Caught Stealing

  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.

  We park on the access road next to a baseball diamond. Nearby, I can hear the traffic whizzing past on the FDR, but it’s not nearly loud enough to cover the sound of my cursing. Dodgers 3, Giants 1. New York and Atlanta are still scoreless and the starters are closing in on a new record for combined strikeouts in a single game. Russ has lost interest in the games. He stares out at the East River beyond the playing fields and smokes Camel Lights, one after another. The dash clock in the Celica is broken, but it’s 9:47 P.M. by Russ’s watch. Roman should be here just about anytime.

  Roman wanted to meet someplace secluded in Red Hook. I told him to fuck off and we settled on the East River Park. It doesn’t close until midnight, but at this hour and this time of year, there’s just a few joggers and dog walkers. A ways away, some kids in jackets are playing three-flys-up under the night-lights of another diamond. Russ takes a last hard drag on his cig and flicks the butt out the window. The Braves close out the bottom of the sixth and the broadcast goes to commercial. S.F. and L.A. raced through the fifth and are wading into the sixth themselves.

  Russ keeps touching his bandage where it covers the stitches I put in. There’s a tiny pink stain there and every time he pokes it, he winces a little.

  —Just stop fucking with it.

  He touches it again.

  —Really, Russ, you don’t want to fuck around with that until a real doctor checks it out.

  He looks at me out of the corner of his eye, then digs in his pocket for another smoke and lights it.

  —I’m never gonna see a fucking doctor.

  The game comes back on.

  —The cops will take you to a doctor.

  —I’m, like, never gonna see the fucking cops.

  I’m trying to listen to the game with one ear and Russ with the other.

  —He can’t kill you, man, you’re his fall guy. He needs you.

  —You just. Mmmm. You just, like, don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.

  Something’s going on. Atlanta got their lead-off hitter on first and the number two guy sacrificed him to second. Runner on second, one out, heart of the order coming up. No word from the announcer about the Giants.

  —You’re gonna take the fall, Russ, because you fucked up. You’re gonna go to jail and you may fucking die there, but Roman’s not gonna kill you.

  The Braves’ number three hitter smacks one straight back to the pitcher for the second out. The pitcher spins and fires the ball to second, just missing the double play. The cleanup hitter steps in. Still nothing from L.A.

  —You fucking idiot. You’re, like, such a fucking. Mmmm.

  —Cool it.

  —Such a fucking idiot.

  —Don’t fucking push me.

  —Fuck you, you fucking idiot.

  Two quick strikes followed by three straight balls and the catcher is going out to the mound to settle his pitcher. The announcer has mercy on me and gives an update from the West Coast: Top of the sixth and the Giants have the bases loaded with one out. The Dodgers pull their starter.

  —Russ, this would be a good time for you to can it.

  —Fucking idiot! Fucking idiot! Fucking idiot!

  —Russ!

  The Mets’ catcher settles in back behind the plate, the hitter is in the box and the pitcher steps up on the rubber.

  On the other coast, the Giants counter the pitching change by bringing in a lefty to pinch-hit.

  —Hey, by the way, fucking idiot, how is it you’re planning to get out of here after you send me to be killed, seeing as you don’t, like, drive or whatever?

  Atlanta’s man makes loud contact. The announcer is describing the ball’s arc toward deep left field. The color commentator goes bananas, screaming that the Giants’ hitter has just smashed a monster to deep center. On opposite coasts the balls soar toward the outfield walls.

  Russ turns the radio off.

  —Huh, fucking idiot, how ya gonna get out?

  —Fuck!

  I grab his right hand with my left and try to pull it off the volume knob; he grabs my wrist with his left and I can’t pull free.

  —Fucking idiot! Fucking. Mmmm. Idiot!

  —Fuck, Russ! Fuck, Russ! Fuck!

  Now I grab his left with my right and we tug-o’-war, grunting. The knob snaps off.

  —Russ! Fuck! Russ!

  I grab his throat with both hands and squeeze as hard as I can. He has a grip on my fingers, keeping them from closing completely, keeping him alive.

  —Fucking murderer! Fucking all my friends! You fucking murderer!

  Tears are boiling up around my eyes. I press my weight into him and force his body back against the door. I squeeze harder.

  —Hank.

  —Shut up!

  —Hank.

  —Shut the fuck up.

  —Hank, he’s gonna—

  —Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!

  This bastard. This selfish fucking bastard.

  —He’s gonna kill us both. He’s gonna fucking kill us both.

  Somewhere beyond my crying and Russ’s gasping breath I register the sound of a car. Headlights flash three times, illuminating the interior of our stolen car. Russ’s face is purple, his eyes bugging out of his head.

  —Kill. Kill us both.

  Twenty yards away, Roman pulls up and parks his car. I look at my hands and what they’re doing, and I let go of Russ’s neck. He gasps and chokes and heaves up a little of his lunch onto the seat.

  —Kill us both. Mmmm. Kill us both and put us both in the frame. Mmmm. And the cops will, like, seal it up tight cuz they, like, love a closed case.

  The headlights flash again and Roman steps out of his car. He stands there, waiting for me.

  Russ massages his neck.

  —Jesus, Hank, it’s not like you couldn’t listen to the rest of the game on the Walkman.

  We meet in the middle. He’s wearing a different black suit and there’s a nice collection of scratches on his neck and chin where he was raked by some of Edwin’s birdshot, but otherwise the guy still looks great. A fucking pro.

  —Hank.

  —Fuck you, Roman. Where’s the cat?

  —Miner in the car?

  —Yeah. Where’s the cat?

  —The key?

  —I have it here. The cat, Roman.

  My hands are shoved deep in the pockets of my jeans, which I figure is a good idea since it keeps Roman from seeing how much they’re
shaking. He watches me, flicks his eyes toward Russ in the Celica, then makes a little waving gesture back at his own car. Bolo gets out of the front passenger seat. He’s carrying my bag. It’s unzipped and as he walks toward us I can see that Bud is inside, nestled back in his little bed of towels. Bolo cradles the bag from underneath with one massive hand and with the other he scratches Bud behind the ears.

  —Hey, man, this is a great cat.

  I stare at him.

  —I mean, me? I’m really a dog person, but a cat like this? This is a great cat.

  Roman looks over his shoulder at his car and waves again. Whitey gets out of the backseat and stumbles just slightly. He shambles toward us. In his right hand he’s holding one of the machine pistols they used to kill my friends, in his left he has a half-empty liter bottle of Smirnoff. He stops when he gets to our little group and sizes me up. His eyes are red and puffy from crying and drinking. He takes a huge mouthful of the vodka, swallows most of it and spits the rest on my shoes. Roman reaches out and rests a comforting hand on his shoulder.

  —He’s just a bit worked up. That was his boyfriend got killed back there at the bar. They were planning a ring ceremony for the spring.

  —That’s a real fucking tragedy.

  Whitey goes for me, but Roman clamps down on the shoulder and pulls him back before he can get across the five feet that separate us. Me, I just keep my shaking hands in my pockets.

  Roman gives Whitey a gentle shove toward my car.

  —Go get Miner.

  Whitey looks me over one more time and heads for the Celica. Roman gives a little grimace and sighs through his nose.

  —You’re getting hard, Hank.

  —You want the key?

  —Yes, please.

  Slowly I take my hands from my pockets, keeping them balled in fists to try to hide the shaking. But as soon as I open them, the keys start jingling. Roman looks at my hands and back up at my face. I can’t look away.

  —Hank.

  I find the right key by touch, never looking away from his eyes, and start twisting it loose from the ring. I breathe deep, in and out, trying to settle my hands.

  —Hank.

  I have the key off the ring and I squeeze it in my palm, the jagged edges digging into the skin.

  —You don’t have to be frightened any longer, Hank. You are safe now, I promise you.

  I nod.

  —Hand me the key.

  I open my hand and hold the key out to him and he reaches for it slowly.

  —So what does it open, Hank?

  The key jumps from my shaking palm and falls on the ground, its bright pink base easily visible in the dim light. Roman gives me an understanding little half-smile. I smile back.

  —Sorry.

  —It’s all right.

  Behind me I hear a car door open.

  —So, what does it open?

  The pink key stays there on the ground between us.

  —A unit at Manhattan Mini Storage. The number’s on the key.

  He nods. I look at Bolo and Roman looks at him as well.

  —Give him his cat, Bolo.

  Behind me, I hear Whitey.

  —Fuck-face, out of fucking car. Fuck-face, out.

  Roman starts to bend to pick up the key and Bolo reaches over him from behind to pass me the bag with Bud inside.

  —Makes me feel like shit about what I did. He’s such a great cat.

  Behind me:

  —Fucking car is for getting out of, fuck-face.

  Bolo’s hand is hooked in the bag’s strap and we juggle the bag a little over Roman’s back as he starts to rise with the key. Bud gets pinched and lashes out with the claws of his right paw, catching Bolo on the thumb.

  —Fuck!

  I take hold of the bag as he jerks back his arm to stick the thumb in his mouth and his elbow clips Roman hard on the back of the neck.

  —Fucking cat!

  —Fuck-face, out!

  Roman is knocked down, almost doubled over. He pulls himself quickly upright and something is jarred from his coat pocket and drops to the ground with a sound somewhere between a clank and a thump. We both stand there, staring down at the brass knuckles as if they were the ace of spades fallen from the sleeve of a gambler just as he was pushing away from the table with his winnings.

  Those bruises on her neck.

  Behind me, a balloon pops.

  We all watch as Whitey walks back toward us still holding the bottle, but no longer carrying the gun. With his right hand, he points at a dark splotch on the collar of his shiny white Nike jacket. We are frozen. He reaches us, and we see that the finger is not pointing but is jammed up to the second knuckle in the hole Russ shot in his neck with the .22 I left for him on the cracked foam rubber front seat of the Celica.

  Nobody moves except Whitey, who walks slowly to Roman’s car and climbs in the backseat. He sits there, plugging the hole in his neck with his finger, takes a long slug of vodka, and weeps silently.

  Roman reaches inside his jacket for his gun. Bolo does the same with his free hand, keeping his injured thumb in his mouth. I turn back toward the Celica as Russ rises from the driver’s seat with the little chrome pistol in his right hand and Whitey’s machine pistol in his left. I am ten yards from the car. I start running, Bud clutched to my chest.

  Russ pulls the trigger on the machine gun. He’s unprepared for the force of the blow-back and the gun leaps upward, dragging his hand in a high arc and spraying the sky with bullets. Behind me, I hear two scrambling thumps as Roman and Bolo hit the dirt. I’ve gone two yards.

  Something explodes behind me and a mini shock wave hums past my right hip. A hole appears in the Celica’s left fender. I zig hard to the right, trying to clear Russ’s firing line as he brings the machine gun back to shoulder level. He pulls the trigger again. He’s ready this time and bullets rip up the tarmac just behind me. He fires a short burst and re-aims. I’m accelerating. Six yards covered.

  I’m approaching the car from the driver’s side and Russ is blocking the door. Russ fires again and I can’t keep from looking back. Roman and Bolo are frozen, facedown on the road. A patch of chewed-up tarmac appears a few feet from them and stretches toward them and stops just short of their heads as the gun’s clip goes empty. Russ drops the machine pistol and takes aim with the .22. Ten yards.

  I try to stop, and instead I skid on the gravel scattered over the road. I plow into Russ just as he squeezes off all five rounds left in the .22. He’s thrown sideways by my impact and the bullets fly into some bushes by the side of the road. There’s no time to circle the car. I start shoving him in through the driver’s-side door, pushing him all the way over to the passenger’s seat. I’m piling in behind him, trying to get Bud’s bag into his lap as I settle into the driver’s seat, reach to turn the key, and grab a handful of loose wires.

  —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 an
d 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.