Caught Stealing - Charlie Huston [34]
—I know.
—I can’t wait to see you at Christmas.
—Me too.
—Did you ever decide what you want?
—Anything, Mom. I always like what you get me, and besides, it’s still a ways off.
—Well, you know I like to get things done.
—I know. So is Dad around?
—He’s at the shop today. Do you want to call him there?
—No, I’m pretty tired, I think I’m gonna get some more sleep. Be sure to tell him I love him, OK?
—I know. Oh, did you get the package I sent?
—No, not yet.
—That’s OK. It’s just stupid stuff I know you like.
—Thanks, Ma. Look, I’m gonna go and I’m gonna probably keep the ringer off. I’m still really tired. So if you don’t get me right away, don’t worry. OK?
—OK. I love you, Henry.
—I love you, too, Ma.
—I’ll talk to you in a day or two, OK?
—Great. I love you, Mom.
—I love you, Henry.
—Good-bye.
—Bye.
I sit in the booth for a while after that.
I sit in the booth and look out at the bar, at my bottle of Bud still sitting in front of my stool and the little pile of bills, my change, sitting next to it. I pump coins into the phone and call United. They can change my ticket whenever I like for a seventy-five-dollar fee, plus the difference in ticket price. Would I like to make that change now? Yes, I would, very much. But I need to get the key first, decide who to hand it over to and stay in one piece while I’m doing it. I know where the key is. Now, who do I give it to? I dig out one of the cards I have in my pocket and dial. He picks up himself.
—Roman.
—I have it.
Pause.
—Where are you?
—I don’t have it, I know where it is.
—Where?
—I’m not. Look, I’m not going to tell you.
—And so the purpose of this call is?
—I’m not going to tell you where it is. I’ll get it and then give it to you.
—When?
—I. I want to leave. I want to leave New York. I’ll give you the key right before I go.
—When are you leaving?
—I don’t have a flight yet. I’ll get the key and I’ll call you. I’ll meet you, I’ll call you . . .
—Yes?
—I don’t know how any of this works.
—Well, there aren’t any actual rules. But may I make a suggestion?
—OK.
—Get the key. Book a flight. Call me and tell me the airport, but not the flight number, and tell me what time you want me there. Pick a time before your actual flight so that I won’t be able to make a guess about which plane you’re leaving on. At the last moment possible before you board, have me paged and tell me what gate you are at. I will meet you there, in full view of the public and you can give me the key.
Wow, good plan.
—OK.
—And you might want to book a flight to someplace other than your final destination and fly to . . . wherever, from there. To discourage pursuit.
—Right, that’s good.
—Well then.
—Yeah, OK, so, I’ll go . . .
—Get the key.
—Right.
I sit there holding the phone.
—Good-bye.
—Oh, yeah, good-bye.
I hang up. Then I walk straight to the beer and pick it up. Before I can take a drink, I catch a glimpse of the TV. I look again. The Mets game has just concluded: Atlanta 5, Mets 3. I put the beer back down. I don’t need it. Besides, I’m going to another bar right now.
Now that I’ve made a decision about what to do, I’m in a hurry. I flag a cab and tell the driver where to go. I close my eyes, try to ignore all the places my body hurts.
I’m glad I called Roman. Roman is definitely the one I want to deal with. I mean, he may scare me, but he doesn’t freak me out like Ed and Paris, who are obviously crazier than a sackful of assholes.
The cabbie drives like all New York cabbies, which is to say he guns it flat out as soon as the light turns green and slams on the brakes at the last possible second when it goes red. I have my seat belt on, which keeps me from slapping my forehead against the Plexiglas sheet that separates the driver from the passenger. Our progress downtown is measured in a series of jumps and lurches. I take a quick look around at the cars behind us, but I don’t see any signs of a black Caddie. The cab pulls over and I pay the driver and hop out.
I walk into Paul’s. Lisa, the day bartender, takes one look at my face and lets