On the night of 6 November Tony was sitting on the curb of West Fifty-fifth Street between Seventh and Eighth avenues. Across the street, before a cafe, there was commotion, a big fight, people swearing, shouting, screaming from the sidewalk, retorts from the door. It subsided, the people dispersed. Then it erupted again. The bouncer emerged, one man raised his arm. There was a shot. Tony jolted, nearly peed his pants. The bouncer crumbled.
Tony was out of control. He did not evade but ran in paramedic mode, knelt beside the man, rolled him gently. There was blood on the man’s chest, left-center, well placed. People gathered. Tony checked for a pulse. There was nothing. He lifted the man’s head, then his own head snapped up, eyes searching, checking for snipers. He released the head in hi
