Charlie Huston - Caught Stealing

I watch TV for a while and think about that beer I drank. The clock says 3:15 when I peter out again, tired. I’m so fucking tired. I take a pillow from the bed and toss it on the carpet in front of the door. Now that I have a little time to think, I’m remembering some important stuff. The Giants play at 4:05P.M. West Coast time and the Mets at 7:30P.M. EST. I set the alarm for 7:00P.M. The meet with Roman is at 10:00. We’ll have to leave by 9:00 to get set up, but I should be able to watch at least three or four innings. I lie down on the floor and you’d be surprised just how easy it is to fall asleep. No dreams.

My first thought when I wake up is that the alarm didn’t go off. I know I’m supposed to be up for something and I can’t remember if it’s work or a date or a doctor’s appointment or what the fuck. Then I see that I’m on the floor and the pieces fall back into place, including the empty bed.

In my sleep, I’ve rolled away from the door. Now I see that what woke me was the door bumping lightly into my side. It’s closing! The fucking door is being pulled closed from the outside right now! I’m awake.

Still on the floor, I grab the edge of the door before it can close all the way. My fingers get a little squashed, but he’s trying to be quiet and gentle, so it doesn’t hurt much. I have a good grip now and yank back as hard as I can. He resists for a moment,then thinks better of it. The door flies in at me as he changes his pull to a push. I catch most of it on my left shoulder. It knocks me all the way onto my back and he has a head start. Through the now open door, I see him taking his first big step down the hall toward the elevator.

I lunge up into a sitting position, throw myself into the hall and claw at his ankles. I hook a finger in the cuff of his right pants leg, but he kicks back, freeing himself and knocking me further off balance. I’m trying to go after him and get up at the same time and I end up in a ridiculous crawl crouch, stumbling behind him. I can see that he’s going to beat me to the elevators, but unless there’s one waiting for him, I should catch up to him there. I see a little flash of chrome in his right hand. He has the gun. He picked my pocket while I was asleep and he has his little.22 back. The sight of the gun slows me. I’m not sure I want to catch him if he has the gun. As I consider this, he suddenly and for no apparent reason turns to the left and plows straight into the wall.

He rebounds off the wall and pauses a moment to shake his head. I take two giant steps, throw myself at him and grab his right leg as he steps forward. He goes down full length, no time to use his arms to break his fall. The gun is bounced out of his hand and slides a few feet down the hall. I scramble up onto his back, pin his arms with my knees and grab him by the neck with my left hand. With my right, I reach out and scoop up the gun. I stick the barrel up against his cheek. His mouth is muffled by the carpet, but I hear him.

– Like, chill, man! Chill!

I dig the barrel in deeper.

– Yes, I get it, Hank! Chill, man!

I disentangle myself from him, keeping the gun in place. We stand up together.

– The room, Russ.

– Yeah, man, like, the room. No problem.

We walk the few yards back to our room and no doors open, no one looks out to see what the ruckus is about. I love this hotel. I close the door behind us and relock it, including the little chain. Russ is looking at his face in the mirror over the dresser, inspecting the carpet burn on his chin. I can’t help it; as I go past him, I give him a little shove in the back. He falls right into the mirror, banging his forehead hard enough to cause a small crack in the glass. He straightens and then slides down to the floor along the dresser drawers, which make little clunking noises as he goes. He sits there, holding his head.

– Forchrissake, Hank. Will you quit, like, hitting me on the fucking head!

I squat down and look at his eyes. Again, the left pupil is a little bigger than the right. No wonder he can’t walk a straight line. I check the clock: 7:49P.M. The fucker switched off the alarm. I climb up on the bed, grab the remote, switch to Channel 11 for the Mets game, and turn up the sound. Bottom of the first: zip, zip. I wait for them to flash a score from the Giants game. At the end of the inning, they tell me what I want to know: Giants 1, Dodgers 0, top of the third.

Russ gets himself up off the floor. He looks for something but can’t find it.

– Hey?

I watch TV.

– Hey, what happened to my last beer?

– I drank it.

– Fuck.

He digs in one of the grocery bags until he comes up with a six-pack of Coke, a bag of chips and a can of peanuts. He comes over to the bed and stands there, waiting. I look up at him,then scoot over to make room. He climbs onto the bed, hands me a soda, and puts the chips and nuts between us.

– So, what’s the score?

8:45P.M. I’m sitting on the bottom edge of the bed, two feet from the TV screen.Top of the fifth, still no score. The Mets and the Braves are locked in a pitchers’ duel. The starters have combined for fifteen strikeouts already and show no sign of slowing down. Out west in Dodger Stadium, they’re jammed in the bottom of the fourth, picking away at each other, the hitters going high into the counts and knocking foul balls all over the fucking place. The Giants are still up 1-0, but L.A. has the bases loaded andS.F.’s starter is already wearing out. The announcer for the Mets game keeps giving updates on what’s happening out in Los Angeles, but the fact that I can’t actually see the game is driving me up the fucking wall. And now it’s time to go, and I can’t bring myself to shut off the TV.

I’m going to wait until the end of the Dodgers’ fourth. I can’t doit, I just can’t go without knowing if the Dodgers take the lead. The Mets knock down the Braves in order, chalking up two more strikeouts and the coverage goes to a commercial.

– Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.

Russ is still reclined at the other end of the bed. He’s a Mets fan. Every time they notch another out, he pumps his fist and gives a little whoop. I’m trying to remember that it could beworse, he could be a Dodgers fan. It’s 8:56P.M. The game comes back on and we’re informed that the Giants are in the middle of a pitching change. Meanwhile, the Braves go to work on the Mets. I look again at the clock. Fuck! Fuck me! I turn off the TV. Russ jumps off the bed.

– Whoa! Like, what the fuck?

I collect the first-aid kit and cell phone and put on the Yankees jacket, sunglasses and headphones.

– Time to go, Russ.

– Oh, man. Oh, man!

– I know. Come on.

At the door, I turn and take a look at the room.Cans and crumbs and leftover food all over the place. I take a twenty from my pocket and toss it on the bed for the maid. We walk down the hall and push the button for the elevator. Russ is antsy.

– Where do we go?

– We need a car.

– A car?

– Yeah.

He looks atme, the elevator goes ding and the doors open. We step inside and wait for the doors to close.

– Hank?

– Yeah?

– Why dowe.Mmmm. Why do we, like, need a car?

The doors are still open. I realize that neither of us has pushed a button and I lean over and press my finger against the one labeledL.

– We need a car because I don’t want to risk any more cabs or subways and so we can listen to the game while we wait.

The elevator is very slow.

– I thought we were, like, going to the.Mmmm. Going to the cops. I thought you were turning me in.

I look at him as the elevator eases its way down to the lobby.

– I’m giving you to Roman.

– What?

– I’m giving you and the money to Roman. Roman will take you in.