How To Save A Life - P. Dangelico Page 0,3

of fried food in my hair. July ushered in a bout of blistering heat and humidity and tonight is arguably the hottest to date.

Popping a Dubble Bubble in my mouth, I roll the sleeves of my white button-down shirt over my elbows and head for the subway. One block south, the pink neon light of the Gansevoort Hotel falls on the crowd congregating outside, all of them young and hip and likely out-of-towners. They pile into a dark SUV as I pass, leaving Billy, the doorman, standing alone.

“Hey, girl, heading home?” he says with a bright smile. Billy is a first-rate player. After two years of walking past him on my way home, we’ve gotten to know each other pretty well. He uses his considerable good looks to work that door for all it’s worth and I don’t blame him. You gotta do what you gotta do.

“Trying to catch the 1:30 ferry.”

“My bro needs a couple of windows replaced. He’s in Bensonhurst. You do that?”

I stop and pull a business card out of the back pocket of my work pants, hand it to him as I walk backward down the sidewalk.

Fortune favors the brave…and the prepared. A lot of people forget the second part.

“Tell him to call me. I’ll give him a good price.”

Rounding the corner, I pick up the pace. If I miss the 1:30, I have to wait another thirty minutes and every second of sleep counts when I have to be up early tomorrow for my main gig.

It’s just my crappy luck that I walk right into a robbery in progress. At least, it looks that way, but I inch closer anyway, hoping to get a better assessment of the situation.

A short, stocky guy with hands the size of Thanksgiving turkeys is in the middle of feeding another guy a knuckle sandwich while his taller, thinner counterpart bounces around on the balls of his feet, ready to jump in. He looks jacked up on meth.

Not cool and potentially very dangerous. It’s definitely a robbery in progress. On the bright side, there appear to be no guns involved.

What to do, though? Calling the cops won’t matter; they’ll take too long to show up. Turn around and go down another block, pretend I didn’t see anything? I’m no delicate snowflake at five foot nine. And I’m in decent shape––working days and nights in manual labor does have its perks. I’m more than able to hold my own in a tussle, but I’m tired from being on my feet all day. And if I intervene and this gets messy, it could be hours before I get home. I have too much work to do tomorrow to go all night and day on little-to-no sleep.

Problem is, I can’t stand bullies and two against one is not fair. Especially since––from what I can make of the guy getting his face rearranged––he’s not equipped to defend himself. The vic is wearing a suit. He’s probably some Wall Streeter inflicted with soft hands and too much easy living.

While I’m busy weighing the pros and cons, criminal number one steps aside long enough for me to catch sight of the victim’s face.

“Ah, shoot…”

The guy getting jumped is the same guy from the restaurant––the rude guy.

Having heard me, both goons turn to get a good look at who’s interrupted their little party of three. Essentially this takes the decision out of my hands. There’s no walking away now.

“What’s up, fellas…”

Pulse racing, I give them a jaunty grin and discreetly delve into my messenger bag for my constant companions, two items I never leave home without and neither are a credit card: bear spray and a titanium telescoping stick. This isn’t my first rodeo.

“Fuck off,” one of them growls.

Nice.

Surprising no one, they are not happy to see me. “I’d love to, but the subway’s in this direction and you’re in my way.” I motion to the corner and blow a bubble, pop it loudly.

“This bitch for real?” soon-to-be inmate number two says with a dry chuckle.

Behind him, the rude guy looks to be shaking off getting his bell rung. He staggers around on his feet. The tall one punches him in the gut.

I swear I can almost feel it as he folds over in pain. Empathy’s a burden.

“C’mon, you have his wallet. Let him go.”

One laughs like he’s completely unhinged while the other stares like he’s imagining me in pieces. There’s clearly no point in hoping common sense will prevail with these two.

The shorter meaner one takes