Caught Stealing - Charlie Huston [25]
The Samoan still has hold of Bud’s leg, but he’s not twisting it anymore. Roman lets go of my head and I breathe and breathe. He turns to the Samoan.
—Go check.
The Samoan drops Bud. Just lets him flop to the floor into the little puddle of cat pee. Bud lies there, like me, and breathes. The Samoan is heading out the door.
—There’s a lock.
Roman looks at me.
—Where?
—The door to the roof has one of those push-button lock things.
—And?
—Three-nine-eight-nine-two.
Roman looks at the Samoan to make sure he’s got it and the Samoan nods once and goes out the door. Roman drifts into the living room and this seems to indicate a time-out. The Russians let go of my arms and light cigarettes and Red climbs off my legs and walks around, stretching his own. I watch Bud. He doesn’t look very good.
A couple minutes pass.
That’s when the Samoan pushes in the wrong combination for the door to the roof, tries to force it open, and sets off the fire alarm for the building.
Things go about as well as you could hope for I suppose. Roman looks at me. He just stares into my swollen eyes as he tells Red and the Russians to get out. They leave just as the Samoan is coming back down the stairs and, over the alarm, I can hear them shouting at him to get out. I can hear people starting to drift out into the hall as Roman pushes my door closed and comes back over to the bed. He is careful not to step on Bud, which I appreciate. He sits on the edge of the bed. I can move a bit, so I roll onto my right side to look at him. Everything hurts. People are talking in the halls, but no one seems to be evacuating the building. This is the nature of New York City: alarms go off so often that no one wants to respond to them until things start burning down or blowing up in front of their eyes. Nonetheless, the NYFD should be here in a moment and that gives me comfort. Roman rubs the back of his neck.
—Is it up there, the key?
I would like to smile at him enigmatically. I would like to rip off some cunning bon mot or scintillating repartee. I settle for spitting up some blood.
—If you know where either the key or Mr. Miner is, you should really tell me now.
I look at Bud. He’s a mess. I look back at Roman and keep my mouth shut. He gets off the bed and heads for the door. He opens the door and takes a last look around the apartment like he’s reliving fond memories from his wistful youth of bygone days.
—I really do need that key. So get it and call me or I’m going to start hurting your friends. Don’t call the police. It won’t help. I know everyone. Good-bye.
And he waves as he goes out, the door swinging shut behind him.
The alarm turns off, which means the fire guys must be out there now. I could yell. I could yell for help and they would come and take me and Bud to a hospital and make us better. And then someone would ask questions and someone would call the cops and I won’t know who to trust. I need to get up and help Bud. And I will in just a second. The phone rings. I let the machine pick it up.
—Hey, it’s your mom. Are you there? OK, I just called to say hi and check up on you. We didn’t hear from you yesterday when you got home from the hospital. . . . Anyway, give us a call when you get in so we know you’re all right. Dad’s at a soccer game today, but I’ll be around. Oh, did you get a package? I sent a care package with some stuff to make you feel better while you rest. Just stupid stuff, but let me know when it shows up so I don’t worry about it. OK, we miss you, can’t wait to see you at Christmas. We love you. Call soon.
I miss you, too, Ma.
Mom and Dad still live in the house I grew up in. Mom is the principal at a continuation school, and Dad has a little garage and spends his days working on specialty cars. I love going back to visit. And I always go home for Christmas. I get my ticket a couple months early because it’s cheaper. The ticket is in my desk drawer right now, and I’m gonna use it to get the fuck out of here.
I get off the bed and everything hurts. My legs are stiff and asleep, my arms and shoulders