3. “It’s all
wrong, all wrong,” the man said, thrusting the papers into David Green’s
hands. “What’s wrong, Jack?” Green asked, bewildered. Rush hour traffic swirled around them. “The
figures for one,” Jack answered. “Your numbers are just wrong. And you got the name of the plaintive
wrong. You need to do it again.” “But its five, Jack,” Green answered,
pleading, “I need to…” “That doesn’t matter,” his boss snapped. “This is your mess. You need to clean it up tonight.” And the
papers, which Green had thrust at his boss, were pushed back at him along with
yesterday’s New York Times and Green fell off the curb. His boss pulled him back by the collar just
as a cab bore down on him. But the boss
overshot and pitched Green forward toward a hot dog cart. He inclined over the pretzels and took the
cart down, pinning him. Green’s
boss, the vendor, and some bystanders tried to upside the heavy cart. But when they did, David Green was dead. The cart had landed squarely on this
breastbone. Yesterday’s Times, wet from
hot dog water, clung to his face like a death mask.
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