three disconnected sections of frame laid on the concrete, and so neatly that the parts
looked like one of those diagrams called “exploded schematics.”
Berkowitz himself dropped the screws and bolts into the front pockets of his Dickies,
where they bulged like handfuls of spare change. He gave Sifkitz a meaningful look
as he did this, one that made Sifkitz angry all over again. By the time the work-crew
came back through the odd, ductlike hole (dropping their heads as they did so, like
men passing through a low doorway), Sifkitz’s fists were clenched again, even though
doing that made the wrist of the left one throb like hell.
“You know what?” he asked Berkowitz. “I don’t think you can hurt me. I don’t think
you can hurt me, because then what happens to you? You’re nothing but a…a sub-
contractor!”
Berkowitz looked at him levelly from beneath the bent bill of his LIPID cap.
“I made you up!” Sifkitz said, and counted them off, poking the index finger out of
his right fist and pointing it at each one in turn like the barrel of a gun. “You’re the
Son of Sam! You’re nothing but a grown-up version of this kid I played the horn with
at Sisters of Mercy High! You couldn’t play E-flat to save your life! And you’re an
artist specializing in dragons and enchanted maidens!”
The remaining members of The Lipid Company were singularly unimpressed.
“What does that make you?” Berkowitz asked. “Did you ever think of that? Are you
going to tell me there might not be a larger world out there someplace? For all you
know, you’re nothing but a random thought going through some unemployed
Certified Public Accountant’s head while he sits on the jakes, reading the paper and
taking his morning dump.”
Sifkitz opened his mouth to say that was ridiculous, but something in Berkowitz’s
eyes made him shut it again. Go on, his eyes said. Ask a question. I’ll tell you more
than you ever wanted to know.
What Sifkitz said instead was, “Who are you to tell me I can’t get fit? Do you want
me to die at fifty? Jesus Christ, what’s wrong with you?”
Freddy said, “I ain’t no philosopher, Mac. All I know is that my truck needs a tune-up
I can’t afford.”
“And I’ve got one kid who needs orthopedic shoes and another one who needs speech
therapy,” Whelan added.
“The guys working on the Big Dig in Boston have got a saying,” Berkowitz said.
“‘Don’t kill the job, let it die on its own.’ That’s all we’re asking, Sifkitz. Let us dip
our beaks. Let us earn our living.”
“This is crazy,” Sifkitz muttered. “Totally—”
“I don’t give a shit how you feel about it, you motherfucker!” Freddy shouted, and
Sifkitz realized the man was almost crying. This confrontation was as stressful for
them as it was for him. Somehow realizing that was the worst shock of all. “I don’t
give a shit about you, you ain’t nothing, you don’t work, you just piddle around and
make your little pitchers, but don’t you take the bread out of my kids’ mouths, you
hear? Don’t you do it!”
He started forward, hands rolling into fists and coming up in front of his face: an
absurd John L. Sullivan boxing pose. Berkowitz put a hand on Freddy’s arm and
pulled him back.
“Don’t be a hardass about it, man,” Whelan said. “Live and let live, all right?”
“Let us dip our beaks,” Berkowitz repeated, and of course Sifkitz recognized the
phrase; he’d read The Godfather and seen all the movies. Could any of these guys use a word or a slang phrase that wasn’t in his own vocabulary? He doubted it. “Let us
keep our dignity, man. You think we can go to work drawing pictures, like you?” He
laughed. “Yeah, right. If I draw a cat, I gotta write CAT underneath so people know
what it is.”
“You killed Carlos,” Whelan said, and if there had been accusation in his voice,
Sifkitz had an idea he might have been angry all over again. But all he heard was
sorrow. “We told him, ‘Hold on, man, it’ll get better,’ but he wasn’t strong. He could