Caught Stealing

  I wake up just a few hours later and I feel wrong. I’m not sure where or who or what I am. Bud is meowing up a storm. I look over the edge of the bed and am pleased to see I didn’t throw up on the floor in the middle of the night. I’m wearing all my clothes and the lights are on and something about my pants and the way they fit is off. I don’t need to look. I can feel it. I’ve pissed myself in my sleep. I’ve pissed myself and crapped myself.

  I try to get up without sitting. I try to roll off the bed because I don’t want to sit in the crap in my pants. I roll off and stand. I’m half-drunk and half-hungover. My stomach is a pile of nausea and my head feels like it’s floating painfully a foot above my shoulders. I stumble to the shower and get in with my clothes on. I run the water hot and strip off my filthy pants and underwear. I push my clothes into a pile in a corner of the shower and clean myself in the scalding water. Then I turn the water to cold and stand in the icy blast as long as I can. Shivering badly from the booze and the cold, I towel off. Bud is still making a racket while I dress in clean jeans and a sweatshirt. The blankets on my bed are untouched, but the sheets are urine stained. I strip them off. I bundle the sheets into a black plastic garbage bag and stuff my dirty clothes on top. I pull on some sneakers and limp painfully downstairs to the street.

  Outside I dump the bag of filth on the curb with the rest of the garbage. I stand hunched against the bright morning sun and the alien feel of my body. I look around and Jason is standing a few feet away, leaning against a wall mumbling to himself. And the shame I feel overwhelms me. I have no reason, no right, to do this to myself. Life has been good to me. Life has been good to me. I say it out loud:

  —Life has been good to me.

  I know it’s true, but I don’t believe it. I look at New York. I don’t want to be here anymore, in this city. I’m just tired of it, I’m tired of my life here. I want to go home, and I’m not sure how to do that.

  I go to breakfast. I go to the diner and order bacon and eggs and lots of water and OJ. My kidney, the one still there, aches in a hot, swollen way, but I don’t know what to do about it. The missing kidney just hurts in an open wound sort of way. I woke too early and now I’m getting the best of both worlds: the nasty end of my drunk and the leading edge of the hangover. Nothing seems quite real; it’s all fogged over and I’m having trouble putting last night back together. My food comes and, as I eat, I try to figure it all out.

  I panicked. I was very scared and wanted out of my apartment and I ran to Paul’s just a block away. I smoked a joint in the can with someone and at some point I just went ahead and had the first drink. But first I talked with Edwin. We talked about the job, but I also asked him a favor. Did I ask him for a loan? No. Did I ask for help finding another job? No. He’s doing something for me. I feel in the pockets of my jacket for clues and come up with Detective Roman’s card.

  Did I call him last night after the cowboys left? Did I tell him about the note? Fuck, was the note still there this morning? I can’t remember. I’ll have to call him. Fuck, I’ll have to call him and tell him I can’t remember if I called him last night. That should do wonders for my credibility. Fuck it, I’m gonna call him, I’m gonna call him and tell him about the cowboys and the key and just get this the fuck over with. But first I’m gonna go home and feed Bud because I just realized that’s what the little shit was making all the noise about. On my way out I see a paper on the counter flipped open to the box scores. The Giants took another one from Colorado, and New York choked in extra innings. One back, three to go. And as sad as it sounds, that makes me feel better.

  When I turn the corner onto my block, I freak out. Down the street, just past my door, two guys are fucking with Jason. The hangover is so bad, everything about my body feels detached and my brain has given the whole day a wash of unreality, but seeing these two cretins pushing Jason around sends a blast of adrenaline into my veins. I pick up my pace and start toward them. As I get closer, I break into a little trot and all I want to do is fling my body onto these guys. I hate cruelty. I hate brutishness. Jason is as helpless as they come and I’m gonna fucking disassemble these dickweeds.

  I know I should have a strategy, but I don’t. I’m seeing red and any rationality I might usually possess is strangled by the hangover and my rage. I see a bottle on the sidewalk ahead of me. When I get there, I will pick up the bottle and smash it across the backs of their heads in a single brutal swipe. I have a vision: I see the first one’s skull dent a little as the bottle smashes down, the scalp tearing as I sweep it across at his friend’s head, the jagged rim of the broken bottle lodging in the fat head-skin and ear of the second one. So much for strategy.

  I am almost to my door. They are a few yards beyond. They are so engrossed in bouncing Jason off the wall that they have no idea I am almost upon them. I shove my hand in my pocket and dig out my keys, open the door of my building and dodge inside.

  They have traded the tracksuits in for baggy jeans and Tommy Hilfiger jackets, but it was them. The Russians.

  I don’t care about Jason anymore. I care about me. I head down the hall to the foot of the stairs and pause to listen. I don’t hear anything coming from my hallway on the third floor, so I start up. At the landing to my floor, I stop to listen again. My breath is heaving in and out and my heart is knocking against my swollen brain, but I don’t think I hear anything. I step into the hall. All clear. I move as quietly as I can to Russ’s door. The note from Ed and Paris has been torn off, leaving a little corner of paper trapped in the police seal. I try to steady my breathing and listen very closely at his door. Nothing. Relaxing a bit more, I hear someone cough behind me in my apartment.

  I start to head back down to the street to get to a pay phone and I remember the creeps outside. I think about Carlos, the super, but he has a day job and won’t be home. I think about the three cool Welsh girls down the hall who keep a spare key for me in case I lose mine, but I don’t want to get them involved, so instead I head back to the roof. I run up the stairs and everything is drenched in déjà vu. I could swear I just went through this. The hangover makes the confusion worse. My body still feels like someone else’s, like my bones and skin are detached from anything they actually do or feel.

  I dash out onto the roof and trip over the bag of laundry I left here yesterday. I curse. The rest is old hat. I assure myself the door won’t be blown shut this time and head for the front of the building. I crawl up to the edge and look down. The Russians have left Jason alone and taken up their spot in front of the tattoo parlor.

  This is stupid. I cannot afford to be stupid. The people in this building know me because of the work I did with Carlos and because I’m a nice guy. I have lived here for ten years and am well known and trusted. I will go down to the top floor and start knocking on doors until I find someone home. I will explain through the door that my apartment is being broken into and ask to use the phone. If they refuse to let me in, I will read Detective Roman’s number from the card in my pocket and ask them to please call him quickly. I will repeat this process until I achieve success. One of the Russians looks up from the street and straight at me.

  I duck. That is, I drop to my belly and squirm back from the edge of the roof. He didn’t see me. He could not have seen me. I repeat this to myself for a while until I get my nerve back. I worm up to the edge and peek over the ledge. He didn’t see me. They are both as before: Black Hilfiger with White Trim and White Hilfiger with Black Trim, not looking up at the top of my building, pointing at me and hustling across the street. All is well.

  Someone grabs me by the ankles and yanks me backward. My hands slip out from underneath me and my face lands in the grit of the rooftop. My staples scream and so do I.

  My apartment is small to start with and has been made claustrophobic by the sheer number of toughguys milling about. The Russians are in the tiny kitchen area. Whitey poking in the fridge and Blackie on the cell phone he used to call the guys in the apartment to tell them there was someone on th
e roof. The huge guy, who looks Samoan rather than Latino and who wears black leather pants and a motorcycle jacket, is using my crapper and I’m hoping he lights a match when he’s done because he’s been in there for a long time. There’s the skinny redheaded Chinese kid in plaid pants, a green polyester disco shirt, and a red vinyl jacket that matches his hair. And then there’s the guy in the black suit. He’s the scariest one of all because I know his name.

  Detective Lieutenant Roman.

  The Samoan was the one who grabbed me on the roof. He took me on a ride through the gravel for about ten feet, then he twisted my legs around each other so I flopped over on my back. He’s much bigger than the Russians and his hands are dinner plates. He dropped my legs, bent over, grabbed my belt and lifted me to my feet. Then he wrapped one of those hands around my throat and put a finger to his lips.

  —Shhhhhhhh.

  Then he marched me down here and dropped me on the couch and I held very still and tried not to think about the oozing I could feel coming from my wound. I’m scared shitless. Then I hear Bud.

  I can’t see Bud, I can just hear him. He’s somewhere over in the bedroom and every so often he makes a weak, plaintive meow, the kind of sound I would make if I were a cat in a great deal of pain. I seem to be the only one in the place worried about this, and why not? These other guys are clearly assholes.

  Roman has been checking me out this whole time in much the same way he did when I thought he was just your basic supercop rather than your basic supercop gone rotten to the core. Now he sits down in the same chair he used yesterday, picks up a slip of paper from my coffee table and holds it in front of my face. It’s the note from Ed and Paris, the two cowboys. I can tell he’s going to start asking questions and I’m just praying to Jesus that I know the answers so I can tell him every fucking thing he wants to hear.

  —When were they here?

  He is clearly referring to the guys who left the note. I am composing an answer, trying to determine what time exactly I woke from the nightmare and what comes out is:

  —What did you do to the cat?

  I really don’t fucking want to say this, but all I can hear is the pathetic sounds Bud is making in the bedroom. The Russians are paying no attention to the drama taking place a few feet away. Whitey has found some cold cuts and now appears to be looking for bread, Blackie is deep in conversation on the phone, speaking what I would definitely now bet is Russian. The Samoan tower is still out of action. So that leaves Red and Roman to look sharply at each other when I ask about the cat.

  —Don’t worry about the cat. The cat is fine. Right now you need to tell me when the men who left this note were here.

  —The cat is not fine. I can hear the cat and that is not the sound of a fine cat. That cat is fucked up and I want to know what you did to it.

  Red and Roman look at each other in a way that screams, “So it’s gonna be like this, is it?” Red sits on the couch next to me and I try to scoot away, but I’m already pressed against the armrest. He just sits there while I stare at him and cringe a little. Roman shakes the paper so it makes a soft rattle.

  —What time were these men here?

  Bud is probably under my bed. If they hurt him, there are only so many places to hide. So he’s under my bed and he’s hurt and scared and hungry because I didn’t feed him this morning because I was too messed up. I suck.

  —What time?

  If I could see Bud and see how bad he is, I think I could concentrate to answer. I really want to answer. But as it is, I just keep picturing the poor bastard under the bed. Red slowly reaches out his fist until it is inches from my nose. It hovers there hypnotically for just a moment, then he pops it into my face. The cartilage in my nose gives a crack, blood pours across my mouth and tears flood my eyes. I snap out of it.

  —Last night. I think two or so. But I was asleep. I got drunk. I’m not sure.

  I’m cupping a hand under my nose, trying to catch the blood. Red puts a hand on my forehead and pushes my head back against the couch. Roman says something in pretty good sounding Russian and Blackie, still on his phone, comes in from the kitchen with a dishcloth and stuffs it in my hand. I put the cloth to my nose and try to slow the blood. I’m thinking to myself that this is just starting. Right now, this is just starting.

  Roman asks a few more questions about the cowboys and I tell him everything I can and things seem to be going swimmingly. Red fetches some ice from the freezer for my nose, to keep it from swelling up like a squishy tomato. Whitey finds the bread and is feasting quietly on an enormous Dagwood in the kitchen while Blackie carries on with the phone. The Samoan remains behind locked doors. Roman calmly asks very precise questions. And Bud keeps getting quieter and quieter. Then Roman asks the only question that really matters.

  —Where is Miner?

  And I just don’t have a suitable answer to that question.

  —We really need to find Mr. Miner.

  —And I really, really wish I could help you guys out. I mean, you have no idea how much, but I just don’t fucking know.

  Roman leans back in his chair and closes his eyes. He rubs at his forehead like he has this massive pain shooting through his brain. With his eyes still closed, he starts to talk.

  —There is an object, something valuable. The ownership of this object is in some dispute. Be that as it may, these men and I can rightfully lay claim to this object, and we intend to do so. We have formed a profit-sharing enterprise, but if we do not find the object, there will be no profits to share. And I assure you, these men value nothing so highly as profit. Therefore, they are inspired in this situation to use means and go to lengths they might not otherwise. This is the nature of motivation. The object in question was last known to be in the possession of Mr. Miner. Now, in a moment, I will ask you a question regarding Mr. Miner and no matter your answer, it is essential that I be certain you are telling the truth. If there is any doubt in my mind, I will allow these men to do with you as they wish until that doubt no longer exists.

  Which, I suppose, is one way of saying, “Tell us what we want to know or we’re going to kick your ass.”

  —Where is Mr. Miner?

  And as truthfully and sincerely as I possibly can, I answer.

  —I don’t know.

  Roman’s eyes remain closed. He sighs a little.

  —But he left a key taped to the inside of the cat’s carry box, if that’s what you’re looking for.

  And Detective Lieutenant Roman opens his eyes right up.

  I have a secret. I have a secret these guys know nothing about. I have a dirty sock stuffed in my mouth to keep my screams from shattering the whole building, but I also have a secret.

  I told them where the key was and they looked in the box and just as I was getting ready for my life to get normal again, Red, who was looking in the box, popped his head out with a frown.

  —No key.

  And those two words revolved around and around in my head. They meant something, but I wasn’t sure what. So they just kept plowing through the smog of my hangover, looking for a place to land while my apartment got quieter and everybody could hear Red say, again:

  —No key.

  And that’s how I end up facedown on my bed with a mouth full of sock and Red sitting on my legs, pulling out my staples one by one with the needle-nose pliers they found in the toolbox under my sink. And I have a secret. The secret is, I don’t know where the key is. So these guys can do whatever they want and I just won’t talk. Because I have nothing to say. Lucky me.

  I’m having trouble breathing. I have the sock in my mouth and my nose is clogged with blood, so I’m having trouble breathing. The bad guys seem to be aware of this, so they have developed a system. The way it works is, while they’re actually hurting me they leave the sock in to muffle the screaming, and when they ask a question they take it out so I can answer. Every time the sock comes out, I gasp a bit to get as much air as possible before I tell them I don’t know anything and they stuff
it back in and I start to suffocate again.

  I’ve got about fifty or so staples. The first few they yanked out real quick, without asking any questions at all, just so I’d get the idea, I suppose. Now, they’re getting serious about it. Red sits on my legs to keep them from thrashing around and digs the tips of the pliers into my wound until he gets a good grip on one of the staples, then he starts to pull on it, slowly. The Russians have my arms pinned down, stretched straight out from my shoulders to either side of the mattress. Whitey has the right and Blackie the left. They feel like they might pop out of their sockets at any moment. I know Roman is standing near the bed off to my left, because that’s where his voice comes from every time he asks another question I don’t know the answer to. The Samoan has yet to make himself known to me, so I assume he’s still on his own clogging up my toilet. Bud is definitely under the bed; I know this because every time I scream through the sock, he starts to yowl along with me.

  They started with the easy questions.

  —Where’s the key?

  To which I mostly spluttered.

  —But I left it right there, it was right there. I don’t know what could have happened to it.

  Then the questions start getting a little weird.

  —What is the key for?

  The sock comes out.

  —Gasp! Gasp! Gasp! What? Gasp! What is the key for? Gasp!

  Roman pauses for a moment and I’m expecting the sock to come back, but it doesn’t.