Caught Stealing (2004) (25 page)

-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 hurt me. 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 of Tullamore 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 are supercool, 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.

-Cuz I 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.

-Mario, this is Billy. He's learning the trade.

Mario offers his hand and I give him skin. He smiles.

-Good to know you, Billy. You guys got a joint?

Timmy smiles and whips out a bone and passes it to Mario, who twirls it under his nose and sniffs it like a cigar. He nods and smiles.

-Sweet. Where to, guys?

Timmy leans back in his seat.

-Williamsburg. Metropolitan, off Graham.

-You got it.

Mario puts the Lincoln in drive and pulls away. He pushes in the dashboard lighter and slips on a pair of huge blue-tinted sunglasses. The lighter pops out. He uses it to spark the joint and takes a massive hit. He grins and exhales the smoke between his clenched teeth.

-Sweet. Super sweet.

He offers the joint to us and Tim shakes his head.

-No, man, enjoy. But can we get some privacy back here?

-You got it.

Mario touches a button on the dash and a polarized glass screen rolls up between us.

Tim tells me more about the guy we're going to see and I watch the streets reel past as Mario drives us to the bridge, over the river, into Brooklyn and to a small yellow duplex in the heart of Williamsburg. Tim points at the front door.

-Check it out. There's two doors and neither one is marked. Push the bell for the one on the right and he'll let you into the hall. There's an intercom in the hall and when he asks you who you are, tell him you're Billy. Right?

-Sure.

-So, you sure I can't wait or come get you later?

-No, but you can do me a favor.

-Sure.

-Stay away from home for the next twenty-four or so.

Tim scratches his nose and rubs his eyes.

-Sure. Why?

-Check it out, Timmy. The cops got to be looking up all the regulars from the bar, so they'll be calling sooner or later.

-No problem. I know how to talk to cops.

-Sure, but some other guys might call, too.

-Oh.

-Yeah. So just go hang out somewhere. Don't go home at all today.

-What about tomorrow?

I drape the strap of Bud's bag over my shoulder and put my hand on the door latch.

-Tomorrow they won't be around.

-Cool.

-Yeah. Cool.

I open the door and climb out. The driver's window zips down, weed smoke and Barry waft out. Mario smiles at me from behind his glasses. I take three hundreds from my pocket and hand them to him. He nods his head.

-Sweet.

He reaches inside his jacket, takes out a card and hands it to me. It's glossy black and has Mario etched across its face in gold Gothic script. Beneath his name it says sweet and then a phone number. I tuck the card in my pocket and he puts out his hand. I give him some skin.

-You need a lift, call me.

I nod. His window zips back up and the Lincoln pulls away smoothly and disappears around a corner.

There's a White Castle just up the street and my mouth actually waters at the thought of steam-grilled miniburgers, but it's just another public place where I could be spotted. The duplex in front of me is a two-story wood job, exactly the kind of building they don't have in Manhattan. In fact, the tallest buildings around here are no more than six stories. The sky seems huge and open and I can see storm clouds moving in from the south.

I walk up to the right-hand door and push the little black button set into the door frame. I hear a chime and then a loud buzz and a click as the door unlatches for me. I step quickly inside and the buzz stops. I close the door and I'm standing in a small entryway with a linoleum floor and Sheetrock walls and an old steel factory door in front of me. There's an intercom unit set into the wall next to the door with the Plexiglas-shielded lens of a videocamera above it. I push the talk button.

-I'm Billy.

A moment's pause, then another buzz and click and I push the steel door open and step through.

It's not really a duplex. The interior of the ground floor has been gutted to make a single large space. It looks like a living area. I can see a couch and a TV and, off in a corner, a bed. But I can't see much more because of the guy standing in front of me, holding the big gun.

The gun is a Desert Eagle .45. I know because I have seen it waved around by so many bad guys on TV. The dude on the other side of the gun is in his twenties, has black hair with bleached tips, is wearing a vintage Star Wars T-shirt over very groovy green corduroys and has the prettiest blue eyes I have ever seen. He blinks them and shakes his head tightly from side to side.

-Get the fuck out, Maddog.

Clearly there has been a misunderstanding.

-I'm Billy.

The gun is pointed at my face.

-You're a fucking mad dog killer. Get the fuck out.

Oh.

-No, I'm.

-Get the fuck out so I don't have to figure out a way to get rid of your fucking corpse.

-Tim sent me.

-No shit. If you see him before the cops gun you down, you can tell him I'm pissed. Get. The. Fuck. Out.

-Can I show you something?

I start to move my hand toward my jacket pocket.

-Don't put your hand in that pocket.

My fingertips are inside my jacket. He jabs the barrel of the gun an inch closer to my face.

-Don't put your hand in that pocket.

My fingers are all the way inside. The gun moves closer still and the end of the barrel now looks big enough for me to stick my head inside. My hand is in the pocket.

-Leave it there. Leave your hand in that fucking pocket.

I start to take my hand out.

-Don't! Don't!

He has the barrel of the gun stuck up against my right eyebrow. He's got his arm stretched out to the limit. Trying to keep as far from me as possible so he won't be splashed by too much of my blood when he shoots me, I suppose. My hand is out of my pocket. His pretty eyes are locked on mine.

-Drop it. Fucking drop it.

I drop it and it hits the floor with a soft flap. We stand there. Then he takes three quick steps straight back away from me and looks down at the bundle of hundreds on the floor.

-It's about nine grand. I have a bit more on me, but I might need it. I can get more to you later. I didn't kill any of those people they say I did.

He looks from the cash to me and back again.

-How much more?

-A lot, but it may take a while.

He looks down again, the gun still on me, and then backs up.

-Fuck it. Nine's good for now.

He stuffs the gun in his waistband.

-I'm Billy. Let's go up to the shop and get started. Bring the money.

He turns and heads for a spiral steel staircase over by the bed. I pick up the cash and follow.

Billy has an awesome stereo. Most of the components are exotic German stuff I've never heard of, the speakers wired throughout his workshop to provide virtually flawless surround sound no matter where you stand. We're listening to the Psychedelic Furs' Mirror Moves. I haven't heard this stuff since high school. It's really kind of cool. Billy moves around the shop, switching on various pieces of computer equipment and gathering tools and materials.

-These guys really never got their due, ya know? There was so much crap being ground out in the early eighties that they just kind of fell through the gap, except for "Pretty in Pink." And that was more a hit because of the movie, which I do love, don't get me wrong. But listen.

I listen.

-This stuff holds up. Try listening to fucking ABC or Flock of Seagulls now, or even Duran Duran and it just sounds dated. Totally dated.

The second floor has been gutted just like the first, but up here it's all shop space. Billy sets stuff out on a bench next to his drafting table and a custom desktop computer, that looks to be based around a couple Power Mac G4s. He waves me a bit closer and switches on a set of lamps and shines them in my face.

-Come here. Let me get a good look at you, Maddog.