Caught Stealing - Charlie Huston [23]
—What did he tell you when he asked you to hide the key?
I can’t talk, I just can’t. I heave and blubber and beg and Roman sticks the puke-and-blood-soaked sock back in my mouth and Red hurts me again and I realize then that they are going to kill me just as soon as they can.
Roman is a cop. Despite what you may have heard, the behavior he is now engaged in, not even an officer of the NYPD can get away with. They will finish asking questions and, when I have no more to offer, they will kill me. And, having had this realization, I start trying very hard to think as clearly as I can, because I don’t want to die.
—What did he tell you about the key?
—Gasp! Gasp! He. Didn’t. Tell. Me. Anything. Gasp! About. The. Key.
—Why did he give you the key?
—He. He. Gasp! He didn’t give me the key.
—Why did you say you had the key?
—He. Fuck. He gave me the. Gasp! The cat. The key was in its box. I didn’t know. He didn’t give me the key. Gasp! He stuck me with it. I didn’t know.
—What is the key for?
Think. Think. I don’t want to die. I need to think. I’m trying to think of ways not to die, but the pain and the hangover keep getting in my way and I can’t keep my thoughts together in one place long enough to make them work for me. I try to keep answering the questions without saying something that will make me dead.
—I don’t know.
—What does it look like?
—I didn’t see it.
I get the sock and another staple goes. I think I black out for a couple seconds, I can’t really tell for sure.
—How do you know there was a key if you didn’t see it?
—It. Gasp! It was in an envelope. Gasp! I felt it. It felt like a key. Gasp! It felt like a lumpy key. Big. Lumpy.
—Where is the key now?
Fuck!
—I. Don’t. Know. I just don’t.
And the sock. And another staple.
—We did not come here looking for a key, but if Mr. Miner gave you a key, then we want it. Where is the key?
—Gasp! I just. Fuck! Gasp! I just don’t know. I put it back in the box yesterday. Gasp! And last night after those guys were here, I got drunk. Choke! I got real fucking drunk. I fucking blacked out. I fucking shit my pants, for God sake. I don’t know where it is now. I left it in the box.
The sock. A staple.
—Where is the key?
I say nothing. I try to get as much air as I can. I breathe. I try to figure out a way to live. And Roman says something odd:
—Chew the fat.
I have no idea what that’s about until Blackie releases my arm and starts scrabbling under the bed and I hear Bud crying. Then I realize he meant to say, “Get the cat.”
In all fairness, he probably did say “Get the cat” and I only heard “Chew the fat.” Bud is giving Blackie hell under the bed and the bastard is grunting and cursing in Russian. My left arm is free now, but the circulation is all messed up and it hurts so bad that I can barely move it. Not that I’d know what to do with it if I could move it, but it’s nice not to have someone pulling at it for the moment.
—Man, just. Gasp! Just leave the cat. Just leave it alone. Gasp! Don’t hurt the fucking cat.
Aren’t there rules about this kind of thing? I mean, there are rules, right? You can do whatever you want to people, but you don’t hurt fucking animals.
As if on cue, the toilet flushes, the door to the bathroom opens and the Samoan returns. Enter the torturer of animals.
—Sorry, guys, I had ta drop a deuce. Hey, you got air freshener or what?
Sooner or later, even the most profound events of your life are reduced to concerns like this.
—Under the sink.
—I looked there.
—The kitchen. Not the bathroom sink, the kitchen sink.
—Fuck you, who keeps freshener under the kitchen sink?
—I do.
—What, your shit doesn’t stink? You don’t need no freshener in the bathroom?
Meanwhile, Blackie has got hold of Bud and is dragging him out of his hiding place, but the fur is flying. Bud comes into the light of day howling and clawing at Blackie’s