Caught Stealing (2004) (12 page)

She gestures to a sign taped to the cash register.

Due to a recent wave of counterfeiting, we cannot accept bills over $20.00.

-That's fifty-nine dollars and forty-nine cents. Please.

I take the hundred off the counter and slide her the three twenties and she passes me my change.

-Fifty-one cents. And next time, watch your language.

I'm at a loss for words, so I just take my money and watch my language. Besides, I'm busy looking out the window behind her to see if I can catch another glimpse of Red on the sidewalk across the street.

I am not a rocket scientist. And yet this does not explain why I didn't realize that someone was bound to have Paul's staked out. Then again, in my own defense, I've never really done this before and I'm playing with professionals. Although whoever it was that sent Red to spy on me could stand to brush up on the basics of subtlety. I can see him out there, same red hair, same flashy clothes, except the pants are now bright blue polyester and the shirt is gold. He's also wearing an enormous pair of yellow-tinted goggles. So at this point I'm not overly concerned about losing sight of him.

-Hey, foulmouth, you mind making room for customers ain't gotta swear to express themselves?

I'm still standing at the counter and the girl is staring at me and pointing to the older woman behind me patiently waiting her turn.

-Sorry.

-Man, you just full of sorrys. Now get out the way.

I shuffle a few steps to the right. I don't really have any options. I'll just go out the door and try to lose him on the street. I start out the door and the security guard steps in front of me and puts a hand in my chest.

-Sir.

-Yes?

-Sir, may I see the bill you had at the counter?

-The bill?

-The hundred you had at the counter?

-You must. Look, it's not. I'm not passing bad paper.

-May I see the bill, please.

I'm not scared. I mean, really, a drugstore security guard just doesn't have much leverage with me today. But I want to get moving, so I pull out the hundred and hand it to him. He takes it, holds it up to the light, gives it a long look, then looks back at me.

-OK.

He tucks the bill into the breast pocket of his little security blazer and takes hold of my arm.

-What the fuck?

I jerk my arm back, but he's got a pretty good grip on it and pulls me in close.

-Fuckin' take it easy, man, and just come on with me.

And he starts leading me toward the back of the store. The girl at the counter stops in the middle of her transactions.

-Martin? Martin? Where you goin' with that foulmouth?

-Cheryl, just mind your own fuckin' business.

-Don't curse me, don't you curse me.

-Yeah, yeah, fuckin' yeah.

-Oh, oh!

-Just work the register, Cheryl. This is a security matter, so you just work the register.

-You busted, Martin. You soooo busted.

The rest is lost as Martin takes me back into the stockroom.

-OK, man, come on.

He lets go of my arm and starts leading me through a series of twists and turns, around piles of boxes, and through a couple very short hallways to a door with about eight locks. Martin stops and looks at me.

-OK, man, this is the stock entrance. I'm gonna open it quick, so you just jump out, 'cause I got to get back out there and chill Cheryl. OK?

-Sure.

The whole time, he's twisting dead bolts and sticking keys from a big ring into locks until there is just one left to open.

-You ready?

-Ready.

He snaps the last lock open, pulls the door inward and I jump out. The door is exactly ten yards down the street from the store's main entrance and, as I hear Martin relocking the locks, I look up and see Red, who has spotted me immediately and is waving at me, a big fucking smile on his sadistic little face. And I run away as fast as I can.

As alcoholics go, I'm really more of a dedicated amateur than a true professional. I tend to be more of a bingeing, life-of-my-own-party kind of drinker rather than a steady, dying-an-inch-at-a-time kind of drinker. And even in the middle of a bender, I still get myself over to the gym most days. It gets the heart started and sweats out the worst of the booze and helps me to hide from the hard core of desperation that has somehow become my life. I've jogged, lifted weights, and even sparred while still fully plowed from the night before. It's

vanity, but mostly I'm fighting a holding action against my lifestyle, convincing my mind that I'm not really trying to kill myself. I stay in shape. But even at my best, stone cold sober, well rested, well fed, with two kidneys and no recent beatings, even at my best I am not a shadow of what I once was.

I'm running west on 14th Street. Two lanes of traffic running both east and west, the sidewalk crowded with pedestrians checking out the discount shops. The bag from the store is in my left hand and, as I run, it swings crazily and keeps bouncing off the wound in my side and it's all I can think about. After the first twenty yards I drop it. With my hands free, I try to focus on my stride, try to find the point where I can slip my legs into gear and let them carry me along, but it's hard because I keep snapping my head over to the right to catch a glimpse of Red, to see how far back he is. He's not far back at all; in point of fact he's just about parallel to me, but he's sticking to the north side of the street and seems satisfied to just keep pace. I catch a break at Second Avenue, a green light that lets me shoot across the crosswalk and onto the next block.

These days when I run, it's really just jogging. I'll open it up a bit every now and then to work out the kinks, but I never really kick it. I don't like to feel what I lost. They talk about burst: the ability to explode into full speed from a dead standstill. I had burst. Against the guys at school and in Little League, I stole at will, and when the scouts came to see me play, they just clicked their stopwatches and shook their heads.

I'm about halfway to Third Avenue. My stride is uneven, I've got a stitch starting beneath the real pain of my wound, and the muscle where my leg broke is a stiff little ball in my calf. I snatch a look at Red and, from the way he's reading the traffic, I can tell he's getting ready to cross over to my side of the street. I figure I need to make a move.

At Third the light is green for me, but I cut left and head downtown instead. I don't look back, but the horns and brake squeals tell me all I need to know: Red is crossing 14th Street to stay behind me. I more than slightly hope to hear the dull thud of a car hitting a human body. No such luck.

Thirteenth Street comes up quick; these north-south blocks are much shorter than the cross-town blocks. The light is red for me, but there's a big hole in the traffic and I plunge through it no problem. I race the length of another block and across 12th, just in front of a bicycle messenger going the wrong way down the street and, behind me, I hear a neat little collision and a lot of cursing.

I twist my head around to confirm it. Red is all jumbled up with this Jamaican dude and his bike. I dodge traffic to the north side of Third Avenue and down a block to the multiplex movie theater on the corner of 11th Street.

A ticket window is open just around the corner, off the avenue, and out of Red's view. No one is waiting in line. I have a twenty in my hand. I shove it under the glass, panting.

-One.

The guy in the booth is reading a magazine and he doesn't look up from it.

-For what?

-What?

-What movie do you want?

-Anything, I don't care.

This time he looks up at me.

-Well, ya gotta pick something.

-I'm telling you, I don't care, I just. Just anything, OK?

He puts down his magazine.

-Look, don't give me a hard time, just pick a movie.

-Man!

I look at the movies. They've got eight screens and only three pictures playing on them and they all suck. The ticket booth is built into the corner of the theater with windows on both 11th and Third. Through the glass, behind the booth guy, I can see a block up the avenue where Red is getting untangled from the Jamaican and his bike.

-Just give me a ticket for anything you like, OK?

-Well, I like Shell Shock, but it started a half hour ago.

-I'll take it.

-But it started a half hour ago, you missed the best part.

-One for Shell Shock, please.

-OK, man, but it's not my fault if you don't like it or you don't know what's going on.

-One! Please!

-Yeah, yeah, cool it.

He punches out my ticket and pushes it through the glass along with my ten dollars change and three or four coupons for monster servings of soda and popcorn at the concession counter. I take the ticket and the change. Inside, I watch the street through the tinted glass of the lobby doors. Red is looking around for me, and the Jamaican is in his face; a few people are standing on the sidewalk watching the altercation. Red does something to the Jamaican. I can't really see what he's done, but the Jamaican drops straight to the asphalt and I think I see a few of the spectators flinch and they all suddenly find better things to do and start to walk away. Red takes one last look around and heads down the street in my direction, but still on the wrong side of the block. I give my ticket to the ticket guy and he looks at it.

-You know this started a half hour ago?

-I know.

-You want to wait? There's another starting in twenty minutes.

-I'm in a hurry.

-OK.

He tears the ticket and passes my half back to me.

-Two levels down on the escalator, concessions on the right.

I step onto the down escalator.

-Thanks.

-Sure, but you already missed the best part.

I've seen Shell Shock. I know that I have indeed already missed the best part, which speaks volumes about an action movie that runs over two hours. The bathroom is on the first level down, so that's where I stop. It's empty. I go into the stall, take off Yvonne's jacket and my sweater and pull up my T-shirt and, sure enough, the peeling bandage is stained with a bit of fresh red. I take a seat on the toilet and rest my head in my hands.

I'm thirsty.

I get off the can, leave the jacket and sweater in the stall and go over to the sink. It's one of those where you push the knob down and it turns itself off a moment later. I push it down and hold my cupped hands under the water and it shuts off before I can fill them up. I hold the knob down with one hand while I fill the other, but I can't really get a proper drink that way. Finally, I just hold the knob down and stick my head in the sink and drink straight from the faucet. I'm really thirsty and I'm taking in huge gulps and the water is rushing right next to my ears, which is why I don't hear it when the door opens and Red comes in.

I don't even realize he's there until he steps past me and into the stall. At which point he sees my jacket and sweater hanging off the hook on the back of the door and I guess he realizes that the bum in the T-shirt drinking from the faucet is actually the fuck he's looking for. Which is the exact same moment that my eyes flick up to the mirror and see the back of his shocking red head in the open door of the stall.

The element of surprise is an amazing thing and, as has been documented many times, can be the decisive factor in even the most lopsided conflict. In this case, we get the drop on each other and it produces a kind of tableau. I straighten, water running down my chin and onto the front of my T-shirt, but I haven't had time to turn, while he has spun neatly on his heels to face me. So I look at the mirror, straight through the yellow lenses of his goggles and into the reflection of his eyes. He stares back. There's a cut on his chin and scuff marks on his otherwise flawless red jacket and, somehow, I just know that he's more pissed about the condition of his vinyl than his face. I slowly wipe water from my mouth and chin. We are in a bathroom. Someone could walk in at any moment.

-I talked to Roman. I told him I was getting the key. I told him I'd call him.

He blinks behind those goggles. Slowly.

-Fuck Roman.

I spin and backpedal at the same time. I'm bigger than he is, but for it to do me any good I need room. He dances in toward me as I lift up onto the balls of my feet, tuck my chin, and bring my fists up. He skips back just a bit, keeping his hands loosely balled down by his hips. I want to stay mobile, but the boots I'm wearing slow my feet down, so I'm doing my dancing with my head and upper body, keep the target moving. The tight space plays to his size, but if I can keep some distance between us, I might have a chance. He darts in, trying to come inside my guard and I pop out a jab to keep him away. Before my arm is fully extended he hits me three times.

They're tight little punches that pepper my lower ribs. And that's about it for boxing. I flinch back, ducking and turning, and he just plants a good one right on my wound. I give a sound halfway between a scream and a gasp and my body twists back toward the pain, and he flattens his hand into a spear point and drives it into my solar plexus. I fold. He grabs me, puts me into some kind of hold, spins me and drives me back into the stall, kicking the door closed behind us.