Caught Stealing (2004) (30 page)

-I'm the bad guy here. I'm the fucking bad guy. Get me the fuck out of here.

-I'll give it to you, Hank, that is one cool cat. An' you? Well, shit.

I'm down on the floorboards in the back, Bud curled up on my stomach. Ed is up on the seat. He talks to me without looking at me. He doesn't want the cops at the roadblock to know there's anyone besides two black guys in the car. Both he and Paris have removed their sunglasses and cowboy hats. In this car, they look like a record producer and his driver/bodyguard. Paris has switched tapes and we're listening to One Nation Under a Groove, Funkadelic's finest.

-Hey, Ed?

-Yeah?

-Aren't you guys kind of wanted yourselves?

-Sure.

-So?

-See, Hank, all these cats are thinking about is you. I mean, your ass was just in a gunfight a few blocks from here. So they're on the lookout for a skinny white dude, not a couple of black hard-asses wanted for robbin' banks in the Midwest. Follow?

-Sure. But this car is kind of distinct.

-You think we robbed in this baby? No way, man. This thing has been in storage in Jersey awaiting our return. We used a whole shitload a cars to do our jobs. This honey is clean.

-Yeah, but.

-Shut the fuck up. It's our turn.

They've got the traffic blocked up at Union Square. Anything heading south is being diverted. Anything going north, west or east that might have come from the vicinity of Astor is being checked out. Paris pulls us forward and stops. The beam from a flashlight dances over the interior. Ed turns his head and nods. We pull forward. Ed glances down at me and winks.

-First time bein' black kept me from gettin' hassled by the cops.

We drive west. From the footwell I look up through the windows and the buildings swerve by overhead as Paris turns left on Seventh Avenue, taking us downtown toward the Holland Tunnel. We drive. Ed reaches forward and taps his brother on the shoulder.

-Here.

From my angle, I can just see the back of Paris's head as he nods. He pulls the car over and stops. Through the window behind Ed I can see

of a tenement and an old warehouse. I think we're somewhere below Houston, in Tribeca. I start to pull myself up onto the seat, but Ed puts his hand on my chest and gently pushes me back.

-Just stay there for now.

I settle back into my spot. My wound is throbbing. Throbbing. It feels like someone is stabbing me in the side. My feet hurt.

Funkadelic swings into "Maggot Brain," their endless guitar solo from hell. Ed picks his hat up from the seat and holds it in his lap, fiddling with the shape of the brim.

-I'll tell you, Hank. Me and Paris are torn.

-How's that?

Paris swivels around in his seat so he can look down and see me. It's the first time I've seen his eyes. They look anxious.

-Well, what you did back there, that's some pretty wicked shit. Very impressive.

-But?

Ed rubs the top of his head.

-Truth is, the smart play for us would be to just bump you and dump you.

Bud purrs, sleeping on my stomach, rising and falling with my breath. I scratch him behind the ears with my left hand.

-See, the heat on you is gonna be pretty fucking intense. Combine that with the heat on us and things could get sultry.

-Yeah?

-So, another option, we could just drop you off and let you do for yourself. Give you some scratch and shake hands.

-Fair enough.

-Sure, that's fair enough, but is it the right play? The smart play? Follow?

-Sure, I follow.

I scratch Bud with my left hand. My right hand is tucked under his belly.

Ed looks at his brother and Paris nods.

-Thing is, people out of the life, they always talk about "honor among thieves." But it ain't really like that. See, honor ain't much of an issue, but trust is. Trust is definitely an issue. Now, all this that just happened, this whole mess, it went down because of misplaced trust. Now, we never trusted Roman or his cronies, an' least of all the fucking Russians. But Russ? Known him since we were kids. You bet we trusted him. When he went south on us? Well, color us shocked. But more than that, color us hurt. Deeply. Something like that happens an' a man is likely to question things, things he thinks he can believe in. Question his own judgment. That's bad. Lose trust in yourself, that's the final blow. You follow?

-Sure.

I scratch Bud some more. I want to keep him mellow. I want to keep him mellow because I don't want him to jump up. Because then Ed and Paris would see the gun tucked in my waistband. The gun my right hand is resting on.

-What I told you before, about having no past, no connections. No family. That's all well and good, as far as it goes. But the truth is that it only goes so far. Me an' Paris, we beat the odds more than our fair share. Know why?

-No.

-Because we are greater than the sum of our parts. That greatness comes out of three things: faith, love and trust.

He offers his hand to Paris.

-I love you, brother.

Paris takes the hand.

-I love you, Ed.

They unclasp hands and look at me.

-Roman, Bolo, Russ? Truth is, you didn't kill those guys. They killed themselves. Them, the Russians, the Chink? They'd be alive an' have the money, if only they could have trusted each other. Trust is a feeling, Hank. It's something you feel for another person, like love or hate. It comes about because you see what a man does, who he is. A man does what he says he's gonna do, values his friends, his family, an' tries to do right by them? You can't help but trust a man like that. You can't help but feel trust for that man. A man like you.

He quits playing with his hat and puts it on.

-So your call. We can dump you here with a couple hundred grand for a job well done, you can make a run, try to start over someplace. Take your chances with the Russians that way, cuz they'll be lookin' for all of us. Maybe you can go to the cops, try to spell it all out, take your chances with the truth. Get to see your mom an' dad again that way. Or, come with us. Have a new life. A new family. Be trusted. An' I think that maybe, that's what might be best for you. Cuz the truth is, Hank, whoever you were a week ago, you're not him anymore.

Really, it's not as hard a choice to make as you might think. Because after all, he's right, I'm not the man I was a week ago. I'm not half that man. I stop scratching Bud and uncurl the fingers of my right hand from around the pistol.

-I'm in.

They smile. Beautiful smiles, just beautiful. Ed reaches down and pats me on the knee.

-Cool, very cool. Paris?

-Cool.

-All right. Hank, stay down on the floor in case they got something set up at the tunnel entrance. Once we get into Jersey it should be cool. We'll head south, got something set up at a county airport down by A. C. Gonna take a trip. Sound good?

-Yeah. Yeah, that all sounds great.

-All right, let's roll.

Paris starts the Caddie. Ed leans back in his seat.

-You know, Hank, we're pretty fuckin' sorry about the way we did your girl like that. Truth is, we went a little hard. Roman did such a good job messin' you up and gettin' you scared, we felt we had to send a strong message so you wouldn't miss the point. Fact is, when you didn't call us right away, I thought we might not have gone hard enough. Anyway, we'll make it up. An' we appreciate you takin' it like a pro. It's always best not to let a twist get in the way of friendship. Cherchez la femme. Women always fuckin' up a good thing.

I take Bud by the scruff of his neck and pull him off to the side. This is a fucked angle to be shooting from and the first bullet takes Ed high in his right shoulder, instead of his ear like I wanted. It throws him into the corner of the seat and I work on Paris before he can get the car moving. I can only see a sliver of his head, so I throw four rounds through the back of the seat where his body should be. His head flies forward, the car lurches twice, and the volume on the music goes through the roof. Ed starts stomping his cowboy boots down on my thighs, trying to stick his heel in my balls, but I get my knees up in the way. The bullet in his shoulder has killed his right arm and he's trying to get at the gun in his shoulder holster with his left. I shoot him in the right thigh and he stops kicking at me. I raise the gun and shoot him in the stomach. Raise it again. And in the chest. Again. And the last bullet takes off his hat. I scramble and pull myself up and look into the front seat. Paris is sprawled, half on the seat and half in the footwell. It looks like all four bullets hit, but it's hard to be sure because his chest is so ripped up. He's opening and closing his mouth.

-Ed? I'm hurt. Ed?

He dies. Without me having to shoot him again.

I drop the gun on the seat, reach forward, grab the keys from the ignition and hit the stop button on the boombox. Bud has crawled into his bag to hide. I zip him up and pull on the door handle. It's the one that doesn't open from the inside. I don't think I can get past Ed's body, so I crawl into the front seat and out the passenger's-side door.

The Caddie is at an angle, half in the street. The rain has stopped. The street is empty for now. Down the block, a car alarm is sounding. I walk around the car and open the trunk. I'm thinking about the suitcases Ed and Paris put in the car back at the apartment. I'm thinking about clothes without blood on them. But there it is, right on top. A big fucking bag, full of money.

I open a suitcase and grab a few things and stuff them in with Bud. He tries to jump out, but I push him back in and zip up. I close the trunk and walk away.

I get about five feet before I go back and take all the money. Then I run as fast as the four and a half mil will let me.

I'm walking up Seventh Avenue, out in the open. I hide behind a Dumpster and strip off the bloody Yankees jacket and pull on a black sweatshirt that hangs on me like a sheet. Must have been Paris's.

I have no idea where to go next and this bag is fucking heavy. At James J. Walker Park, I see a homeless guy with a shopping cart loaded with garbage bags full of bottles and cans, along with the rest of his life and belongings. He's sitting on a wet bench, trying to light a wet cigarette butt with a wet match. I sit at the opposite end of the bench. He glances at me, then goes back to the smoke. I dig around in my pockets. I gave all my hundreds to Billy, but I've still got a bunch of twenties. I pull out five and hold them out to the guy. He looks at them, then he looks at me.

-Want to sell your home?

He haggles me up to one forty and I let him keep most of the stuff. I pile some crap around the duffel bag and pull on his old overcoat and head back up the avenue. Behind me, the bum finally gets his cig lit and sits there smoking it like he's Nelson fucking Rockefeller. What was I thinking giving him twenties? I've got four and a half mil in this bag. Oh well, next time, old-timer.

I'm heading right into Greenwich Village. There are more people out now that the rain has stopped, but there is definitely a mood on the street. The city is afraid of me. I push my cart. Past Sheridan Square, I see the Riviera Sports Bar. It's packed. I push my cart past and, on the 10th Street side, I see a little window level with the sidewalk. It's set right on top of a heating grate and through it I can see clearly into the basement bar and all the TVs in there with baseball on them. It looks like the game has restarted at Shea, and the Giants game is on as well.

I pull the cart over to the wall. I dig out a blanket, spread it on the grate and sit down with Bud's bag on my lap. When I unzip the bag, he pushes away from me. I put my hand inside and tickle him between the eyes. He likes that. It takes a while, but he's settling down. I reach under him for the bottle of Vics and swallow a couple. I don't need to be sharp anymore.

Bud has some blood drying in his fur. I spit on the edge of Paris's huge sweatshirt and work at the blood. Through the window I watch both games.

The Braves and the Dodgers are taking it easy, resting their best players for the postseason, trying not to let anyone get injured. The Giants and Mets go all out, pitching their aces and fielding all their starters, even if they have to play hurt. I watch both games through the window right up to the last outs, long past the point where it is clear that both the Mets and Giants are being creamed and will be forced into a one-game playoff tomorrow to decide the wild card. They'll play here in New York. My Giants in town. God, I'd like to see that game.

I stay on the grate with Bud. It's pretty warm. When the bar closes, some of the guys toss me their spare quarters as they pass by on the way home. That's pretty cool because I need to make some calls and I don't have any small change. The bum had fragments of the Sunday Times in the cart and I've been thumbing through the travel section. Truth is, I've never been much of anywhere. It all looks good. I make my decision. There's a pay phone right outside the bar. It works. I make the call and set it up. There's another call I need to make, but I can't now, I just can't. I sit back on the grate.

Fucking Giants. Fucking Giants. Fucking Giants.

I don't think I sleep, not really, but the sun comes up quickly. Time flies when you're thinking about all the people you've killed. I get myself up and moving. I have things to do.