Caught Stealing - Charlie Huston [53]
He stops rocking and looks up at me.
—Shit, Hank, we gotta go.
We go out the window again.
We use the rooftops to avoid the cops on the streets below and circle the block to First Avenue. There’s a chopper cruising the area, but it seems to be focused on the blocks east of Avenue A, over by the projects. We catch a big break when we see some guys working on one of the roofs. They’re patching holes in the tar paper, their backs to us. We just sneak in through the roof access door they’ve propped open with a piece of brick. Down the stairs and we exit onto First. We walk right past two of New York’s finest, I flag a cab and we’re gone. So much for police gauntlets.
Russ slumps in the seat and lets his head loll back. He’s worse than I thought. I get him to look at me and I cover his right eye with my hand, then pull it away suddenly and watch how his pupil dilates, then do the same thing with his left eye. The right one is OK, but the left dilates irregularly. He must be pretty fucking scrambled in there. On top of that, blood is starting to leak out of his cap. I didn’t have time to patch him up at the apartment and all my first-aid stuff is in my bag in Roman’s car. I took a huge wad of toilet paper, soaked it in some vodka I found under his sink, stuck it on his head, and crammed a ski cap on him to hold it in place.
The cab is just cruising north and the driver wants a specific destination. I give Russ a little shake.
—Russ, hey, Russ. How about it, man? Why don’t you show me what it’s all about?
—What what’s about? What?
—Russ, where to, Russ?
The cabbie is getting testy just driving up First. I tell him to head for the West Side Highway. I shake the blue storage unit key in Russ’s face.
—How ’bout it, Russ? Let’s go take a look.
He focuses on the key.
—Hey, man, that’s my key.
—What’s it for, Russ? What’s it for?
—Fuck, man, how’d you get my key?
—What’s it for?
—It’s, like, my unit, man.
—Where?
—Mini Storage. Chelsea.
I tell the cabbie to take us to Chelsea Mini Storage. Russ flops back in his seat and I go through his pockets for cash so I’ll be able to pay for the cab when we arrive. Along with Bud, my money is in Roman’s car. I find seventy-eight bucks, some credit cards, the jimmy tools he used to pick my lock and a pack of Big Red. I take his wallet and the gum.
They want you to sign in before they’ll let you go up. Russ is still too shaky to trust with other people, so I sign his name and give the guy in the booth the unit number. He doesn’t ask for ID or anything, just gives me two passes, tells us to wear them at all times and points to the elevator.
The elevator operator asks for our pass numbers. I tell him both. Russ just stands there and shakes his head every now and then. The elevator guy keeps glancing at us. Between Russ’s lumpy head and my nearly bald white scalp, we look like we just escaped from the terminal cancer ward. The elevator stops on the fourth floor and we get out.
Corridors and corridors of doors, perfectly identical except for the numbers. Russ is no help showing the way, so we wander until we find 413d.
I have to rattle the lock to get it open and then the bolt sticks, but finally there we are, looking into a fifteen-by-fifteen cubicle with a huge black hockey bag sitting in the exact middle of the floor. I lead Russ in, turn on the fluorescent light, shut the door behind us, go over and unzip the bag.
When Roman told me they were all looking for an “object,” I had visions of jewel-encrusted black birds, little gold statuettes, or the Ark of the Covenant. Apparently, what he meant to say was that they were all looking for a bag stuffed full with bundles and bundles and bundles of cash.
I stare at all the twenties and fifties and hundreds and Russ gestures at the room.
—I could have gotten the five-by-five unit for cheaper, but I wanted the bigger one so I’d, like, have more room to count it in.
Russ counts the twenties and fifties while I handle the hundreds and it’s a good thing he got the extra floor space because once we start spreading