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block, turn left, proceed to the park, enjoy the trees and birds and then retrace his
     steps and return to his office. Rituals like that were nice, comforting. And completely asinine, Becker knew. He had no such
     routines. At any given minute of his day no one would be able to tell where he would be based on the previous day’s experience.
     Most people embraced sameness; Becker raced from it. He knew how deadly routine could be if someone wanted to do you harm.
    The man slowed. There was a crowd gathered at the corner. It seemed like something of significance was coming down the street
     and for this reason the police were holding folks back. Perhaps it was a parade or an official motorcade carrying a suitably
     important person, important enough indeed to warrant traffic police and clogged intersections. Like a rugby scrum at the corner,
     folks were massing. Some broke off from this pack and were craning their necks to see who or what was coming. Becker had picked
     this day based solely on this event happening at this precise moment. The fellow he was watching reached the intersection
     and joined in the head craning and standing on tiptoes to see over the jostling crowd. As more people packed the spot, it
     became like a log-filled river with a strained dam ready to burst. The cops sweated and pushed and cursed the citizens into
     some degree of order. Becker smiled at their plight. He had never much liked cops. His old man had been a policeman after
     a failed attempt at a career running a butcher’s shop in a small town. He’d moved to the city when Becker was still a baby.
     After he started wearing the blues he had taken to beating Becker with his nightstick after he came home and downed a few
     shots of gin so cheap and strong that it could burn a hole in metal. That and the smokes were his dad’s chief vices, other
     than beating his son while Becker’s stepmother looked on, drink in hand, and gave advice on where to hit him next. Becker’s
     real mother, he’d been told, had died at childbirth. That was all he knew. That was more than he ever cared to know actually.
     He doubted his real mother would have been any more loving than his stepmother.
    As the police used their bodies and barricades and the strength of their lungs to keep the human logs back on the curb Becker
     angled to the left and stepped further into the crowd. It took him ten seconds to work his way forward, using pointy elbows
     and apologetic looks at folks he pushed past. Now he was standing directly behind the man. He checked his watch. He had a
     contact who’d given him a heads-up on this traffic-snarling event. In one more minute the limo and the surrounding trucks
     with bodyguards would be passing by. He edged closer. Before he slipped the newspaper into his coat pocket he glanced at the
     date. May 5, 2000. His birthday was next week. He would turn fifty. His celebration would consist of dinner alone and no presents.
     He cared for birthdays even less than he did beatings.
    He counted the moments off in his head. This was really unnecessary because the crowd’s collective energy spiked when the
     motorcade drew within sight of the intersection. He started taking shallow breaths. It was not to control his nerves. For
     all he knew he had none. He wanted to reduce his oxygen a bit, to get a natural high from what he was about to do. He’d found
     it better than sex actually, because he had no concerns about pleasing anyone other than himself.
    “There he is!” cried out one person.
    Becker’s right hand increased its grip on the handle of the umbrella. He edged the point of the device upward and forward
     at the same time. The limo was passing, and the crowd had started screaming and waving. Becker thrust the tip into the flesh
     and then in the next motion moved to the side and flitted away.
    As the other fellow rubbed the back of his thigh where the stinging impact had occurred, Becker was walking away, casually
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