On the river
After fixing the Ford, Mason walked out of the garage.
The makeshift beds of the last few nights had done nothing for his wounds: his bruised side burned like hell.
He boarded the last morning ferry to Queens. He stood at the stern, his back to Manhattan, getting smaller and smaller. He looked across the East River. His hands sank into his pockets, turning over the matchbook in one hand and the spare cartridges in the other. He let them jingle like keys, barely perceptible above the lapping of the water on the hull, wondering why Sam had not escaped in his taxi. If he hadn't taken the trouble to park behind his Ford in Madison Garden then who had used it and what had he done with the owner?
He tried to guess what Sam and Elizabeth had fought about that day. Lloyd had been
