Charlie Huston - Caught Stealing

– What the fuck?

– I can’t just take you to the police.

– Are youfucking.Mmmm. Are you, like, fucking nuts? You’re fucking crazy. Fucking Roman?ZOMBIE MOTHER FUCKING ROMAN?

– Russ!

– Fuck that!

The doors open on the lobby and a group ofultrahip European teenagers are standing there, waiting to go up. Russ spins away from me and takes a quick step out of the elevator and trips over nothing, tumbling into the crowd of tattoos,piercings and bleached hair. They catch him and keep him on his feet while I wrap an arm around his shoulders and take a firm grip on his right biceps.

– Thankyou. Thank you very much. He’s OK.

They cram into the elevator, making cracks in French aboutdrunk Americans.Fucking French classes. I wish I’d taken Spanish in high school. I start walking Russ toward the door.

– Take it easy, Russ. Just take it easy. It’s, it’s gonna be OK. You’re gonna take the fall, but you’re gonna get out of it alive. And. It’s gonna, you know, be fine.

He’s still shaking a bit, not because of his balance, but because of how hard he’s crying.

I would rather have rented a car, but I don’t want to go someplace where I’m gonna have to stand around and let people look at me for twenty minutes, and I don’t trust Russ to go in alone. It takes me a while to talk Russ into the backup plan, but eventually he gives in. Even woozy as he is, it takes him less than a minute to break into a locked car and hot-wire it. We sit there with the engine idling. I put a hand on his shoulder.

– OK, let’s go.

He kind of shrugs my hand from his shoulder.

– No.

– Why?

– Mmmm. Apart from, like, not wanting to drive myself to my own fucking execution, I’m not sure I should, like, be behind the wheel, feeling like this. I can barely, like, walk a fucking straight line thanks to you going all, like, Babe Ruth on my head.

– You have to drive, Russ.

– Mmmm. Why? Why the fuck do I have to drive?

– Because I don’t.

He looks at me.

– Are you.Mmmm. Are you, like, kidding, man? You’re from Cali, man. All you guys know how to drive.

– I know how to, I just don’t. So let’s get the fuck out of here before the owner of this fucking thing shows the fuck up.

– Let him! Let him.Mmmm. Let him show up and call the fucking cops. That would be, like, great, man. Save my fucking life.

I make a fist and lunge at him. He flinches back and I pull the punch before it makes contact. He keeps himself pressed against the driver’s-side door and I take deep breaths.

– Why me, Russ? Huh? Why the fuck did you pick me to give your goddamn cat?

He looks out the window at Ninth Avenue.

– I figured, you know, that you’d, like, take good care of him. I mean, Bud’s a great cat. I didn’t want to leave him with just anyone.

– Yeah.

We sit for another half minute.

– Just drive the car, Russ. Take it real easy and if you start to black out or feel funny, just say something.

– OK.

He takes the wheel and puts the Celica in first.

– Like, where to, man?

– Just get us out of here. I’ll tell you where to go once we’re moving.

He pulls away from the curb nice and slow and eases us into the downtown traffic. I turn on the radio and try to find the game.

We circle the block and take Broadway back downtown to Canal Street, then take East Broadway to Montgomery. We scoot across the FDR into the Pier 8 driveway right at the bottom of Manhattan. I point the way and Russ drives us slowly down the access road past theNO UNAUTHORIZED VEHICLES BEYOND THIS POINT sign. I jog out here a few times a week and I’ve never seen a single cop, just the occasional parks department truck. We cruise along nice and easy until we reach the Houston Street footbridge where it crosses over the FDR to the baseball diamonds of the East River Park.

We park on the access road next to a baseball diamond. Nearby, I can hear the traffic whizzing past on the FDR, but it’s not nearly loud enough to cover the sound of my cursing.Dodgers 3, Giants 1. New York and Atlanta are still scoreless and the starters are closing in on a new record for combined strikeouts in a single game. Russ has lost interest in the games. He stares out at the East River beyond the playing fields and smokes Camel Lights, one after another. The dash clock in the Celica is broken, but it’s 9:47P.M. by Russ’s watch. Roman should be here just about anytime.

Roman wanted to meet someplace secluded in Red Hook. I told him to fuck off and we settled on the East River Park. It doesn’t close until midnight, but at this hour and this time of year,there’s just a few joggers and dog walkers. A ways away, some kids in jackets are playing three-flys-up under the night-lights of another diamond. Russ takes a last hard drag on his cig and flicks the butt out the window. The Braves close out the bottom of the sixth and the broadcast goes to commercial. S.F. and L.A. raced through the fifth and are wading into the sixth themselves.

Russ keeps touching his bandage where it covers the stitches I put in. There’s a tiny pink stain there and every time he pokes it, he winces a little.

– Just stop fucking with it.

He touches it again.

– Really, Russ, you don’t want to fuck around with thatuntil a real doctor checks it out.

He looks at me out of the corner of his eye, then digs in his pocket for another smoke and lights it.

– I’m never gonna see a fucking doctor.

The game comes back on.

– The cops will take you to a doctor.

– I’m, like, never gonna see the fucking cops.

I’m trying to listen to the game with one ear and Russ with the other.

– He can’t kill you, man, you’re his fall guy. He needs you.

– You just.Mmmm. You just, like, don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.

Something’s going on. Atlanta got their lead-off hitter on first and the number two guy sacrificed him to second.Runner on second, one out, heart of the order coming up. No word from the announcer about the Giants.

– You’re gonna take the fall, Russ, because you fucked up. You’re gonna go to jail and youmay fucking die there, but Roman’s not gonna kill you.

The Braves’ number three hitter smacks one straight back to the pitcher for the second out. The pitcher spins and fires the ball to second, just missing the double play. The cleanup hitter steps in.Still nothing from L.A.

– You fucking idiot. You’re, like, such a fucking.Mmmm.

– Cool it.

– Such a fucking idiot.

– Don’t fucking pushme.

– Fuck you, you fucking idiot.

Two quick strikes followed by three straight balls and the catcheris going out to the mound to settle his pitcher. The announcer has mercy on me and gives an update from the West Coast: Top of the sixth and the Giants have the bases loaded with one out. The Dodgers pull their starter.

– Russ, this would be a good time for you to can it.

– Fucking idiot! Fucking idiot! Fucking idiot!

– Russ!

The Mets’ catcher settles in back behind the plate, the hitter is in the box and the pitcher steps up on the rubber.

On the other coast, the Giants counter the pitching change by bringing in a lefty to pinch-hit.

– Hey, by the way, fucking idiot, how is it you’re planning to get out of here after you send me to be killed, seeing as you don’t, like, drive or whatever?

Atlanta ’s man makes loud contact. The announcer is describing the ball’s arc toward deep left field. The color commentator goes bananas, screaming that the Giants’ hitter has just smashed a monster to deep center. On opposite coasts the balls soar toward the outfield walls.

Russ turns the radio off.