Caught Stealing - Charlie Huston [45]
—How much longer, do you think?
It’s getting close to 5:00 A.M. and a handful of folks are still in the bar and Roman wants them out soon.
—I don’t know, sometimes Edwin will hang out partying till almost noon.
Roman runs his fingertips around the steering wheel and nods.
—Spalding Gray, Spalding Gray, Spalding Gray.
—Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you. Fucking, fuck, fuck, Spalding, fuck.
—Hey, man, is that your own rage you’re choking on or just bile?
—Forfeit, we fucking forfeit. Our turn.
Red also whispers into my ear from time to time, the same thing over and over.
—Pussy bitch, pussy bitch, pussy bitch.
—Christopher Lee!
Bolo laughs.
—Christopher Lee? Are you sure about that?
—Fucking Christopher Lee.
—OK. Lee to Peter Cushing in Horror of Dracula, Cushing to Carrie Fisher in Star Wars, Fisher to Billy Crystal in When Harry Met Sally, Crystal to Robin Williams in Father’s Day, Williams to John Lithgow in Garp, and, of course, Lithgow to Bacon in Footloose.
—Fuck! Fuck!
And again in my ear.
—Pussy bitch, pussy bitch, puuuuuuuussy bi-tch.
Bolo is still laughing.
—Christopher Lee! That your big gun, boys? Christopher Lee?
—Quit! Fucking fuck you, we fucking quit this fucking shit game.
—Yeah, fucking, yeah. Quit, you always fucking quit.
Right in my fucking ear.
—Pussy bitch, pussy bitch, pussy bitch.
I clear my throat.
—Hey, Roman, did Red mention that when he ran into me earlier today, not only did I kick his ass, but he tried to get the key for himself? “Fuck Roman,” is what he said. “Fuck Roman.” That was it, wasn’t it, Red? “Fuck Roman”?
The whispering in my ear stops and everything is really very quiet as Roman swivels around, crams the barrel of a small automatic in Red’s mouth, and pulls the trigger. There’s a muffled pop. A flashbulb goes off inside Red’s face and smoke shoots out his nose. The car is quiet and stinks and then I start screaming like a girl until Bolo clamps one of his hands over my mouth and shuts me up.
The Russians wrap what’s left of Red’s head in some old newspaper, dump him in the trunk and stay on the sidewalk to smoke as Bolo goes to the grocery. Me and Roman sit in the car with the windows rolled down to let out the stink of cordite, blood, and crap from Red’s bowels letting loose as he died.
5:23 A.M. Saturday morning on Avenue B and the streets are empty; no witnesses, except maybe a junkie or a squatter, and who cares anyhow?
Roman looks at me and taps his upper lip. He points at my face and taps his lip again. I get the idea and wipe my lip with the back of my hand; it comes away bloody. Roman shakes his head and taps his lip again.
—No, there’s still some. Here.
He takes out a handkerchief and wipes it across my mouth and chin a couple times.
—There. Sorry about that. Messy.
He folds the bloody handkerchief and puts it back in his pocket.
—You’re sure you don’t know the combination?
—I’m sure.
—Well, I guess you’re going to have to go in and get the key.
The blood is still on the back of my hand, drying. I rub it against the seat to get it off.
—No. I don’t. I don’t want any more. I can’t do. I can’t. I’m so.
I’m trying to say something. Fear robs my voice and I gasp out half-finished words. Bud is getting squirrelly in my lap. All the action and noise and smells are riling him up and I’m trying to calm him, but it’s not working because he can feel how scared I am. Roman reaches over and takes him from me.
—Here, let me.
He holds Bud tight and starts scratching him behind the ears. Bud starts to settle and rubs his head against Roman’s chin.
—Give the cat back.
Roman stops