puffy and, well, God, it just makes me want to never stop hitting it. Plus I told her to bring back an extra fifth of whiskey, you know, as a kind of backup, because I knew the cabinet was low, and she forgot, so in total I could not possibly have been drunk enough to actually abuse my wife, because thanks to her there was not enough liquor in the house to get drunk on, so I hope you can see your way clear to letting me slide on account of my hitting her just a little bit. Like she probably told you herself, Lord, I only hit her when she deserves it.

"Now, God, as to MaryRose, you have to understand that it was her that sinned and started up all that commotion by getting called to the principal's office at school. Eighth grade girls ought not to wear that much makeup in school anyway; it makes them look cheap and tartish. Well, I figure all the boys were sniffing around and saying lewdness and it all sort of reached some kind of critical mass of sinning, or she would not have been called to the principal's office in the first place. Since everybody's screaming about capital punishment, you know the schools won't do anything anymore, Lord. About all they can do is send her home, and when I found out Lizbeth had thrashed MaryRose without my say-so, well, first I had to wake up Lizbeth — you know, revive her, with water and stuff — and give her a stern talking to about striking our daughter, which is and should be a father's responsibility. So I'm afraid I cracked Lizbeth a couple of more times, but when she fell and hit her head I found some Black Jack I'd forgotten about by the sofa, so I asked her to please forgive me for hitting her the first time.

"So I said, thank you, Lord — you remember that, right? — for the whiskey and by that time I really needed a drink, and I think you could understand and forgive me for just that one drink. Actually it was my own cowardliness, Lord. I think that I was afraid to face my daughter sober, and I took that drink — those drinks — keeping a weather eye out for the Devil, who by now I knew was looking to get a grab on me. MaryRose had been crying a lot and her makeup was all smeared. She looked kind of like a cross between a raccoon and one of those harlots, Lord. So I spanked her naked ass good, first with the hand, then with the belt. If she hadn't been wearing all that tawdry slut's clothing nothing would have jumped off the tracks, I swear it, God. But her little tight ass was all red from me spanking it and she was bawling like a water fountain, and she just kind of, well, grabbed onto me is a good way to put it, Lord. It wasn't the Devil of liquor but the Demon of lust that snuck in and took control. Preachers say you do this kind of thing as a test, Lord, and I admit that in this test I failed you in every way. I know you lay down the law, and I know what a sin is, and you probably think I'm a sodomite, but let me say in my own defense that I ain't that much of one, and besides, the Bible doesn't say anything about all that other stuff MaryRose committed on my weak flesh, but she sure didn't learn those moves in no junior high school, and if there's a sinner in this house, I think that she might be a bigger one than me.

"Now, Lord, about the farting ... "

#

Bill Gray considered the jolt of heroin within the sterile syringe, all waiting for his go-ahead, and in a supreme act of discipline, left it where it was. The cacophony inside his head was threatening to push out the walls of his skull, and the drug would calm the storm ... but not tonight.

The pain was like throbbing, necrotic pulp in every tooth, plus a needle driven through each eye, combined with a spiking cluster migraine, in addition to his sinuses being filled with hydrochloric acid. Heated. It caused him to twitch and jolt involuntarily, making him appear in the throes of some minor spastic fit or major brain anomaly. Pedestrians dismissed him as just another weirdo and strolled on.

With bloodshot eyes, Bill consulted a matchbook, and his sleep-deprived mind processed the address scribbled there. He leaned on the buzzer until a voice answered.

"Is this Abel Swift?"

"Yeah, who the hell is this at this hour of the night?" It was late enough that people felt compelled to say things like do you know what time it is?—Bill detested rote.

"My name is Bill Gray and I need to see you."

"I don't need to see you; it's the middle of the night."

"Open the front door."

"Fuck you, wino, go sleep it off."

It was a heartbeat before that intercom click that terminates further discussion. Bill was able to slide right into the gap.

"I have money for you, Mr. Swift." The pain in his head ebbed and offered him a small caesura in which to draw a single calm breath.

Among all the psychos and street flotsam that wander New York City in the dead of night, amidst all the incoherent ramblings and fever-dream monologues of the disenfranchised, within the unending stream of mad pronunciamentos issuing from the wild-eyed and lost, the average citizen may discern two select words that seem to be a part of every speech, by every grimy hostile one is likely to encounter. Those two words are bitch and money. Bill Gray had just used the second of those two potent words on the speaker grille that represented Abel Swift. Mr. Swift was now processing this information and would not cut him off.

"What? Did you say money?"

"Yes." Bill hoped he would not have to explain the concept of money to this ape. "Quite a lot of money. You need a lot of money, am I correct?"

"I don't know you."

"I know you. You work for Luther Paxson down in the meat-packing district. You and your friends call Luther the Grinch because he doesn't give bonuses at Christmas. You steal all the cuts you bring home and you sell cuts on the side to ten delis in Hell's Kitchen."

"Hey, who is this really?"

"I'm just telling you this to assure you that none of your secrets are out. Remember the basketball pool, two weeks ago?"

"Nobody's supposed to know about that!"

"What I know is that your pal Freddie took cash from the office safe, bet on the game based on inside information about the point spread, then sneaked the money back in after he'd won, and you knew about it."

"Jesus Christ, man, you trying to get me burgered?!"

"Freddie parlayed the win into more cash and I'm here to give you a bonus. Freddie sent a stranger so nobody could trace it. And he said to keep this strictly between you and him, with me as the messenger. After tonight you won't see or hear from me again, I promise."

Pause. Abel was praying that this score was for real.

"How much money?"

"Five large."

"I'll be right down."

Bill expected a sleepy guy in a grimy robe; Abel had actually donned pants and a muscle tee, and ventured down to the closet-sized foyer in person rather than permitting blind entry to a stranger. He kept his bandaged hand behind him for strategic reasons.

Abel microscoped Bill through shatterproof glass, first with one eye, then the other, tilting his head like a lizard. He did not like what he saw. If Bill had bothered to glance in a mirror, he would have seen a dazed and dishevelled man. He looked like car wreck victims look on the news — stunned, banged-up, flesh scuffed, grimacing into the too-revealing lights of news cameras the way shined deer stare down gun barrels. To Abel, the guy looked wobbly. To Abel, the guy was not right.

"You look like a junkie," said Abel. "Where the hell did Freddie dig you up?"

"You want the cash or don't you?" Bill palmed an envelope he had prepared. Exhibit A.

"Shove it through the slot."

"If I do that, you won't sign the note for it. Freddie said you have to sign the note."

"Show me."

Bill dutifully splayed the envelope. Inside was a wad of singles bracketed by two one-hundred dollar notes which had cost Bill $2.50 to Xerox. The whole package passed muster better than a prop in a movie. Abel's eyes went weirdly flat, his vision excluding everything but the money. He began to unlock the building's front door.

Bill felt an almost orgasmic rush, unadulterated by the pistol which had appeared in Abel's free hand. His trigger finger stuck out from a bloodied wad of cloth. A cooler lobe of Bill's brain registered the gun as a sleazy little revolver. No worries.

When Abel reached out for the envelope, Bill shot him in the hand with his own gun, a sleek polymer automatic, firing left-handed from inside his jacket pocket, smooth as thumbtacking a bug to a board. Abel jerked back and dropped his piece. The decoy money sprayed across the sidewalk, forgotten. Bill kicked the bottom of the door, sending the aluminum security frame straight back into Abel's cheek and sprawl-assing him on the dirty tilework. Bill was in.

"Get a gun from this century, moron," he said, lofting Abel's gang-banger into the lobby trashcan. Abel was trying to crab backward while holding his perforated hand to his bosom like a diva. He obviously did not enjoy the sight of his own blood. He screamed a torrent of invective.

No matter; Bill was inside.

Bill kicked him, and kicked him, helping to propel Abel back into the recesses of the lobby. No matter how much noise they made, no one would bother them. Not in this neighborhood; not at this time of night.

No matter; now they were, for all practical purposes, alone.

"I never seen you before, I don't know you, what the fuck you wanna do this to me for?!" This was more coherent than most of the floodtide spilling from Abel's face just now.

"Shut up!" Bill kicked Abel hard enough to snap two ribs. It did not help Bill's condition much, except to make him angrier. "I spend all day and all night waiting for you to shut up, and even when your mouth is shut you keep talking!"

"What're you talking about?!"

"I tried to stay away, Abel. I really tried. But you're too goddamn much for anybody to bear. Oh, God, please forgive me, oh, God, I'm sorry I hit my wife, oh, God, I didn't mean to butt-fuck my little girl, oh, Lord, I drink too much, oh, God, cut me slack for gambling, please, Lord, I'm not really stealing meat, oh, fucking Jesus I humbly beseech Thee, my life isn't my fault ... holy shit, you asshole, you pray constantly, when you're not mouthing prayers, you're thinking them, and there's no God to hear you, there's just me, and you're driving me crazy!"

Bill's face was scarlet. Saliva had foamed up in the corners of his mouth. Was it really just a few months ago he had enjoyed a fairly normal life managing a mailbox and packaging storefront on West 54th? He had had a girlfriend named Sally and plans to open a branch store uptown ... all dashed the first time the voice of Abel Swift, petitioning his Lord with prayer, popped into his head like a traffic cop in a rearview mirror. The stench of the slaughterhouse invaded Bill's head, promptly filling it with every detail of every transgression Abel Swift had ever wreaked upon the world, and Abel never stopped fucking up. The only thing worse than his ceaseless menu of sins was his constant whining for forgiveness — pleas that nested in Bill Gray's head, because they had no place else to go.

He knew Abel's hand had been gashed by Lizbeth's teeth, hence, the bloody bandage. Abel never left anything out of his prayers.

It had taken Bill a month to turn to drugs to obliterate the noise; another month to realize he was not insane, and a third month to gather enough details about Abel's life and job to actually locate him in the city. By then, the mailbox business had been attached, Sally had fled and Bill had spent most of his savings on scoring.

There was no God who cared to spare Bill Gray, so Bill had assumed control.

He emptied his gun into Abel, who spasmed with each hit. Five large. The sudden silence nearly caused Bill to swoon. He wiped his face down slowly, savoring the quiet. He could actually recognize his own voice when he spoke.

"Taste my wrath, you son of a bitch." ... Where the hell had a slope-brow like Abel learned a big word like vulcanized?

He could kick; he wasn't in that deep. He could call Sally and patch things up. He could roll up his sleeves and excavate his business. He could work hard and try to forget he had become a murderer. He could fight to win his life back.

He was almost home when he experienced a stab of pain in his left ear, and the voice of a woman named Arabella, earnestly praying that her next baby would be born healthy, eight months from now.