Charlie Huston - Caught Stealing

The bat makes contact. The impact makes a noise. It echoes around inside the hollow aluminum cylinder and sounds like this:

SPANG!

If it weren’t for the fucking net, the ball would have gone over the Cyclone. And so would the next coupledozen I hit.

Now the torque I’m putting on my wound is starting to hurt like hell.

SPANG!

Jimmy crack corn.

SPANG!

’Cause I don’t care.

SPANG!

The balls jump off the bat like they’re scared and I groove homer after homer. My body relaxes. My mind clears.

SPANG!

I do the one thing I have ever been truly great at.

SPANG!

And for the first time I can remember, I look back at the road that led me here.

SPANG!

The long slide of my life from teenage superstar to alcoholic bartender.

SPANG!

The break in my leg that ended my baseball career before it started.

SPANG!

The calf that wandered out on the road and sent me and Rich crashing into a tree.

SPANG!

That sent Rich crashing into a tree.

SPANG!

The girl who dumped me and left me alone in New York.

SPANG!

The booze I poured down my throat.

SPANG!

The nowhere job that ruined my feet.

SPANG!

The cat Russ left me.

SPANG!

The bad guys chasing me around.

SPANG!

Mom and Dad scared and confused.

SPANG!

The friends who have died.

SPANG!

Been murdered.

SPANG!

The friend I have murdered.

SPANG!

All because I’ve spent my time waiting for things to work out for the best.

SPANG!

Like I fucking deserve it or something.

SPANG!

SPANG!

SPANG!

SPANG!

SPANG!

And something is certain.

The past is over. My life will never be what it was. And considering what I’ve made of my life so far, that may not be such a bad thing after all. It’s time to stop hoping things are going to work out and start giving myself a chance to get out of this alive. Because I’m tired of being everybody’s stupid fucking patsy. It’s 11:00A.M. and I have a friend to see back in town.

SPANG!

I get off the N train at 8th and Broadway. The streets are filling now with shoppers andbrunchers. I duck my head down, walk along the edge of the sidewalk and mutter to myself. People stay out of my way and make a point of avoiding eye contact in case I might ask for change or help of any kind.

On 9th Street I stop in front of an old tenement building, just around the corner from Sixth Avenue. I could buzz his apartment, but he might freak and call the cops. So I’m gonna have to try something else. I walk up the steps to the intercom box. There are four apartments on the top floor. I push the button for the first one, wait,get no answer. I push the second one.

– ¿Hola?

– Uh…

– ¿Hola?¿Quépasa?

– Uh, nada . Wrong, uh.

– ¿Cómo?

– Numero nobueno. Sorry. Gracias.

– De nada.

Fucking French classes.I push the third button.

– Yes?

– UPS.

– UPS?

– Yeah.

– You guys deliver on Sunday?

Shit.

– Sure, seven days a week.

– Wow, never knew that.

– Twenty-four, seven.

– Wow.

– So you want to buzz me in?

– What is it?

Uh.

– It’s a box, how do I know what it is?

– Well, who’s it.

– Look, you got a package. You want it, buzz me in.

BUZZZZ.

I run up the stairs to the second floor and the apartment at the end of the hall. I knock loudly on the door. I hear a door open up on the top floor. I knock again and I hear someone moving around inside the apartment. Upstairs, the guy is waiting for his package.

– Hey, UPS?You down there?

– Comin’ up.

I knock again.A sleepy voice from inside.

– Yeah. Hang on.

Tim opens the door a crack and looks out. When he sees me his face goes pale and he tries to slam the door shut, but I’ve already got my foot jammed in the opening.

– Let me in, Tim.

– Oh, fuck. Fuck.

– Let me in. Please let me in.

The guy from the top floor is coming down the stairs.

– UPS?

Timmy is trying to hold the door closed against me, his skinny arms shaking.

– Help. Help.

He wants it to be a scream, but he’s so scared that it just wheezes out with no force at all.

– Please, Tim. I need help.

– Help. Help.

The guy from the intercom is getting close.

– Hey! U! P! S!

Tim’s face is red with strain. I put my weight into it and shove him back into his apartment. I’m through the door and closing it behind me and he’s trying to run away, but it’s a studio and there’s no fucking place to go. I lock the door and look out the peephole and see the back of a guy in boxers and a T-shirt standing on the landing and looking down the stairwell. I turn back to the room. Tim is scrambling up the ladder to his loft bed. I can see the wire to the phone leading up there. I grab the wire and give it a yank and the phone flies off the loft to the floor and lands on a bunch of dirty clothes. Tim makes a scared sound, looks at me and climbs the rest of the way up onto the bed. I can see him up there, huddled in the corner, rocking back and forth and making a quiet keening sound.

I take Bud’s bag from my shoulder and put it on the floor. I walk across the room to the ladder and climb it until my head sticks up over the edge. Tim pushes himself farther back against the wall and grabs a pillow and points it at me as if it were a weapon.

– Don’t you hurtme. Don’t hurt me. Don’t hurt me.

I want to leave. I want to leave him alone and out of all this, but I can’t.

– Tim.

– No.

– Tim!

– Oh, God.

– Tim! I didn’t. I swear I didn’t. I. I. I.

Slowly I climb the rest of the way onto the bed and crawl over to him. I take the pillow out of his shaking hands and put it in his lap and put my head on it and wrap my arms around his waist.

– Oh, Jesus, Tim. I. I. I.

After a while he climbs down, gets a pint bottle ofTullamore Dew from a shelf and drinks it.

The truth is,Tim’s connections to the underworld aren’t much more extensive than mine. But he knows a guy and makes a call. We’re gonna have to go out to Brooklyn, to Williamsburg and that’s got me a little nervous. I’ve been burning up a lot of luck walking the streets. Tim tells me not to worry, makes a call to another guy he knows.

We sit in his apartment waiting and Tim alternates sips of his Dew with huge bong rips. He offers me both. I pass. As it is, I’m getting pretty baked just sitting here breathing the secondhand smoke. His phone rings once. He puts the bong aside and drags a Levi’s jacket from the laundry pile. I collect Bud, get him in the bag and head for the door. Tim stops me before I can open it.

– So check it out. Both these guys I called aresupercool, but they expect to be paid.

– No problem.

– Sure, but just check it out.The guy out front? Getting him up on a Sunday, that costs extra, so he’s gonna want a couple hundred.

– No problem.

– Yeah, but check it out.The other guy? His stuff usually runs a couple grand. Now, with the rush job and the hazardous nature of the duty, that could go up to five or six.

– No problem.

– CuzI have a relationship with these guys.

I reach inside my jacket and pull out the bundle of hundreds I took from the big bag. I peel off ten and hand them to Tim.

– I’ll get you more.

Tim looks at the cash in his hand and the cash in my hand and nods.

– No problem.

Outside, a Lincoln Town Car with tinted windows is parked at the curb. We climb in the back. The driver is Puerto Rican, not too tall, big square shoulders, perfectly groomed hair, wearing a nice suit. He’s got Barry White on the CD player: “I’m Gonna Love You Just a Little More, Baby.” Tim pulls the door closed and the guy turns in the seat and puts out his hand. Tim gives him some skin and points a thumb at me.