Caught Stealing - Charlie Huston [20]
My apartment is small to start with and has been made claustrophobic by the sheer number of toughguys milling about. The Russians are in the tiny kitchen area. Whitey poking in the fridge and Blackie on the cell phone he used to call the guys in the apartment to tell them there was someone on the roof. The huge guy, who looks Samoan rather than Latino and who wears black leather pants and a motorcycle jacket, is using my crapper and I’m hoping he lights a match when he’s done because he’s been in there for a long time. There’s the skinny redheaded Chinese kid in plaid pants, a green polyester disco shirt, and a red vinyl jacket that matches his hair. And then there’s the guy in the black suit. He’s the scariest one of all because I know his name.
Detective Lieutenant Roman.
The Samoan was the one who grabbed me on the roof. He took me on a ride through the gravel for about ten feet, then he twisted my legs around each other so I flopped over on my back. He’s much bigger than the Russians and his hands are dinner plates. He dropped my legs, bent over, grabbed my belt and lifted me to my feet. Then he wrapped one of those hands around my throat and put a finger to his lips.
—Shhhhhhhh.
Then he marched me down here and dropped me on the couch and I held very still and tried not to think about the oozing I could feel coming from my wound. I’m scared shitless. Then I hear Bud.
I can’t see Bud, I can just hear him. He’s somewhere over in the bedroom and every so often he makes a weak, plaintive meow, the kind of sound I would make if I were a cat in a great deal of pain. I seem to be the only one in the place worried about this, and why not? These other guys are clearly assholes.
Roman has been checking me out this whole time in much the same way he did when I thought he was just your basic supercop rather than your basic supercop gone rotten to the core. Now he sits down in the same chair he used yesterday, picks up a slip of paper from my coffee table and holds it in front of my face. It’s the note from Ed and Paris, the two cowboys. I can tell he’s going to start asking questions and I’m just praying to Jesus that I know the answers so I can tell him every fucking thing he wants to hear.
—When were they here?
He is clearly referring to the guys who left the note. I am composing an answer, trying to determine what time exactly I woke from the nightmare and what comes out is:
—What did you do to the cat?
I really don’t fucking want to say this, but all I can hear is the pathetic sounds Bud is making in the bedroom. The Russians are paying no attention to the drama taking place a few feet away. Whitey has found some cold cuts and now appears to be looking for bread, Blackie is deep in conversation on the phone, speaking what I would definitely now bet is Russian. The Samoan tower is still out of action. So that leaves Red and Roman to look sharply at each other when I ask about the cat.
—Don’t worry about the cat. The cat is fine. Right now you need to tell me when the men who left this note were here.
—The cat is not fine. I can hear the cat and that is not the sound of a fine cat. That cat is fucked up and I want to know what you did to it.
Red and Roman look at each other in a way that screams, “So it’s gonna be like this, is it?” Red sits on the couch next to me and I try to scoot away, but I’m already pressed against the armrest. He just sits there while I stare at him and cringe a little. Roman shakes the paper so it makes a soft rattle.
—What time were these men here?
Bud is probably under my bed. If they hurt him, there are only so many places to hide. So he’s under my bed and he’s hurt and scared and hungry because I didn’t feed him this morning because I was too messed up. I suck.
—What time?
If I could see Bud and see how bad he is, I think I could concentrate to answer. I really want to answer. But as it is, I just keep picturing the poor bastard under the bed. Red slowly reaches out