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Chapter One

Monty has sat on this bench a hundred times, but today he studies the view. This is his favorite spot in the city. This is what he wants to see when he closes his eyes in the place he's going: the green river, the steel bridges, the red tugboats, the stone lighthouse, the smokestacks and warehouses of Queens. This is what he wants to see when his eyes are closed, tomorrow night and every night after for seven years; this is what he wants to see when the electronically controlled gates have slammed shut, when the fluorescent lights go down and the dim red security lights go up, during the nighttime chorus of whispered jokes and threats, the grunts of masturbation, the low thump of heavy bass from radios played after hours against rules. Twenty-five hundred nights in Otisville, lying on a sweat-stained mattress among a thousand sleeping convicts, the closest friend ninety miles away. Green river, steel bridges, red tugboats, stone lighthouse.

    Monty sits on a bench on the esplanade overlooking the East River, his right hand drumming the splintered slats, the leash wrapped tightly around his wrist. He watches Queens through the curved bars of an iron balustrade, the Triborough Bridge to the north, the 59th Street Bridge to the south. Midway across the river is the northern tip of Roosevelt Island, guarded by an old stone lighthouse.

    The dog wants to run. He battles the leash, straining forward on hind legs, coiled muscles twitching, black lips drawn back from bright fangs. After four years of taking Doyle to the river, Monty knows that letting him loose would bring warto the esplanade. Maybe the pit bull would mount the Dalmatian bitch by the broken water fountain, maybe he'd brawl with the Rottweiler. No matter, splatter the pavement with dog seed or dog blood, sound out the vast arena with barks and yelps—Doyle is ready to go.

    The river flows forty feet below man and dog, muddy green, pierced here and there with the shimmer of aluminum soda cans. A freshly painted red tugboat, flanks studded with truck tires, hauls a garbage barge downstream. Seagulls circle above the barge, cursing each other, white wings translucent in the first minutes of daylight. They dive into the waves and snatch scraps of edible trash, swallowing with a quick jerk of the head.

    Doyle squats down on the pavement and watches the other dogs sadly, his mouth slightly ajar, his tongue leaping out now and again. A swollen-chested pigeon, clawed feet the color of chewed bubble gum, struts forward with bobbing head till the pit bull sends him flying with a casual growl. Three benches away a man practices his chords on a twelve-string guitar. Two young men in hooded sweatshirts pass by, jeans worn below their hips, green letters tattooed on their knuckles. They nod to Monty but he doesn't notice them. He is watching the river run south, the giant smokestacks of Queens blowing white clouds skyward, the tram rising from Roosevelt Island, the shine of traffic on the 59th Street Bridge. A plane climbs above LaGuardia and Monty follows its ascent, the left wing dipping as it angles west. He is intent upon the flight, the ease with which the silver jet speeds away.

    Monty feels tension on the leash spooled around his wrist. Doyle has risen again, to utter a sharp bark of warning at an approaching man. The newcomer stops and waits, a frightened half smile on his face. He is not dressed for the unusual warmth of this January morning: a long scarf looped twice around his neck, a heavy down parka splitting at the seams, rubber boots rising nearly to his knees. He steps from foot to foot, chewing his gum madly.

    "What's up there, Monty? You're out early today."

    The plane has disappeared. Monty nods but does not speak.

    "You want to tell the dog to relax? Hey there, pooch. Hey, good dog. I don't think your dog likes me."

    "Go away, Simon."

    The man nods, rubbing his hands together. "I'm hungry here, Monty. Woke up an hour ago, and I was hungry."

    "Nothing I can do about that. Go up to a Hundred and Tenth."

    "A Hundred and Tenth? Come on, I'm good." He reaches into his pocket and brings out a wad of five-dollar bills held together by a rubber band.

    "Put that away," snaps Monty, and Doyle snarls.

    "Okay, okay. I'm just saying I'm not looking for a mercy pop."

    Monty stares at the lighthouse across the river. "I'm over, man."

    Simon points to a trail of small scabs along his throat. "Look at this. Cut myself shaving this morning—four times! I can't keep my hands steady. Come on, Monty. Help me out here. I can't go to Harlem—look at me. Who do I know in Harlem? They'll gut me up there. I'll be like Jerry running from Tom. Need my cheese, Monty, need my cheese! I'm starving, man."

    There is a long silence and then Monty stands and walks toward the man, closer and closer until their faces are inches apart. "You need to leave me alone, friend. I told you, I'm out of business."

    Doyle sniffs at Simon's boots, then raises his head, snout climbing the man's leg. Simon dances a half step, trying to keep away from the dog without startling him. "What are you talking about? You worried about me narking you out? Look at me, man. You know who I am."

    "You're not listening to me. I got touched. Game over. So back off and go home to your lawyer mother or go to a Hundred and Tenth Street, whatever you want. Just leave me the fuck alone."

    Simon blinks and stumbles backward, tries to laugh, looks behind him, looks down at Doyle, rubs his nose with the back of his hand. "Five years I've been coming to you. All right, no problem. I'll leave. There's no need to be nasty."

    The dog is anxious to move; he tugs at his leash and Monty follows him past the concrete chessboards where the two of them have stood in the summer crowds, watching the duels. Little Vic used to play here; Little Vic who had been grand master at Riker's Island until a Russian got busted on forgery charges and demolished him in four straight games. But no hustlers punch their chess clocks today; too early on a winter's morning. The rubes are all home eating breakfast.

    Monty and Doyle walk west, pausing behind a fence to watch a basketball game, the teenage players taking advantage of the warm air, one last game before school. Doyle sniffs posts that stink of yesterday's piss. Monty assesses the bailers quickly, accurately, and disdainfully. The point can't make an entry pass to save his life; the two guard has no left; the big man down low telegraphs his every shot. Monty remembers a Saturday when he and four friends owned this court, won game after game after game until the losers stumbled away in frustration, an August afternoon when every jump shot was automatic, when he could locate his teammates with his eyes closed and slip them the ball as easy as kissing the bride.

    Man and dog walk down a cascading series of steps into the courtyard of Carl Schurz Park. A square of black bars encloses two rows of stunted gingko trees, their leaves shaped like Japanese fans. Old people, enjoying the weather, gather on the benches that line the gated plot, throwing crumbs to the birds, reading the back pages of the Post, chewing potato knishes. Black women push white babies in plastic strollers. Jagged boulders scrawled with paint serve as markers on the slopes surrounding the courtyard: MIKO+LIZ; 84 BOYS; THE LOWLITE CRUZERS; SANE SMITH. Sane Smith was here. Sane Smith was everywhere. Sane Smith is dead, having jumped from the Brooklyn Bridge. At least that was what Monty heard. The farthest-ranging of New York graffiti artists, Sane Smith wrote his name on billboards and highway overpasses and water tanks everywhere from Far Rockaway to Mosholu Parkway, Sheepshead Bay to Forest Hills, New Lots to Lenox. They'll be scrubbing his name from walls for the next hundred years.

    Doyle pauses to inspect the treasures held in an orange wire-mesh garbage can, but Monty pulls him forward. As they wait for the light to change on East End a fire truck rumbles past, the men on board big-boned and confident, slouched and ready in their high boots. A rear-mount aerial ladder, thinks Monty, and he watches the red truck disappear to the north. You could have been a wonderful fireman, he tells himself. Instead he is here, walking his dog in Yorkville, staring at everything, trying to absorb every detail, the way fresh asphalt spreads like black butter across the avenue, the way taillights at dawn flash and swerve, the way bright windows high above the street hide people he will never meet.

    He passes a diner on Second Avenue. A beautiful girl seated in a booth smiles at him, her chin propped on a menu—but it's too late, she can no longer help. In twenty-four hours he boards a bus for Otisville. Tomorrow at noon he surrenders his name for a number. The beautiful girl is a curse. Her face will haunt him for seven years.