Past Cedar and Liberty and Maiden Lane Jay followed him, Sign Guy never looking back the half a block or so that Jay kept between them. He was unaware, just as Jay wanted it, and stayed that way past Ann Street, and still in the dark as he veered right onto Park Row, traversing Beekman and Pace University, City Hall off to his left and the entrances to the Brooklyn Bridge ahead and to the right. And on he walked, eyes forward, jogging a bit as he bisected Park Row on an angle. To Jay, following as best he could in this more open space, it looked as though Sign Guy was heading for the bridge. If that were so he would be aiming for the entrance to the pedestrian bridge, the wide, catwalk like structure that ran eighteen feet above and between the bridge’s roadway, giving walkers and joggers and cyclists a safe path across the East River, one not shared by cars. Yes, that had to be where he was going, Jay decided, ducking behind a van fresh from the fish market as it slowed in traffic. He was crossing to Brooklyn, Jay saw, hurrying now so that the bum did not get too far ahead of him. He must live in Brooklyn, it logically seemed, and Jay was wondering if he had the nerve or the stomach to follow him all the way there, and thinking that maybe he would just confront him maybe halfway across on the pedestrian bridge. A perfectly reasonable plan, he thought, but...
...but one that was not going to work, because the bum was not taking the pedestrian bridge. No, he was doing something completely different than that. Different and insane, Jay knew as Sign Guy walked onto the bridge, taking the rightmost westbound lane as his own.
And coming fast were a pair of hot white eyes, motoring straight at the bum, bearing down on him. Jay cringed, watching as the car drew closer, and closer, coming fast, coming
very
fast. So fast that the urge to cry out built within Jay, an almost unbearable want to yell, to tell Sign Guy to hurry left, fast, man, fast, and hug the rail ‘cause that car had a bead on him. A dead on bead. Yes, he wanted to scream out the warning, and he might have had not the most unexpected thing happened.
The car slowed.
On the fucking Brooklyn Bridge at two in the morning it slowed, and slid easily over one lane, and never signaled any annoyance at the intrusion into
its
lane. No horn blaring, no curses shouted through an open window, no obscene or threatening gestures made. Nothing
expected
happened at all. The car, a primer gray Nova leaning hard toward Jay on bad right side springs, simply moved aside and surrendered the lane in a way most civilized, its driver staring straight ahead with a big quarter moon grin smeared upon his face. A grin that Jay knew, that he had seen upon another, and upon those who came across this person—or who crossed this person, Jay now suspected, considering what had happened earlier that evening. A grin that drilled a chill into the pit of his stomach as he now watched it pass, its mark upon an unsuspecting schmuck just out for a late drive, or heading home from work, or doing whatever it was that one chose to do. Only, choice had nothing to do with this now, Jay knew, and that knowing begged its own question. Its own frightful question.
If he can do this, can do what he did to Mitchell, what is there that he
can’t
do?
And suddenly, upon brief reflection of that thought, all that had seemed so right about the gift given him by this bum seemed so much less that, and so much more...sinister.
It was a foul realization, and it roiled in Jay’s gut, spawning a sick warmth that threatened to rise and send him retching to his knees.
But he did not let it. He forced the rush of nausea down and continued on, following the bum onto the bridge, watching as more cars came. One, two, five, ten, twenty. Car after car after car, all slowing and moving almost congenially out of the way, every driver, every passenger in each radiating that hap-hap-happy face on loan from the granter of wishes himself. Even a police cruiser yielded the way, throttling back and gliding by as though no infraction were being committed, as though the two smiling patrolman in front were blissfully blind to all but what someone wanted them to see. What Sign Guy wanted them to see.
And on he walked, on they walked, Jay staying close to the stout steel support posts and the horizontal rails meant to keep an errant car from plunging into the drink. He hugged these members, the bridge’s skeleton, stealing what shadows he could from them as the slow rush of headlights crept eerily by in some weird procession reduced to slow motion. Weird, yes it was, but weird seemed to be the rule in things related to the bum. Weird. And wondrous. And, after what had happened this night, something far from either of those, Jay thought. And that thought pushed him, made him determined to confront the granter of wishes. Made him want to know what the purpose was for this little sideshow on the bridge.
And know he did as Sign Guy reached the halfway point of the old and classic span and stopped. Stopped and turned and looked out upon the river’s black water. Jay inched forward, slowly, masking his presence in the patches of night that swelled and receded with the headlights of each passing car, stopping fully some yards from the bum and watching as he rested the Yuban can on one of the side rails and removed its lid, tucking the round of plastic into his waistband. Watching with trepid interest as he slipped a hand into the can and pulled it back out, dirty green paper sprouting from the fist bunched around it. Eyes gaping in complete disbelief as that hand groped out past the railing and let go the wad of hundreds it held, scattering them to the breeze and committing them to the waters far below.
“What the hell...” Jay whispered, but the whisper seemed to be enough. Or maybe it hadn’t mattered at all.
“Peace, brother,” Sign Guy said, never looking up or away from his task. His casting of money into the night.
Jay stepped from the shadows, the headlights of oncoming cars splashing upon him like gusts of white wind that came and went as each passed. “What are you doing?”
Now the bum did look to him, smiling that smile. That smile that was his alone—or his to loan. That smile that right then seemed closer to mad than glad. “Making a deposit. What else?”
“Those are hundred dollar bills,” Jay observed incredulously, stepping closer.
“‘Tis better to give,” Sign Guy sermoned, a car passing close behind sending a wash of night air by him as he loosed another handful of bills, thousands of dollars that fluttered down and away from the bridge like a swarm of gigantic green moths.
“Throwing money off a bridge is giving?” Jay’s head shook in slight denouncement of that. “No, giving is what those people did who slipped that money into your can. Only, is it really giving if they don’t choose to give?”
“Choice is a relative term.” And more money still floated down toward the water.
“Relative to what?”
“To what I want.”
A chill spread upon Jay like a skim of icy rain. “You’re a pickpocket. That’s what you are. That’s all you are.”
“I didn’t pick yours...”
“I didn’t have anything worth giving,” Jay reminded the bum. “I wasn’t rich.”
Sign Guy nodded, the last of the his take from that day slipping from his grip and drifting down, down, down to be swept away. “But you are now.”
Yes, yes he was. His proverbial pockets were full now. Bursting, in actuality. He had money to burn. Money to buy sleek apartments, and fast cars if he wanted. Money to beckon women, to draw them to him—to it. Money, money, money. Green as far as he could see. And it all came from what? From a few coins. A dollar fifty five that he’d given the bum. Change that was now at the bottom of the East River with everyone else’s offering to Sign Guy.
And there the difference lay. In the offering. In what was offered—or taken. “They don’t even know. You just make it happen.” He swept a shaky hand at the surreal drama that that night on the bridge had become. “Like you’re making this happen.”
“Making things happen is no trouble at all,” Sign Guy said, his smile pulling back at the corners, his face seeming mostly a curving hole now, a fence of white teeth inside, and darkness beyond them. “Making them happen with a bit of panache is where the fun lies.”
“It was you,” Jay said, the accusation mostly breath. The chill upon him sizzled, goosebumps sprouting from head to toe.
“The fat man?” Sign Guy asked, coy as a child. “Or should I say ‘the splat man.” He grimaced mockingly. “You know, I might stroll by sometime and see where the girth met the earth.”
Jay shook his head. “Why? Why did you do it?”
“Because your friend was right—the fat bastard could have ruined you. He would have, too, you know. You have to know that.” Sign Guy surveyed Jay then, seeming to puzzle over him. Over his inability to ‘get it’. Or...was it unwillingness? “You seem shocked.”
“You killed him,” Jay said. He hadn’t bargained on this. Would
never
have bargained on this. “
Murdered
him.”
“He killed himself,” Sign Guy countered.
“You made him do it!” Jay shouted. He gestured at the traffic sliding unnaturally by. “Like you’re making this happen!”
Sign Guy shrugged, his smiling lips pursing a bit. “Not all that different from what you’re capable of.”
“Me? Coins come up heads and I see a little piece of the fucking future, fella! That’s all! That’s nothing close to what you did!”
Again the bum demurred, his shoulders rising and falling once. “Are you sure about that?”
“What are you talking about?”
“A...theory,” the bum began. “If your mind’s eye envisions something, and it comes to pass, then is it not possible you
made
it happen?”
“What are you saying?”
“Does the vision cast a coming reality in stone?” Sign Guy asked, hugging his empty Yuban can close. An empty vessel that would fill with the new sunrise.
Jay swallowed, the possibility, the
suggestion
of the possibility, troubling him. “I didn’t see Mitchell jumping.”
“No, I do have to take credit for that. But you
do
see things.”
“
See
!” Jay yelled, hitting that point, that difference. “I
know
what stocks to pick. I don’t
make
them perform.”
Sign Guy shrugged. “Maybe it is just one of those queer conundrums. A chicken or the egg kind of thing. Let it be what you want.”
Air whooshed in and out through Jay’s nose, fast and frantic. This guy was insane. Out of the world fucking INSANE! Murderous and INSANE! And he hadn’t wished for this. Not this. Riches, yes. But some protective bum with the power to divert bridge traffic, or make old men dive off their balconies? No. No, he hadn’t bargained on that at—
“Are you changing your mind, Jay Grady?” Sign Guy asked, puzzling over his young friend. “Are you ready to throw it away?”
Jay stared at him, trembling inside. The bum was reading him. Knowing him.
“Fate crossed our paths, but if you would rather your dream go away...” Sign Guy offered, his smile changing, half of it drooping crazily as if some part of the mechanism that worked it had come unhinged. “Is that what you wish? To be free of what I’ve given you?”
Jay looked fast right and saw a pair of headlights swing his way.
“To be free of me?”
The car came at him, the driver beyond the glare of the lights grinning madly, and Jay jumped back toward the lopsided lace of steel at the road’s edge. Just short of impacting the bridge’s tangled skeleton and crushing Jay, the hands on the wheel jerked hard left and took the car (weapon? instrument of persuasion?) back into its lane of travel.
“Is that what you want, Jay Grady?”
Jay hesitated, frozen by the question, and the threat so obviously attached to it. The threat just demonstrated. It mixed with all the possibilities the bum had just suggested, all the sinister implications of the reality just presented him. Gripping the cold iron girder at his back still, he thought on the choice given him, and thought, and thought, mulling on it for so long a time that he realized that not responding quickly, and with a resounding ‘YES!’, facing whatever consequences might come with such a response, spoke far more to his state of mind, to what he’d become, to the truth of Carrie’s appraisal of him than any simple ‘no’ ever would.
“I thought not,” Sign Guy said, pleased. With himself. With the whole wide world right then. “You’ve chosen wisely, my young friend.”
“I’m not your friend,” Jay said, coming away from the steely mesh and taking a step back from the bum.
“You’re welcome,” Sign Guy replied obliquely, but by then Jay was already a good distance down the bridge, running for all he was worth as traffic zigged toward him, horns blaring and brake lights flaring.
Sixth Interrogation
August 15...2:28 a.m.
Jay stopped, lost in the memories’ foul wake.
Mr. Wright studied him briefly. “I know what’s got you: you’re wondering what would have happened if you’d told him to fuck off right there on the bridge.”
Jay sneered at his captor. “What are you—psychic?”
Mr. Wright ignored the insolence. His prisoner was talking, and that was half the battle, so a little attitude now and then had become inconsequential. What was quite consequential was the unspoken second half of this battle, because from the tale Mr. Wright would have to mine the truth. The truth to what he had witnessed, and to what the man across the table from him truly was.
“Why didn’t you tell him to fuck off, Grady?” Mr. Wright asked again.
“Maybe I was afraid.”
“Of what?”
“Of getting run down by one of those cars, or of taking a leap into the East River with a crazy smile on my face. Is that a good enough reason?”
“It didn’t bother you?” Mr. Wright asked, his eyes slitting with disdain. “What he’d done?”
“What was I going to do? Who was I going to tell? And what would I tell them?”
“So you just accepted it?”
Jay thought on that very briefly. “I convinced myself it didn’t matter. I told myself lots of things. That Mitchell was old. That he was going to kick someday soon anyway. That maybe he did it on his own, and Sign Guy just knew about it. I told myself those things, and when believing them got hard I told myself that he was a ruthless bastard who got what he had coming.”