Charlie Huston - Caught Stealing

Roman has been checking me out this whole time in much the same way he did when I thought he was just your basicsupercop rather than your basicsupercop 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 forbread, 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 makehimself 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.