Caught Stealing - Charlie Huston [33]
—So, me an’ Paris, this is the deal with us: We don’t get the key, we’re gonna kill your ass, no doubt. Kill your ass an’ your family an’ your ancestors, kill your fucking house plants an’ all that shit. Right?
—Right.
—But you give us the key, not only are we gonna leave you breathing, but we’re gonna give you a nice piece of change. Sweet, huh?
—Sure.
—Know why we’re gonna give you a nice piece of change?
—No.
—’Cause after you give us the key, you’re gonna help us set up Roman and the rest of his fucking freak show. Then we kill ’em an’ they won’t be no trouble for us or you or no one ever again. Sound good?
—Good.
—All right. Now you take my card, you get the key, wherever it is, and you call me. Do it quick, Hank, an’ everything goes back to normal. OK?
—OK.
—We let you off anywhere special?
—No. Anywhere’s fine.
—Good enough.
Ed taps Paris on the shoulder and he pulls the Caddie over to the curb. I try to open my door, but it’s jammed. Ed touches my knee.
—Sorry, that door’s all messed. Gotta get out on this side.
He gets out on the curb and I slide across the seat and climb out. He reaches back into the car, pulls out my bag, and hands it to me.
He gets into the front seat, closes his door, and gives me a little wave and they drive off. I look at the card in my hand: Ed, followed by a cell phone number. I’m on the corner of 49th and Ninth. I walk about twenty yards down the street and into the first bar I see.
The kidney is an organ. It removes wastes from the blood. If your kidneys, or in my case kidney, is damaged and can no longer perform this function, you die. And yet, many people live long healthy lives with only one kidney because they love and nurture and respect that kidney. One of the best ways to disrespect your last remaining kidney is to raise your blood pressure by engaging in any of a number of activities, including excessive drinking.
I sit on the bar stool and comtemplate the bottle of Bud. The bartender offered me a glass, but I like to drink my beer out of the bottle. There’s sweat all over the brown glass and the lower right corner of the label is peeling. I make a deal with myself: If I can peel the label away in one piece, I get to drink the beer. I tease the label a bit, then strip it away in a single smooth swipe and it comes off in one piece. I get off my stool and walk to the back of the bar.
The phone booth is one of those old-fashioned wooden ones, a cabinet built into the wall. I step inside and close the door and a little light in the ceiling flips on. I dial a long series of numbers, listen to some instructions and dial more numbers. Finally there is a ringing at the other end of the line and I sit on the little bench in the booth. Someone picks up the phone at the other end.
—Hello?
—Hi, Mom.
—Oh! Oh, there you are.
—I’m sorry, Mom.
—No, no, we were just. I was worried when you didn’t call. Is everything OK? Did you decide to stay at the hospital a little longer?
—No, Ma. I just. They gave me these painkillers.
—Painkillers? Does it hurt a lot? Are you OK, Henry?
—I’m fine, Mom, it just aches a bit, ya know?
—But you’re OK?
—Yeah, I’m fine, but the pills they gave me really knocked me out and I kind of turned off the phone so I wouldn’t wake up. I should have called right away, but I just listened to your message.
—Well, Dad told me not to worry, but he was worried too and I just.
It’s quiet on the phone for a minute. I lean my head against the glass of the booth’s door. My mom misses me, she has missed me for ten years since I came to New York. She doesn’t understand my life. Neither do I. So I can’t help her much.
—Anyway, I was just worried.
—It’s OK, Mom. I’m really OK.
—Are you sure I can’t come out?
—No, Mom. There’s no reason. I’m fine. I’m taking it easy and everything is fine.
—Is someone there taking care of you?
—Yvonne gave me some help, but I can take care of myself.
—How is she?
—She’s fine, Ma, but she’s not really taking care of me. She just ran a few errands.
—She’s so sweet.
—Yes, she is.
—I just wish I could be there.