Charlie Huston - Caught Stealing

He just about flips but hangs on. The second one pops him off the road and into the chain link of the storage yard. His car plows to a sudden stop against the fence and we’re in the parking lot. I cut the wheel hard right, heading for the exit, jump the light at the intersection there and hairpin us straight up the FDR on-ramp, picking up speed. We pass Roman’s car, still pointed the opposite direction on the access road. He’s already moving, headed for the FDR.

I try to get lost in the traffic. I mix in and slow down to match the flow. We pass under the Williamsburg Bridge again, going north this time. Russ is nuzzling the back of Bud’s neck and whispering to him and Roman drives right up on us.

We’re in the far right lane and he pulls up on our left. I look out the window. Bolo is there, just a few feet away, sucking his scratched thumb. Roman doesn’t spare me a look, just keeps his eyes on the traffic. I can see Whitey still in the backseat, but I can’t tell if he’s alive or dead. I’ll never lose them as long as this is a race about speed. I need to slow the chase down. I pull onto the Houston Street exit ramp.Roman brakes fast and veers over to follow us. At the top of the ramp, I ignore the stop sign and blaring horns of the other cars and take us halfway around the traffic circle and onto Houston headed west. Roman trails.

Traffic is heavy and Roman stays right with us. From the middle lane, I take a right off Houston onto Avenue A. I cut in front of several cars and the drivers all lean on their horns. Roman gets tangled in the mess and I take a lead down the avenue.

The weekend traffic has us slowed way down by the time we get to 9th Street, Roman is back with us. But that’s OK, because I can already see the lights up ahead.

It looks like a movie set up on my block: cop cars, news vans, barricades andrubberneckers galore. Roman has caught on and he’s dropping back. It might be worth it to me to drive through and chance being recognized, but not even Roman can get through all those cops with a dying Russian gangster in his backseat. He turns off at 12th Street, heading east. He’ll have to detour a few blocks. Otherwise he’ll no doubt end up at a similar mess a block away outside Paul’s. Russ takes his face out of Bud’s neck, looks up and registers the scene.

– Hey, Hank, like, what the fuck?Mmmm.

– Just take it easy, man.

– Mmmm.

– Easy.

He rubs his nose against Bud’s face.

– Hear that, Buddy? Take it easy.Mmmm. Easy.Mmmm.

I look at him. He keeps his face close to Bud’s.

The cops wave cars through the intersection at A and 13th one at a time and they creep past my apartment building. We get to the front of the line and the cop holds us there for a second with an upraised palm ascrosstown traffic passes by. I spot a few people I know from the block mixed in with the reporters and sightseers. I pull up the collar on my jacket and hunch down a little in the seat.

The cop waves us through and never once looks in the car. The cops have been forced to use barricades to create room for a narrow lane in the middle of the street. We edge along and I picture a similar scene in front of my parents’ house.Reporters on the front lawn, strangers driving by to gawk and neighbors on porches pointing their fingers and shaking their heads. Russ never looks up from Bud’s neck. We’re held up at 14th by another traffic cop and I look east down the street, trying to see if Roman has circled around. I can’t see him, but now this car has become a target and I want out of it. The cop gives us the OK and I turn left just as the Celica starts to cough and shiver.

We wobble across the intersection and I pull us over to the curb just past the bus stop on the right-hand side of the street. I look out the window and the traffic cop is pointing from himself to us, signing, asking if we need any help. I smile and wave “no thanks” back to him. He nods and turns back to his job.

– Russ.

– Mmmm.

– Russ!

– Mmmm. What?

– The car died.

– Mmmm.

– Russ?

– Yeah?

– Are you OK?

He takes his face from Bud and looks at me. His left pupil has swollen, almost eclipsing the entire iris.

– Like, I don’t know, Hank. I don’t feel too good.

We have to get out of this car.

– It’s good to see you, Buddy.Mmmm.

We have to get out of this car.

– Good to see you.Mmmm. Sorry, I’m sorry I, like, left you for so long, Buddy.

We have to get out of this fucking car. The cop back at the intersection keeps glancing over at us. A few blocks away, Roman and Bolo are dumping Whitey or stuffing him in the trunk and coming after us. The left side of Russ’s face is sagging and frozen and he keeps rubbing it against Bud and whispering to him. We have to get out of this car before that cop comes walking over here to see what’s up, but I don’t know where to go next.

The cell phone rings.

– Buddy, Buddy, Buddy. I missed you, Buddy.Mmmm.

It rings again.

– Buuuuddy.

I take it out of my pocket and stare at it as it rings a third time.

– I’m sorry you, like, got hurt, Buddy.Mmmm. That was, that was really my fault.

It starts to ring again and I flip it open.

– Hello?

– Hello?

– Hello?

– Is this Russ Miner?

Fuck!

– Uh, yes.

– Mr. Miner, this is Detective Craig Williams of the New York City Police Department.

Oh, fuck.

– Yes?

– Mr. Miner, are you alone? Are you free to speak?

– Yes.

The cop is looking over at us again.

– Mr. Miner, we’ve been tracking your credit card transactions and found you had opened this account in the last twenty-four hours.

– Uh-huh.

– That’s how we got this number.

– Uh-huh.

– Mr. Miner, we believe that you are in great danger.

– Uh, why?

– Mr. Miner, do you know Henry Thompson? His parents were called from this number earlier today.

Oh, oh, fuck.

– Uh.

– Are you with Henry Thompson? Is he holding you against your will?

Are you fucking kidding me?

– Uh.

– If you’re not free to speak, just answer yes or no. Do you understand?

– Uh.

The cop is now openly staring at us. I keep my face well inside the shadowed interior of the car.

– Mr. Miner? Russ? Russ, this is a very dangerous man. Mr. Thompson is a very dangerous man. We know you’re in trouble, but if you’re with Henry Thompson, you are in worse danger than you know. We can help. Do you understand?

– Uh.

– Russ, we want to help you. Russ, are you still there?

I turn the phone off and toss it in the backseat. Russ takes his face away from Bud again and looks at me with his crooked stare.

– Who was that? Anybody I know?

I get out of the car, walk around to Russ’s side and start to help him out. The cop waves one of his buddies over to take control of the traffic and strolls toward us.

I have Russ out of the car and we’re moving away. I’m counting seconds. I’m counting seconds until I get to thirty so I can look back and see if the cop has stuck his head in the car to gander at all the broken glass and the hot-wired ignition. I make it to twenty before I turn.

He’s not looking in thecar, he’s got his back to the car. He’s got his back to the car so he can talk to Roman, who has just pulled up in his now Russian gangster-free sedan and who is, no doubt, asking about the two guys in the beige Celica. I hustle Russ down the steps of the L train station at the end of the block.

Getting the fucking tokens takes for-fucking-ever.Russ leans against me while I dig out one of the twenties. The guy in the booth wants to know how many we need and I blank out for a second, trying to figure if I should get more than one token each, just in case. Then I get a grip on where I am and how close Roman and Bolo are and I tell him to just give me a couple and please hurry. He slides the tokens through the slot and starts counting out my seventeen dollars in change, all in singles. Then I feel the breeze from the tunnel that means the train is coming. The token guy stuffs the bills at me and I grab them and drag Russ to the turnstiles. It’s another project just to get the two of us through and then down the next set of steps. The train is pulling in, but it’s on the opposite track, heading into Brooklyn. I start moving Russ down the platform toward the far end, away from the entrance and the turnstiles.