New York City
April 20
Freddy Kerr hooked his dry cleaning over his shoulder, the bunch of hangers suspended from two fingers, as he made his way down Bleecker Street. He was feeling lightheaded. His insulin pump had malfunctioned, and he had been waiting for a replacement for weeks. He wasn’t used to the U.S. health insurance system. If he were back in Vancouver, he would have had the thing by now. For the time being, he was forced to go back to injections.
He zipped into the corner bodega and snagged a Coke from the cooler. He downed it on the sidewalk out of the path of rushing NYU students and shoppers, the miasma of urine and garbage tainting the taste. He stopped at the recycle bin on the corner and pitched the can.
Then he reached into his deep coat pocket and tossed the central section—the trigger and bolt—of the dismantled 12-gauge shotgun into the neighboring trash can as well. He walked to Charles Street and made his way to the walk-up he shared with three fraternity brothers from his Vanderbilt class. They all worked in finance, partied like the ship was going down, and lived like pigs; not much had changed from their days at the Beta house.
He would toss the muzzle and magazine into the Hudson during the booze cruise he and his friends were attending this weekend. The stock had been donated to a barrel fire on 3rd Avenue on the way to McSorley’s Pub the night before. In a day or two, he would give the sports duffle to the Knicks-obsessed homeless guy who hung out in front of the Duane Reed. Freddy paused at the corner waiting for the light to change and swallowed an unwelcome surge of grief.
The karma of Phipps Van Gent’s demise was undeniable, but not because Phipps was a shark. No. Phipps was a hyena, preying on the weak and vulnerable, laughing while he did it. Before Phipps, Freddy would have thought a human incapable of such malice.
But Freddy had learned.
And Phipps had paid. A slaughtered king on a throne of rapacity. A parable of greed. No less than he deserved.