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bit.”
    Johnny pinched the cigarette out. When it was cold he put it back in the pack.
    â€œIf there’s anything I can do for you, just say it,” Mitch said. “Anything. You need a little cash, a place to stay, I’ll find you one. I’d let you stay here, man. But the way it is … you know, with Sharonda …”
    â€œThat motel still open? In Asbury? Near the beach?”
    â€œWhich one?”

    â€œThe big one. Across from the boardwalk.”
    â€œAs far as I know, yeah.”
    â€œGot wheels?”
    â€œOutside.”
    â€œDrop me there. Let me get settled. I may need to borrow your car now and then for a little bit, till I get set up. That all right with you?”
    â€œAnything, man. Whatever you need.”
    Johnny stood up, put his hands in the small of his back, stretched, felt joints creak and pop.
    â€œLet’s get going, then. I’m ready to crash.”
    Mitch disappeared into the back of the trailer. Johnny could hear voices, muffled, then slightly louder. He shrugged into the field jacket, pulled the cap on. As he hoisted the duffel, Mitch came back out. He wore the same jeans, boots, a hooded sweatshirt under a denim jacket.
    They went out the door and when Johnny saw the old Firebird parked two spaces down, he knew it had to be Mitch’s. It was a faded bronze, the right front fender primer gray. Mitch locked the trailer door behind them.
    They got in, the cracked seats stiff and cold, and Johnny slung the duffel into the backseat. When Mitch turned the key the engine roared, rattled, and Johnny could hear a loose manifold under the hood. Mitch gave it gas, racing the engine, warming it up. The smell of exhaust filled the car. Johnny rolled his window halfway down.
    They drove slow out of the trailer park, easing over the speed bumps, the Firebird’s engine low and throaty. Some of the trailers were decorated for the holidays, lights in the windows, paper Santas. Just as many weren’t.
    They turned south on Route 9 and Johnny looked out at strip malls, office buildings. He knew they were passing through Englishtown, where they’d both grown up, but nothing was familiar to him.
    â€œChanged a lot, hasn’t it?” Mitch said.
    â€œIt has.”
    â€œNo more trees. Just in the last few years, fucking developers.
Half those places are empty, man, but they just keep building more.”
    Mitch turned the radio on and heavy hip-hop beats filled the car. He turned it down quickly, reached behind the passenger seat without looking, fumbled through some cassette tapes.
    â€œForget it,” Johnny said. “Let’s just talk.” He switched the radio off. “You ever see Frazer?”
    Mitch didn’t answer. Johnny watched the side of his face.
    â€œYeah,” Mitch said finally. “Every once in a while.”
    â€œWhere?”
    â€œAround. I’ll walk in some joint and see him there. We don’t talk. Shit, sometimes I don’t even think he remembers me anymore. He had some heart trouble a while back—or maybe it was his lungs, I don’t know. I think it did some damage to his brain too. That and the liquor.”
    â€œHe still live at the house?”
    â€œFar as I know. I mean, where’s he gonna go?”
    They were on Route 33 now, heading east toward the ocean. “I thought he’d be dead by now,” Johnny said.
    â€œNot far from it. He was never the same after the old lady died.”
    â€œYou feel sorry for him? After what he did? Three little kids, weren’t even his own?”
    â€œI didn’t say that. I hate that bastard. But you know, at least he was around most of the time.”
    â€œBeen better off for us if he hadn’t been.”
    When they hit Asbury Park, Mitch turned east on Lake, took them down to the boardwalk and onto Ocean Avenue. It was wide and empty, windblown trash in the streets. They drove past the crumbling Casino, its roof partially