I did what I usually do. Two fingers of my right hand pointing to my throat, then a slashing motion. No words coming out of here, pal. No disrespect intended. I obviously made it back alive because I’m still writing.
So hang on, because this is my story if you’re ready for it. I was the Miracle Boy, once upon a time. Later on, the Milford Mute. The Golden Boy. The Young Ghost. The Kid. The Boxman. The Lock Artist. That was all me.
But you can call me Mike.
Two
Outside Philadelphia
September 1999
So there I was, on my way to my first real job. I’d been on the road for two days straight, ever since leaving home. That old motorcycle had broken down just as I crossed the Pennsylvania state line. I hated to leave it there on the side of the road, after all it had given me. The freedom. The feeling that I could jump on the thing and outrun anything at a moment’s notice. But what the hell else choice did I have?
I took the bags off the back and stuck my thumb out. You try hitchhiking when you can’t speak. Go ahead, try it sometime. The first three people who stopped for me just couldn’t deal with it. It didn’t matter how nice my face was or how used up I might have looked after all those lonely miles. You’d think I’d stop being surprised by how freaked out people get when they meet a man who is always silent.
So it took a while to get there. Two days since the call and a lot of trouble and hardship. Then I finally show up, tired and hungry and filthy. Talk about making a good first impression.
This was the Blue Crew. These were the guys the Ghost called steady and reliable. Not quite as top of the heap, but professional. Even if they were a little rough around the edges sometimes. Like most New York guys. That’s all I’d been told about them. I was about to find out the rest for myself.