"Are you a police officer?"

"No."

"When I ask like that, you have to tell the truth," he said. Not true, but Myron didn't bother to correct him. "And I'm sorry, but you have me mistaken for someone else."

Myron wanted to reach across the desk and bop the guy on the forehead. "Last night at Three Downing, did you notice a large woman in a Batgirl costume?"

Fishman said nothing, but the guy would not have made a great poker player.

"She followed you home. We know all about your club visits, your drug dealings, your-"

That was when Fishman pulled a gun out of his desk drawer.

The suddenness caught Myron off guard. A cemetery goes with a school about as much as a teacher pulling a gun on you inside of his cla.s.sroom. Myron had made a mistake, gotten overconfident in this setting, let down his guard. A big mistake.

Fishman quickly leaned across the desk, the gun inches from Myron's face. "Don't move or I'll blow your G.o.dd.a.m.n head off."

When someone points a gun at you, the whole world has a tendency to shrink down to the approximate size of the opening at the end of the barrel. For a moment, especially if it is your first time having a firearm thrust in your face at eye level, that opening is all you see. It is your world. It paralyzes you. s.p.a.ce, time, dimensions, senses are no longer factors in your life. Only that dark opening matters.

Still, Myron thought, slow time down.

The rest happened in less than a second.

First: The mental-state "would he pull the trigger" calculation. Myron looked past the gun and into Fishman's eyes. They were wide and wet, his face shiny. Plus Fishman had pulled a gun on him in a cla.s.sroom while people were still in the school. His hand shook. The finger was on the trigger. You put those pieces together and you realize a simple truth: The man was crazy and thus may indeed shoot you.

Second: Size up your opponent. Fishman was a married schoolteacher with two kids. Playing drug dealer at night in a tony nightclub did not really change that. The chances that he had real combat training seemed remote. He had also made a truly amateur move, putting the gun this close to Myron's face, leaning over the desk like that, slightly off balance.

Third: Decide your move. Picture it. If your a.s.sailant is not at close range, if he is across the room or even more than a few feet away, well, there would be no choice. You can't disarm him, no matter what kind of martial art kicks you've seen in the movies. You have to wait it out. That was still option A. Myron could indeed stay still. That would be expected. He could talk him down. They were in a school, after all, and you'd have to be not just "crazy" but "Crazy with a capital C C" to fire a gun in here.

But if you were a man like Myron, a man who had the reflexes of a professional athlete along with years of training, you might take a serious look at option B: Disarming your opponent. If you choose B, you cannot hesitate. If you choose B, you're best off getting him right away, before he realized that it was a possibility and backed away or grew more cautious. Right now, in the split second he had pulled the gun and shouted for Myron not to move, Joel Fishman was still high off that adrenaline, which leads to . . .

Fourth: Execute.

Surprisingly-or maybe not-it is easier to disarm a man with a gun than one with a knife. If you dart out your hand toward a blade, you could slice open your palm. Knives are hard to grab. You need to go for the wrist or forearm rather than the weapon itself. There is very little room for error.

For Myron, the best way to disarm a person with a firearm involved two steps. One, before Fishman could react in any way, Myron quickly jerked himself out of the discharge line. You don't have to move far, which isn't really an option anyway. It just involves a lightning-quick tilt to the right-the side of Myron's dominant hand. There are many complicated techniques you could use here, depending upon what kind of handgun your a.s.sailant was carrying. Some say, for example, to grasp the hammer with your thumb so you can prevent certain weapons from firing. Myron never bought that. There was too little time and too much precision involved, not to mention in the rush to calculate your reaction, trying to figure out whether you're dealing with a semiautomatic or revolver or whatever.

Myron went for something simpler and again, kiddies, if you're not professionally trained and physically gifted, don't try this at home. With his dominant hand, Myron s.n.a.t.c.hed the gun away. Just like that. Like he was taking a toy from a bratty kid. Using his superior strength, athletic skill, knowledge, leverage, and element of surprise, he snapped out his hand and took away the weapon. As he pulled the weapon free, he lifted his elbow and struck Fishman flush on the face, sending him sprawling back in the chair.

Myron leapt across the desk, knocking the chair back. Fishman landed hard on his back. He tried to snake-crawl off the chair. Myron leapt on him, straddling his chest. He even pinned Fishman's arms to the floor with his knees, like a big brother picking on a little one. Old-school.

"Are you out of your G.o.dd.a.m.n mind?" Myron asked.

No reply. Myron boxed Fishman's ears hard. Fishman squealed in terror and tried to cover up, cowering, helpless. Myron flashed to the video with Kitty, the satisfied smirk, and he punched Fishman hard in the face.

"The gun's not loaded!" Fishman yelled. "Check! Please."

Still pinning down the man's wiggling arms, Myron checked. Fishman was telling the truth. There were no bullets. Myron tossed the gun across the room. Myron c.o.c.ked his fist to deliver another blow. But Fishman was sobbing now. Not just crying or cringing or scared. He was sobbing in a way you rarely saw in an adult. Myron rolled off him, still at the ready-two could play at the sudden, surprise attack.

Fishman curled himself into a little ball. He made fists, jammed them into his eyes, and kept sobbing. Myron just waited.

"I'm so sorry, man," Fishman managed between sobs. "I'm such a mess. I'm really, really sorry."

"You pulled a gun on me."

"I'm a mess," he said again. "You don't understand. I'm so screwed."

"Joel?"

He kept sniffling.

"Joel?" Myron slid another photograph across the floor to him. "See the woman in that picture?"

He still had his eyes covered.

Myron made his voice firm. "Look, Joel."

Fishman slowly put his hands down. His face was slick from tears and probably phlegm. Crush, the tough Manhattan drug dealer, wiped his face with his sleeve. Myron tried to wait him out, but he just stared.

"A few nights ago, you were at Three Downing with that woman," Myron said. "If you start telling me you don't know what I'm talking about, I will take off my shoe and beat you with it. Do you understand me?"

Fishman nodded.

"You remember her, right?"

He closed his eyes. "It's not what you think."

"I don't care about any of that. Do you know her name?"

"I'm not sure I should tell you."

"My shoe, Joel. I could just beat it out of you."

Fishman wiped his face, shook his head. "That doesn't seem your style."

"What do you mean by that?"

"Nothing. I just don't think you'll hit me anymore."

In the past, Myron thought, I would have in a Big Apple second. But right now, yeah, Fishman was right. He wouldn't.

Seeing Myron hesitate, Fishman said, "Do you know anything about addiction?"

Oh boy. Where was this headed? "Yes, Joel, I do."

"From personal experience?"

"No. Are you going to tell me you're a drug addict, Joel?"

"No. I mean, well, sure, I use. But that's not really what this is about." He tilted his head, suddenly the inquisitive teacher. "Do you know when addicts finally go for help?"

"When they have to."

He grinned as though pleased. Myron Bolitar, prize pupil. "Precisely. When they hit rock bottom. That's what just happened here. I get it now. I get that I have a problem, and I'm going to get help."

Myron was about to crack wise, but he stopped himself. When a guy you wanted info from was talking, it was best to keep him that way. "That sounds like a productive move," Myron said, trying not to gag.

"I have two kids. I have a wonderful wife. Here, take a look."

As Fishman started reaching into his pocket, Myron jumped closer. Fishman nodded, moved slower, took out a set of keys. He handed Myron one of those photo key chains. It was a family shot taken, according to the background, at Six Flags Great Adventure. A costumed Bugs Bunny and Tweety Bird stood left and right of the Fishman family. Mrs. Fishman was heartbreakingly lovely. Joel was kneeling. On his right was a girl, maybe five or six with blond hair and the kind of wide smile that's so d.a.m.n contagious Myron realized that the corner of his own lips were curling upward. On the other side of Joel was a boy, maybe two years younger than the girl. The boy was shy, half hiding his face in his father's shoulder.

He handed the key chain back. "Beautiful kids."

"Thank you."

Myron remembered something his father once told him: People have an amazing capacity to mess up their own lives.

Out loud, Myron said, "You're a dumb-a.s.s, Joel."

"I'm sick," he corrected. "There's a difference. I want to get better though."

"Prove it."

"How?"

"Start showing that you're ready to change by telling me about the woman you were with three nights ago."

"How do I know you don't mean her harm?"

"The same way you know I won't take off my shoe and beat you."

Joel Fishman looked at the key chain and started to cry again.

"Joel?"

"I honestly want to move past this."

"I know you do."

"And I will. I swear to G.o.d. I'll get help. I will be the best father and husband in the world. I just need a chance. You get that, right?"

Myron wanted to vomit. "I do."

"It's just . . . Don't get me wrong. I love my life. I love my family and my kids. But for eighteen years I've woken up and come to this school and taught middle schoolers French. They hate it. They never pay attention. When I started, I had this vision of what it was going to be like-me teaching them this beautiful language that I love so much. But it's nothing like that. They just want to get A As and move on. That's it. Every cla.s.s, year after year. We go through this dance. Amy and I are always struggling to make ends meet. It's just the same, you know. Every day. Year after year. The same drudgery. And what will tomorrow be like? The same. Every day the same, until, well, until I die."

He stopped, looked off.

"Joel?"

"Promise me," Fishman said. "Promise me that if I help you, you won't tell on me." Tell on me. Like he was one of his students who cheated on a test. "Give me that chance, please. For the sake of my kids."

"If you tell me all you know about this woman," Myron said, "I won't tell."

"Give me your word."

"You have my word."

"I met her at the club three nights ago. She wanted to score. I set it up."

"By set it up, you mean you gave her drugs."

"Yes."

"Anything else?"

"No, not really."

"Did she tell you her name?"

"No."

"How about a phone number? In case she wanted to score again?"

"She didn't give me one. That's all I know. I'm sorry."

Myron was not buying it. "How much did she pay you?"

"Excuse me?"

"For the drugs, Joel. How much money did she give you?"

Something crossed his face. Myron saw it. Here came the lie. "Eight hundred dollars," Fishman said.

"In cash?"

"Yes."

"She was carrying eight hundred dollars?"

"I don't take Visa or MasterCard," he said with the chuckle of a liar. "Yes, of course."

"And where did she give you the money?"

"At the club."

"When you gave her the drugs?"

His eyes narrowed a little. "Of course."