—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.
More headlines at the newsstands.
Daily News: SHOOTOUT!
The Post: WILD, WILD, WEST!
The New York Times: Four Dead in Late Night Gunfight
I end up back on 14th Street
, the axis of my life. Krazy Fashions is right there off of Sixth Avenue
. I slip a pack of fifties into my pocket, leave the cart on the street and go into the store, hauling the big money bag and the little cat bag.
Do they think I’m a criminal? I walk in off the street, stinking and beaten and start passing out fifties. Of course I’m a criminal. But they just don’t care and they sure as shit don’t think I’m the criminal. I keep Bud zipped up in his bag and I get outstanding service. I buy a nice, light olive three-button two-piece Italian suit, a cream Yves Saint Laurent shirt, oxblood wing tips and a selection of underwear and socks. The staff tosses my old shit, gives me a robe to wear and does the alterations while I wait. I keep Bud in the bag and he keeps quiet. I borrow the phone and, about the time the suit is ready, my car pulls up outside. The Pakistani guy that owns the store carries my bag out for me and puts it in the trunk. I slip him a couple extra fifties and he tells me to come back soon.
I slide into the back of the Town Car. Mario holds out his hand and I give him skin. He’s listening to the Saturday Night Fever sound track: “If I Can’t Have You.”
—Newark International.
—Sweet.
He put us on the road and turns his head to look back at me.
—Got a joint on you, man?
—Sorry.
—No sweat.
He reaches into his breast pocket, whips out a bone and sparks it. He tokes and holds it up for me.
—Bro?
—Thanks.
I take the joint and rip off a lungful. It burns like shit and, as I pass the number back, I start hacking. Mario takes the joint and hands me a bottle of water. I take a couple swallows between coughs.
—Thanks.
—No sweat. Take another?
He offers the joint again. I pass. The one hit is mellowing me out, mellowing me and helping me not to think too much.
The cops are in evidence at the airport. Heavily. Mario drives us to the dropoff curb for American departures. He hops out, opens my door and fetches my bag from the trunk. I put the bag on the ground and kneel next to it. I open it about six inches, reach in, pull out three packs of hundreds and wave Mario down to my level. I give him the cash.
—One for you. Give two to Tim and tell him one is for Billy. OK?
—Very.
—You know who I am?
—Undoubtedly.
—Stay cool, Mario.
—Very.
He takes the cash and gives me skin. I let a skycap carry my bag to the counter and tip him twenty.
—Aisle or window?
—Aisle, please. And if you can get me next to an empty seat, that would be great.
—No problem.
My reservation is all in order. I pass the ticket girl John Carlyle’s Visa card and passport. She looks from me to the picture, twice, then slides it back. Her eyes flick to my face a few times as she does the paperwork.
—Got rear-ended.
—Oh, my God. Was anybody hurt?
—Not badly. Just me.
I have a thought.
—Uh, is there any room in first class?
—Sure.
—Would you mind, I think I need the, uh, I’d like to upgrade.
—No problem.
It costs a lot.
—Bags?
—One to check, one carry-on.
I fill out the tag, she attaches it to the big black bag and I watch all that money slide away on the conveyor. Nothing ventured . . .
—You’re all set, Mr. Carlyle. You might want to hurry a bit, that flight is getting ready to board. Have a nice trip.
I take my ticket and head toward my gate. I pass about five or six cops standing in a circle, talking about the Mets. My picture is still on the front page of all the papers, and I am unseen. I feel powerful. Then I get to the X-ray machines and remember I have a cat in my bag and no papers to take him on board.
The bathrooms are off to the left. I go in and take the first stall. I put the bag on my lap and unzip. Bud pokes his head out and I give him a little rub. I should have left him with Billy. He would have given him to the chick who digs cats. Now?
I dig around in the bag until I find his pill bottle. I read the label very carefully. I’m supposed to give him two a day, one in the morning and one at night. I chuck Bud under the chin and shake three of the pills into my hand. I feed them to him one after another, then hold him until he’s still. I stand and set Bud down on the floor. I take off my jacket and shirt and pull up my T-shirt. I sit back on the toilet, unwind the Ace bandage from my middle and pick Bud back up. It’s hard, but I manage to hold him against me and wrap the bandage around him at the same time, making a kind of sling for his body. I look in the bag and find the spare bandage and use it as well. I stand up and he stays put, bound to my stomach by the double bandage. I tuck the T-shirt back in, button and tuck in my Yves, put the jacket back on and do up all three buttons. I open the stall door and step out. In the mirror it doesn’t look bad, a beer belly.
I get to the checkpoint. I set the bag on the conveyor and watch it slide through. I walk through the metal detector and set off no alarms. I don’t sweat, I don’t tremor, my eyes are not shifty. I am a criminal mastermind. I am cold as ice. The cops and the airport security are barely looking. I have already become a myth to them. No one so wanted could ever make it this far, so they sip their coffee and bitch about their jobs and I stroll past.
I stop at the pay phones. When she picks up, I hear a series of clicks and voices in the background.
—It’s me, Mom.
—Are you all right, Henry? Are you all right?
—I’m OK, Mom. I’m going away.
—Where?
—I can’t say.
—Oh. They’re here, Henry. They want to talk to you.
—I love you, Mom.
—Oh, Henry.
—Tell Dad I love him.
—Henry.
—I love you.
—I love you, Henry.
First class is nice. They give me a hot towel and I put it over my face to hide all the tears.
When the seat belt light goes off, I go to the can with my bag and unwrap Bud. His breathing is shallow. I hope he’s OK. I pad myself with some towels from the bag so I still look fat and put Bud back in. I leave it a tiny bit unzipped so he can breathe easier. The whole flight, they offer me cocktails. I take a couple Vics instead.
We land in Cancún. I’ve never been to Mexico before, but I’ve heard customs is very easy here. When I go to claim my luggage, the money bag is already there, revolving on the carousel.
The customs agent looks at my face and at my passport. He grimaces a little and looks inquisitive. I smile ruefully.
—Car accident.
—¿Si? Ouch.
—Mucho ouch.
He laughs and stamps my papers.
—Have a nice visit, sir.
—Thank you.
I’m walking toward the exit. Up ahead there is a small traffic light. As passengers arrive at the light, they push a little button. If the light flashes green, they exit the airport. Red, and they and their bags are subjected to a random search. I push the button.
It’s a very Christmassy kind of green.
Epilogue
October 1, 2000
Single-Game Playoff
The town is about an hour south of Cancún. It’s small, nice. I’m in a bar. The bar is on the beach; it has no wa
lls and is covered by a roof of logs and thatched palm leaves. Instead of a stool, I sit on a rope swing suspended from the timbers of the roof. I sway in a warm breeze and, if I dangle my legs right, my toes drag back and forth in the sand. It is early evening and a thunderstorm is swinging in from offshore. Lightning is crackling over the perfect sea and bathwater-warm rain will soon fall. There are pretty girls everywhere and the stereo behind the bar is playing Stevie Ray Vaughn’s “Pride and Joy.” Bud is sprawled on the bar next to me, woozy but awake. The bartenders think it’s very funny I brought my cat, but they like him. Everybody likes Bud. The pretty girls especially like Bud. I have a room up the beach a little. It has a balcony and a hammock. I stopped by the gift shop long enough to buy some shorts and sandals, took a shower in my room and left the money bag in the closet. Then I took a walk and found this place.
On the bar I have spread out various relics I found in Bud’s bag. The plane ticket I would have used to get home at Christmas. Mario’s card. Ed’s card. Roman’s card. The police photo of Yvonne’s neck. I think about how mad she used to get at me for always living in the past. I close my eyes and feel the sun and the breeze and see the pile of bodies behind the bar at Paul’s. Russ holding Bud. Ed and Paris holding hands. Bolo putting out his arms for balance just before he went down. Roman just wanting me to get it over with.
On the bar they have set out bowls full of Spanish peanuts dusted with chili powder. I take a handful and eat them one by one. They’re good. I hold one out to Bud and he licks the powder off.
I’m drinking Jarritos orange soda. Soon, at 6:00, it will be happy hour. For every drink I order, they will bring me three. At 6:30, they will turn on the TV above the bar and show the satellite broadcast of the Mets vs. Giants, live from New York. I curl my toes and crunch the cool, damp sand. My feet don’t hurt at all. Someone rings a bell. It’s 6:00. I signal the bartender and order a beer.
About The Author
Charlie Huston is a novelist and screenwriter. He currently lives in Manhattan with his wife, the actress Virginia Louise Smith.