My Catholic side said Sam bore responsibility for the aggrieved investors. She had profited, however reluctantly, from Charlie’s wrongdoing. My humanitarian side disagreed. Sam was a victim, not an accomplice. Charlie screwed her.
More figuratively than literally.
Charlie’s secrets saddened me. Sam and he had been so good together. She had the right to piece her life back together. I worried about her ability to provide for a baby while soldiering through adverse legal judgments.
What a mess.
The streets stirred with growing anticipation of a new day in the July sauna. Drivers grew more agitated under the rising sun. Horns wailed at irregular intervals. Every now and then, car brakes screeched and overpowered the
whoosh, whoosh, whoosh
of my twiggy bicycle tires.
Traffic had gone into labor, perspiration-soaked cabbies the picture of pre-delivery histrionics. They rolled down their windows, yelling expletives in choleric tongues from other countries. They pushed their yellow cabs forward, squeezing through the streets, relaxing upon occasion, screaming, and finally breaking free from the jams. I stayed alert, no desire to become their focal point.
The key-lime Vespa from earlier that morning pulled alongside. The man in the black polo shirt wore sunglasses that wrapped around his curly black hair and tanned face. The look said Europe, 100 percent Euro chic, probably Rome or Paris. His features were too dark to say Copenhagen.
Key Lime, a human refrigerator teetering atop a tiny rig, belonged on an American muscle bike. Something heavy and chrome would do, something like a Fat Boy from Harley-Davidson. He throttled the engine and scooted ahead, his improbable acceleration surprising me. He turned right onto Riverside Drive. It was my route.
At the Riverside corner of 110th, a dozen or so people sat on park benches worn by time and rubbed smooth by countless bottoms. Overhead, a thick spray of leafy boughs sheltered guests from the sun’s rays. The park was no more than a sliver in size. The lush garden separated my one-way access road from Riverside’s two-way traffic on the other side. Like other cyclists, I appreciated the highway’s configuration for its safety and scenery. Fast northbound traffic stayed in the two-way lanes to the west of the park. Slow-moving vehicles stayed on the access roads to the east.
Between 117th and 118th, a red Hummer wallowed against the curb like a beached whale. Though parked, the SUV dominated the road. It jutted obnoxiously into the street, making passage difficult for other cars on my narrow lane.
Odd.
For the third time that day, I spied the green Vespa. It was not moving. Key Lime, who had stopped in the middle of the street, was straddling his bike and talking to someone inside the Hummer. It was weird to spot him so many times. People in New York City caught your attention once and then
disappeared forever into the urban bush. Ordinarily, I would have forgotten Key Lime and his Vespa. Not today.
The Hummer’s open door reached far into the street. No way a car could pinch by. It was narrow even for a bicycle. I braked gently and slipped between the SUV’s door on one side and the park’s hedges on the other. The driver behaved as though he owned the lane. Other vehicles had to wait.
Not my problem.
I was on a bike. Squeezing past the two-man conference, I called in my friendliest voice to Key Lime, “Nice Vespa.”
The guy in the Hummer flipped me the bird. His resemblance to Key Lime made my skin crawl: same wraparounds, same slick black hair, and same refrigerator torso. The two looked like twins, though their sunglasses made it impossible to know just how identical they were. One thing was clear. They creeped me out.
What’s your problem?
Hummer Guy sneered like there was something personal between us. Key Lime mimicked his partner, and together their twisted faces radiated contempt. I had no idea who they were or why the hostility. Was I reading something extra into an ordinary day in the life of a New Yorker?
“Fuck you, Steroid Boy,” I snapped, perhaps a little too loud. That’s the thing about belligerence. Nobody ever thinks. Words just erupt.
Wrong thing to say.
New York City was not the kind of place to tell a stranger, “Fuck you, Steroid Boy.” Even a Bronx cheer, the local dialect, was risky. The twins, enormous and militant, smacked of genetic experiments gone haywire. The odds sucked. Two gorillas would trounce me. And my bike was no help. Colnagos lost to Hummers every time.
I shot ahead and gained speed with each turn of the crank. A car door slammed, the loud thump a signal to pedal faster. The Vespa’s distinctive motor buzzed awake. A larger engine roared to life. My anger turned to dread, and my spine tingled.
They’re chasing me.
Fear fed my legs. No looking back. One guy, and I would have stood my ground and gotten my ass kicked properly. Size always trumped guile in street fights.
At least it’s respectable, mano a mano.
But there were two of them. Maneuverability was my only advantage. Building speed with each downstroke, I chanted, “Dig, dig, dig.”
Veering left, I accelerated past a car turtling right. An old woman clutched the steering wheel just a few inches from her nose. She evaluated her right turn as though solving a geometric proof.
Keep deliberating.
Somehow her indecision slowed both the Vespa and the Hummer. I didn’t look back. At 122nd my access lane folded into the main road. Riverside Drive turned into a two-way street. Grant’s Tomb appeared just ahead on the left. My instincts directed,
Break for the park
.
Not a chance. There were too many oncoming cars, a real fluke for Sunday morning. There was no way to cut left across traffic. I stayed straight, tucked into a cyclist’s crouch, and pedaled hard as the road bent and descended. Lactic acid racked my calves. The twins could still catch me. My chest pounded. My knees swore hell to pay later.
Past Grant’s Tomb at the base of the hill, Riverside Drive turned into a bridge spanning about eight city blocks. The majestic Hudson drained past New York City into the Atlantic. No time for sightseeing. My cyclometer registered thirty-seven miles per hour, fast for a bike but no match for a Hummer or Vespa.
There was nowhere to turn. I sprinted for the opposite end of the bridge. It ended at 134th Street, just under a huge billboard. Halfway across the bridge, the roar of the SUV returned. The earlier surge of cars had disappeared. No witnesses. I glanced back over my left shoulder. The Hummer trailed by eight bicycle lengths. It was closing fast.
No chance to outrun the SUV. I pedaled anyway. There were no side streets on the bridge, no escape through better maneuverability. I pedaled harder, sucking air in snatches, uncertain what to expect when the Hummer caught me. My breakaway was failing.
The red SUV thundered two feet from my left. The gap was hostile, too close on the open road. The red SUV inched right another six inches, toying with me. I stayed straight. I had ridden in tighter pelotons before.
I can do this.
Hummer Guy rolled down his window and sneered in heavily accented English, “Who’s the asshole now, Bicycle Boy.” He sounded European.
I snapped my head straight and cranked, daring to watch only from the corners of my eyes.
You made your point
, I thought.
Now go fuck yourself.
No such luck. The Hummer inched six inches closer. It was only a foot away, okay for cycles in a peloton but not okay for gas-guzzling SUVs with deafening engines. “What’s your problem?” I raged.
The Hummer veered right another seven inches. Only five separated us. Scary and tight, there was not even an inch to veer right. The downstroke of my pedal would catch the raised curb. I would crash and break a collarbone. Maybe worse.
Sweat poured from my forehead. Sun crème washed into my eyes and stung like hornets. My vision blurred. I couldn’t steer straight like this forever. The tight squeeze eliminated any room for error.
I hit the brakes. My Colnago stopped fast and straight. The SUV roared past. It was no match for the lightning response of a bike. My eyes begged for help, tearing and smarting from the sun crème. I pulled off my sunglasses and shoulder-rubbed my eyes, desperate for relief.
The Vespa’s motor whined behind me. I remembered Key Lime and forgot my eyes. Something closing fast. A flash of motion from behind. I ducked instinctively. The move was good. Not good enough.
Key Lime clubbed the back of my head. His balled fist slapped my brain like a hard grounder to the hot corner. A cycling helmet helped some, but not much. My eyes filled with tears, pain rather than sun crème. Stars everywhere.
“Mother of gator shit.” It hurt. It really hurt. Teetering on the verge of blackness, I shook my head and somehow managed to stay conscious.
The Vespa and Hummer stopped no more than twenty feet ahead. Key Lime spoke to his twin through the SUV’s window. A Mercedes passed to my left. I waved violently, anxious to make him stop. The driver honked at the Hummer and Vespa instead. He passed to their left and continued north on the raised bridge of Riverside Drive.
Still foggy, I was growing more alert with each second. Up ahead, Hummer Guy dangled something out the driver’s-side window. Key Lime grabbed it.
What is it?
Then, I understood. It really had been a mistake to say, “Fuck you, Steroid Boy.” He handed Key Lime a thick, chunky chain.
Futile to continue north. The twins had the advantage. They’d catch me on the wide road. They’d work me over with that chain. There was no way to make the billboard or the side street below, no way to get around Key Lime and Hummer Guy.
Failed breakaway.
I pushed away from the curb and started to honk, rocking back and forth in a desperate sprint. My only chance was to race the Vespa and Hummer south. Perhaps I could evade them. Turn off the road at the end of the bridge and they would give up the chase.
Perhaps nothing. I glanced over my shoulder. Key Lime was closing fast. He throttled the Vespa with his right hand. He swung the chain lariat-style with his left. His lips twisted into a sick smile, his expression both smug and sadistic. Hardly the good guy, Key Lime looked like the Lone Ranger in his wraparound sunglasses. He poised, ready to strike.
I pumped hard, but my legs were no match for the Vespa’s horses. The moped accelerated faster. Closer, closer, Key Lime pulled closer. He cocked the chain over his head ready to rain blows any second.
My lungs begged for mercy.
Shut up
, my brain screamed back. No time for pain, I pedaled faster and ignored my burning, aching lungs.
Instinct took over, cycling tactics now my weapon. For years I had competed against stronger riders. Some possessed more natural talent. Others juiced. Strategy had become second nature, sometimes my only way to keep pace.
I veered hard right. Key Lime could not overtake me from that side. My bet was simple. Swinging the heavy chain from left to right would be awkward. The weapon’s trajectory, across the body while driving at thirty miles per hour, might destabilize the moped. The goon might even hit himself.
My thighs burned. My head throbbed. My heart crashed against the walls of my chest. It felt like the Goodyear blimp had gone off course. I had no idea where the Hummer was. Not important.
Key Lime gassed the Vespa with his right hand and pulled alongside my left. He swung his weapon from two feet away. I ducked as the chain sang through the air. The motion rocked the moped, forcing his throttle hand to slip. I thought Key Lime might fall, but he recovered. Bummer.
He edged right and tried to mash me against the curb. I braked hard. He scooted past, his momentum driving him forward.
Key Lime turned. I stopped. We squared off. He had the advantage. This time he could charge from his left. There would be no ungainly swings across the body. The big man snarled. His anger sounded like the growls of a hound gone berserk.
That was it. Every cyclist carried makeshift weapons to stave off bad dogs. My water bottle was still full, half frozen from a night in the freezer, and heavy as a rock.
The Vespa barreled toward me. Key Lime stood and whirled the chain clockwise over his head. His muscles rippled underneath the black polo shirt. I threw the bottle with all my might. It caught him squarely in the Adam’s apple with a sickening thud. World Series pitch or a lucky strike, it was a bullet not seen since the days of Sandy Koufax. The bottle bounced forward and skittered back to me along the pavement.
Key Lime dropped the chain instantly. I thought he would keel over. But he stayed upright. He whizzed past me and traveled north another fifteen feet before stopping in front of the Hummer. He clutched his throat and gasped. His wheezes sounded like he had swallowed a rusty harmonica. Hummer Guy stared daggers through the windshield but did nothing for the moment.
From under the billboard at the north end of the bridge a paceline of cyclists appeared. At least a dozen, they were barreling south, closing on us fast. Italia, my friend from earlier that morning, led the charge of riders. I had never been so happy to see men in blue spandex.
Hardly weekend warriors, they looked more like the cavalry coming to my rescue. I turned and pedaled hard to gain speed. The paceline caught me, and I folded into the comforting vacuum of their slipstream. There was an angry shout from behind us, something that ended in the word “asshole.”
But I never looked back. I cycled home looking over my shoulder all the way, wondering who hung up on me Saturday morning.
