Page 4 of Bronx

Suddenly, the watch dog stands. I can’t see him, but I hear him as he approaches me from behind. He slowly walks around to face me and bends over, looking me square in the eyes.

“Have you ever killed a man?” he asks in a deeply accented tone.

I swallow thickly. “No.”

“You’re a college boy, right?”

“Yes.”

He pulls out a large hunting knife from an interior pocket of his leather jacket.

“So, you’re not like your Father then?”

“Are you saying that my daddy is a killer?”

I’m offended by the accusation. My Father may be many things, but I’ve never thought him capable of murder.

He begins to twirl the sharp point of the knife against his middle finger.

“Are you like your Father or not?”

Step six: tell them whatever they want to hear if it aids in your escape.

So I do.

“No, I’m not.”

“So, if I let you go, you’re going to go back to that school of yours and become something other than what he is… and what I am.”

“Yes.”

“And what’s that?”

“I’m in business school.”

“So you’ll be a banker?”

“Yeah, sure, something like that.”

“A real job, though.”

“Yes,” I repeat the words this weird fucker wants to hear. “It’ll be a real job.”

He steps back and studies me hard. “But you don’t want to do that, do you?”

Tell him what he wants to hear, Bronx, you’re losing him.

“You’re wrong. I absolutely want to do that. I’m good with money. It’s what I’m meant to do.”

“But a banker sits in an office all day.”

“That’s all I want,” I lie again, and this time I try to make it sound convincing. “A banker’s life. I want a wife, two kids, a dog and a house in a quiet suburb. Maybe even a summer house somewhere in Florida. I don’t want any drama.”

The guy stares me down with a menacing expression, still twirling a very sharp knife in his hand. I can tell he’s battling with a decision in his head. Maybe he’s considering whether he should kill me now or wait until later.

God, I hope it’s later.

I’ve never realized until this very moment just how much I want to live.