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didn’t want a driver looking down into the Volkswagen, even though he probably wouldn’t see much. The body, wrapped in dark plastic, looked more like a butterfly’s chrysalis than anything, a cocoon. What you might expect from a Bug.
    Bekker almost laughed. Not quite; he was too crazy to have a genuine sense of humor. Instead he said, “Motherfucker.”
    He needed a wall, or an unguarded building with a niche in the wall. Some place where nobody would look out and see him unloading the body. He hadn’t thought much about disposal: he’d have to think more. He’d need a random dispersal pattern, nothing they could use to focus on his particular block. He’d have to decide the optimum distance—far enough not to point at SoHo, but not so far that the drive itself became risky.
    He drove past the Manhattan Caballero, a Village steak house, a couple of bright beer signs in the small barred windows. The door opened as he went by and he saw a slender man come out, caught just for a moment by the light inside the doorway; and behind him, a cigarette machine.
    The gunshots sounded like popcorn. Or like a woman ripping a piece of dress material. Bekker looked in the mirror, saw the lightning. Bekker had been in Vietnam; he’d heard this noise from a distance, this snickering popcorn thunder. He’d seen this flickering light. The manhe’d seen in the doorway was flopping on the sidewalk as the bullets tore through him.
    “Motherfucker . . .” Teeth bared, mouth wide, Bekker screamed the word: he was innocent, he had nothing to do with it, and he could get caught, right here. Half panicked, afraid that neighbors would take the number of every car they saw, Bekker floored the accelerator and raced to the end of the long block. The gunfire lasted for only two or three seconds. It took another five before he could turn left, out of sight, onto a one-way street. The adrenaline surged through him, the PCP panic. And up ahead, yellow lights flashed in the street.
    What?
    The panic jumped him. He jammed on the brake, forgetting the clutch, and the Volkswagen stalled. The body crinkled its plastic coat as it swayed in the seat toward him. He pushed it back with one hand, fighting the fist in his throat, trying to breathe, trying to get some air, and stabbed at the gas pedal. Finally realizing what had happened, he dropped the clutch and turned the key again, got started, shifting into second.
    He jerked the car to the left, still dazzled, before he realized that the yellow lights were road-construction warnings. No reason to turn—but he already had, and he sped on. Near the end of the block, two figures stepped out of an alley. His headlights swept them, and he saw their hands come up. They were hiding their faces, but before they’d covered them, they’d been as clear as the face of the moon.
    Bekker swerved, kept going.
    Had they seen his plates? No way to tell. He peered into the rearview mirror, but they were already lost in the dark. He was okay. He tried to choke down the fear. The back plates were old and dirty.
    But the gunfire.
    Had to think. Jesus, he needed help. He felt for the matchbox. No, that wouldn’t be right. He needed speed. Uppers, to help him think.
    Sirens.
    Somewhere behind him. He wasn’t sure quite where he was anymore, took a left, moving away, coming up to a major intersection. He looked up at the street signs. Broadway. What was the other? He rolled forward a few feet. Bleecker. Okay. Good. Straight ahead, along Bleecker. Had to get the body out. A darker block, a deep-red building with niches, but no place to pull over. Another fifty feet . . . there.
    He pulled to the curb, hopped out, and looked around. Nobody. He could hear somebody talking, loud, but it sounded like a drunk. He hurried around the car, shifted the body out and dropped it in a doorway. Looked up: the ceiling in the deep doorway was decorated with intricate designs in white terra-cotta; the designs caught his mind,