Caught Stealing (2004) (8 page)

-What the fuck? What, man, what did you do to the cat?

Suddenly the Samoan reaches over and grabs Bud. He wraps those huge hands around the struggling cat and locks him up. Bud's legs are all trapped, just his head sticks out of the Samoan's grasp. And then Blackie hits him, the fucker makes a little fist out of his little hand and hits Bud in the face.

-I kicked this shit cat, this fucking shit cat I fucking kicked. This fucking shit cat, I tried to pet and it fucking bit me and I fucking kicked the shit cat. So fuck you, Mr. Bartender, can't make a fucking cosmopolitan. Mr. Fucking Shitty Drink Maker with the Shitty Cat.

He punches Bud again. They get the sock back in my mouth before I can finish screaming at Blackie.

My head is clearing. The few minutes I had to breathe helped and the adrenaline has cut some of the haze and I'm starting to think a little more clearly. They want the key. I don't know where the key is. As soon as they feel sure I don't know where the key is, they will kill me. If I did know where the key was and I told them, they would get the key and then kill me. I have no idea what to do. Done battering the cat, Blackie gets a fresh grip on my left arm and stretches it back out.

Roman twists my head to the left so I can get a good look at the Samoan and whatever he's gonna do to Bud. Red is still on my legs and he resettles himself, getting comfortable for the next round. Roman is getting cute.

-If you were the key and you had mysteriously disappeared, where would you be?

The sock is still in my mouth, but I grunt so he knows I'm following him.

-Where would you hide if you were a key?

Breathing is starting to be a problem again.

-Would you hide in this apartment?

Bud now has a scrape on the side of his face where he was hit. I can't really tell if he's awake or not. The Samoan tucks the cat into his left armpit, keeping all his limbs pinned except for the broken left leg.

-Would you put yourself in an envelope and send yourself somewhere?

Very gently, the Samoan has taken hold of Bud's injured leg. He extends it until it's fairly straight. I can see the little bend where the bone is broken. I can hear Bud give a mew of protest, but he's clearly run out of fight.

-If you were a key that wanted to hide itself, would you give yourself to a friend for safekeeping?

The Samoan starts to twist Bud's broken leg. He twirls it around and I can see the loose skin bunch up on itself at the break. Bud comes back to life for a moment, yowling and trying to wrestle free, but the Samoan has him pinned tight. A thin stream of urine is leaking out from under the Samoan's arm, but he doesn't notice or care. Bud is shaking now and probably going into shock and dying. I'm jerking around on the bed, but I can only move a couple inches in any direction and the boys dig in and hold me tighter. Black speckles are filling the corners of my eyes and that's OK because I really don't want to see what it looks like when the Samoan gives Bud's leg another twist. If I were a key, where would I hide? I guess I would hide with a friend, yes, that sounds like me. Fuck, yes! I start screaming it.

-I took it to the bar! I took the fucking key to the bar! I gave the key to Edwin to put in the safe! The key is in the safe at the bar!

They pull out the sock so they can understand what I'm saying.

-On the roof, the key. Gasp! It's on the roof. Gasp!

There is a pause. I breathe.

-Where on the roof?

-My. Gasp! My laundry bag is up there. Gasp! I did, I did my laundry yesterday. I. Gasp!

-Why is it with your laundry?

-I put it, I put the key in my pocket when I found it. And. Gasp! Later I did the laundry and I washed those pants. Gasp! It's. It's gotta be on the roof. I left it there.

-Why on the roof?

-Yesterday. When I saw you guys yesterday and I went to the roof. Gasp! I had it with me. I left it there. I forgot about it.

The Samoan still has hold of Bud's leg, but he's not twisting it anymore. Roman lets go of my head and I breathe and breathe. He turns to the Samoan.

-Go check.

The Samoan drops Bud. Just lets him flop to the floor into the little puddle of cat pee. Bud lies there, like me, and breathes. The Samoan is heading out the door.

-There's a lock.

Roman looks at me.

-Where?

-The door to the roof has one of those push-button lock things.

-And?

-Three-nine-eight-nine-two.

Roman looks at the Samoan to make sure he's got it and the Samoan nods once and goes out the door. Roman drifts into the living room and this seems to indicate a time-out. The Russians let go of my arms and light cigarettes and Red climbs off my legs and walks around, stretching his own. I watch Bud. He doesn't look very good.

A couple minutes pass.

That's when the Samoan pushes in the wrong combination for the door to the roof, tries to force it open, and sets off the fire alarm for the building.

Things go about as well as you could hope for I suppose. Roman looks at me. He just stares into my swollen eyes as he tells Red and the Russians to get out. They leave just as the Samoan is coming back down the stairs and, over the alarm, I can hear them shouting at him to get out. I can hear people starting to drift out into the hall as Roman pushes my door closed and comes back over to the bed. He is careful not to step on Bud, which I appreciate. He sits on the edge of the bed. I can move a bit, so I roll onto my right side to look at him. Everything hurts. People are talking in the halls, but no one seems to be evacuating the building. This is the nature of New York City: alarms go off so often that no one wants to respond to them until things start burning down or blowing up in front of their eyes. Nonetheless, the NYFD should be here in a moment and that gives me comfort. Roman rubs the back of his neck.

-Is it up there, the key?

I would like to smile at him enigmatically. I would like to rip off some cunning bon mot or scintillating repartee. I settle for spitting up some blood.

-If you know where either the key or Mr. Miner is, you should really tell me now.

I look at Bud. He's a mess. I look back at Roman and keep my mouth shut. He gets off the bed and heads for the door. He opens the door and takes a last look around the apartment like he's reliving fond memories from his wistful youth of bygone days.

-I really do need that key. So get it and call me or I'm going to start hurting your friends. Don't call the police. It won't help. I know everyone. Good-bye.

And he waves as he goes out, the door swinging shut behind him.

The alarm turns off, which means the fire guys must be out there now. I could yell. I could yell for help and they would come and take me and Bud to a hospital and make us better. And then someone would ask questions and someone would call the cops and I won't know who to trust. I need to get up and help Bud. And I will in just a second. The phone rings. I let the machine pick it up.

-Hey, it's your mom. Are you there? OK, I just called to say hi and check up on you. We didn't hear from you yesterday when you got home from the hospital. . . . Anyway, give us a call when you get in so we know you're all right. Dad's at a soccer game today, but I'll be around. Oh, did you get a package? I sent a care package with some stuff to make you feel better while you rest. Just stupid stuff, but let me know when it shows up so I don't worry about it. OK, we miss you, can't wait to see you at Christmas. We love you. Call soon.

I miss you, too, Ma.

Mom and Dad still live in the house I grew up in. Mom is the principal at a continuation school, and Dad has a little garage and spends his days working on specialty cars. I love going back to visit. And I always go home for Christmas. I get my ticket a couple months early because it's cheaper. The ticket is in my desk drawer right now, and I'm gonna use it to get the fuck out of here.

I get off the bed and everything hurts. My legs are stiff and asleep, my arms and shoulders are sore and feel unnaturally heavy. My nose pulses hotly with every beat of my heart. The flesh around my wound feels grated. I stand and I can feel blood running down my side, into the waistband of my jeans. I limp over to Bud.

He's breathing very rapidly and shallowly and his broken leg is still twisted around. I bend over stiffly and, with as much care as possible, I try to untangle his limb. He jerks a bit and makes a slight sound but remains unconscious, which I take as a very bad fucking sign. I leave him on the floor for now and head to the bathroom. On the way, I remember something and grab the air freshener from under the kitchen sink before I go in. Good call; it reeks in here.

I can't get my shirt off over my head, so I take the scissors from the medicine cabinet and cut it off. They ripped out about nine staples and left a tear in my side just above my left hip. I drench a towel in hydrogen peroxide and use it to clean the hole. It's bleeding, but the bulk of the stapling is intact. I get a huge wad of gauze and use it to cover the bad stuff. I have to get some electrician's tape out of my toolbox to hold the bandage in place.

My nose is a real mess. I clean up all the goop to get a good look. It's bright red, squashed, and bent to the left, but it has stopped bleeding. I touch it gingerly with my fingertips until I get a sense of how it has been broken and what belongs where and then I give it a rasping twist and a yank.

-Mother! Fucker!

It gives a little crackle and starts to bleed again. I tilt my head back and stuff some more gauze into the nostrils and that's about all the time I figure I have for first aid.

The fire department has left the building and I have no idea how soon Roman and Co. might return, so it's time to go. Bud hasn't moved, but he's still breathing. I get an athletic bag from the closet. I grab some clothes, my plane ticket, my ID, keys, credit cards, about a grand in cash tips from the bar. I stuff it all in the bag. Then I put in a couple towels, molding them to create a little hollow. I could put Bud in his case, but I'm afraid he'll bounce around in there. I pick him up and tuck him snugly into the little nest of towels and zip the bag about halfway. I have him on his back so the broken leg won't fold up underneath his body and it's easy to imagine he's sleeping peacefully, but he's not. I have to get out of here.

I get a cab right away and sit in there with my head back against the seat until the driver snaps me out of it.

-Where to? This is not a taxi for sleeping in, it is for driving in. Where to?

Which is a great fucking question, I suppose.

I give the driver an address across town just off the West Side Highway. I can't get on a plane yet. I need to get cleaned up, I need to think.

I pass out.

I met Yvonne right after she showed up in New York about six years ago. She was hanging out at Paul's and mentioned she needed a job. Edwin put her to work. She was a few years younger than me, twenty-two at the time, and we hit it off because we were both from California. But she had a boyfriend, so I backed off. One night, I was working and she came in, her boyfriend had just dumped her. She stayed till closing and took me home.

She's an artist, a sculptress. She uses ceramics, old rusted iron, bits of antique wood, and assorted trash to make dollhouses. She populates the houses with handmade glass figures shaped to look like people from her own life or books or TV or movies or whatever. Sometimes she sells them, sometimes she breaks them up and uses them in new pieces and sometimes she sets them on fire, takes a picture of that and sells the picture. I have two of her houses in my apartment and last year I gave another one to Mom for Christmas. I think they're pretty cool. I think Yvonne is pretty cool. I'm just not in love with her. Which would be fine if I didn't know she was in love with me. We carried on for quite a while, but I cut it off in the end. Mostly.

I wake up and the cabbie is pulling my arm and shouting at me:

-Not for sleeping in. You are here now, so you must pay. Pay and get out. Stop sleeping and get out.

We're parked in front of Yvonne's building. I shake the cabbie off, give him some cash, get my bag and step onto the curb. The cabbie doesn't even wait for me to close the door, he just peels out and crams his taxi into the never-ending stream of cars sweeping past. I stand there for a moment, collecting myself. My side feels damp and the throb in my nose is worse than ever. Plus, the hangover still has my head wrapped in Jell-O. I try to buzz Yvonne, but there's no answer.

She still has my key and I still have hers. I open the door and start up the stairs. She has a small loft on the sixth floor that doubles as her apartment and studio. I climb the steps a half flight at a time. Bud continues to breathe.

I get to the top floor and slump against the wall. I'm losing it. I support myself against the wall and walk-stumble to Yvonne's door. It takes a while to work out the keys and, while I'm tinkering with the lock, the door opens and Yvonne is standing there still wet from the shower, wearing a robe, her hair up in a towel. She looks great. When she gets a look at me, she gives a little gasp and puts her hand over her mouth. One of the clumps of gauze falls from my nose and a stream of blood dribbles out. I smile apologetically.

-Someone hurt my cat.

And. I. Black. Out.

PART TWO

SEPTEMBER 29, 2000

Three Regular Season