Caught Stealing - Charlie Huston [52]
The cops are not stupid. They arrived at my apartment a little over an hour ago, saw the broken seal, burst in with guns drawn and found it empty. Russ and I stayed very quiet in his place across the hall while they searched mine high and low and eventually taped it back up and split.
Russ sits on the couch with an ice bag on his head and watches the TV at very low volume while I shave my hair down to fuzz with his clippers. I’ve already shaved my face clean to get rid of the stubble I had when the police took my booking photo last night.
Sooner or later, the cops will have to bite the bullet. Some clever reporter will sniff around and the cops will have to explain how a man already in their custody in connection with one murder escaped and got involved in mass murder. Then my picture will be everywhere. I’m hoping for at least twenty-four hours’ grace.
Over on the couch, Russ is a little dopey from the shots he’s taken to the noggin, but I don’t think he’ll make any more trouble now that I have his gun.
When he came round the second time he was a bit confused.
—Fuck, Hank. What the fuck?
—Roman’s looking for you, Russ.
—Roman?
—Roman’s looking for you, Russ.
He touched the wound on his head and flinched.
—Fuck, Hank, I don’t know any fucking Roman. What the fuck, man, like, why’d ya hit me, man?
—Red, the Chinese kid, he’s dead. So’s one of the Russians. Roman, Bolo, and the other Russian are looking for you and me and the key, Russ.
—Russians? Like, what the fuck, man?
—Russ, Ed and Paris are looking, too.
He looked at me, blood from his head running down his neck and staining the collar of his shirt.
—Ed and Paris?
—Yeah.
—Fuck! Oh fuck! Oh man, oh fuck, oh man. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
—Yeah Russ. Oh fuck indeed.
Around then I got my shit together enough to get us out through my window, onto the fire escape and into his place through his window before the cops could show. They came up the stairs pretty stealthily, but once they saw the ripped tape on my door they went in like gangbusters. I watched from Russ’s peephole until they left. When I turned around, Russ had a little chrome .22 stuck in my face.
—Sorry, man, but I gotta go. So just give me the key, OK?
I nodded at my jacket on his couch.
—In the pocket.
He glanced to the right and I swept my left hand up to slap the gun away from my face. I kept a hold on his wrist as I grabbed his shirt with my right hand, stepped in and kneed him in the crotch. He sank to the floor and I covered his mouth to make sure he wouldn’t groan too loud. I took his gun, flicked on the TV to check the news and, just like it happens in old gangster movies, they were talking about my “crimes” on the news. That’s when I went in the bathroom and started shaving.
I think I gave Russ a concussion when I nailed him with the bat the second time. I wouldn’t care except that I’m having trouble getting him to focus and make sense.
—I’m sorry, man, I’m so damn sorry. This never. Oh, God, I’m sorry.
—Russ, we need to talk now, man, I need to know things. Russ!
—No, man, no more, you don’t, like, want to. Oh, I’m so sorry. I’m such a sorry sack of shit.
—Russ. Russ, calm down and talk to me, OK?
He stays on the couch, holding the ice bag on his head, rocking back and forth and looking away whenever I try to catch his eye and get him to focus.
I’ve traded my jacket for one of his, a lined windbreaker with a Yankees patch on the back. Fucking Yankees. They think they own the world. Nothing else of his fits me, but I did find a pair of wraparound sunglasses that hide the bruises around my eyes pretty well. I also grabbed his little Walkman radio. I can stay up on the news and the headphones will help my disguise, such as it is.
—Russ, Russ! Come on, man, it’s time to go. Come on.
—No. No, man. I’m gonna stay here.
—Russ, the cops aren’t that dumb, they’ll be back and, if not, then Roman will.
—Fuck that, I don’t fucking care. Oh, I’m so fucked.
—Russ, Ed and Paris have already been here