Caught Stealing - Charlie Huston [19]
I know I should have a strategy, but I don’t. I’m seeing red and any rationality I might usually possess is strangled by the hangover and my rage. I see a bottle on the sidewalk ahead of me. When I get there, I will pick up the bottle and smash it across the backs of their heads in a single brutal swipe. I have a vision: I see the first one’s skull dent a little as the bottle smashes down, the scalp tearing as I sweep it across at his friend’s head, the jagged rim of the broken bottle lodging in the fat head-skin and ear of the second one. So much for strategy.
I am almost to my door. They are a few yards beyond. They are so engrossed in bouncing Jason off the wall that they have no idea I am almost upon them. I shove my hand in my pocket and dig out my keys, open the door of my building and dodge inside.
They have traded the tracksuits in for baggy jeans and Tommy Hilfiger jackets, but it was them. The Russians.
I don’t care about Jason anymore. I care about me. I head down the hall to the foot of the stairs and pause to listen. I don’t hear anything coming from my hallway on the third floor, so I start up. At the landing to my floor, I stop to listen again. My breath is heaving in and out and my heart is knocking against my swollen brain, but I don’t think I hear anything. I step into the hall. All clear. I move as quietly as I can to Russ’s door. The note from Ed and Paris has been torn off, leaving a little corner of paper trapped in the police seal. I try to steady my breathing and listen very closely at his door. Nothing. Relaxing a bit more, I hear someone cough behind me in my apartment.
I start to head back down to the street to get to a pay phone and I remember the creeps outside. I think about Carlos, the super, but he has a day job and won’t be home. I think about the three cool Welsh girls down the hall who keep a spare key for me in case I lose mine, but I don’t want to get them involved, so instead I head back to the roof. I run up the stairs and everything is drenched in déjà vu. I could swear I just went through this. The hangover makes the confusion worse. My body still feels like someone else’s, like my bones and skin are detached from anything they actually do or feel.
I dash out onto the roof and trip over the bag of laundry I left here yesterday. I curse. The rest is old hat. I assure myself the door won’t be blown shut this time and head for the front of the building. I crawl up to the edge and look down. The Russians have left Jason alone and taken up their spot in front of the tattoo parlor.
This is stupid. I cannot afford to be stupid. The people in this building know me because of the work I did with Carlos and because I’m a nice guy. I have lived here for ten years and am well known and trusted. I will go down to the top floor and start knocking on doors until I find someone home. I will explain through the door that my apartment is being broken into and ask to use the phone. If they refuse to let me in, I will read Detective Roman’s number from the card in my pocket and ask them to please call him quickly. I will repeat this process until I achieve success. One of the Russians looks up from the street and straight at me.
I duck. That is, I drop to my belly and squirm back from the edge of the roof. He didn’t see me. He could not have seen me. I repeat this to myself for a while until I get my nerve back. I worm up to the edge and peek over the ledge. He didn’t see me. They are both as before: Black Hilfiger with White Trim and White Hilfiger with Black Trim, not looking up at the top of my building, pointing at me and hustling across the street. All is well.
Someone grabs me by the ankles and yanks me backward. My hands