Charlie Huston - Caught Stealing

September 29, 2000

Two Regular Season Games Remaining

They’re talking about me on TV. A block away, NY1 and all the other local stations are live on the scene of the worst massacre in recent New York history and, from time to time, they replay the official police statement.

A cop in a fancy uniform with a lot of medals on his chest for catching criminals stands in front of Paul’s and reads from a piece of paper.

– This is. Excuse me, please, I have a statement and I will read it just once. This is a very preliminary statement. As of now, we know, we believe, that a short while ago a gun battle took place between the owner of Paul’s Bar and an unknown number of assailants who appear to have been attempting to rob the establishment. We have… we have seven confirmed dead, including one of the assailants. We are asking that anyone in this area who may have seen or heard anything suspicious in the early morning here to please contact us. We are… we are also seeking a former employee of Paul’s for questioning in connection to this tragic crime. That is all.

The cops are not stupid. They arrived at my apartment a little over an hour ago, saw the broken seal, burst in with guns drawn and found it empty. Russ and I stayed very quiet in his place across the hall while they searched mine high and low and eventually taped it back up and split.

Russ sits on the couch with an ice bag on his head and watches the TV at very low volume while I shave my hair down to fuzz with his clippers. I’ve already shaved my face clean to get rid of the stubble I had when the police took my booking photo last night.

Sooner or later, the cops will have to bite the bullet. Some clever reporter will sniff around and the cops will have to explain how a man already in their custody in connection with one murder escaped and got involved in mass murder. Then my picture will be everywhere. I’m hoping for at least twenty-four hours’ grace.

Over on the couch, Russ is a little dopey from the shots he’s taken to the noggin, but I don’t think he’ll make any more trouble now that I have his gun.

When he came round the second time he was a bit confused.

– Fuck, Hank. What the fuck?

– Roman’s looking for you, Russ.

– Roman?

– Roman’s looking for you, Russ.

He touched the wound on his head and flinched.

– Fuck, Hank, I don’t know any fucking Roman. What the fuck, man, like, why’dya hit me, man?

– Red, the Chinese kid, he’s dead.So’s one of the Russians. Roman, Bolo, and the other Russian are looking for you and me and the key, Russ.

– Russians? Like, what the fuck, man?

– Russ, Ed and Paris are looking, too.

He looked at me, blood from his head running down his neck and staining the collar of his shirt.

– Ed and Paris?

– Yeah.

– Fuck! Oh fuck! Oh man, oh fuck, oh man. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

– Yeah Russ. Oh fuck indeed.

Around then I got my shit together enough to get us out through my window, onto the fire escape and into his place through his window before the cops could show. They came up the stairs pretty stealthily, but once they saw the ripped tape on my door they went in like gangbusters. I watched from Russ’s peephole until they left. When I turned around, Russ had a little chrome.22 stuck in my face.

– Sorry, man, but I gotta go. So just give me the key, OK?

I nodded at my jacket on his couch.

– In the pocket.

He glanced to the right and I swept my left hand up to slap the gun away from my face. I kept a hold on his wrist as I grabbed his shirt with my right hand, stepped in and kneed him in the crotch. He sank to the floor and I covered his mouth to make sure he wouldn’t groan too loud. I took his gun, flicked on the TV to check the news and, just like it happens in old gangster movies, they were talking about my “crimes” on the news. That’s when I went in the bathroom and started shaving.

I think I gave Russ a concussion when I nailed him with the bat the second time. I wouldn’t care except that I’m having trouble getting him to focus and make sense.

– I’m sorry, man, I’m so damn sorry.This never. Oh, God, I’m sorry.

– Russ, we need to talk now, man, I need to know things. Russ!

– No, man, no more, you don’t, like, want to. Oh, I’m so sorry. I’m such a sorry sack of shit.

– Russ. Russ, calm down and talk to me, OK?

He stays on the couch, holding the ice bag on his head, rocking back and forth and looking away whenever I try to catch his eye and get him to focus.

I’ve traded my jacket for one of his, a lined windbreaker with a Yankees patch on the back.Fucking Yankees. They think they own the world. Nothing else of his fits me, but I did find a pair of wraparound sunglasses that hide the bruises around my eyes pretty well. I also grabbed his little Walkman radio. I can stay up on the news and the headphones will help my disguise, such as it is.

– Russ, Russ! Come on, man, it’s time to go. Come on.

– No.No, man. I’m gonna stay here.

– Russ, the cops aren’t that dumb, they’ll be back and, if not, then Roman will.

– Fuck that, I don’t fucking care. Oh, I’m so fucked.

– Russ, Ed and Paris have already been here once.

He stops rocking and looks up at me.

– Shit, Hank, we gotta go.

We go out the window again.

We use the rooftops to avoid the cops on the streets below and circle the block to First Avenue. There’s a choppercruising the area, but it seems to be focused on the blocks east of Avenue A, over by the projects. We catch a big break when we see some guys working on one of the roofs. They’re patching holes in the tar paper, their backs to us. We just sneak in through the roof access door they’ve propped open with a piece of brick. Down the stairs and we exit onto First. We walk right past two of New York ’s finest, I flag a cab and we’re gone.So much for police gauntlets.

Russ slumps in the seat and lets his head loll back. He’s worse than I thought. I get him to look at me and I cover his right eye with my hand, then pull it away suddenly and watch how his pupil dilates, then do the same thing with his left eye. The right one is OK, but the left dilates irregularly. He must be pretty fucking scrambled in there. On top of that, blood is starting to leak out of his cap. I didn’t have time to patch him up at the apartment and all my first-aid stuff is in my bag in Roman’s car. I took a huge wad of toilet paper, soaked it in some vodka I found under his sink, stuck it on his head, and crammed a ski cap on him to hold it in place.

The cab is just cruising north and the driver wants a specific destination. I give Russ a little shake.

– Russ, hey, Russ. How about it, man? Why don’t you show me what it’s all about?

– What what’s about? What?

– Russ, where to, Russ?

The cabbie is getting testy just driving up First. I tell him to head for the West Side Highway. I shake the blue storage unit key in Russ’s face.

– How ’bout it, Russ? Let’s go take a look.

He focuses on the key.

– Hey, man, that’s my key.

– What’s it for, Russ? What’s it for?

– Fuck, man, how’d you get my key?

– What’s it for?

– It’s, like, my unit, man.

– Where?

– Mini Storage. Chelsea.

I tell the cabbie to take us to Chelsea Mini Storage. Russ flops back in his seat and I go through his pockets for cash so I’ll be able to pay for the cab when we arrive. Along with Bud, my money is in Roman’s car. I find seventy-eight bucks, some credit cards, the jimmy tools he used to pick my lock and a pack of Big Red. I take his wallet and the gum.

They want you to sign in before they’ll let you go up. Russ is still too shaky to trust with other people, so I sign his name and give the guy in the booth the unit number. He doesn’t ask for ID or anything, just gives me two passes, tells us to wear them at all times and points to the elevator.