Caught Stealing - Charlie Huston [48]
He looks at me and nods and smiles.
—Sure, sure, man, anything.
—No big deal, but that little envelope I gave you to put in the safe the other night, I need it now.
—What?
—The envelope, man, I need it.
—Here, drink. Drink!
He shoves a shot glass into my hand and pushes it toward my face.
—Edwin, man, I can’t really drink anymore.
—“Can’t really drink.” Hear that? Motherhumper was in here falling off his stool other night. Now he can’t drink.
—Seriously, Edwin, I need to get into the safe, man.
—Fucker quits on me without, I might fucking add, the traditional two weeks’ notice and he won’t have a drink with me.
The group is into it, egging him on and yelling for me to drink.
—Edwin, man! This is important and I’m kind of in a hurry.
Edwin looks to his audience.
—The man is in a hurry. A hurry! Well, you better hurry up and drink that drink, man.
Another cheer. Everyone is holding their shots aloft, chanting.
—DRINK! DRINK! DRINK! DRINK!
—Edwin, please.
—Drink first, then business.
I toss down the shot. Everyone hollers and knocks their own back. It hits my stomach and I almost choke it back up. It stays down. And I wish for another. Edwin hugs me again, puts an arm around my shoulder and moves me a few feet down the bar away from the group.
—OK, man, OK. Now, what’s up, what do you need from the safe? Hope you don’t think ya got any money comin’ to ya ’cause I’m dockin’ all your pay till ya come back.
—No, man.
—Seriously, though, you need cash? You need it, you can have it.
—No, Edwin, man, I need that envelope, that envelope I gave you the other night.
He looks at me.
—Envelope?
—The envelope I gave you to put in the safe. It has a key in it, I need it right now, man, the envelope with the key, fast.
He puts a hand on my shoulder.
—Hank, man, I’m sorry, but you didn’t give me no envelope the other night, no envelope and no key.
The music segues into “Love Lies Bleeding.” How long have I been in here? Five minutes? Ten? Not ten, between five and ten. How long will Roman sit out there? How much time will be too much?
—Edwin, don’t fuck around, I know I gave you that key.
—And I know you didn’t give me shit that night except a pain in my ass from being so fucking drunk, which is why you can’t remember what you gave me or didn’t fucking give me. Your key is not in the safe. Period.
The bar hounds are all singing along to the jukebox, Lisa behind the bar leading them. Edwin and I are at the very back of the bar, where there are four doors. The two doors on the left are bathrooms, the one straight back is for the little box of an office where the safe is and the one on the right opens on a little courtyard. The yard is shared with most of the buildings around the block; it’s clogged with garbage and the only way in or out is through one of the other buildings’ back doors or up the collection of rickety fire escapes.
—Edwin, I’m in trouble.
—Yeah, I kinda figured that.
—Big trouble, Edwin.
—What is it?
—Guys are looking for me, Edwin, coming for me.
—Those fucks that beat you up?
—Yeah, but worse. Edwin, they’re here, they’re coming here. Oh, God! Oh, fuck! Edwin, I’m sorry, man. Big trouble, Edwin. It’s big trouble.
—No problem.
His little coked-out eyes are shining. Edwin likes to fight. Back in the late sixties, early seventies, he rode with a gang in St. Louis called the Sable Slaves; picture a cross between the Hell’s Angels and the Black Panthers. When he takes his shirt off, Edwin’s black skin is covered in a mixture of tattoos and scars. Tattoos of naked women, spiders, daggers, skeletons, dragons, and a big one on his back of a Klansman strapped to a burning cross. Scars from motorcycle timing chains, knives, baseball bats with nails driven into them, broken beer bottles, and at least one from a bullet. Edwin is the toughest fucker I’ve ever seen, and he likes to fight. He smells a good fight right now.
—Trouble’s no problem, Hank. Bring it on. Bring. It. On.
—Edwin, no, no. No! We, we, we. Listen, man, we need to go now, we need to take everyone out the back door