Charlie Huston - Caught Stealing

– Baby, I have to get out of here.

She takes another drag. She put a Leonard Cohen album on her old turntable earlier and now “Suzanne” is playing; such a beautiful song. She exhales a cloud of smoke and looks back out the window.

– Fair enough.

I stand up. It’s so nice in here, so warm.

– Do you, babe, do you know where my stuff is?

She looks at me.

– Sure.

She takes her feet off the table and the legs of her chair bang down on the floor. She gets up, takes a last drag off her smoke, drops the butt on the floor, and grinds it out with her bare foot. She walks over to the living area and digs around under the futon frame until she comes up with my bag and then sits on the bed and reaches over to stroke Bud where he lies still sleeping. I go sit on the bed too and start putting on my boots.

My body is sore as hell, but my head is pretty straight. A beer would help most of the aches. My boots are tied. I pull an old black sweater from my bag, stand up, and put it on. I’m looking around for my jacket, but I can’t find it. Yvonne reads my mind, gets off the futon and walks over to one of those rolling clothes racks you see in the garment district. It’s what she has instead of a closet. She pulls an old leather jacket off a hanger and holds it out to me.

– You didn’t have one when you showed up yesterday. Take this. It’ll fit.

I come over and take the jacket. It fits perfectly and has a nice lining.

– Thanks.

– Sure.

I go back to the bed, get my bag, and zip it up.

– Something else.

– The cat?

– Yeah.

– How long?

– I’m not sure.

– Fair enough. I’ll get his stuff from your place, OK?

I look at her. I look her in the eye.

– No. Don’t go there, OK? Don’t go there at all.

I reach into the bag and take out some cash.

– Don’t.Don’t even fucking try to give me money.

I toss it on the bed anyway.

– For Bud.For the vet. And he’ll need new stuff.

– Fine.

I walk over to her and put a hand on her head and we wrap our arms around each other. Her face is in my chest and her voice is muffled.

– You gonna be OK?

– Sure.

– You gonna be safe?

– Sure.

– You gonna call me if you need help?

– You know it.

She squeezes me and then pushes me away. I take a look at Bud sleeping,then I head for the door. She calls.

– Hey.

– What?

– I’ve been rooting for the Giants.

I stop with the door half-open.

– Yeah?

– Yeah.

– Well, they’ll choke in the clutch.

– I’ll keep rooting for them anyway.

– You always like the underdogs.

– Yep.

I leave and close the door behind me. I have to get the key. I have to get the key, get it to Roman and get lost before any of my friends get hurt. I repeat this to myself over and over as I go down the stairs, leaving that warm room farther and farther behind. It’s noteasy, none of it is easy, because she’s so cool.And me? I’m just a fucking idiot.

Out on the sidewalk in front of her building, someone grabs me from behind and someone else punches me in the crotch. They drag my doubled-over body to the curb, throw me in the trunk of a car, and close the lid. I hear the driver’s and the passenger’s doors open and shut. Then the engine starts and the car pulls away from the curb.

As it turns out, the small one is Ed and the big one is Paris. And I was right, they do wear cowboy boots. Matching black snakeskin boots with rattler heads on the toes.

I’m rolled up in a little ball, blinking up at them from the trunk they’ve just opened. After about an hour of me bouncing around in here, we stopped. I heard the doors open and close, then the lid popped open and there they were. The little one took off his hat and smiled.

– I’mEd, this is my brother, Paris. Sorry about the ride.

It’s bright out and I can see dozens and dozens of seagulls wheeling in the sky behind Ed’s and Paris’s heads. There is a terrific stink in the air. Ed puts his hat back on and reaches out his hand to me.

– Let’s get you out of there.

I blink. I take his hand and let him help me out. My legs are cramped up and I almost fall over, but Ed catches me and holds me steady while I get my balance. Paris just stands there a few feet away and watches. We’re in a landfill. We are way out in the middle of what must be a New Jersey landfill and there is no one in sight except ourselves and the seagulls. Paris reaches inside his vest, pulls out what looks like a vintage.45 Colt Peacemaker revolver and starts walking around the dunes of garbage, shooting rats.

– The Chinkdo that to you?

CRACK!

– Huh?

– Your face, the Chinkdo that to you?

CRACK!

– Uh, yeah.The guy with the red hair.

– Yeah, the Chink is a mean motherfucker. No doubt.

CRACK!

Every time Paris shoots a rat, his gun makes a nice firm crack that ripples across the landfill and sends any nearby seagulls leaping into the air. He’s emptied and reloaded the revolver twice now and doesn’t seem to be getting bored. Ed and I lean against the lip of the open trunk and converse.

– Paris and me, we met him, he was straight out ofjuvie.Crazy little fucker.

CRACK!

– Who?

– The Chink, the guy busted your nose there.

They know him.And why not? Why shouldn’t goons know each other?All members in the goon union, no doubt.

– You know him?

CRACK!

– All of ’em, we know all of ’em.

– All of them?

CRACK!

Paris flips the cylinder on the revolver and dumps the empty shells onto the ground. He feels around in his pockets and, not finding what he wants, walks back over toward the car. Ed reaches behind himself in the trunk, finds something and tosses it to Paris. It’s a full box of cartridges. Paris loads up and goes back to work.

CRACK!

– Sure, we know ’em. The Chink, Bolo, he’s the Hawaiian-lookin’ guy, those fucked-up Russian fags, and Roman. Now he’s one zombie motherfucker. Yeah, we know all those cats, but we’re really looking for our man Russ. You know Russ.

CRACK!

Ed is about five eight or so and has little bowling balls stuck in his arms where his biceps should be. He never turns his face toward me, just stares out in the direction of his brother, his eyes hidden behind his pitch-black sunglasses.

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 andJimi is playing “Voodoo Chile.”

– Can’t argue with a man don’t want to drive, but she drives nice ifya 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?