Squeak, squeak. The squeaks were almost a consolation after the hit; to the left, and to the right. To the left, and to the right. The wipers performed their incessant duty, wiping the rain off the windshield mindlessly. The rain performed its own duty, smearing the drab urban scene outside into an expressionistic cacophony that fluctuated and repainted itself every few seconds.

As Skunk drove the car towards Queensboro Bridge in the direction of Manhattan, careful to stay well below the speed limit, Vinnie itched for a smoke. The two hadn't said a word since they left Zozo's house—and that made it worse for Vinnie.

"Wun' a cigar?” Vinnie said finally, pulling a narrow tin box from his jacket and removing the lid. "They're Cuban."

For a while, Skunk said nothing. He blinked, grunted, and looked over at Vinnie.

"What the fuck's with you?"

"What? D'you wun' a cigar?"

"What the fuck's with you? Can't you see I'm driving, you stupid fuck?"

"Alright, alright, Jesus Christ. Take it easy."

A long pause. Squeak, squeak. Patter, squeak, squeak.

"And what's that all about—this Cuban cigar shit? Why—why do you have to be so corny, for fuck's sake?"

"What do you mean?"

"Why do you have to be so cor—Wait, do you even know what corny means?"

"Yeah, of course I do."

"Yeah, of course I do. What?"

Skunk was all worked up. Vinnie just looked hurt.

"Fuck you Skunkl. What the hell's up your ass, anyway?"

"Tell me! What the fuck does it mean, huh?"

"Corny? Kinda cliched, I suppose."

"Yeah. Ten cheers for that one. Ring the parish church bell."

Another pause. Vinnie looked at the windshield, still holding his open tin of Cuban cigars, as an anonymous car sped by in the gray gloom. Skunk glanced at the cigars. The look on his face was contemptuous, disgusted.

"OK, so what's with the Cuban cigars anyway?"

"What d'you mean?"

"Say—yeah, say I wasnotdriving, and I wanted a cigar. What difference would it make if it was Cuban or not? To me they all taste the same—like shit."

"Yeah, but the Cubans are the best; they're made—"

"Fuck that! You know what? I think you watch too many fuckin' movies."

Vinnie put the lid back on and slid the box back into his jacket. His fingers tapped against the armrest; impatient, offended. Squeak, squeak, patter, tap, tap.

"And stop that already, will you? You're drivin' me nuts."

The tapping stopped. SKunk stared ahead at the self-revivifying masterpiece of daubed transparency. They were a few minutes away from Queensboro Bridge. The lights of Manhattan glimmered through the rain, faded, and came back again, like a monster waking from a slumbering sleep. Vinnie broke the silence.

"You know, I heard the best Cuban cigars are rolled on a virgin's body."

Skunk made an irritated sound, swallowed, stepped on the accelerator a little harder.

"What? How in the blue fuck would you know that?And even if it was, what difference would it make? It's not like you're gunna be dipping your stick in her cooze, right?"

"I was just sayin', is all."

"You're always jus' sayin'. Maronn'."

Vinnie was getting angry.

"Hey, why the attitude? Huh? I don't even say a word to you and you're like—you talk to me like I'm a fuckin' buttagots." His tone was becoming shriller.

"Of course I talk to you like that. First of all, you very well know I can't fuckin' have a cigar while I'm fucking driving. Second, even if I could, I wouldn't. You know how much the leather cost? Do ya? I don't want to smell your reek every time I drive."

"Tell me this. Why the fuck can't you drive and smoke? It's not like you're gunna need both hands to do it."

"Are you stupid, deaf, or what? Did you hear what I jus' said? You goddamfaccia di katz?"

"That's it muddafucker, I'm through. I'm through!"

Vinnie pulled a .45  out of another pocket in his jacket and pointed it at Skunk's face. The car was almost at the bridge, with Manhattan clearly visible. Skunk laughed.

"What'r'ya gunna do, huh? Shoot me? Come on, big boy, shoot me if you've got the balls! We'll die together, you fuckin' piece of shit!" Skunk shouted.

Vinnie faltered, letting the barrel of the revolver drop slightly. His eyes were wide, and he was shaking. Skunk sat up straight and gripped the steering wheel so tightly that his knuckles had turned white. He glanced nervously in the rear-view mirror, but his mouth was set in angry determination.

"You're a coward; I always knew it. A finucc, you motherless prick. You haven't got no balls, d'you know that? No BALLS!" Skunk shouted, spraying spit on the wheel. "Back at Zozo's, if it weren't for me he'd have run away. And you stood there like a fucking idiot with a toy gun. Yeah—now you'll run back to the club and quack like a fuckin' duck. I think your asshole talks more than your other orifice. All you've got is talk. Talk, talk, talk. I wonder; don't your asshole get sore? Oh, sorry I forgot. It's already sore from all the cock you take, isn't it? That's right, you're a cocksucker. Shoot me, faggot. First thing I'm gunna do on the otherside is hump your dead mother and tell her all about your backdoor adventures. Why don't you—"

Vinnie shot. His gun had been pointing at Skunk's side. The roar was deafening in the small space of the car, which at that moment was passing over Roosevelt island. The car swerved out to control to the left, struck the barrier at an angle, and by some fluke—a freak alignment of the planets, perhaps—rolled over the barrier and skidded into the oncoming traffic, upside down. Tires screeched and the acrid smell of burning rubber added to the polluted smell of grimy, rainy New York air. By another stroke of luck—good luck, this time—nobody struck the car. A few people left the stale warmth of their vehicles to gawk at the destruction. Someone called the police.

In the car, it was not yet over. Skunk was hanging upside down in debilitating pain. Vinnie, on the other hand, was dazed but unhurt. He had managed to get the belt off, and was now trying to free himself from the wreckage, but the door, bent out of shape much like the rest of the car, was jammed. He had dropped the .45 in the confusion. Vinnie stole a glance at Skunk, who was grunting and trying to pull his gun out. Vinnie tried the door again, pushing against the window. Somehow, the glass on his side was still whole.

"Fuck, fuck!" Squeak, squeak. One of the goddam wipers was still squeaking.

The door wouldn't budge. Vinnie looked around in a craze. His eyes caught sight of the gun's barrel between the instrument panel and the windshield. He yanked on the barrel, but the gun snagged on a piece of broken glass. He tried again, and this time it came loose. His hand was dripping blood; in his frenzy he hadn't even noticed cutting it. When he turned around, Skunk's .45 loomed big in his face.

"You broke my car, you s—"

Vinnie shot first. But the aim was poor, and instead of blowing out Skunk's brain, as he had intended, the round punctured the lungs. An instant later, Skunk squeezed his trigger and Vinnie's face disappeared in a mist of blood and brains. Thick, ropy gouts of reddish grey material splattered against the passenger window.

Skunk survied that day no one knows how.