Caught Stealing - Charlie Huston [13]
—You said Russian.
—Or Ukrainian or Serbian for all the fuck I know, just Russianic.
—OK. What about the big guy in the apartment?
—Big. And I think he was Latino or something.
—He was, what, dark?
—Yeah, dark skin, but lightish. I mean he might have been black, but not dark black.
—Brown complexioned?
—Yeah.
—Hair?
—Lots of it, I think. Long hair, black. That’s what I think.
—OK, who else?
—A small guy with bright red hair.
—Carrot topped?
—No, real red, might be dyed kind of red.
—Fire engine?
—Almost.
—Good, that’s good.
—Yeah?
—What about the third?
—Uh, not much. Averagish size, dark hair, and wearing black, I think.
—You think he was wearing black?
—He was definitely in black or very dark blue.
—OK.
He looks at his notes and waves one of the uniforms over. Without saying anything, he takes the uniform’s notebook and flips through it, looking for something. He hands the book back to the uniform and takes another look at me. And he really looks at me, I mean, he looks me up and down like he’s sizing me up for a secret mission or something.
—Can you tell me, this is difficult and I don’t want to compromise you, your friendship with Mr. Miner, but can you tell me, is Mr. Miner involved in any illegal activities?
Well, fuck, what do I do with that?
—Fuck, I don’t know.
—This is crucial. You understand that, yes? If your friend is in danger, we need to know everything there is to know.
—I understand.
—Good. Now do you have any reason to believe that.
And I just cut the guy off.
—For chrissake, no. Frankly, I don’t know what the guy does. I think he’s trying to be an actor or something, I think he works at a club in the meat-packing district, but I’m not sure what the fuck he does. And as much as I like him, I’m not so much worried about him being in danger since I’m the one got the shit beat out of him.
I’m spazzing a little here and I know it, but honestly I’ve been under a lot of pressure and I just snap. Detective Roman doesn’t even blink. As far as he’s concerned, we’re having a lovely tête-à-tête over tea and fucking crumpets.
—OK. That’s good to know. As far as danger goes . . .
—Yes?
—I wouldn’t worry too much. Figure the guys who beat you up came into the bar looking for Mr. Miner and you must have pissed them off somehow. And if they are looking for him, not you, they probably have no idea that you’re his neighbor. So take it easy and we’ll get this all sorted out.
Color me reassured.
—Thanks, that helps.
—And you’re certain you don’t have a number where Mr. Miner can be reached?
—No.
—When he left the cat, he gave you no phone number and no address?
—No.
—OK.
—It’s just, he was in a hurry and I was a bit loaded that night, so . . .
—OK.
—But he always talked about his dad being upstate somewhere. Rochester, I think.
—OK.
—And I’m pretty sure about the place he works, where it is and all.
—OK.
The way Detective Roman says “OK” this last time makes it clear that I’m just babbling now, so I put a sock in it and he makes a last note in his book.
—Let’s get to it.
He stands up, pulls out a pair of thin rubber gloves, and goes across the hall to Russ’s door, which he can’t open because, of course, the bad guys locked it behind them. But that’s OK because whoever looked out the window while I was flopping around left that wide open. One of the uniforms goes through the window and opens the door.
I stand in the hall and watch Roman do his thing and I am thoroughly impressed. He goes through the place like a machine, telling the uniforms what to touch and what not to touch. He pokes and pries into every corner and dusts for prints and gets the job done in a way that makes you happy to be a taxpayer. Then he’s finished. He closes the door to Russ’s apartment and slaps a police seal across the jamb. He gives me his card and tells me to call right away if anything else happens and to have Mr. Miner call him immediately if and when he returns. Then he and the uniforms leave and I sit