Caught Stealing (2004) (14 page)

The strings snap. I race down to the end of the tunnel and the glass over my eyes shatters. I reach out and flip the pictures over. I look directly at the one-way mirror because I know who's on the other side.

-They're not my fucking friends.

And Roman walks in.

Sick Cop and Bored Cop look over and nod at him. Sick Cop takes out a tissue from the little plastic pack in his shirt pocket and blows a hole in it.

-Lieutenant.

Roman makes a little grunt noise and waves the two detectives over to where he stands by the door. The three of them huddle up with their heads close together and suddenly burst into laughter. Sick Cop laughs and chokes on his own phlegm while Bored Cop guffaws and slaps his knee. Roman chuckles and pounds Sick Cop on the back and they all settle down. Then Sick Cop and Bored Cop start picking up their stuff and getting ready to leave. Roman holds the door open for them and, as they exit, he says something else to them I can't hear and they start laughing all over again. Roman closes the door. He walks over to the table, picks up the full ashtray, takes it to the wastebasket and dumps it out. He walks over to the intercom box next to the door and makes sure it's off. Then he comes back to the table and sits across from me. He reaches out, scoops the pictures together, taps them into a neat stack, flips through them, places them facedown back on the table, looks me dead in the eye and nods at the pictures.

-I didn't do this.

Roman is a very good driver. He obeys all traffic laws and, more than that, is courteous to a fault toward other motorists and pedestrians. I admire that. I sit in the passenger seat of his unmarked police car while he drives. My hands are uncuffed and Bud is in my lap. I have not been charged with murder.

I am being held for suspicion of murder, but no official charge has been made. In the meantime, Robbery/Homicide has put me in Detective Lieutenant Roman's custody because of my connection to a case he is already working on. Any assistance I can give him will only help the disposition of my own situation.

Roman has driven into SoHo. He cruises around, turns onto one of the little cobbled streets, parks and shuts off the motor. The clock in the dash says it's 1:57 A. M., about eight hours since the cops found me. Roman rolls his window down a bit. The street is very quiet and the loudest noise is Bud's purring. The animal control people hadn't arrived at the station to pick him up and, as we were leaving, I saw him curled up on a desk. Roman got him for me along with my personal belongings, which are now in my bag in the backseat. Roman loosens his tie a bit and undoes his top collar button.

-I have a "Contact Officer" attached to your name.

I look at him.

-Anytime your name, the name of one of your associates, or one of a few key addresses pops up on the computer, it's tagged and they let me know. Same thing with Miner. That's how I ended up at your apartment in the first place. Miner's address came in associated with a disturbance and, eventually, someone let me know.

-Clever. I thought it was because you were the one who had just broken in there.

-That too, that too.

He reaches into his jacket, takes something out and hands it to me. It's Ed's business card. The one I had in my pocket when I was arrested.

-Did you tell them much?

-Everything.

-The key?

-What about it?

-Do they have the key? Did you give it to them?

It's another beautiful fall night in Manhattan. The air is clean and there's a lover's moon in the sky. It's Friday night or Saturday morning, depending on your point of view and people are out. Back on my street, things are probably in full swing right now. I like to go out alone on my nights off, play some pool, meet new people, have more than a few. This would be a great night for it.

I look at the empty backseat of the car.

-Where is everybody, Roman?

-The partnership has broken up.

-That sucks.

-It was never stable. Frankly, it doesn't alter my own situation. But it does greatly increase the danger to yourself.

-How so?

-There is now a large number of rogue elements at large, all looking for the key and, thus, for you. And I assure you that to the extent any of those elements have ever been able to show restraint in their dealings, I have always been the one holding them back. They are violent men and you are going to need an ally against them.

-Yourself?

-I nominate myself. Events like these have a momentum. Brutality lends itself to greater brutality and without realizing it, one can be swept along in its wake. If you wait too long, you might find yourself someplace you never knew existed. Doing things you never thought possible. I can both protect you and help to return your life to normal. I would like to do that.

He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment and pinches one earlobe with the fingers of his right hand.

-I would like very much to do that.

All the running around has my feet hurting again. I stroke Bud and feel my feet throb in time to my heartbeat. Yvonne would rub my feet sometimes, not always, but every now and then. She always made me wash them first.

Roman reaches into his jacket again. He flips on the car's interior dome light and shows me what he has. It's one of the pictures. A close-up of a bruise pattern on her neck. Roman traces a finger over the bruises.

-Look here. See how the bruises are knobbed and distinct? The skin is abraded in each of the bruises. Torn. This kind of bruising you get when someone wears brass knuckles. Or sometimes, you see it if the perpetrator wears several rings.

I think about Ed and Paris in the hall outside my apartment. I think about them knocking on Russ's door, knocking with their hands covered in silver rings. Naked women and skulls. Roman puts the picture in my hand. I look at it and think about Yvonne in her Knicks jersey, spooned against me on her futon.

-Your legal problems are significant, but not insurmountable. I can help you there. More importantly, you have enemies, enemies who are fierce. I can help you there as well. To get away or to get revenge.

I think about the first time I slept with Yvonne, how drunk we were, how we laughed. I think about her hands, callused, scarred and covered in small burns from her work. I look again at the picture of her sweet neck mottled, red, black and blue. Roman watches me.

-Did you give them the key?

-No.

-Did you tell them where it is?

-No.

-Where is it?

-It's at the bar. It's in the safe at the bar.

-Let's go get it.

I'm staring at the picture, feeling the pain in my feet and listening to the rushing sound in my ears, and really, I'm just not that surprised when Bolo opens the car door, pushes me over and climbs in, wedging me tight between himself and Roman just like Red is now wedged into the backseat between the Russians, who are wearing their tracksuits again. In the rearview, I can see Red's face, a huge gauze pad over his nose held in place by a big X of white tape. He looks at Roman, who is starting the car.

-I told you it was the bar.

Bolo adjusts himself in the seat to settle his bulk and looks down at Bud.

-Hey, man, how's the cat?

-Spalding Gray.

-What the fuck, Spalding Gray? Who the fuck?

-Spalding Gray, he's a, a, whaddayacallit, a performance, a monologist. He talks.

-Actors, fucking actors only.

-He is a fucking actor. He's in movies, too.

-Bullshit.

Bolo and the Russians are playing Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon. Bolo is kicking their asses. Tempers are flaring. Bolo looks at his watch.

-Come on, man, Spalding Gray.

-I don't know fucking Spalding. Fucking Spalding is a fucking ball.

-So forfeit the point.

-Fuck you.

Red is leaning forward against the back of the front seat. The Russians put their heads together behind him and whisper to each other. Bolo grins.

-Come on, forfeit, you don't even know who the fuck he is.

-Fuck you.

Red flicks the back of my ear again. He's been doing it for a few hours now but doesn't seem to be getting bored. Sometimes he just moves like he's going to do it so he can watch me flinch, then he laughs a little. The car smells like the coffee they keep getting from the grocery across the street and about a half hour ago someone started passing gas. Fortunately, Roman makes the Russians get out of the car when they want to smoke; otherwise it might be unbearable in here. Roman just sits there behind the wheel and keeps his eyes on the front door of Paul's down the block and across the street.

-How much longer, do you think?

It's getting close to 5:00 A. M. and a handful of folks are still in the bar and Roman wants them out soon.

-I don't know, sometimes Edwin will hang out partying till almost noon.

Roman runs his fingertips around the steering wheel and nods.

-Spalding Gray, Spalding Gray, Spalding Gray.

-Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you. Fucking, fuck, fuck, Spalding, fuck.

-Hey, man, is that your own rage you're choking on or just bile?

-Forfeit, we fucking forfeit. Our turn.

Red also whispers into my ear from time to time, the same thing over and over.

-Pussy bitch, pussy bitch, pussy bitch.

-Christopher Lee!

Bolo laughs.

-Christopher Lee? Are you sure about that?

-Fucking Christopher Lee.

-OK. Lee to Peter Cushing in Horror of Dracula, Cushing to Carrie Fisher in Star Wars, Fisher to Billy Crystal in When Harry Met Sally, Crystal to Robin Williams in Father's Day, Williams to John Lithgow in Garp, and, of course, Lithgow to Bacon in Footloose.

-Fuck! Fuck!

And again in my ear.

-Pussy bitch, pussy bitch, puuuuuuuussy bi-tch.

Bolo is still laughing.

-Christopher Lee! That your big gun, boys? Christopher Lee?

-Quit! Fucking fuck you, we fucking quit this fucking shit game.

-Yeah, fucking, yeah. Quit, you always fucking quit.

Right in my fucking ear.

-Pussy bitch, pussy bitch, pussy bitch.

I clear my throat.

-Hey, Roman, did Red mention that when he ran into me earlier today, not only did I kick his ass, but he tried to get the key for himself? "Fuck Roman," is what he said. "Fuck Roman." That was it, wasn't it, Red? "Fuck Roman"?

The whispering in my ear stops and everything is really very quiet as Roman swivels around, crams the barrel of a small automatic in Red's mouth, and pulls the trigger. There's a muffled pop. A flashbulb goes off inside Red's face and smoke shoots out his nose. The car is quiet and stinks and then I start screaming like a girl until Bolo clamps one of his hands over my mouth and shuts me up.

The Russians wrap what's left of Red's head in some old newspaper, dump him in the trunk and stay on the sidewalk to smoke as Bolo goes to the grocery. Me and Roman sit in the car with the windows rolled down to let out the stink of cordite, blood, and crap from Red's bowels letting loose as he died.

5:23 A. M. Saturday morning on Avenue B and the streets are empty; no witnesses, except maybe a junkie or a squatter, and who cares anyhow?

Roman looks at me and taps his upper lip. He points at my face and taps his lip again. I get the idea and wipe my lip with the back of my hand; it comes away bloody. Roman shakes his head and taps his lip again.

-No, there's still some. Here.

He takes out a handkerchief and wipes it across my mouth and chin a couple times.

-There. Sorry about that. Messy.

He folds the bloody handkerchief and puts it back in his pocket.

-You're sure you don't know the combination?

-I'm sure.

-Well, I guess you're going to have to go in and get the key.

The blood is still on the back of my hand, drying. I rub it against the seat to get it off.

-No. I don't. I don't want any more. I can't do. I can't. I'm so.

I'm trying to say something. Fear robs my voice and I gasp out half-finished words. Bud is getting squirrelly in my lap. All the action and noise and smells are riling him up and I'm trying to calm him, but it's not working because he can feel how scared I am. Roman reaches over and takes him from me.

-Here, let me.

He holds Bud tight and starts scratching him behind the ears. Bud starts to settle and rubs his head against Roman's chin.

-Give the cat back.

Roman stops and smiles a little.

-Sure.

He passes Bud back and I settle him in my lap. Roman leans forward, crosses his arms over the top of the steering wheel and rests his chin there.

-You see it happening, don't you? Circumstances spinning out of control, out of your realm of experience. The world you know is receding. I know. I know that the further you travel down this road, the less likely it is you will ever return to home. So.

-So what, man? So fucking what?

-So, if you can't go in to get the key, then I guess we'll have to go in and get the key.