Charlie Huston - Caught Stealing

– Asshole. You had Ed’s fucking card on you when the cops picked you up. We knew you’d been talking to him. “Meet me at ten and just wait.” Come on. You get away with the money and then you call us to give it back? That had fucking bushwhack written all over it.

I nod toward the fake Bolo, adjusting his wig in the rain.

– New friends?

– Shut the fuck up. I will tell you when to talk.Fuckin’shithead Russians. I told him to pin thatfuckin ’ thing down, but he wanted to use fucking spirit gum.In the rain.Idiot. Now talk about pissed? I’m pretty flamed. And Roman, well, imagine.But the Russians? Shit. We tell them youkacked two of their top ex-Red Army special forces guys, and not only that, but you also took all the loot. They started talking about black market nuclear weapons and shit. Roman tells them we need two more guys, we’re lucky they didn’t send some fucking Cossack militia riding through the streets on horseback. Roman talked them down, though, explained the whole deal was too loud as it is. Once you get them settled, those guys understand terms like covert operation .Allfuckin ’ ex-KGB and shit. So when are the coons supposed to show?

– When I call them.

He throws a piece of croissant on the table.

– And when were you gonnafuckin ’ tell me that?

– When you told me I could talk. Man, you really are kind of the stupid one.

– Watch it.

– Seriously. I mean, I thought Ed and Paris had mastered the whole Of Mice and Men thing, but Roman is so George and you are so fucking Lenny.

He holds up a giant finger and presses it against my lips and keeps it there for a second.

– OK?Enough. Where are you supposed to call them?

He takes the finger away.

– They’re nearby. I don’t know where. I’m supposed to call Ed’s cell from the pay phone.

He looks over at the pay phone and the few customers scattered through the café and takes out his own cell phone.

– Does Ed have caller ID?

– Don’t know.

He puts the cell away.

– OK. Let’s walk over there and make that call. You go first and go easy.

– Where’s Roman?

He just looks at me, gestures for me to get up. I stand. He stands. I turn and start toward the phone. He follows.

Halfway to the phone I stumble and break my fall by grabbing one of the little café tables. I freeze like that, getting my balance and taking a good grip on the edges of the table,then I speak loudly and clearly.

– I AM HENRY THOMPSON. I AM WANTED FOR MULTIPLEHOMICIDE.

It works great.

There isn’t a beat or a moment of frozen silence. I say my name and people just freak and scatter. I lean back, lifting the table high off the floor, swinging it to my left. I spin around, the table building velocity. Bolo revolves into my line of sight, standing motionless, more stunned by my announcement than anyone else in the place. Frozen, he does nothing to dodge the table.

The impact jolts the table from my hands. It flips and a corner clips me on the chin. I flinch back and the table drops and lands on my toes. I stumble back, crashing through several chairs until I hit the wall ten feet away.

Bolo is standing perfectly still in the middle of the room. A little hole has been punched into his left temple by the triangular base of the table. Blood wells up and gushes out of the gap and floods down the side of his face like it’s running from an open faucet. He puts his hands out as if trying to find his balance, his eyes locked on mine. Hewobbles, rights himself and picks up his left foot to step forward. Immediately he’s out of true and his arms windmill and after that, it’s all about the bigger they are and the harder they fall. He goes down face first, sending chairs and tables skittering and crashing across the floor. Then he lies there and quickly bleeds to death while I feel at the cut on my chin and massage my throbbing toes.

The decoys must have seen people scrambling from the Starbucks. I run out the door on one side of the place and the decoy dressed like Bolo goes in on the other side. I spare a glance through the windows that line the street and see one Bolo standing over the corpse of the other Bolo,then I’m crossing the street toward the cube sculpture and the fake Roman standing there. I’m worrying about where the fuck the real Roman is, and thinking maybe that’s really him, when he lifts his arm and points it at me and it goes BANG and the bullet buzzes past me and that’s not Roman. He wouldn’t shoot me without knowing where the money is.

The Russian Roman is to the right of the cube. I run to the left and put it between us before he can take another shot. He dodges to his left and I go to my right, listening to his skipping feet as he tries to juke me into the open for a clear shot. I back away from the cube until I can see his shoes. He’s edging around to his right now, letting the sound of the rain cover his creeping steps. I move in close to the cube, put my shoulder against it, and push it counterclockwise. It’s big and doesn’t move very fast, but has tremendous mass. I feel the softest of thuds vibrate through its bulk and step back to get a look. He’s laid out on the pavement with a gash on the back of his head, his gun on the ground a few feet from his grasping hand.

I dive down on the slick cement under the edges of the balanced cube and my cap bounces from my head. I put my hand on top of his just as he grabs the gun with his right hand. I look at him. He could be Blackie or Whitey, whatever their fucking names were. I use both my hands to keep his right pinned on the gun and the gun pinned to the ground. He’s trying to pry my fingers loose with his free hand. I drag myself forward on my elbows, open my mouth wide and bite down hard on his fingers. There’s blood and rainwater in my mouth. He screams. I get the gun and hit him in the head with it. A bullet strikes the pavement next to us, skips once, peppering me with little cement chips and hits him in the face.

I hear Russian behind me. I let go of the gun and flip over onto my back. The Russian Bolo, minus his wig, stands on the edge of the traffic island, pointing his gun at me.

– Freeze and give us our money!

– I don’t have it.

– Freeze and give us the fucking money!

Sirens somewhere.I lie there next to the dead fake Roman and shake my head.

– Get up! Get the fuck up!

I stand up and behind him I see Roman come up the steps of the 4-5-6 subway station just outside the Starbucks.Guns blazing.One in each hand. Just like in a John Woo movie.

He shoots the Russian Bolo in the back. He shoots him and shoots him and shoots him as he walks over. Then he stands over the dead body and shoots it some more until his guns are empty.

– I told them not to hurt you till we had the money.

I point at the corpse at his feet.

– Well, I guess he learned his lesson.

– I told you, Hank. I told you I have a fucking temper.

He starts to reload. I start to run. I take two steps, see the gun at my feet, stop, pick it up and turn to do I don’t know what the fuck. He’s finished reloading. I go back to running. Running is something I know how to do. The sirens are very loud and, down Bowery, I can see flashing lights heading for the intersection.

I run east on St. Mark’s, cut north on Third Avenue and east again onto Stuyvesant. I shout as I run.

– I know where the money is! Don’t shoot me, Roman! I know where the money is! DON’T SHOOT ME!

He doesn’t shoot me. Behind me, I hear sirens and screeching tires and bullhorn voices and Roman yelling. I run through the rain and the shadows and into the little square outside St. Mark’s Church at Stuyvesant and Second Avenue. I look back up the street to the intersection at Third Avenue. Roman is showing his badge to a bunch of cops and pointing in various directions. I see flashing lights coming up Second Avenue. I hop over the cast-iron fence and into the small churchyard and hide in the bushes.