Caught Stealing (2004) (20 page)

-What about me?

-You stay in hiding until the news breaks that Miner has been captured. At which point you turn yourself in and explain that you were hiding because you were confused and afraid. You turn yourself over to me and only me. I will then ease your passage through the criminal justice system with the aid of my good name and a considerable amount of cash. With luck, we'll both be heroes. Just relax. Soon this will be over and they'll make you into a movie of the week.

I'm not stupid. I don't trust him.

-Henry?

-Don't call me that.

-It's your name, right?

-Don't call me that. You want to use my name, you call me Hank.

-Very well. Hank, you must relax. It will all go fine if you do not panic. It's not out of reach, Hank. Your old life, it's not out of reach.

And with no other choice that I can see, I do it. I make the deal and I don't panic. We set up a time and place to make the exchange. He wants me to bring the cash, I refuse and tell him he can have the key, but he'll have to use it himself. He insists and I hang up the phone and let him wait a couple minutes before I call back. He agrees to accept Russ and the key. He tells me to stay hidden until after dark and he tells me to keep an eye on the news. I tell him to make sure that Bud is in one piece tonight and he says good-bye.

I hang up the phone and get some Advil from the first-aid kit. I want to call a grocery and have them deliver some more beer, but when I look at the TV, I realize I'm gonna have to live without. The long-awaited press conference has begun and they're flashing my booking photo from the other night and talking about how dangerous I am.

I watch TV for a while and think about that beer I drank. The clock says 3:15 when I peter out again, tired. I'm so fucking tired. I take a pillow from the bed and toss it on the carpet in front of the door. Now that I have a little time to think, I'm remembering some important stuff. The Giants play at 4:05 P. M. West Coast time and the Mets at 7:30 P. M. EST. I set the alarm for 7:00 P. M. The meet with Roman is at 10:00. We'll have to leave by 9:00 to get set up, but I should be able to watch at least three or four innings. I lie down on the floor and you'd be surprised just how easy it is to fall asleep. No dreams.

My first thought when I wake up is that the alarm didn't go off. I know I'm supposed to be up for something and I can't remember if it's work or a date or a doctor's appointment or what the fuck. Then I see that I'm on the floor and the pieces fall back into place, including the empty bed.

In my sleep, I've rolled away from the door. Now I see that what woke me was the door bumping lightly into my side. It's closing! The fucking door is being pulled closed from the outside right now! I'm awake.

Still on the floor, I grab the edge of the door before it can close all the way. My fingers get a little squashed, but he's trying to be quiet and gentle, so it doesn't hurt much. I have a good grip now and yank back as hard as I can. He resists for a moment, then thinks better of it. The door flies in at me as he changes his pull to a push. I catch most of it on my left shoulder. It knocks me all the way onto my back and he has a head start. Through the now open door, I see him taking his first big step down the hall toward the elevator.

I lunge up into a sitting position, throw myself into the hall and claw at his ankles. I hook a finger in the cuff of his right pants leg, but he kicks back, freeing himself and knocking me further off balance. I'm trying to go after him and get up at the same time and I end up in a ridiculous crawl crouch, stumbling behind him. I can see that he's going to beat me to the elevators, but unless there's one waiting for him, I should catch up to him there. I see a little flash of chrome in his right hand. He has the gun. He picked my pocket while I was asleep and he has his little .22 back. The sight of the gun slows me. I'm not sure I want to catch him if he has the gun. As I consider this, he suddenly and for no apparent reason turns to the left and plows straight into the wall.

He rebounds off the wall and pauses a moment to shake his head. I take two giant steps, throw myself at him and grab his right leg as he steps forward. He goes down full length, no time to use his arms to break his fall. The gun is bounced out of his hand and slides a few feet down the hall. I scramble up onto his back, pin his arms with my knees and grab him by the neck with my left hand. With my right, I reach out and scoop up the gun. I stick the barrel up against his cheek. His mouth is muffled by the carpet, but I hear him.

-Like, chill, man! Chill!

I dig the barrel in deeper.

-Yes, I get it, Hank! Chill, man!

I disentangle myself from him, keeping the gun in place. We stand up together.

-The room, Russ.

-Yeah, man, like, the room. No problem.

We walk the few yards back to our room and no doors open, no one looks out to see what the ruckus is about. I love this hotel. I close the door behind us and relock it, including the little chain. Russ is looking at his face in the mirror over the dresser, inspecting the carpet burn on his chin. I can't help it; as I go past him, I give him a little shove in the back. He falls right into the mirror, banging his forehead hard enough to cause a small crack in the glass. He straightens and then slides down to the floor along the dresser drawers, which make little clunking noises as he goes. He sits there, holding his head.

-For chrissake, Hank. Will you quit, like, hitting me on the fucking head!

I squat down and look at his eyes. Again, the left pupil is a little bigger than the right. No wonder he can't walk a straight line. I check the clock: 7:49 P. M. The fucker switched off the alarm. I climb up on the bed, grab the remote, switch to Channel 11 for the Mets game, and turn up the sound. Bottom of the first: zip, zip. I wait for them to flash a score from the Giants game. At the end of the inning, they tell me what I want to know: Giants 1, Dodgers 0, top of the third.

Russ gets himself up off the floor. He looks for something but can't find it.

-Hey?

I watch TV.

-Hey, what happened to my last beer?

-I drank it.

-Fuck.

He digs in one of the grocery bags until he comes up with a six-pack of Coke, a bag of chips and a can of peanuts. He comes over to the bed and stands there, waiting. I look up at him, then scoot over to make room. He climbs onto the bed, hands me a soda, and puts the chips and nuts between us.

-So, what's the score?

8:45 P. M. I'm sitting on the bottom edge of the bed, two feet from the TV screen. Top of the fifth, still no score. The Mets and the Braves are locked in a pitchers' duel. The starters have combined for fifteen strikeouts already and show no sign of slowing down. Out west in Dodger Stadium, they're jammed in the bottom of the fourth, picking away at each other, the hitters going high into the counts and knocking foul balls all over the fucking place. The Giants are still up 1-0, but L. A. has the bases loaded and S. F.'s starter is already wearing out. The announcer for the Mets game keeps giving updates on what's happening out in Los Angeles, but the fact that I can't actually see the game is driving me up the fucking wall. And now it's time to go, and I can't bring myself to shut off the TV.

I'm going to wait until the end of the Dodgers' fourth. I can't do it, I just can't go without knowing if the Dodgers take the lead. The Mets knock down the Braves in order, chalking up two more strikeouts and the coverage goes to a commercial.

-Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.

Russ is still reclined at the other end of the bed. He's a Mets fan. Every time they notch another out, he pumps his fist and gives a little whoop. I'm trying to remember that it could be worse, he could be a Dodgers fan. It's 8:56 P. M. The game comes back on and we're informed that the Giants are in the middle of a pitching change. Meanwhile, the Braves go to work on the Mets. I look again at the clock. Fuck! Fuck me! I turn off the TV. Russ jumps off the bed.

-Whoa! Like, what the fuck?

I collect the first-aid kit and cell phone and put on the Yankees jacket, sunglasses and headphones.

-Time to go, Russ.

-Oh, man. Oh, man!

-I know. Come on.

At the door, I turn and take a look at the room. Cans and crumbs and leftover food all over the place. I take a twenty from my pocket and toss it on the bed for the maid. We walk down the hall and push the button for the elevator. Russ is antsy.

-Where do we go?

-We need a car.

-A car?

-Yeah.

He looks at me, the elevator goes ding and the doors open. We step inside and wait for the doors to close.

-Hank?

-Yeah?

-Why do we. Mmmm. Why do we, like, need a car?

The doors are still open. I realize that neither of us has pushed a button and I lean over and press my finger against the one labeled L.

-We need a car because I don't want to risk any more cabs or subways and so we can listen to the game while we wait.

The elevator is very slow.

-I thought we were, like, going to the. Mmmm. Going to the cops. I thought you were turning me in.

I look at him as the elevator eases its way down to the lobby.

-I'm giving you to Roman.

-What?

-I'm giving you and the money to Roman. Roman will take you in.

-What the fuck?

-I can't just take you to the police.

-Are you fucking. Mmmm. Are you, like, fucking nuts? You're fucking crazy. Fucking Roman? ZOMBIE MOTHER FUCKING ROMAN?

-Russ!

-Fuck that!

The doors open on the lobby and a group of ultrahip European teenagers are standing there, waiting to go up. Russ spins away from me and takes a quick step out of the elevator and trips over nothing, tumbling into the crowd of tattoos, piercings and bleached hair. They catch him and keep him on his feet while I wrap an arm around his shoulders and take a firm grip on his right biceps.

-Thank you. Thank you very much. He's OK.

They cram into the elevator, making cracks in French about drunk Americans. Fucking French classes. I wish I'd taken Spanish in high school. I start walking Russ toward the door.

-Take it easy, Russ. Just take it easy. It's, it's gonna be OK. You're gonna take the fall, but you're gonna get out of it alive. And. It's gonna, you know, be fine.

He's still shaking a bit, not because of his balance, but because of how hard he's crying.

I would rather have rented a car, but I don't want to go someplace where I'm gonna have to stand around and let people look at me for twenty minutes, and I don't trust Russ to go in alone. It takes me a while to talk Russ into the backup plan, but eventually he gives in. Even woozy as he is, it takes him less than a minute to break into a locked car and hot-wire it. We sit there with the engine idling. I put a hand on his shoulder.

-OK, let's go.

He kind of shrugs my hand from his shoulder.

-No.

-Why?

-Mmmm. A

from, like, not wanting to drive myself to my own fucking execution, I'm not sure I should, like, be behind the wheel, feeling like this. I can barely, like, walk a fucking straight line thanks to you going all, like, Babe Ruth on my head.

-You have to drive, Russ.

-Mmmm. Why? Why the fuck do I have to drive?

-Because I don't.

He looks at me.

-Are you. Mmmm. Are you, like, kidding, man? You're from Cali, man. All you guys know how to drive.

-I know how to, I just don't. So let's get the fuck out of here before the owner of this fucking thing shows the fuck up.

-Let him! Let him. Mmmm. Let him show up and call the fucking cops. That would be, like, great, man. Save my fucking life.

I make a fist and lunge at him. He flinches back and I pull the punch before it makes contact. He keeps himself pressed against the driver's-side door and I take deep breaths.

-Why me, Russ? Huh? Why the fuck did you pick me to give your goddamn cat?

He looks out the window at Ninth Avenue.

-I figured, you know, that you'd, like, take good care of him. I mean, Bud's a great cat. I didn't want to leave him with just anyone.

-Yeah.

We sit for another half minute.

-Just drive the car, Russ. Take it real easy and if you start to black out or feel funny, just say something.

-OK.

He takes the wheel and puts the Celica in first.

-Like, where to, man?

-Just get us out of here. I'll tell you where to go once we're moving.

He pulls away from the curb nice and slow and eases us into the downtown traffic. I turn on the radio and try to find the game.

We circle the block and take Broadway back downtown to Canal Street, then take East Broadway to Montgomery. We scoot across the FDR into the Pier 8 driveway right at the bottom of Manhattan. I point the way and Russ drives us slowly down the access road past the NO UNAUTHORIZED VEHICLES BEYOND THIS POINT sign. I jog out here a few times a week and I've never seen a single cop, just the occasional parks department truck. We cruise along nice and easy until we reach the Houston Street footbridge where it crosses over the FDR to the baseball diamonds of the East River Park.