he were Moses. I fell in behind Tyrese. The ends of pipes would light up, popping through the darkness. It reminded me of going to the Barnum and Bailey circus as a kid and twirling those tiny flashlights around in the dark. That was what this looked liked. I saw dark. I saw shadows. I saw the flashes of light.
No music played. No one seemed to talk much either. I heard a hum. I heard the wet sucking sound of the pipes. Shrieks pierced the air every once in a while, the sound not quite human.
I also heard groaning. People were performing the lewdest of sex acts, out in the open, no shame, no attempt at privacy.
One particular sight - I'll spare you the details - made me pull up in horror. Tyrese watched my expression with something close to amusement.
"They run out of money, they trade this" - Tyrese pointed - "for hits."
The bile worked its way into my mouth. I turned to him. He shrugged.
"Commerce, Doc. Makes the world go round."
Tyrese and Brutus kept walking. I staggered alongside. Most of the interior walls had crumbled to the ground. People - old, young, black, white, men, women - hung everywhere, spineless, flopped over like Dali clocks.
"Are you a crack head Tyrese?" I said.
"Used to be. Got hooked when I was sixteen."
"How did you stop?"
Tyrese smiled. "You see my man Brutus?"
"Hard to miss him."
"I told him I'd give him a thousand dollars for every week I stayed clean. Brutus moved in with me."
I nodded. That sounded far more effective than a week with Betty Ford.
Brutus opened a door. This room, while not exactly well appointed, at least had tables and chairs, even lights and a refrigerator. I noticed a portable generator in the corner.
Tyrese and I stepped inside. Brutus closed the door and stayed in the corridor. We were left alone.
"Welcome to my office," Tyrese said.
"Does Brutus still help you stay off the junk?"
He shook his head. "Nah, TJ does that now. You know what I'm saying?"
I did. "And you don't have a problem with what you do here?"
"I got lots of problems, Doc." Tyrese sat down and invited me to do the same. His eyes flashed at me, and I didn't like what I saw in them. "I ain't one of the good guys."
I didn't know what to say to that, so I changed subjects. "I have to get down to Washington Square Park by five o'clock."
He leaned back. "Tell me what's up."
"It's a long story."
Tyrese took out a blunt blade and started cleaning his nails. "My kid gets sick, I go to the expert, right?"
I nodded.
"You in trouble with the law, you should do likewise."
"That's some analogy."
"Something bad's happening with you, Doc." He spread his arms. "Bad is my world. I'm the best tour guide there is."
So I told him the story. Almost all of it. He nodded a lot, but I doubted he believed me when I said I had nothing to do with the murders. I doubted he cared either.
"Okay," he said when I finished, "let's get you ready. Then we need to talk about something else."
"What?"
Tyrese did not answer. He moved to what looked like a reinforced metal locker in the corner. He unlocked it with a key, leaned inside, and withdrew a gun.
"Glock, baby, Glock," he said, handing me the gun. I stiffened. An image of black and blood flashed in my mind and quickly fled; I didn't chase it. It had been a long time. I reached out and plucked the gun with two fingers, as though it might be hot. "Gun of champions," he added.
I was going to refuse it, but that would be stupid. They already had me on suspicion of two murders, assaulting a police officer, resisting arrest, and probably a bunch of stuff for fleeing from the law. What's a concealed-weapon charge on top of all that?
"It's loaded," he said.
"Is there a safety or something?"
"Not anymore."
"Oh," I said. I slowly turned it over and over, remembering the last time I held a weapon in my hand. It felt good, holding a gun again. Something about the weight, I guessed. I liked the texture, the cold of the steel, the way it fit perfectly in my palm, the heft. I didn't like that I liked it.
"Take this too." He handed me what looked like a cell phone.