Caught Stealing - Charlie Huston [14]
I can’t sleep. I lie in bed and think about Russ and the tracksuits and their pals. I think about Detective Roman telling me not to worry. I think about not having a job and I think about the money I owe. I think about the key. I think about the key a lot.
When I remembered the key, I froze. The cops had just left and part of me was screaming to go after them with the key, but I froze instead. Who knows what the fucking thing is and why Russ put it there? But he entrusted it to me. Granted, he didn’t tell me about it, or the fact that some guys might be looking for it and I might be getting beaten up. So fuck him. And so I grabbed the key and ran after the cops, but they were gone by then. In the end, my head was in too many knots to do much good thinking, so I put the key back in Bud’s box and, since I was so beat, I tried to hit the hay.
But with all the shit I’ve been through today, I can’t get to sleep. Or keep from thinking about a drink. I haven’t gone to bed without at least a nightcap in quite a while and I’m not sure how to go to sleep without it. I try to read a bit. I try to watch TV. I end up back in bed, staring at the ceiling.
I can’t take it. I get up and dig in a desk drawer and take out an old brass pipe. Carefully, I break it down into its several component parts and scrape the weed resin from each one. I collect the resin on a fold of paper, reassemble the pipe, form the resin into a gummy ball, drop it onto the screen, and light up. A resin high is not an up high. There just isn’t much helpless giggling involved. Likewise it is not a lightweight high. It is not for amateurs. Fortunately, I’m not looking for laughs and I have years in this business: I am an experienced professional.
I take the smoke in extra deep and hold each lungful for as long as I possibly can. If this doesn’t work I’m screwed for sleep and I don’t feel like taking any chances. I put Shotgun Willie on the CD player, turn off the lights and hop into bed to finish smoking. Bud hops up on the bed and I let him stay. His food thingy is empty. I’ll need to fill it in the morning. Willie has the greatest voice for getting high to. I can’t believe the shit that happened today. I’m starting to drift; the resin is doing its job. I suck down the last hit, put the pipe on my nightstand and burrow in under the covers. I always sleep on my side in a little curl, Bud settles into the space between my knees and my stomach and we both fall asleep.
The nightmare is always the same. I play center field for the San Francisco Giants. It’s my rookie season and we’re playing in game seven of the World Series against the Oakland Athletics. I have excelled all season long, batting over .300, hitting 34 homers, knocking in 92 RBI and competing for a Gold Glove. I am a shoo-in for Rookie of the Year. We’re playing in Oakland, it’s the bottom of the ninth and I just sacrificed in the go-ahead run in the top of the inning. Now the A’s have runners at second and third with two out. Our one-run lead is hanging by a thread.
I roam center field. My teammates range around me. I feel safe. I have that great big-game feel in my stomach: half tight, half loose. In the dream, I know everything about all the guys in the game, not just the ones on my team, but the A’s as well. I know everything about the whole league. I have a season’s worth of memories, all 162 regular season games plus the postseason.
The batter steps up. His name is Trenton Lane. I played against him in the minors. He’s a beast, a right-handed third baseman that loves to hit heat. On the mound we’ve got our left-handed closer, Eduardo Cortez. Eddie throws nothing but fire and hasn’t given up a run in the playoffs. The crowd loves it. The guys on the field love it. I love it. This is baseball.
Trenton has arms like an ape. Anything outside he’s gonna pound, so Eddie will try to drill him inside. Out in the field we’re all shading to left, hoping for a pop-up. The play is