Caught Stealing

  CRACK!

  —I know Russ.

  —Sure you do. No question ’bout that. But do you know where he is, where we might find him?

  —He left a key.

  CRACK!

  The car is a Caddie. I’m not sure what year it is, but it’s from the tailfin era. It’s a black Caddie with monster fins and it rides like a dream. Paris has wheeled up out of the landfill and onto the road back to Manhattan. Ed sits in the backseat with me. He has the window on his side rolled down and the chill fall air blasts into the car as Paris winds it up past eighty on the speedometer.

  —Nice ride.

  Ed keeps his head turned toward the window.

  —You want to drive it a little?

  —No thanks. I don’t really drive.

  —You from California, you don’t know how to drive?

  —I know how, I just don’t.

  Paris has tuned in a classic rock station on the radio and Jimi is playing “Voodoo Chile.”

  —Can’t argue with a man don’t want to drive, but she drives nice if ya change your mind.

  —Thanks.

  Ed rolls up the window. He leans back into the far corner of the big bench seat, looks at me, and takes off his sunglasses. He’s got sleepy brown bedroom eyes. Beautiful eyes. Crazy eyes. He exhales and gives a little grin.

  —So the key was in the cat’s box?

  —Right.

  —And you found it?

  —Yeah.

  —And then you got drunk and lost it?

  —Right.

  —That’s pretty fucked up.

  —Yep.

  —And you didn’t give it to Roman?

  —I did not give the key to Roman.

  —He wants it, though, don’t he?

  —Yep.

  —You sure you don’t have it?

  —Yep.

  —Give us that fucking key, you fucking motherfucker!

  Paris has suddenly twisted around in his seat to scream this at me. His left hand clutches the wheel while he reaches into the backseat and tries to grab me with his right. I’m pushed as far back into the seat as I can get and his hand flails at the air inches from my face as the car begins to swerve out of its lane.

  —Give us that fucking key or we’re gonna kill your motherfucking ass, motherfucker! It’s fucking ours! That fucking Russ, piece of fucking, backstabbing fucking piece of shit.

  The cars around us are blowing their horns and trying to get out of the way.

  —Hey! Hey! Hey!

  Ed has grabbed Paris’s huge right arm and is keeping him from taking hold of my face.

  —Keep your eyes on the damn road!

  Paris snaps out of it. Ed lets go of his arm and Paris turns back in his seat and gets the car under control. The flow of traffic settles down around us. Ed leans back into his corner and smiles at me.

  —We need that key.

  They all know each other.

  —See, Russ had a very simple job.

  We’re seated at a booth in a diner just outside Jersey City. Ed and Paris are across from me, eating steak and eggs smothered in Tabasco sauce. I’m having ice water and staring at the sweating bottles of Heineken they both have in front of them. Ed is talking between mouthfuls of food and beer.

  —All he was supposed to do was meet us somewhere with something. Instead he fucked around an’ got a bunch a people looking for him.

  —Uh-huh.

  —Yeah. An’ in the deal he also got you, his buddy, in some steep shit.

  —Uh-huh.

  Paris empties his beer, holds the bottle up in the air and waggles it at the waitress, signaling for two more. My mouth waters and I drink more water.

  —What did Roman tell you?

  —He said there was an object you all wanted and the key wasn’t it, but it would do.

  —True enough. If the key is what Russ left, it’s what we want.

  The waitress shows up with the new beers, sets them down, and leaves. Ed finishes his last bite of egg, pushes his plate aside, gets up and heads for the bathroom.

  —I’ll be right back.

  Paris takes a huge swallow of his new beer, pokes at the remains of his steak, looks around to check for eavesdroppers and leans toward me a bit.

  —I had a dream last night. I shot my dad. The fucked-up thing, I mean, shooting him was fucked up enough, but the fucked-up thing? When I shot him, he was dressed like a Nazi, like a SS motherfucker. And I shot him in the back.

  He drinks more beer.

  —Anyway, sorry I lost it in the car. I’m not like that. Really.

  —No problem.

  He sticks his hand out across the table. I take it and we shake.

  —Sure you don’t want a beer, something to eat?

  —Yeah, but thanks.

  —Sure.

  Ed plops back down in the booth.

  —Sorry about that. When ya gotta, ya gotta.

  The diner is mostly empty, just us and a mixed bag of travelers. Under the table I’m silently clicking my heels together while in my head I repeat to myself over and over, There’s no place like home. There’s no place like home. There’s no place like home.

  We cruise around Manhattan, Paris at the wheel. Ed tells me a story.

  —When we were kids, me an’ my brother, when we were kids we used to hang out at this Boys Club in Queens. We hated goin’ there. Kids always wanted to fight, everybody, fightin’ all the time. Me an’ Paris, we hated fightin’. Every day, we’d tell our mom we didn’t want to go, an’ every day she’d tell us to get the hell over to the Boys Club an’ let her get some damn work done. They had this wood shop; supposed to make things. All they got to make things with is wood an’ old tires. No shit. Not even real wood, scrap shit fulla knots an’ sap an’ nails an’ shit. You ever try to make something outa old tires an’ scrap wood? A birdhouse? Bullshit, no fuckin’ way. Kids, what they did, they’d cut long strips of rubber from the tires an’ have whip fights up on the roof of the club. Go up there an’ whale the shit out of each other. One day this kid, Dex, he gets Paris up on the roof, but Paris, he don’t want trouble. Don’t fuckin’ matter to Dex. Him an’ his friends, they go after Paris, they pull down his pants an’ whip shit out of his rear end. Leave him up there cryin’, snotty, blood all over his butt. I get him home an’ our mom flips, wants ta call the club, call the cops. Tells us she’s sorry, we never have to go back. Next day, we go right back. We go to the wood shop an’ cut us some long-ass strips of steel-belted radial. Have to cut that shit with a hacksaw. Then we break off these little slivers of razor blade an’ stick ’em in the tips of our whips. I find that Dex kid an’ tell him I’ll see him on the roof. He shows up with his boys an’ before he can even open his mouth to start talking shit, I rake that whip across his eyes. Fucker went right down screamin’. His boys try to step up an’ I just start whippin’ all over ’em. Paris, he’s all calm an’ shit. He walks over to where Dex is on the ground holding his eyes in his head, yanks the boy’s trousers down, an’ cuts his ass up good. Dex’s crew freak out, can’t handle the action, so they bug out. But Paris just keeps the whip on Dex till he’s pretty much dead. Once he stopped, we were both a little worked up, I guess, knew we were in trouble, but we didn’t really know what to do about it. So we just dragged Dex over to the edge of the roof an’ rolled him off. Kid was so bloody, he actually splashed when he hit the ground. That’s how we ended up in Montana at one of those juvenile camps. Take troubled inner-city youths an’ put them in the great outdoors an’ make ’em work? That shit. But, man, was it beautiful. Plains, mountains, Big Sky Country. Coulda spent my whole life there. So look, Hank. It’s Hank, right?

  —Yeah.

  —So, what this is about, your role. When we didn’t find Russ at home, we decided to take a peek at Roman, see what he’s up to. An’ what he was up to was you. So we took a peek at you. Followed you to that place on the West Side. Thought we’d take you for a ride. Got it?

  —Sure.

&nb
sp; —So now, the thing is, Hank, we need that key. I figure Roman, he told you that he’d do something bad if he doesn’t get the key, right? Kill you, hurt your people, whatever, right?

  —Right.

  —But you get him the key, he’ll just leave you alone, right?

  —Right.

  —Well, fuck that, ’cause I guarantee you that zombie fucker’s gonna kill you key or no key. That sound about right?

  —Yeah.

  —So, me an’ Paris, this is the deal with us: We don’t get the key, we’re gonna kill your ass, no doubt. Kill your ass an’ your family an’ your ancestors, kill your fucking house plants an’ all that shit. Right?

  —Right.

  —But you give us the key, not only are we gonna leave you breathing, but we’re gonna give you a nice piece of change. Sweet, huh?

  —Sure.

  —Know why we’re gonna give you a nice piece of change?

  —No.

  —’Cause after you give us the key, you’re gonna help us set up Roman and the rest of his fucking freak show. Then we kill ’em an’ they won’t be no trouble for us or you or no one ever again. Sound good?

  —Good.

  —All right. Now you take my card, you get the key, wherever it is, and you call me. Do it quick, Hank, an’ everything goes back to normal. OK?

  —OK.

  —We let you off anywhere special?

  —No. Anywhere’s fine.

  —Good enough.

  Ed taps Paris on the shoulder and he pulls the Caddie over to the curb. I try to open my door, but it’s jammed. Ed touches my knee.

  —Sorry, that door’s all messed. Gotta get out on this side.

  He gets out on the curb and I slide across the seat and climb out. He reaches back into the car, pulls out my bag, and hands it to me.

  He gets into the front seat, closes his door, and gives me a little wave and they drive off. I look at the card in my hand: Ed, followed by a cell phone number. I’m on the corner of 49th and Ninth. I walk about twenty yards down the street and into the first bar I see.

  The kidney is an organ. It removes wastes from the blood. If your kidneys, or in my case kidney, is damaged and can no longer perform this function, you die. And yet, many people live long healthy lives with only one kidney because they love and nurture and respect that kidney. One of the best ways to disrespect your last remaining kidney is to raise your blood pressure by engaging in any of a number of activities, including excessive drinking.

  I sit on the bar stool and comtemplate the bottle of Bud. The bartender offered me a glass, but I like to drink my beer out of the bottle. There’s sweat all over the brown glass and the lower right corner of the label is peeling. I make a deal with myself: If I can peel the label away in one piece, I get to drink the beer. I tease the label a bit, then strip it away in a single smooth swipe and it comes off in one piece. I get off my stool and walk to the back of the bar.

  The phone booth is one of those old-fashioned wooden ones, a cabinet built into the wall. I step inside and close the door and a little light in the ceiling flips on. I dial a long series of numbers, listen to some instructions and dial more numbers. Finally there is a ringing at the other end of the line and I sit on the little bench in the booth. Someone picks up the phone at the other end.

  —Hello?

  —Hi, Mom.

  —Oh! Oh, there you are.

  —I’m sorry, Mom.

  —No, no, we were just. I was worried when you didn’t call. Is everything OK? Did you decide to stay at the hospital a little longer?

  —No, Ma. I just. They gave me these painkillers.

  —Painkillers? Does it hurt a lot? Are you OK, Henry?

  —I’m fine, Mom, it just aches a bit, ya know?

  —But you’re OK?

  —Yeah, I’m fine, but the pills they gave me really knocked me out and I kind of turned off the phone so I wouldn’t wake up. I should have called right away, but I just listened to your message.

  —Well, Dad told me not to worry, but he was worried too and I just.

  It’s quiet on the phone for a minute. I lean my head against the glass of the booth’s door. My mom misses me, she has missed me for ten years since I came to New York. She doesn’t understand my life. Neither do I. So I can’t help her much.

  —Anyway, I was just worried.

  —It’s OK, Mom. I’m really OK.

  —Are you sure I can’t come out?

  —No, Mom. There’s no reason. I’m fine. I’m taking it easy and everything is fine.

  —Is someone there taking care of you?

  —Yvonne gave me some help, but I can take care of myself.

  —How is she?

  —She’s fine, Ma, but she’s not really taking care of me. She just ran a few errands.

  —She’s so sweet.

  —Yes, she is.

  —I just wish I could be there.

  —I know.

  —I can’t wait to see you at Christmas.

  —Me too.

  —Did you ever decide what you want?

  —Anything, Mom. I always like what you get me, and besides, it’s still a ways off.

  —Well, you know I like to get things done.

  —I know. So is Dad around?

  —He’s at the shop today. Do you want to call him there?

  —No, I’m pretty tired, I think I’m gonna get some more sleep. Be sure to tell him I love him, OK?

  —I know. Oh, did you get the package I sent?

  —No, not yet.

  —That’s OK. It’s just stupid stuff I know you like.

  —Thanks, Ma. Look, I’m gonna go and I’m gonna probably keep the ringer off. I’m still really tired. So if you don’t get me right away, don’t worry. OK?

  —OK. I love you, Henry.

  —I love you, too, Ma.

  —I’ll talk to you in a day or two, OK?

  —Great. I love you, Mom.

  —I love you, Henry.

  —Good-bye.

  —Bye.

  I sit in the booth for a while after that.

  I sit in the booth and look out at the bar, at my bottle of Bud still sitting in front of my stool and the little pile of bills, my change, sitting next to it. I pump coins into the phone and call United. They can change my ticket whenever I like for a seventy-five-dollar fee, plus the difference in ticket price. Would I like to make that change now? Yes, I would, very much. But I need to get the key first, decide who to hand it over to and stay in one piece while I’m doing it. I know where the key is. Now, who do I give it to? I dig out one of the cards I have in my pocket and dial. He picks up himself.

  —Roman.

  —I have it.

  Pause.

  —Where are you?

  —I don’t have it, I know where it is.

  —Where?

  —I’m not. Look, I’m not going to tell you.

  —And so the purpose of this call is?

  —I’m not going to tell you where it is. I’ll get it and then give it to you.

  —When?

  —I. I want to leave. I want to leave New York. I’ll give you the key right before I go.

  —When are you leaving?

  —I don’t have a flight yet. I’ll get the key and I’ll call you. I’ll meet you, I’ll call you . . .

  —Yes?

  —I don’t know how any of this works.

  —Well, there aren’t any actual rules. But may I make a suggestion?

  —OK.

  —Get the key. Book a flight. Call me and tell me the airport, but not the flight number, and tell me what time you want me there. Pick a time before your actual flight so that I won’t be able to make a guess about which plane you’re leaving on. At the last moment possible before you board, have me paged and tell me what gate you are at. I will meet you there, in full view of the public and you can give me the key.

  Wow, good plan.

  —OK.

  —And you might want to book a flight to someplac
e other than your final destination and fly to . . . wherever, from there. To discourage pursuit.

  —Right, that’s good.

  —Well then.

  —Yeah, OK, so, I’ll go . . .

  —Get the key.

  —Right.

  I sit there holding the phone.

  —Good-bye.

  —Oh, yeah, good-bye.

  I hang up. Then I walk straight to the beer and pick it up. Before I can take a drink, I catch a glimpse of the TV. I look again. The Mets game has just concluded: Atlanta 5, Mets 3. I put the beer back down. I don’t need it. Besides, I’m going to another bar right now.

  Now that I’ve made a decision about what to do, I’m in a hurry. I flag a cab and tell the driver where to go. I close my eyes, try to ignore all the places my body hurts.

  I’m glad I called Roman. Roman is definitely the one I want to deal with. I mean, he may scare me, but he doesn’t freak me out like Ed and Paris, who are obviously crazier than a sackful of assholes.

  The cabbie drives like all New York cabbies, which is to say he guns it flat out as soon as the light turns green and slams on the brakes at the last possible second when it goes red. I have my seat belt on, which keeps me from slapping my forehead against the Plexiglas sheet that separates the driver from the passenger. Our progress downtown is measured in a series of jumps and lurches. I take a quick look around at the cars behind us, but I don’t see any signs of a black Caddie. The cab pulls over and I pay the driver and hop out.

  I walk into Paul’s. Lisa, the day bartender, takes one look at my face and lets out a little scream.

  —Jesus fucking Christ, Hank, you look like yesterday’s shit on last week’s paper.

  When I first came in here looking for a job ten years ago, Lisa was behind the bar. She was about thirty or so back then, six feet tall and built. Just big everywhere. She nailed me about a week or two after I started behind the bar. I never went back for more, but I never had any regrets. She’s a big, happy woman and about the only thing she does that pisses me off is getting shit-faced on the job when I’m working the shift after hers. Trying to pick up the pieces for a drunk-off-her-ass bartender is a pain. She’s sipping on a greyhound right now and I can see trouble ahead for whoever’s on tonight.