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on his Town Wall of Celebrity seemed to stare down at me, asking what I was doing here, telling me I
didn’t belong here, exhorting me to leave well enough alone before I snapped the universe’s
mainspring. There was something particularly unsettling about the picture of Al and Mike Michaud,
hanging where the photo of Harry and me belonged.
I went into the pantry and began to take small, shuffling steps forward. Pretend you’re trying to find
the top of a staircase with the lights out, Al had said. Close your eyes, buddy, it’s easier that way.
I did. Two steps down, I heard that pressure-equalizing pop deep in my ears. Warmth hit my skin;
sunlight shone through my closed eyelids; I heard the shat-HOOSH, shat-HOOSH of the weaving flats.
It was September 9, 1958, two minutes before noon. Tugga Dunning was alive again, and Mrs.
Dunning’s arm had not yet been broken. Not far from here, at Titus Chevron, a nifty red Ford
Sunliner convertible was waiting for me.
But first, there was the former Yellow Card Man to deal with. This time he was going to get the
dollar he requested, because I had neglected to put a fifty-cent piece in my pocket. I ducked under the
chain and paused long enough to put a dollar bill in my right front pants pocket.
That was where it stayed, because when I came around the corner of the drying shed, I found the
Yellow Card Man sprawled on the concrete with his eyes open and a pool of blood spreading around
his head. His throat was slashed from ear to ear. In one hand was the jagged shard of green wine bottle
he had used to do the job. In the other he held his card, the one that supposedly had something to do
with it being double-money day at the greenfront. The card that had once been yellow, then orange,
was now dead black.