Charlie Huston - Caught Stealing

– Want to sell your home?

Hehaggles me up to one forty and I let him keep most of the stuff. I pile some crap around the duffel bag and pull on his old overcoat and head back up the avenue. Behind me, the bum finally gets his cig lit and sits there smoking it like he’s Nelson fucking Rockefeller. What was I thinking giving him twenties? I’ve got four and a half mil in this bag. Oh well, next time, old-timer.

I’m heading right into Greenwich Village. There are more people out now that the rain has stopped, but there is definitely a mood on the street. The city is afraid of me. I push my cart. Past Sheridan Square, I see the Riviera Sports Bar. It’s packed. I push my cart past and, on the 10th Street side, I see a little window level with the sidewalk.It’s set right on top of a heating grate and through it I can see clearly into the basement bar and all the TVs in there with baseball on them. It looks like the game has restarted atShea, and the Giants game is on as well.

I pull the cart over to the wall. I dig out a blanket, spread it on the grate and sit down with Bud’s bag on my lap. When I unzip the bag, he pushes away from me. I put my hand inside and tickle him between the eyes. He likes that. It takes a while, but he’s settling down. I reach under him for the bottle ofVics and swallow a couple. I don’t need to be sharp anymore.

Bud has some blood drying in his fur. I spit on the edge of Paris ’s huge sweatshirt and work at the blood. Through the window I watch both games.

The Braves and the Dodgers are taking it easy, resting their best players for the postseason, trying not to let anyone get injured. The Giants and Mets go all out, pitching their aces and fielding all their starters, even if they have to play hurt. I watch both games through the window right up to the last outs, long past the point where it is clear that both the Mets and Giants are being creamed and will be forced into a one-game playoff tomorrow to decide the wild card. They’ll play here in New York.My Giants in town. God, I’d like to see that game.

I stay on the grate with Bud. It’s pretty warm. When the bar closes, some of the guys toss me their spare quarters as they pass by on the way home. That’s pretty cool because I need to make some calls and I don’t have any small change. The bum had fragments of the Sunday Times in the cart and I’ve been thumbing through the travel section. Truth is,I’ve never been much of anywhere. It all looks good. I make my decision. There’s a pay phone right outside the bar. It works. I make the call and set it up. There’s another call I need to make, but I can’t now, I just can’t. I sit back on the grate.

Fucking Giants.Fucking Giants.Fucking Giants.

I don’t think I sleep, not really, but the sun comes up quickly. Time flies when you’re thinking about all the people you’ve killed. I get myself up and moving. I have things to do.

More headlines at the newsstands.

Daily News: SHOOTOUT!

The Post: WILD, WILD, WEST!

The New York Times: Four Dead in Late Night Gunfight

I end up back on 14th Street, the axis of my life.Krazy Fashions is right there off of Sixth Avenue. I slip a pack of fifties into my pocket, leave the cart on the street and go into the store, hauling the big money bag and the little cat bag.

Do they think I’m a criminal? I walk in off the street, stinking and beaten and start passing out fifties. Of course I’m a criminal. But they just don’t care and they sure as shit don’t think I’m the criminal. I keep Bud zipped up in his bag and I get outstanding service. I buy a nice, light olive three-button two-piece Italian suit, a cream Yves Saint Laurent shirt, oxblood wing tips and a selection of underwear and socks. The staff tosses my old shit, gives me a robe to wear and does the alterations while I wait. I keep Bud in the bag and he keeps quiet. I borrow the phone and, about the time the suit is ready, my car pulls up outside. The Pakistani guy that owns the store carries my bag out for me and puts it in the trunk. I slip him a couple extra fifties and he tells me to come back soon.

I slide into the back of the Town Car. Mario holds out his hand and I give him skin. He’s listening to the Saturday Night Fever sound track: “If I Can’t HaveYou.”

– Newark International.

– Sweet.

He put us on the road and turns his head to look back at me.

– Got a joint on you, man?

– Sorry.

– No sweat.

He reaches into his breast pocket, whips out a bone and sparks it. He tokes and holds it up for me.

– Bro?

– Thanks.

I take the joint and rip off a lungful. It burns like shit and, as I pass the number back, I start hacking. Mario takes the joint and hands me a bottle of water. I take a couple swallows between coughs.

– Thanks.

– No sweat. Take another?

He offers the joint again. I pass. The one hit is mellowing me out, mellowing me and helping me not to think too much.

The cops are in evidence at the airport.Heavily. Mario drives us to thedropoff curb for American departures. He hops out, opens my door and fetches my bag from the trunk. I put the bag on the ground and kneel next to it. I open it about six inches, reach in,pull out three packs of hundreds and wave Mario down to my level. I give him the cash.

– One for you. Give two to Tim and tell him one is for Billy. OK?

– Very.

– You know who I am?

– Undoubtedly.

– Stay cool, Mario.

– Very.

He takes the cash and gives me skin. I let a skycap carry my bag to the counter and tip him twenty.

– Aisle or window?

– Aisle, please. And if you can get me next to an empty seat, that would be great.

– No problem.

My reservation is all in order. I pass the ticket girl John Carlyle’s Visa card and passport. She looks from me to the picture, twice,then slides it back. Her eyes flick to my face a few times as she does the paperwork.

– Got rear-ended.

– Oh, my God. Was anybody hurt?

– Not badly.Just me.

I have a thought.

– Uh, is there any room in first class?

– Sure.

– Would you mind, I think I need the, uh, I’d like to upgrade.

– No problem.

It costs a lot.

– Bags?

– One to check, one carry-on.

I fill out the tag, she attaches it to the big black bag and I watchall that money slide away on the conveyor. Nothing ventured…

– You’re all set, Mr. Carlyle. You might want to hurry a bit, that flight is getting ready to board. Have a nice trip.

I take my ticket and head toward my gate. I pass about five or six cops standing in a circle, talking about the Mets. My picture is still on the front page of all the papers, and I am unseen. I feel powerful. Then I get to the X-ray machines and remember I have a cat in my bag and no papers to take him on board.

The bathrooms are off to the left. I go in and take the first stall. I put the bag on my lap and unzip. Bud pokes his head out and I give him a little rub. I should have left him with Billy. He would have given him to the chickwho digs cats.Now?

I dig around in the bag until I find his pill bottle. I read the label very carefully. I’m supposed to give him two a day, one in the morning and one at night. I chuck Bud under the chin and shake three of the pills into my hand. I feed them to him one after another,then hold him until he’s still. I stand and set Bud down on the floor. I take off my jacket and shirt and pull up my T-shirt. I sit back on the toilet, unwind the Ace bandage from my middle and pick Bud back up. It’s hard, but I manage to hold him against me and wrap the bandage around him at the same time, making a kind of sling for his body. I look in the bag and find the spare bandage and use it as well. I stand up and he stays put, bound to my stomach by the double bandage. I tuck the T-shirt back in, button and tuck in my Yves, put the jacket back on and do up all three buttons. I open the stall door and step out. In the mirror it doesn’t look bad, a beer belly.