There is no need for another envelope, no need for Vlad to remind me of my duties. I close my eyes and I’m outside Masterson’s loft again, standing in the street, with hardly a car in sight. It’s quiet tonight, no party. There is a lone light from the top floor, above the gallery. He’s home. I called from a pay phone down the street. He sounded tired. I don’t care. Maybe he’s worn out from fucking little boys. I’m holding a pizza box in one hand. It’s empty. Tonight the addition to the wardrobe is a beat-up Chicago Cubs baseball cap. I move to the door, and push the doorbell. Somewhere above a buzz echoes, and a shadow passes by the window. “Who is it?” warbles through the intercom. “D’Agostino’s. Pizza.” “What?” “D’Agostino’s Pizza” “I didn’t order a pizza.” “Masterson? 2139 East Fulton Market Place?” “That’s me.” “Pizza, man.” “Oh for Christ’s sake. I’ll be right down.” Hasn’t failed me yet. Maybe he thinks he’ll get a free pizza.
