Charlie Huston - Caught Stealing

Ed tells me what to say.

– You’re a shit eater, Roman.

Great lines.

– And you aren’t too fucking smart, either.

Fucking Shakespeare.

– Isn’t that right, Roman; you’re a shit eater and you aren’t too fucking smart?

He’s not talking yet, so I improvise a little.

– Use that key yet, Roman? Go and open that storage unit yet? By the way, you can have any of my old stuff. I’m gonna buy new stuff with my four and a half million fucking dollars. Just don’t take the beanbag chair. I love that fucking chair.

It speaks.

– You’re making a mistake.

– The only mistake I’m making is not calling the papers and telling them about you. The only mistake I’m making is not spending a few grand of my money on making you dead.

Ed is twirling a finger at me, telling me to get on with it.

– Instead, I’m gonna give you four million. Do you want to know why I’m gonna give you four million and keep only a half million for myself?

– Yes.

– I’m gonna give you four million to help me get out of town and to help keep the Russian fucking Mafia from coming after me. I’m gonna give you that money to get you out of my fucking life forever. And then I want to go away. Sound reasonable?

– Yes.

– Good.

Paris is out front getting something from the car. Ed sits right across the little kitchen table from me. I try not to look at him too much while I’m talking because he has his sunglasses off and those fucking eyes arecreeping me out.

– At ten, I want you and Bolo to walk over to Astor Place and stand out on the traffic island, the one with the big cube.

– And?

– And just stand there, stand there and stand there with cars passing by until I feel safe and then I’ll walk over from wherever the fuck I am and I’ll give you a very big bag full of money.

– And?

– And then I will go away and I will trust that you won’t shoot me in front of a city full of witnesses. I will trust that you understand it is in your best interest that the police do not catch me, because I will tell them all about you. I will trust you understand that if the Russians find me, I will tell them it was you that killed their boys. Which may be a fucking lie, but who’s counting?

I hear the front door open and close as Paris comes back in. Ed is gesturing for me to wrap it up.

– Are we all together on this, Roman?

– Sure.

– See you at ten.

– Too bad about Russ.

– Yeah, too bad.

– I mean, his dying at your hands. That pretty much screwed you and your chances of being Mr. InnocentIn Over My Head. That was your point of no return, Hank. No going back now. No normal life for you.

– Yeah, pretty much.Your point?

– Don’t fuck with me too much, Hank. I’ve got a temper. I’m known for it. And you’re a murderer now. No one will miss you when you’re gone.

– Good point, Roman, I am a murderer. Don’t forget that. OK?

I push the power stud on the phone and break the connection. Ed is nodding his head and smiling.

– Nowthat’s the shit, right there, that’s the shit.Very slick. “I am a murderer. Don’t forget that.” And just, click. Just hang up.Very slick. What do you think, Paris? Pretty slick, huh?

Paris is standing in the doorway of the kitchen, holding a large black alloy attaché case. A little grin slides along his lips.

– Yeah, slick.

He hefts the case and points at the table.

– Why don’t you clean that off and I’ll show you something real slick, Mr. Bad-Ass.

The town I grew up in was a gun town. We never had them in my family, but most of the kids I knew grew up shooting and hunting. I’d go up in the hills with them or out to the Rod and Gun Club and plug away for a few hours. I’d flip through their back issues of Gun magazine and Soldier of Fortune and look at the guns and read about stopping power and firing rates and blow-back and concealment profiles. It was like knowing about cars or my favorite ball players. I fired rounds from an M1 Carbine, a.357 Magnum, a.38 Police Special, a 9 mm ChineseMauser knockoff, aRuger.32, a couple of.30-06 hunting rifles, several shotguns and any number of.22 rifles and handguns. Russ’s.22 was the first gun I’ve picked up in over ten years. I haven’t fired one since I was eighteen.

Paris sets the case on the table, works the little combination locks, flips the catches and opens it up. The interior of the case is lined with black foam rubber. Nestled in this lining are eight very beautiful tools designed for the single purpose of ending human life. Ed reaches into the case and runs his fingertips over all the steel.

– So how ’bout it, Hank? Youwanna carry a piece on this or what?

When I was a kid, my mom would let me go to R-rated films as long as they were rated R because of sex and cursing, not violence. I got to see Saturday Night Fever , but not Friday the 13th . I wasn’t allowed to watch Hogan’s Heroes because it treated war like a game and a joke. I wasn’t allowed even a toy gun. When the kids in the neighborhood played cops and robbers, I used a stick. And when I went shooting with my friends, I never ever let her know. I look at the guns in the case: some vintage pieces, like the set of Colt Peacemakers; others so modern and efficient, they look more like computer components than weapons.

Ed takes a small gun from the case and holds it out to me.

– This is perfect for you, a real classic.

I know this gun. It’s a.32 Colt Detective Special. It’s a narrow snub-nose revolver with the hammer filed down to a nubbin so it won’t snag on anything as you whip it out of your shoulder holster. It has no safety, minimum recoil, is designed for concealment and very short range combat. I take the gun from Ed.

– Careful, it’s loaded.

I keep my finger off the trigger and keep the barrel of the weapon pointed at the floor. I thumb the catch and flip the cylinder open: full load, five rounds. I empty the bullets into the palm of my left hand, flip the cylinder closed, place my finger on the trigger, raise the weapon, point it at the wall, inhale and, in the pause just before I exhale, I squeeze the trigger in a single smooth motion. The action is just a bit tight, so that it gives you a real sense of control at the firing point. The hammer pulls back as the cylinder rotates and then snaps down hard with the sound unique to an empty gun.

– Hey, Paris, looks like our boy knows what he’s doing here.

Paris nods.

– Just full of hidden talents, ain’t he?

I hand the gun and the bullets back to Ed.

– I’ll pass. My mom wouldn’t like it.

I nod in the direction of a little black-and-white TV, with rabbit ears on top of it, that sits on the kitchen counter underneath a picture of a black Jesus.

– Any chance we might get a look at the game on that thing?

The brothersDuRanté look at each other and you’d think those boys might never stop laughing.

Mets vs. Braves: top of the third, no score, rain delay. The Giants game won’t start for a couple hours yet.

We flip on the news. They’ve found Russ. Some do-gooder got concerned when Russ’s body tumbled to the floor of the C train and lay there without moving for about five minutes. She waited until she got out at the JFK stop and told the station manager that there was a guy on the train who looked pretty sick. The train had pulled out of the station by then, but he radioed ahead. A couple stops down the line, some cops checked it out and things moved pretty quickly after that. They’re calling him one of my “known associates” and have added his murder to the list of crimes for which I am being sought.

Paris has been taking the guns and the money to the Caddie, along with a few odds and ends from the house, while Ed and I flip through the few channels that come in clearly on this relic TV.