Snowden collapsed further with every additional detail offered. He took care to swallow the remainders of every bottle before him before breaking the silence.
"Lester, how the hell do you know all that?"
"The apartment's on the top floor. The windows are tall, nearly all the way to the ceiling. If you go on the roof, lean over the edge carefully, you can look down into the rooms through the space above the curtains. You'll see, we're going there now," Lester said, slapping a hand on one of Snowden's near vertical shoulders. Lester looked at his other hand, shrugged before sheepishly pushing his drink across the table. "You want to finish this? At six bucks a glass, I just hate wasting."
Nine streets south and half an avenue over, it was raining. Sloppy, uneven precipitation that left Snowden with the feeling that the universe was giving up just like he was, that it wasn't even bothering to perform consistent weather anymore. Lester, several steps ahead since they left the bar, finally paused to aim his watch at the light from the street lamp. Walking ahead even faster, Lester stopped farther down the block at the meager shelter of an open pay phone.
"I can't be out in this climate. For real, I get pneumonia easy," Snowden said when he reached him. From his black raincoat, Lester pulled a leather organizer, located a folded piece a paper that he then pressed into the closest of Snowden's limp and swaying hands. By the time Snowden pulled it up the page was already darkening and distorting from the water on his cold, rain-pickled fingers.
"What am I supposed to do with this?"
"What in God's name do you think you're supposed to do with it? Just stop the bitchy moron act, OK, Snowden? It's not cute. Read it back to me," Lester snapped. This was Lester nervous. Spend enough time with someone, you get to see his interpretation of all the standard emotions. Snowden could think of several common ones he hoped he'd never see Lester demonstrate.
" 'Nine-one-one. Shit, you got to come — '"
"Oh bullshit, Snowden, that first part's the freaking telephone number. Tell me you did not know that. The sentence, just read the sentence. And act it this time. It has to sound completely real, understand me? They tape emergency calls, they'll review it later, so do it right."
Snowden closed his eyes, put his head down for what he hoped was a demonstratively reverential time before announcing his intention to read again with a long sigh. " 'Shit, you got to come quick. There's someone shooting in this apartment. There's screaming, there's all this shooting and shit you got to send someone quick. It's 425 West 116th Street, off Adam Clayton Powell. It's apartment 5E, that's 5E, I could hear the kids screaming right through the door! Repeat facts as necessary! Hang up!'"
"Jesus, you're not even joking, are you?"
"Look man, what do you want from me? It's cold, OK? It's raining, for chrissakes. I haven't even eaten dinner. And I didn't write this thing, did I? Like, maybe you should have given it to me earlier, huh? Don't blame me for that shit."
In response to Snowden's whines, Lester's arm swung back and Snowden prepared to be slapped, but Lester only pulled something from out his jacket, stepped within inches from him. The silent prayer, Dear God, don't try and kiss me again, was answered when instead Lester stuck the barrel of his snub-nose under Snowden's jaw, the rest of the gun hidden in his raincoat's cuff. "Turn around and dial the number." The metal reached Snowden's throat just as the operator's voice reached his ears. Snowden's tongue ran, from one to the other. When he was done, Lester put the gun back in his shoulder holster, hugged him. "That was. . inspired. You are a natural. I mean that," Lester whispered into his ear as he was pulling away. Then he hugged him again, gripping tighter.
The building was only a hundred yards away and a left turn at the corner. Lester hopped up the steps in perfect peppy rhythm, past the fifth floor where he pointed at an apartment door without breaking stride. The door to the roof was open by the time Snowden caught up to him, his own breath and heartbeat loud, their rhythms clashing against each other. It was raining harder. Water filled abandoned buckets of tar and made the loose shingles slip from under the feet when walked on. Lester went to the ledge at the rear of the building, leaned over like he could break the laws of gravity as easily as he did so many other ones. Seeing something he liked, he turned around and gave two thumbs-ups before walking back again.
"I'm really afraid of heights," Snowden told him when he got closer. Lester grinned, nodded, pulled the gun from his holster and stuck it sideways in Snowden's hand.
"Only natural, nothing to be ashamed of. Biological, I think. Just takes practice," Lester assured him. The gun had felt cold on his neck, but in Snowden's hand it felt hot, heavy. It made him want to shoot it. He could easily shoot Lester. The thought was comforting, that he was in control of his destiny after all because he could shoot Lester. It was just that after that he would have to shoot Marks too, and then things got a lot messier. There were all the children. There was also of course the fact that Snowden didn't think he was capable of shooting anyone, or at least in any place other than a limb or foot.
Lester wrapped his arm around Snowden and with gentle assurances pulled him to the back ledge, pushing him down into a squat once they got there. It felt good to Snowden to sit down. Even in the rain, even with the cold water finding its way quickly to the more intimate regions of his ass, it felt good, or at least better. They both sat leaning against the little brick wall just tall enough to give their lower backs support. Lester slapped his own bent knee, then Snowden's.
"Now the fun part. I'm going to ask you to turn around, kneel, then bend over the roof's ledge and look in the bastard's window. The trick is, once you're about to go over the edge you close your eyes. Otherwise you get nauseous. The apartment window's only a foot below the level we're sitting on. The trick is you got to lean as far forward as you can, OK? And bend your head down as far as it'll go. Once you get into position, then open your eyes, not before. Trust me, you'll feel much better if you do it that way."
"Lester, I get on my knees and lean forward as far as I can, I'll fall off the side of the building," Snowden said and immediately regretted it. Part of it was that he worried he had insulted the Chupacabra, part of it was he didn't want to give him any more ideas. "Why don't we just go to the back fire escape, peek in that way."
"Too risky, we could be seen. Besides, it's raining and you could slip on the wet metal and break your neck. Don't worry, silly, I'll be sitting on your legs. You're lucky, when it was just me I had to tie myself with climbing rope back to that vent. Come on, move it, they're going to be here soon."
"Who'll be here?"
"One thing at a time, I'll tell you in a minute. Hurry."
Snowden got on his knees. This was an appropriate position, because Snowden was praying, and since in moments of normalcy he professed not to believe in God, Snowden was praying really hard to compensate. Lester sat on his legs. The man's ass was sharp and bony and underneath it Snowden's shins were shredded into the gravel lining the roof. As Lester began pushing Snowden's shoulders forward over the edge, the pain was the only thing to hold on to.
"Pretend you're flying." Snowden tried, but it didn't work, so instead, hands gripping the rail so hard flecks of mortar fell five stories down like industrial dandruff, he tried for the less ambitious goal of pretending he couldn't fall.