They called him Jimmy the Rocket and he was scared. He hadn't been scared often in his life and he hated how it felt. The people he worked for took pride in the fear they instilled and he was one of their instruments of that fear. Jimmy held his hand at eye level and tried to hold it still to test his nerve. It quivered like the street when a subway passed below it. Jimmy had a job to do. He would wait until night. He sat back and closed his eyes, drifting into sleep.

Jimmy Collins wasn't a well-educated man, but he wasn't stupid either. He learned many things in his four decades of life and it was upon one of those epiphanies that he focused now; when the people who care about you reassure you that you are not a bad man it means you are in danger of becoming one. When you tell yourself the same thing, it is already too late.

When he awoke, it was dark; city dark. Street lamps and lights left on in empty office buildings bathed the avenue in a surreal glow. Jimmy started his car and began the drive to Paddy's. They'd known each other forever. It was Paddy who gave him his nickname in high school after he had won the 100 meter sprint at the all-city track meet. They were like brothers. Jimmy the Rocket was going to kill his best friend.

Jimmy parked in an alley next to Paddy's cottage and looked around. He saw a dark-colored car parked across the street with two figures inside it, watching. Jimmy shook his head and cursed silently, then walked to Paddy's door and knocked. To his surprise, it opened immediately. A smiling face greeted him. Paddy Brennan was every inch an Irishman, from his freckled face surrounded by a corona of frazzled red hair to his stocky barrel-chested body. "Jimmy, I'm glad it's you," Paddy said still smiling.

"Not when you know why I'm here," Collins said grimly.

"I know you're here to kill me, I may be stupid, but not that stupid. Let's sit." They walked to the tattered plaid couch in the center of a dreary room covered with faded green wallpaper. "I'm sorry, Jim," Paddy began, "I didn't mean to get you into this."

"You stupid Mick bastard!" Jimmy exploded. "You can't steal from these people! They think I'm involved! The only way I may live is if I waste you!"

"I wanted a piece," Paddy tried to explain, "... one lousy ounce out of ten kilos. Shit, it's less than they lose to the low-lifes who cut it"

Jimmy felt queasy. He sat down and any of the anger he felt toward his friend left him, "Stop whinin', I ain't gonna kill you."

Paddy shook his head adamantly, "You gotta, you got no choice. They're watching. I'm dead no matter what."

"They don't want me to just kill you. They want an example." The knotting in Jimmy's stomach became almost painful. He looked into his friend's eyes desperately, his mind and body fighting each other. He saw Paddy's face break into a sad smile.

"It figures. It's gotta be you, please! Kill me first, then do the other shit. Let's get it over with. We both know they're out there. They'll be getting anxious. Don't let them do me, please!"

Jimmy went silent. He knew Paddy was right. If not him, quickly, then the men in the car outside, very slowly. A tear welled up in his eye. It was strange, he noted, that he was more concerned for his friend than himself.

Jimmy was well aware that his own chances for survival were very slim, but it didn't matter at all. He didn't want to die, but deep down he truly didn't care. His life had not turned out the way he expected. When Jimmy was young, he read about heroes and adventurers and now he was a criminal, a villain who still lived a mile from where he grew up. His future was all used up and his past wasn't worth remembering. He looked at Paddy again and his mind was settled.

Suddenly, Paddy stood up and went to his window. He parted the blinds and looked up the alley at the waiting car and its suspicious occupants. Jimmy joined him and took a glance, then took in the view of the all-encompassing cityscape. The city seemed to jeer at him, its lighted windows like so many gleaming teeth. He realized he hated this place and yet had never left it. Jimmy tried to recall what a green field looked like, to no avail. He turned to his friend, "I'll do it."

Paddy beamed, "Thanks, pal. I'm gonna give you my elf. I ain't ever used him, but I should've. He's yours now."

"An elf, Paddy?" Jimmy asked incredulously, "Is this really the time to screw around?"

"Just say you'll take him. You don't need to do nothing else...consider it my last request."

"Yeah, sure, I'll take him. Why not?" Jimmy said smiling.

"I know it ain't enough to make up for the shit I got you in, but it's all I can do," Paddy sighed, then continued, "let's do it."

Now that the sordid task was imminent, Jimmy's stomach churned. "Are you sure?" He pleaded.

"Nasty people we run with," Paddy said quietly.

"Nasty? They're scumbags, sadistic scumbags. We never meant shit to them, just lousy gofers. Let's just run for it, we might get past those guys in the alley."

"If we leave they'll cut our dicks off. This is better. I go quick, and they might let you live. Shoot me in the head, then do that other shit and get the hell out of here. You got the elf, you might even make it."

"Right, the elf. Man...I hate this." Jimmy pulled out his gun and stared at it for a few minutes. Finally he took a deep breath to steel his nerve.

Paddy bent over. "Do it!" he said grimly through gritted teeth.

"God, forgive me," Jimmy said quietly as he pressed the barrel against the back of his friend's head. Paddy jerked forward as life blew through the front of his skull. Jimmy sobbed. He'd seen death his entire life, but this was the first time he'd cried since his mother died.

"You stupid bastard!" Jimmy intoned as he fired a round into each of Paddy's knees, then into his elbows. As he aimed at Paddy's groin he had no tears left. He fired his last round and dropped the pistol in disgust. Jimmy sat a while, then gathered himself and left the apartment.

As he walked to his car, Jimmy glanced up the alley in time to see two men coming toward him. He got into his car and fumbled for his key. In the pale yellow light of the sodium street lamps he could see the unmistakable shape of automatic weapons in the hands of the two approaching thugs. "Jesus," he mumbled desperately, "I wish that elf was real."

"You call?" a voice beside him asked.

Jimmy squinted at the figure sitting next to him. It was a small man, the size of an eight year old with a nose that reminded Jimmy of a turnip. He was dressed in a checkered coat and plaid pants held up by a length of rope. On his head he wore a tan bowler.  "You picked a bad time, Shorty," the Rocket said urgently.

"As Paddy would say," the little man squeaked, "start the friggin' car."

Jimmy put the key in the ignition. The men in the alley stopped twenty feet in front of the him and leveled their weapons. The assassins grinned as their fingers tightened on the triggers. Instinctively, Jimmy covered his face. He was stunned that his windshield remained intact. He started the car. The two would-be killers stood like statues, frozen and unmoving.

"Let's get going," the elf said gleefully.  "Turn left," the little man instructed, "and then right up at the light."

Jimmy eased the car forward. The killers remained motionless as the car drove by. "The Holland Tunnel?" He ventured.

"Yup, or as Paddy called it, the asshole of New  York." The elf giggled.

The Rocket kept driving and hazarded a glance at his passenger. He half expected him to be gone, a hallucination. Yet there he sat, grinning like the Cheshire Cat. "Am I going crazy?" Jimmy mumbled.

"Beats me," the elf answered, "Are you on any medication? Any family members in the loony-bin? A head injury? Have ya been drinkin' a little too much of the devil's brew?"

"Just shut up and mind your own business, Shorty." Jimmy slowed down as he approached the tunnel and entered. "Jeez," he grunted, finally feeling safe enough to be pissed off, "I hate Jersey."

"It won't be Jersey." The small man said bluntly

"Look," the Rocket snorted, "I know where this friggin' tube ends up." He continued driving. Suddenly he realized that he was alone in the tunnel. Jimmy felt uneasy as the tiled interior of the tunnel rushed by, bathed in the eerie green-white illumination of the fluorescent lights. After what seemed like hours, there was a warm glow in the distance.

"Here we are," the elf chortled as they emerged into a bright sunlight that should have still been hours off.

"Sweet Jesus," Jimmy said looking around. "This sure ain't New Jersey."

The road simply ended at the base of a gently sloping mound covered in grass and poppies.  There were no streets or buildings, no smog, no power-lines or utility poles,  just rolling hills of grass and groves of fruit trees, bisected by clear streams and dotted with placid ponds.

Jimmy stopped the car and walked up the hill to a large oak surrounded by a carpet of thick moss. He sat down, leaning against the massive trunk and closed his eyes. He felt the cool breeze of a spring wind caressing his skin and took a deep breath of the clean air, basking in the fresh sweet aroma of wildflowers.

He listened for the sounds of people, machinery, cars, and subways, that had filled every moment of his life, but could hear only the trilling of songbirds and the low whisper of the wind.  Jimmy was no longer tense or fearful, but peaceful and calm. He felt something he hadn't experienced in almost four decades . . . something so vague in his memory that he couldn't even give it a name. It was an elusive sensation he had thought was non-existent. It was happiness.

"It's wonderful," Jimmy called down to where he had parked the car and its magical occupant. There was no response. He was alone, both car and passenger had disappeared. He was alone, he was lost, and he was happy.

The red and blue flashing lights lit up the walls of the surrounding buildings like a discothèque. A thin band of yellow police tape blocked off the alley from the massing crowd of spectators as a small army of uniformed police milled around the narrow canyon awaiting instructions.

Paddy's door was open wide and a stream of dour-faced professionals entered and exited. Inside the small cottage, a young officer leaned over the unfortunate Irishman's body. "This guy's a real mess," the police officer commented.   

"Don't touch anything till we get it dusted," the lieutenant in charge of the scene instructed.  The young cop stood and approached him. He pointed past the lieutenant into the alley and asked, "What about the other guy?"

Lieutenant Mallory shook his head, "He didn't stand a chance, they cut him in half before he even started his car."

It was evening. The sun was setting, deep red in the smog, but Jimmy did not see. He did not see the million desperate faces, the dirty streets, or the cold stone canyons. His lifeless eyes saw nothing, nothing but the rolling hills and crystal streams of a place that wasn't  New Jersey.