no one did. The smell of the leaves was like old dry cinnamon. The footsteps passed
him on either side, and then the crackle abruptly stopped.
Sifkitz sat up and looked at his hands. The palm of the right one was bleeding and the
wrist of the left one was already swelling, but he didn’t think it was broken. He
looked around and the first thing he saw—red in the glow of the Dodge’s taillights—
was his Raleigh. It had been beautiful when his Dad brought it home from the bike-
shop, but it wasn’t beautiful any longer. The front wheel was warped out of true, and
the rear tire had come partly off the rim. For the first time he felt something other than
fear. This new emotion was anger.
He got shakily to his feet. Beyond the Raleigh, back the way he’d come, was a hole in
reality. It was strangely organic, as if he were looking through the hole at the end of
some duct in his own body. The edges wavered and bulged and flexed. Beyond it,
three men were standing around the stationary bike in the basement alcove, standing
in postures he recognized from every work-crew he’d ever seen in his life. These were
men with a job to do. They were deciding how to do it.
And suddenly he knew why he’d named them as he had. It was really idiotically
simple. The one in the Lipid cap, Berkowitz, was David Berkowitz, the so-called Son
of Sam and a New York Post staple the year Sifkitz had come to Manhattan. Freddy
was Freddy Albemarle, this kid he’d known in high school—they’d been in a band
together, and had become friends for a simple enough reason: they both hated school.
And Whelan? An artist he’d met at a conference somewhere. Michael Whelan?
Mitchell Whelan? Sifkitz couldn’t quite remember, but he knew the guy specialized in
fantasy art, dragons and such. They had spent a night in the hotel bar, telling stories
about the comic-horrible world of movie-poster art.
Then there was Carlos, who’d committed suicide in his garage. Why, he had been a
version of Carlos Delgado, also known as the Big Cat. For years Sifkitz had followed
the fortunes of the Toronto Blue Jays, simply because he didn’t want to be like every
other American League baseball fan in New York and root for the Yankees. The Cat
had been one of Toronto’s very few stars.
“I made you all,” he said in a voice that was little more than a croak. “I created you
out of memories and spare parts.” Of course he had. Nor had it been for the first time.
The boys on the Norman Rockwell pitcher’s mound in the Fritos ad, for instance—the
ad agency had, at his request, provided him with photographs of four boys of the
correct age, and Sifkitz had simply painted them in. Their mothers had signed the
necessary waivers; it had been business as usual.
If they heard him speak, Berkowitz, Freddy, and Whelan gave no sign. They spoke a
few words among themselves that Sifkitz could hear but not make out; they seemed to
come from a great distance. Whatever they were, they got Whelan moving out of the
alcove while Berkowitz knelt by the stationary bike, just as Sifkitz himself had done.
Berkowitz picked up the screwdriver and in no time at all the left-hand pedal dropped
off onto the concrete—clunk. Sifkitz, still on the deserted road, watched through the
queer organic hole as Berkowitz handed the screwdriver to Freddy Albemarle—who,
with Richard Sifkitz, had played lousy trumpet in the equally lousy high school band.
They had played a hell of a lot better when they were rocking. Somewhere in the
Canadian woods an owl hooted, the sound inexpressibly lonely. Freddy went to work unscrewing the other pedal. Whelan, meanwhile, returned with the adjustable wrench
in his hand. Sifkitz felt a pang at the sight of it.
Watching them, the thought that went through Sifkitz’s mind was: If you want
something done right, hire a professional. Certainly Berkowitz and his boys wasted no
time. In less than four minutes the stationary bike was nothing but two wheels and