The mugger stood in the shadow of a doorway, his arms clinched tightly about himself. The wisps of a weak beard on a strong chin projected from the hood of his navy sweat jacket. His hands fidgeted nervously inside the kangaroo pocket of the jacket, playing with a four-inch buck knife.
His eyes were aimed up the street towards a man who walked slowly toward him. The man was wearing a nice rain coat, and had a good haircut. He didn't seem to be going anywhere in particular. Staring mostly at his feet, he kicked at leaves and bits of wet paper that hugged the concrete in front of him. He ambled closer and closer to the doorway where the mugger lurked, before pausing suddenly and looking around himself in confusion.
"Hey buddy," said the mugger, stepping out of the doorway, and walking toward the man. "Spare some change?"
"No," said the man, looking behind him as if unsure of his bearings.
"Hey," said the mugger, putting his hands out plaintively. "I'm flat broke man. Look at you, you're well-fed, well-dressed. Can't you help me out?"
"I don't have any change," muttered the man. He didn't meet the mugger's gaze. "Sorry," he added after a thought.
"Hey, look, I'm not doing too well here. I haven't eaten all day. I just got out of prison, see, and I don't got nothing in my pockets except a knife. I could really use some help."
The man finally turned to meet the mugger's eyes. "I've got no money, okay?"
"You don't get it," said the mugger, taking another step closer. He looked over his shoulder, and then lowered his voice. "Give me your fucking wallet, or I'll stab you."
The man took a step back. The mugger reached into his kangaroo pocket and pulled out the buck knife. The blade was old and worn, and had been badly sharpened more than once.
"I'm telling you the truth," said the man, his eyes on the knife. "I don't have anything."
The mugger's nose twitched. He looked over his shoulder again, and then stepped forward with the knife held in front of him. "Empty your fuckin' pockets."
The man just stood there, paralyzed.
"Do it!" The mugger's arm flashed out, cutting the sleeve of the man's rain coat. "Next time it's your face! Do it!"
Hands shaking, the man turned his pockets out. He was only carrying keys and a pack of gum, true to his words. "Sorry," he said. "I was just going for a walk. Didn't need my wallet, right?"
The mugger stood back, shaking his head and looking around. His lips moved, trying a few different words for size. "You said you live nearby?" he said suddenly.
"What?" said the man.
"You're going for a walk. So you live nearby," said the mugger.
The man hesitated, trying to compose an answer.
"Come on," said the mugger, flashing the knife again. "Where do you live? Let's go."
"You gotta be kidding," said the man.
"Do I look like I'm fucking kidding? You want another cut? How much money you got at home?"
The man just gaped at him. "That way," he said, pointing past the mugger. The mugger turned to follow the gesture, and the man suddenly bolted in the opposite direction.
The mugger whirled back in surprise, and then took off in pursuit. Together they pounded down the sidewalk for half a block, the man gasping with fear.
"Help!" yelped the man, when it became clear that he wasn't going to out-run the mugger. But his lack of breath made the yell feeble, and there was no one around to hear it anyway. He wheeled, his hands in front of him for protection.
The mugger was right behind him. "You fucking---" He tried to slash at the man's face, but couldn't get past his arms. He cut at one of his sleeves again, and kicked him for good measure. "Don't fuck with me!"
"All right, all right," gasped the man. "Stop, I've got money at home. At least a hundred."
"How far?"
"Not sure. Six blocks, maybe."
"Okay, let's go. Come on!" The mugger motioned for the man to start walking. The man glanced uneasily at the knife. "Relax," said the mugger. "I'm not gonna cut you as long as you cooperate. See?" He put the knife back into the kangaroo pocket of his sweat jacket.
They walked for a block in silence, the man watching the mugger tensely from the corner of his eyes. The mugger took long strides, his hands in his pockets, and whistled a little.
"My name is Bernie," said the mugger after a while.
The man glanced at him, but kept walking.
"You don't have to tell me your name," said Bernie. "I understand."
"Whatever," said the man.
"What, you think I'm making that name up?" asked Bernie. He shrugged. "Maybe I am. Who cares? Just thought you might want a name to put on me."
The man shook his head.
"Mind if I call you Norbert? Since you won't tell me your real name? I'd kinda like to think of you as somebody, too." Bernie smiled and whistled a little more. "Hey Norbert," he said after a few more strides. "I'm real sorry about all this. But it's fucking cold out, and I'd kinda like to get a real bed tonight, you know?"
"Sure," said the man.
"Kinda like to get a whore, too, but I understand if you don't want to finance that."
"This way," said the man, turning a corner. Up ahead a couple walked towards them.
"Don't get any funny ideas, Norbert." Bernie grinned at the couple as they approached. "Good evening," he said.
"Hi!" the couple smiled as they went past.
"Nice neighbourhood," said Bernie.
The man stopped. "My house is up ahead. Wait here."
Bernie grabbed his sleeve. "No way, Norbert. If I let you go, you'll call the cops."
"You can't come in," said the man.
"Then we got a problem," said Bernie. He slipped his hand into the pocket where he kept the knife.
"Look," said the man. "My wife and kid are in there. No disrespect, but you're a criminal with a knife and you can't come in my house. I don't want to get stabbed for a few bucks, but this is my family and that's different."
"Okay, Norbert, okay," said Bernie. "I understand. But how do I know you won't call the cops?"
"I promise, okay?"
"No disrespect, Norbert, but I'm not an idiot. You haven't been straight with me so far."
"You know where I live. Why would I double cross you?"
"Well, Norbert, maybe this isn't really your house. Maybe it's your friend's, or a total stranger's, and you're just gonna use their phone."
The man shook his head in exasperation, and spread his hands. "Then you're gonna have to stab me right now, 'cause you aren't coming in with that knife."
Bernie took out the knife and looked at it. "Fine then. I'll leave the knife right here." He threw it at a patch of lawn next to the sidewalk, where it buried itself up to the handle. "Okay, let's go."
The man looked at the knife, and then back at Bernie. "Wouldn't it just be easier to find someone else and mug them?"
"Probably," shrugged Bernie. "But in for a dime, in for a dozen."
The man gathered himself, shaking his head.
"What's the matter?" demanded Bernie.
"Don't speak a word of what's happened here," said the man, pointing his finger at Bernie. "I don't want to cause any worry."
"Of course not," said Bernie. "We're friends, right, Norbert?"
"Rick," snapped the man. "My name is Rick. Come on, then. I'm going to give you the money, and then you're going to leave, and then I really am going to call the cops, so you better make good time."
"Wait a few minutes first, okay? So I can get a head start."
"Jesus," muttered Rick. He turned up the path to one of the houses, and climbed the steps to the porch. He let himself in with his key.
Bernie pulled his hood back, revealing a mess of dark, curly hair. He stepped in after Rick, stopping inside the door and clasping his hands in front of himself. They were in a long, narrow hallway, alongside a stairway that went up to the second floor. A row of coathooks and some battered old movie posters covered the wall. Worn vinyl flooring ran down to a rectangle of light that spilled from a doorway to one side.
"Wait here," said Rick, and he went up the stairs.
Bernie could hear Rick walking around upstairs, and his eyes flicked back and forth across the ceiling following the sounds. His attention snapped back to the hallway when a shadow fell across the light from the door at the end. A woman stood there, leaning against the door frame. She pulled at a cigarette, and exhaled.
"Hi," said Bernie. "I'm just waiting for Rick." He pointed towards the sounds from above. The woman nodded, and dragged on her cigarette again. "My name is Bernie," he added.
"Hi Bernie," said the woman. "I'm Charlene. Are you going to stay for dinner?"
"Oh, uh, no thanks. Rick's just getting something for me, then I'll go."
"You sure? Why don't you come in the kitchen and wait for him here? I'll fix you a drink."
"Well---" Bernie looked up the stairs. "Okay." He followed Charlene through the lit doorway into the kitchen. A pot simmered on the stove, and the warm air smelled like beef stew. A forty pounder of rye whiskey stood on the countertop, recently opened. A big Chinese meat cleaver sat next to it on a chopping block. There was a phone on the wall, and Bernie picked it up, heard the dial tone and hung it up again.
"Do you need to make a call?" asked Charlene.
"No," said Bernie, eyeing the meat cleaver.
"Charlene!" came Rick's voice from the stairs.
"Whiskey?" asked Charlene, holding up the bottle.
"Sure," said Bernie.
"Ice? Water?" asked Charlene.
"Charlene!" shouted Rick again.
"Neat," said Bernie, and Charlene poured several ounces into a glass.
"Cheers," she said, handing it to him. She sipped from her own glass, which was nearly as full.
"Fuck! Charlene!" howled Rick.
"What!?" screamed Charlene.
Rick's footsteps thumped down the hallway. He glared at Bernie from the doorway.
"Hey Rick," said Bernie.
His jaw set, Rick turned to Charlene. "Where the hell is my wallet?"
"Right there," she said, pointing to the countertop, beside the bottle of rye.
Rick walked over and grabbed it, flipping it open. "There was a hundred bucks in here," he said.
"I went shopping," said Charlene.
"When?"
"While you were gone," she said. "For your walk." She curled her lips as she said this last word.
"You spent a hundred bucks?"
"We needed groceries. And I got a couple cartons of cigs," she said.
"And booze," added Rick.
"And booze," said Charlene.
"Jesus," said Rick.
"What the fuck do you care?" asked Charlene. "You'll drink more of it than me."
"Shut up," said Rick. He turned to scowl at Bernie.
"Why don't you stay for dinner, Bernie?" asked Charlene. "There's lots of food."
"He can't stay," said Rick.
"Let him decide," said Charlene. "You can stay, can't you Bernie? Where you in such a big rush to go to?"
"Charlene," said Rick.
"I don't know," said Bernie.
"There, see?" said Charlene. "Before you couldn't stay, now you don't know. You'll stay, then."
"He can't stay, Charlene," growled Rick.
"Shut up, Rick. I asked him, not you," said Charlene. "Let him answer for himself. Bernie, stay and have dinner with us. I insist." She picked up the bottle of rye and added a few more ounces to Bernie's glass.
"Okay, then," said Bernie.
"You can't stay," said Rick.
"Rick, don't be rude," said Charlene.
"Maybe I should go then," said Bernie, trying to ignore Charlene's pleading look.
"Right, then," said Rick. He jerked his head toward the door.
"No, he's going to stay," said Charlene, standing beside Bernie, and putting her hand on his arm.
"He can't stay, for chrissakes!" shouted Rick. "Get the fuck away from him!"
"Don't you go, Bernie!" said Charlene. "The minute you go he's going to beat the shit out of me."
"Shut up!" shouted Rick. "Shut the fuck up!"
"Hey Rick," said Bernie. "Cool it, man. What about your kid?"
Rick glared at Bernie, his jaw slightly slack.
"Kid?" said Charlene. "What kid? What kid, Bernie? Rick, what the hell is he talking about? Look at me when I talk to you!"
Rick turned slowly to look at her.
"You got a kid, Rick? You got a kid somewhere I don't know about?" demanded Charlene. "Answer me, you prick! I'll fucking kill you!" She grabbed the big meat cleaver off the counter and raised it in the air. "Tell me now, Rick! Tell me everything, or I'll bury this in you. I'll cut your throat in your sleep, you asshole. I'll cut your balls off, I swear to god I'll fucking do it!"
"Charlene, put the knife down!" seethed Rick. "There's no kid, okay! This guy, he's a liar, he's a thief, his name isn't even Bernie!"
"What?" said Charlene. "What is your name?"
"Bernie," said Bernie. "Really."
"He's a thief, Charlene! He mugged me with a knife!" shouted Rick.
"You got a knife?" said Charlene, turning towards Bernie with the cleaver.
"No, no knife!" said Bernie, raising his hands. "I swear!"
"Don't fucking bullshit me, Rick!" screamed Charlene. "What about the kid?"
"Put the knife down!" shouted Rick. He looked around for a weapon to counter the big cleaver, and grabbed the pot of simmering stew by the handle. "Put it down or---"
"Or what? Or what, Rick? Think you can do it before I get in my whacks? Come on!"
Rick swung the pot of stew. The lid flew off and boiling stew sprayed across the kitchen. Charlene screamed and ducked, then threw herself at Rick.
Bernie ran. He flew out of the kitchen, down the hall, and out the door. He ran down the steps, along the walk, and down the street. He ran for a block, turned the corner, and ran for three blocks more. He slowed down a little once he reached a busy street with traffic, but he kept walking quickly for another half hour.
Finally he stopped in the doorway of a closed shop, and gathered his breath. He realized that he had forgotten his knife, buried to its hilt in the lawn of Rick and Charlene's neighbour. He looked behind him, wondering if he could retrace his route, but he hadn't paid attention to the streets, coming or going. Muttering to himself, he pulled his hood over his head and wrapped his arms around himself for warmth.
"Hey buddy," he said to the next man who walked past. "Spare some change?"