Caught Stealing (2004) (22 page)

-FUCK, RUSS!

-What?

-THE CAR, HOW DO I START THE FUCKING CAR?

Out on the road, Roman and Bolo are peeking out from behind their hands, which are covering their faces. Russ reaches over to the steering column, grabs the two wires he exposed before and starts scraping them together. Roman and Bolo get to their feet. The Celica is making sounds like it wants to start, but it won't turn over.

Roman looks around at his feet, bends over and picks up his gun from where he dropped it when Russ started shooting. Bolo walks slowly toward us, his left thumb in his mouth and a 9 mm dangling casually from his right hand. Behind him Roman is trying to aim at us, but Bolo is in his way.

The Celica goes WAH-WAH-WAH!

Bolo walks up to the front of the car and starts to raise his pistol. Roman is moving a few steps to his right, looking for a clean shot. The engine catches, but the clutch is out.

The Celica leaps forward in little hops and slams Bolo in the knees, folding him over the hood. I stomp on the floor, trying to find the clutch. Russ holds Bud, pressed tightly against his neck. Roman gets off a shot, but our motion spoils it and he takes out the side window behind me. I get my foot on the clutch pedal. The engine coughs and recatches. Bolo is on the hood.

I let the clutch out and hammer down on the gas. Gravel spits out behind us and the rear end fishtails and Bolo slides off the hood. The tires catch traction and we jet forward. I cram it into second and aim for Roman, ten yards away. He doesn't bother with another shot but dives out of the way as I crash through the bushes and around his car. I jump us back onto the access road and put it in third as we race down the road toward the pier and the FDR on-ramp.

I spare a glance to check Russ. He's sideways in the seat and getting himself straightened out, all the while holding Bud close. I look back at the road.

-Russ.

-Yeah?

-Put on your seat belt.

-Sure.

In the rearview, I see Roman getting his car turned around to come after us.

Driving, it seems, is like riding a bike: you never forget. The wheel feels good in my hands, my feet find the pedals with ease and I flip the shift knob from gear to gear until it's in fourth. I cannot deny my true nature. I am a Californian. And just like every true Californian, I like to drive. Christ, I love to drive.

The Celica is a beige hatchback about fifteen or twenty years old. It has some problems. The wheel has an inch of play in either direction, the alignment pulls slightly to the right, it has no power or acceleration, the tires are bald and the brakes are mushy. Still, it should be much quicker in the corners than Roman's big-block cop sedan. That would help if there were any corners here. The access road is just one long straightaway back to the gate and Roman is already right behind me, trying to stick his car's nose up my ass and nudge me off the road.

The kids on the diamond are lining up at the chain link to watch as we blow past. Most of the pedestrians are along the water side of the park, but a few are scattered on the road. I shift my right hand toward the center of the wheel, jam my thumb down on the horn. My high beams are on and ahead of me it looks like clear sailing. The car lurches as Roman slams into the rear bumper.

The wheel jumps a bit in my hand and we swerve to the left. We glance off a park bench and bounce back to the center of the road. I get control and slam the gas pedal back to the floor. Roman drops back for a second to see what will happen, then he's right back on us. Next to me, Russ has his legs jacked out straight in from of him like he's trying to hit an imaginary brake pedal. His right hand is frozen around the "Oh, my God!" strap and he's holding Bud with his left.

-Hank?

I keep my eyes on the road.

-Yeah?

-I don't want to be a backseat driver, but ya know this thing does, like, have a fifth gear.

Shit!

I hit fifth and we pull away smoothly. It won't last. Just ahead the Williamsburg Bridge cuts the sky above us. Below it, running parallel to the big bridge, the Delancey Street footbridge crosses the FDR and drops its ramp smack into the middle of the access road. There's space to go around on either side, but it looks a lot smaller going out at seventy than it did coming in at fifteen.

Roman taps us again and I veer slightly left. He guns it and pushes up alongside us on the right. I edge farther to the left, trying to line up with the thin space between the foot ramp and the row of lampposts along the road there. I'd like to spare a look for Roman, but the play in the wheel is giving me fits. Never fear. He reminds me of his presence by giving us another shove before peeling off right to line up with the gap on that side of the ramp. The shove takes us over too far and the driver's-side rearview snaps off against a lamppost. It ricochets into my window. The window shatters instantly, and hundreds of little pebbles of glass collapse into my lap while the rearview flies past my left ear and into the backseat.

I flinch and blink. When I open my eyes, we're at the gap. I have to jerk the wheel to get us back on line. We swerve through the narrow space and I think I feel the bumper clip something as the rear end gives a slight tug. We're through but come out veering to the right. I try to put us straight on the road. It's too late. We broadside Roman's car as he comes through on the other side of the ramp. His car is much bigger than ours and we rebound back to the center of the road. He loses the wheel for a moment and scrapes the side of his car down the iron fence on that side of the road. A fountain of sparks roostertails into the sky and we pull away again.

The road takes a nice easy arc to the right, passing Corlears Hook Park on our left. Just ahead it narrows down to one car's width as it passes the pier's storage yard. Roman is just about on us as I gear down and brace myself.

-Russ, hold on to Bud.

I catch his rapid nodding out of the corner of my eye as we hit the eighteen-inch speed bumps at just over forty miles per hour. The front end springs up and, as it starts to drop, the rear hits the bump and pops up, driving the front down at an even steeper angle. I pump the brakes and try to keep the wheels pointed straight ahead. We bounce and skitter to the next one and hit it hard. We come down skidding to the left. I try to steer into the skid and goose the gas. We get traction and I straighten us out for the last bump and ease over it at twenty. Just behind us, Roman hits the first bump at top speed.

He just about flips but hangs on. The second one pops him off the road and into the chain link of the storage yard. His car plows to a sudden stop against the fence and we're in the parking lot. I cut the wheel hard right, heading for the exit, jump the light at the intersection there and hairpin us straight up the FDR on-ramp, picking up speed. We pass Roman's car, still pointed the opposite direction on the access road. He's already moving, headed for the FDR.

I try to get lost in the traffic. I mix in and slow down to match the flow. We pass under the Williamsburg Bridge again, going north this time. Russ is nuzzling the back of Bud's neck and whispering to him and Roman drives right up on us.

We're in the far right lane and he pulls up on our left. I look out the window. Bolo is there, just a few feet away, sucking his scratched thumb. Roman doesn't spare me a look, just keeps his eyes on the traffic. I can see Whitey still in the backseat, but I can't tell if he's alive or dead. I'll never lose them as long as this is a race about speed. I need to slow the chase down. I pull onto the Houston Street exit ramp. Roman brakes fast and veers over to follow us. At the top of the ramp, I ignore the stop sign and blaring horns of the other cars and take us halfway around the traffic circle and onto Houston headed west. Roman trails.

Traffic is heavy and Roman stays right with us. From the middle lane, I take a right off Houston onto Avenue A. I cut in front of several cars and the drivers all lean on their horns. Roman gets tangled in the mess and I take a lead down the avenue.

The weekend traffic has us slowed way down by the time we get to 9th Street, Roman is back with us. But that's OK, because I can already see the lights up ahead.

It looks like a movie set up on my block: cop cars, news vans, barricades and rubberneckers galore. Roman has caught on and he's dropping back. It might be worth it to me to drive through and chance being recognized, but not even Roman can get through all those cops with a dying Russian gangster in his backseat. He turns off at 12th Street, heading east. He'll have to detour a few blocks. Otherwise he'll no doubt end up at a similar mess a block away outside Paul's. Russ takes his face out of Bud's neck, looks up and registers the scene.

-Hey, Hank, like, what the fuck? Mmmm.

-Just take it easy, man.

-Mmmm.

-Easy.

He rubs his nose against Bud's face.

-Hear that, Buddy? Take it easy. Mmmm. Easy. Mmmm.

I look at him. He keeps his face close to Bud's.

The cops wave cars through the intersection at A and 13th one at a time and they creep past my apartment building. We get to the front of the line and the cop holds us there for a second with an upraised palm as crosstown traffic passes by. I spot a few people I know from the block mixed in with the reporters and sightseers. I pull up the collar on my jacket and hunch down a little in the seat.

The cop waves us through and never once looks in the car. The cops have been forced to use barricades to create room for a narrow lane in the middle of the street. We edge along and I picture a similar scene in front of my parents' house. Reporters on the front lawn, strangers driving by to gawk and neighbors on porches pointing their fingers and shaking their heads. Russ never looks up from Bud's neck. We're held up at 14th by another traffic cop and I look east down the street, trying to see if Roman has circled around. I can't see him, but now this car has become a target and I want out of it. The cop gives us the OK and I turn left just as the Celica starts to cough and shiver.

We wobble across the intersection and I pull us over to the curb just past the bus stop on the right-hand side of the street. I look out the window and the traffic cop is pointing from himself to us, signing, asking if we need any help. I smile and wave "no thanks" back to him. He nods and turns back to his job.

-Russ.

-Mmmm.

-Russ!

-Mmmm. What?

-The car died.

-Mmmm.

-Russ?

-Yeah?

-Are you OK?

He takes his face from Bud and looks at me. His left pupil has swollen, almost eclipsing the entire iris.

-Like, I don't know, Hank. I don't feel too good.

We have to get out of this car.

-It's good to see you, Buddy. Mmmm.

We have to get out of this car.

-Good to see you. Mmmm. Sorry, I'm sorry I, like, left you for so long, Buddy.

We have to get out of this fucking car. The cop back at the intersection keeps glancing over at us. A few blocks away, Roman and Bolo are dumping Whitey or stuffing him in the trunk and coming after us. The left side of Russ's face is sagging and frozen and he keeps rubbing it against Bud and whispering to him. We have to get out of this car before that cop comes walking over here to see what's up, but I don't know where to go next.

The cell phone rings.

-Buddy, Buddy, Buddy. I missed you, Buddy. Mmmm.

It rings again.

-Buuuuddy.

I take it out of my pocket and stare at it as it rings a third time.

-I'm sorry you, like, got hurt, Buddy. Mmmm. That was, that was really my fault.

It starts to ring again and I flip it open.

-Hello?

-Hello?

-Hello?

-Is this Russ Miner?

Fuck!

-Uh, yes.

-Mr. Miner, this is Detective Craig Williams of the New York City Police Department.

Oh, fuck.

-Yes?

-Mr. Miner, are you alone? Are you free to speak?

-Yes.

The cop is looking over at us again.

-Mr. Miner, we've been tracking your credit card transactions and found you had opened this account in the last twenty-four hours.

-Uh-huh.

-That's how we got this number.

-Uh-huh.

-Mr. Miner, we believe that you are in great danger.

-Uh, why?

-Mr. Miner, do you know Henry Thompson? His parents were called from this number earlier today.

Oh, oh, fuck.

-Uh.

-Are you with Henry Thompson? Is he holding you against your will?

Are you fucking kidding me?

-Uh.

-If you're not free to speak, just answer yes or no. Do you understand?

-Uh.

The cop is now openly staring at us. I keep my face well inside the shadowed interior of the car.

-Mr. Miner? Russ? Russ, this is a very dangerous man. Mr. Thompson is a very dangerous man. We know you're in trouble, but if you're with Henry Thompson, you are in worse danger than you know. We can help. Do you understand?

-Uh.

-Russ, we want to help you. Russ, are you still there?

I turn the phone off and toss it in the backseat. Russ takes his face away from Bud again and looks at me with his crooked stare.