He ran. He cursed himself as he jerked away from a passing car that he swore had swerved to hit him as he sprinted across the street. The clock on the side of Madison Square Garden read ten after twelve and he swore that the day was already starting out badly. A quick look behind him revealed that the police, all five of them, were running as best as they were able, burdened by the same traffic that seemed to have it in for him and their own batman style utility belts. Two of them held their guns in their hands – sleek black metal pieces, machined to perfection for one purpose – and shouted for him to stop between gasps for air. He knew that for the time being, he had the advantage. He was five years, and a pack of smokes a day lighter, than the youngest of them. His only burden was the satchel he gripped in his left right hand and, given what was in it, he didn’t think of it as being such. He was a lean hundred and fifty pounds that looked too skinny on his six-foot frame and had a pair of reliable sneakers that seemed made for the kind of action he gave them. As he rocketed up Eighth Avenue and across Thirty-Fifth Street, a car suddenly turned the corner. In a quick instant, he was in the air, sliding across the hood feet first, and over, back in a sprint consciously turning left on the north side of the street to loose them in what was left of Hell’s Kitchen.

It wasn’t that he knew anyone in the Kitchen. He wasn’t from there. He was a kid from Texas. He knew he wouldn’t necessarily be any safer there except for the thing he’d once heard. It had nothing to do with the neighborhood being safer for petty criminals like himself, and the bars that at one point would have hid him in their cellars that have since been bought and renovated by the latest generation of neuvo-riche that had made those city blocks theirs, taking it away from the Italians, Irish, and Puerto Ricans that had called it home before them. It was an article he’d read in the paper back home about a cop who had managed to chase down a serial stalker. The police profile on the guy had said that the guy was right handed so the cop – whenever he lost site of him – turned the same direction at every opportunity. “People have a tendency, when being chased, to turn the direction of their dominate hand,” the officer was quoted. “It was in the handbook.”

It wasn’t like there weren’t enough cops chasing him that whatever direction he turned a few could still split off to follow, but the less there were, the less chance of being caught there was, he figured, so he headed left and ran as hard as he could, eyes darting left then right every few seconds for an alley to split onto and a dumpster to dive into. There wasn’t anything, so he just kept going.

It wasn’t a great idea he’d had that morning, but it seemed as good as any. Penn Station had more money than God going through there everyday. The ticket agents were safe, behind their bullet resistant glass, iron bars, hands poised on the alarm button, just waiting for the chance to punch it. It would have been foolish to mess with them. His girl had agreed that morning as she dolled herself up with her cheap makeup getting ready for that day’s work. He hugged her, looking at the two of them in the bathroom mirror together and noticing the bruises from the day before. It was amazing how much a pedestrian could make if they were to get hit by a car. More so was how much could be made off of cabbies. She specialized in cabbies. Most were foreign and the last thing they needed was to have their hack license revoked for hitting someone. They’d pay almost anything. When he said that he was going rob the train station, she looked at him with that belittling look in her eyes that told him what she though of it.

But he wasn’t going for what she thought he was. The newsstands were the ticket. Especially at Penn. They weren’t in their little boxes like they were in the street or in the subway. They stood out in the open, their registers on little platforms, practically for the taking. She laughed, and held her stomach at the idea. She agreed. It was worth a shot.

He knew he was going to be chased that day. He laced his sneakers up extra tight before he left their apartment in Jersey City and made sure he wasn’t wearing anything that he wouldn’t trail behind him that made him easier to catch or that he at least couldn’t slip out of in a moment. The weather was warm, which made it even better. He commended himself on his apparel for the day: a pair of sneakers, a loose pair of jeans, a sleeveless white undershirt, and a Houston Astros baseball cap to keep his long longish blond hair out of his eyes. As he hung a quick right on Tenth Avenue his hat blew off of as a warm wind whipped suddenly around the corner. The police were a little over a block behind and trailing further every second.

He didn’t own a gun and never had. His father had been a gun collector and had a collection that would impress almost anyone. He didn’t want a gun though. There was too much baggage associated with them. It was too easy to get shot, and that was the last thing he wanted. He knew the risks. He knew that he might go to jail if ever caught, but he didn’t want to be shot at and sure as hell didn’t want to be killed. Not carrying a gun lessened the risk, if only slightly. He wasn’t a killer and wouldn’t ever use it so the threat seemed empty to him and if there was anything that his father had ever said that was the least bit valuable, it was that you never carry an empty threat when someone else will follow through on theirs. It wasn’t a brilliant piece of wisdom, but then, his father was far from a wise man. A night spent too long at a bar and ten minutes behind the wheel made sure that the world would no longer be burdened by his brilliance.

The avenue north of him looked clear of police, but to be safe he leapt up onto a planter and over a parked car into the middle of the street, continuing a sort of perpetual motion forward even when stopped by a car in his way. What he couldn’t go over, he went around. Glancing behind every few paces he saw that only two cops continued to follow but that if the sweat through their uniforms was any indication, even they were going to have to give up chase before too long. His own shirt was starting to stick to him and he knew that eventually he was going to have to find a place to lie low. Unfortunately the PATH train was in the opposite direction as that he was running so home was not an option. He also knew that he was going to have to find something else to put the money into. The bag was a little too obvious.

Everything was going well until he glanced back the last time. When he looked back he noticed that the cops had assumed a leisurely pace and just watched him continue his sprint. The smile on the cops face made his own falter as he turned back to face front.

There must have been fifty of them. Half were on one knee, crouching over with their guns in their hands while the others stood behind them, also with their guns. They hadn’t been there a second before. He was certain. Out of nowhere, they appeared. The noon traffic was drowned by the sound of their conflicting cries for him to drop to the ground and to reach for the sky. He did neither and darted back across the street and into the restaurant on the corner in which three men wearing baby blue shirts and khakis sat at the seats outside and drank iced coffee drinks and talked about the MOMA renovations. He had a bag full of money, and raced through the kitchen and out the back door, not yet ready to be caught. He went through the screen door the kept the flies out of the kitchen of a bar – tearing the screen to shreds, sending aluminum bits flying, and giving him a serious gash in his right arm – and back out into the warm sunlight of the street to head towards midtown.

To anyone else on the street, it must have looked like a police parade on fast forward being led by an unlikely drum major. Those who were fit enough gave chase at their best speed while the rest jogged behind, radioing in the latest reports of the situation at hand. He just continued his ever longer sprint down the block, lungs beginning to burn and feet starting to numb. He had no plan, no idea. All he knew was to run. Run to avoid getting shot. Run to avoid being arrested. Run.