never, you know, look ahead. He lost all his hope.” Whelan paused, looked up at the
dark sky. Not far off, Freddy’s Dodge rumbled roughly. “He never had much to start
with. Some people don’t, you know.”
Sifkitz turned to Berkowitz. “Let me get this straight. What you want—”
“Just don’t kill the job,” Berkowitz said. “That’s all we want. Let the job die on its
own.”
Sifkitz realized he could probably do as this man was asking. It might even be easy.
Some people, if they ate one Krispy Kreme, they had to go and finish the whole box.
If he’d been that type of man, they would have a serious problem here…but he wasn’t.
“Okay,” he said. “Why don’t we give it a try.” And then an idea struck him. “Do you
think I could have a company hat?” He pointed to the one Berkowitz was wearing.
Berkowitz gave a smile. It was brief, but more genuine than the laugh when he’d said
he couldn’t draw a cat without having to write the word under it. “That could be
arranged.”
Sifkitz had an idea Berkowitz would stick out his hand then, but Berkowitz didn’t. He
just gave Sifkitz a final measuring glance from beneath the bill of his cap and then
started toward the cab of the truck. The other two followed.
“How long before I decide none of this happened?” Sifkitz asked. “That I took the
stationary bike apart myself because I just…I don’t know…just got tired of it?”
Berkowitz paused, hand on the doorhandle, and looked back. “How long do you want
it to be?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” Sifkitz said. “Hey, it’s beautiful out here, isn’t it?”
“It always was,” Berkowitz said. “We always kept it nice.” There was an undertone of
defensiveness in his voice that Sifkitz chose to ignore. It occurred to him that even a
figment of one’s imagination could have its pride.
For a few moments they stood there on the road, which Sifkitz had lately come to
think of as The Great Trans-Canadian Lost Highway, a pretty grand name for a no-
name dirt track through the woods, but also pretty nice. None of them said anything.
Somewhere the owl hooted again.
“Indoors, outdoors, it’s all the same to us,” Berkowitz said. Then he opened the door
and swung up behind the wheel.
“Take care of yourself,” Freddy said.
“But not too much,” Whelan added.
Sifkitz stood there while the truck made an artful three-point turn on the narrow road
and started back the way it came. The ductlike opening was gone, but Sifkitz didn’t
worry about that. He didn’t think he’d have any trouble getting back when the time
came. Berkowitz made no effort to avoid the Raleigh but ran directly over it, finishing
a job that was already finished. There were sproinks and goinks as the spokes in the
wheels broke. The taillights dwindled, then disappeared around a curve. Sifkitz could
hear the thump of the motor for quite awhile, but that faded, too.
He sat down on the road, then lay down on his back, cradling his throbbing left wrist
against his chest. There were no stars in the sky. He was very tired. Better not go to
sleep, he advised himself, something’s likely to come out of the woods—a bear,
maybe—and eat you. Then he fell asleep anyway.
When he woke up, he was on the cement floor of the alcove. The dismantled pieces of
the stationary bike, now screwless and boltless, lay all around him. The Brookstone
alarm clock on the crate read 8:43 P.M. One of them had apparently turned off the
alarm.
I took this thing apart myself, he thought. That’s my story, and if I stick to it I’ll
believe it soon enough.
He climbed the stairs to the building’s lobby and decided he was hungry. He thought
maybe he’d go out to Dugan’s and get a piece of apple pie. Apple pie wasn’t the
world’s most unhealthy snack, was it? And when he got there, he decided to have it a
la mode.
“What the hell,” he told the waitress. “You only live once, don’t you?”
“Well,” she replied, “that’s not what the Hindus say, but whatever floats your boat.”