Caught Stealing - Charlie Huston [40]
I lurch to the right and turn. He’s slumped against the stall door and his eyes have gone funny. I’ve evened the score on broken noses. His looks pretty munched and it’s streaming blood as he slides all the way down to the floor. I take a quick step across the stall and kick him once in the head to make sure he doesn’t get up and hurt me again.
I grab my sweater and jacket, push him aside and take off. On the escalator, I pull my clothes back on and then I’m in the lobby, heading for the door. I pass the ticket guy and he waves at me.
—Hey! Hey, if you’re looking for your friend, he just went down looking for you.
And I’m through the door and back out on the street.
I feel great. I hurt. My wound hurts, my nose hurts, my ribs and gut hurt, my hands hurt, my feet hurt. Man, I hurt everywhere. But I feel fucking great. It’s close to 5:00 now, just starting to get a little dim here in the city and I bounce down the sidewalk, heading back to Paul’s. There’s some blood trickling down the back of my neck, but it’s not mine and that makes me feel even better. If Red was working solo today, then my plan with Roman still holds. And I’m gonna just assume that’s the case. Like I have a choice.
When I get to Second Avenue, I head up to 14th Street and then turn east toward Alphabet City. And how about this? There’s my Love Stores bag still on the sidewalk where I dropped it. I pick it up and everything is still inside. I stand there on the sidewalk with a big shit-eating grin on my face. Sometimes, baby, you just eat the bear.
I trot happily down the street to Avenue B, take a right and cruise into Paul’s. A few more folks have come in to warm up for happy hour and I get a nice chorus of greetings. I nod and smile as I head for the bathroom in the back and toss the carton of Marlboros to Lisa behind the bar, still sipping her drink.
—What took you so long, Sailor?
—Just had to stop in somewhere, baby. Just had to stop in.
—Hey, I only needed a pack, Hank.
—No problem, baby.
—Well, thanks. When you get out of the john, I’m gonna buy you a soda or something.
I smile at her and go into the bathroom and lock the door. Out in the bar the jukebox is playing Joe Cocker, his cover of “With a Little Help from My Friends.” I hum along while I check myself over. First, I clean Red’s blood off the back of my head. Then I strip the bandage from my nose and take out the little gauze plugs I’ve been using to prop it up. It looks stable at this point, so I just clean up the flakes of dried blood and leave it alone. My wound is another matter. It’s oozing blood again. I clean it and dry it off as best I can, slap some gauze over it and tape it down. I look at the bottle of Vicodin. I can have two an hour, but they’ll make my head foggy as hell. I take one out of the bottle, bite it in half and dry-swallow it. The adrenaline is wearing off and I’m starting to crash from the fight high, but I still feel pretty damn good. I look myself over in the mirror; no doubt about it, I’m a wreck. But I’ll hold together for now.
Back in the bar, the bell for happy hour has rung and things are starting to cook. Tim is down at the end of the bar, getting a quick one in before he does his evening deliveries. Some of my other regulars are around now, too. I get a lot of back pats and commentary about the nose.
—Ali! Hey, Ali!
—What’s the other guy look like?
—Did you get the license on that truck, Sailor?
I laugh it all off and pull up a stool next to Tim. He gives me the once-over and shakes his head.
—Jesus.
—Yeah.
—Jesus.
—I know.
—Man, you need to make