Charlie Huston - Caught Stealing

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 thesedickweeds.

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 tornoff, 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 oftoughguys 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 the 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.