Sweaty but satisfied, my next stop is a quick one: Grand Central.

The main hall is a surrealist campground. Boschian. I note some expensive-looking tents, semipermanent structures, bikes, hibachis, dogs, children. There’s scarcely a square meter of empty floor space.

But I bypass all this, got things to get done, head downstairs. To the self-operated storage units.

I exit via Vanderbilt Avenue. Popping a pill. Slip a keycard to a locker in my back pocket. And do up the Purell^TM, God knows who uses those nasty lockers.

Hang a left onto 42nd, so close to home, thinking about my books, and immediately pull myself into an atrium.

A pair of soldiers. Man, what the fuck am I thinking strutting around? No question, Rosenblatt will have put out an all-points. No question about that. I don’t want to get braced by anybody in a uniform, it’d spell calamity. Game over.

And lo, here are these boy scouts, effectively blocking access to a subway. To Iveta. To some resolution.

Think fast. The grunts bullshitting, bored. Neither clocks me. One Latino kid, one black kid. Two HK MP5 machine pistols. Mad heavy firepower. Way the fuck beyond what I pack.

Come on, Decimal, work it out. Something proactive. Sick of turning tail like the weaker dog.

On the brown kid’s utility belt, a portable shortwave phone.

Proactive. Think System. Simplicity.

I have it. All or nothing.

First: check for further law. East and west. Nobody, save one or two citizens.

Proactivate, Decimal.

Coming out of the recess, I drunk-stumble toward the pair. Grip my breast right-handed, like I’ve been cut. Hand halfway into my jacket, two inches from the butt of the Sig.

“Help,” I’m slurring, the boys already facing me, at ease, sure, but both double-grip their HKs. “Fuckin … Gotta help, goddamn. Been robbed, man. Bitch stabbed me …”

The black kid holds up a hand. Other kid just hangs tight. “Let’s just freeze it right there, sir …” Not buying this.

Stumble another foot forward, pointing now with my free arm, pointing past them, saying, “Serious, right fuckin there, the bitch has a knife …”

I can tell the black kid is sharp, wise to me, but: dude knee-jerk reflex follows my hand, swiveling his head, can see him gathering he blew it already, I want to console him, it’s barely a moment that his attention is divided—but that’s all I need.

Pray God forgives jackals such as me.

Bring my hand down now on the brown boy’s Koch, other hand has the Sig out, and boom, I shoot my young intelligent black brother point-blank in the eye.

Pushing the Latino’s HK into his groin, I take him down. He’s averting his gaze, almost in embarrassment, and it’s an easy thing to hit the pavement, me sitting on his gun, straddling him, the boy on his back, my Sig now shoved up under his jaw.

“Chill,” I say, though he’s not struggling. “Chill. Let’s take a breath.”

Clock his name patch. Him blinking at me.

“Diaz,” I say. “Brother, I’m not gonna kill you. Your radio, that’s …”

A tear slides out his left eye, then his right.

“Diaz, focus, man. Like I said, you’re gonna walk away from this. Entiendes lo que quiero decir?”

The kid is crying. Softly. Somehow it would be preferable if he fought back.

“Okay, man,” I say, trying to be mellow. “It’s all gonna work out. Just want to use your radio. Let’s make that happen.”

“Hakim. Hakim Stanley,” he says.

“Hakim … ?”

Diaz flips his eyes to the right. “We’re from Houston, man.”

“Okay,” I say.

“Fuck you. Man, we was in the sandbox together. Two tours, not a fucking scratch, yo. And you creep up out of fucking nowhere, man.” Spits in my face. “Fuck you. Fuck you if you clip me, fuck you if you don’t.”

I want to respond at the correct emotional pitch, really I do, but I am trying to come to terms with the fact that I have a stranger’s saliva in my mouth. I’m loath to admit that this detail trumps everything at the moment. I have a real handicap …

Might vomit. I avert my face so as not to hurl on Diaz. Who takes the opportunity, wisely, to pull his HK up, cracking me in the mouth with its butt.

If I managed to stay my gut beforehand, the gun-to-face impact does cause me to throw up, falling sideways as I do. I’m expelling nothing but bile from my empty stomach, and I bite pavement. If I black out, it’s just for a few moments. I think.

Two yards away, Diaz is methodically performing CPR on his buddy. His back to me. I’m neutralized, no longer worthy of attention.

“Diaz …” I say, which comes sounding like “Theath.” I put my hand to my mouth, comes away crimson.

Diaz doesn’t respond. He’s crouched over, listening to his buddy’s decimated face. Calm like. Blow twice. Listen again.

Attempt to call to him again, can’t, abort. My lips are split. I put my suit jacket sleeve to my mouth. Yet another suit; farewell, my sweet, farewell.

Listen to me. Bitching about fucking clothes.

Diaz has begun chest compressions. Pumping away. His technique is perfect, but that doesn’t alter the fact that Hakim was dead before he touched ground.

Diaz switches back to the two-breaths, listen sequence.

I try again. “Diaz, man.”

He’s back at the chest compressions, vigorous. Doing everything right.

For all my self-education, for all my posturing and talk of my System, I can’t escape the paradigm of my childhood, the brutal Southern Baptist duality of hard-panned extremes. The two-sided coin of pure good and of pure evil. I might be foggy on the details, but this is a stain on my spirit, and it vibes real.

Heads or tails. And I’m positive as to where I fall.

There’s a special corner in Hell for the killer of children. It’s extra hot. I know this like I know the contours of my Beretta.

But I never underestimate my ability to compartmentalize. I’m a genius in that department.

Bang, and Diaz is standing over me, the HK primed and shoved in my chest. Nothing to be done. It is what it is.

We lock eyes, soldier on soldier, yin and yang. The tears are history. I read resignation. To what, I don’t know. I can only nod. All is as it should be.

“Do what you got to do, Diaz,” I say through my teeth. Or at least think it. Sleep would be a blessing. I feel a sweet flush of … what? Relief.

Diaz drops his weapon. Undoes his belt. Tosses it on my chest. Removes his helmet. Steps away. I look sideways as he places the headgear over Hakim’s face. He stays there for a moment, hunched over the dead kid. Lovingly, he undoes the chain around his friend’s neck and palms the dog tags.

Then he’s up, walking, without a backward glance.

I watch his back till I can’t see him anymore. Me and Hakim, we lie there for a bit.

It’s not for me to understand what just transpired. Why Diaz didn’t simply pull that trigger. But in this act of not doing, the young man has transcended the situation. Shown himself to be the more radiant, vital being.

Fuck it. Let’s trim the bonsais and get reflective later.

Check for the baggie and its contents. Phew. I fumble with Diaz’s discarded belt. Unclip the radio. Sit up, mentally checking for further injury. Beyond my face. Spit. Clear my throat. And key in a series of nines.

“Rosenblatt,” the DA picks up right away.

“Daniel,” I say, pulling out some Purell^TM.

Staticky pause. Then, “Dead man, Decimal. You are a motherfucking. Dead man.”

I hawk another chunk at the sidewalk. “Daniel, I’m not calling to chew fat. Calling to let you know, I’m on my way.”

“Won’t even. Waste my energy. I will hire. Every butcher in town. To motherfucking tear you. Limb from limb. The cunt too. Won’t raise a finger myself. Not a pinky. Over here. Both of you, the cunt. And you, Decimal. Will watch her suffer. Won’t be fast, be assured. Graphic. Sharp focus. Well lit. Follow?”

Static. Wait till I’m sure he’s done. “Daniel,” I say. “Fair warning. I’m coming to kill you, sir. I want you to say it, that you’ve heard me.”

“No, you hear me. You will wish. You’d done her yourself. You hear me.”

“See you soon, Daniel.” Who can talk to this guy?

This time, it’s me who terminates the call.