Caught Stealing - Charlie Huston [61]
I get him settled back in the chair. He cracks another brew and starts up again.
—Ed and Paris, once they got some info and started putting it together, they must have realized they were getting, like, sold out all over town and it was time to roll onto the scene and take care of some fucking business. About that same time, I, like, pulled into Rochester to check on my dad real quick, cuz, ya know, ya know, he really was sick back there for a while. And when I get there, turns out. Mmmm. Turns out he, like, really has taken a bad turn and how about fucking that for irony, right?
I’ve got the last stitch in. It’s ugly, but it should hold. I start cleaning it up and get a bandage ready.
—He’s, like, on his deathbed for, like, real and I. Mmmm. I have to, I can’t just leave, so I stay. He’s only got, like, a couple days and my mom left the fucker years ago and I don’t have any, like, siblings, and there’s no one, so I stay. Mmmm. And that’s how the Russians get a bead on me. I’m there just two days and I step out of the hospital for a smoke and see these clowns in the parking lot and I know I’m fucked. They aren’t Bert and Ernie, but they, like, might as well be, the way they’re dressed. I ducked back inside and out the rear and figured the jig was up and if I was gonna get away with the cash, I better, like, make my move. So I, like, came back for my cat.
I finish wrapping the bandage and tape it into place.
—How’s your dad?
—Hank, I don’t fucking know.
He drinks more beer and falls asleep on the bed. I tend to my own wound. I clean it and dress it and take one of the Ace bandages I bought and wind it around my middle. I want to give Dr. Bob’s work a little extra protection seeing as more abuse is likely to be on the way. Dr. Bob. Shit.
He’s a good guy. A citizen. He’ll be on his way to the police to talk to them just as soon as my picture shows up on TV. “Hey, that guy on TV, the mass murderer? Well, I stitched him up yesterday.” He’ll be thinking he repaired me just in time for me to go kill a bunch of people. Something else for me to feel like an asshole about. Sorry, Doc.
In the room Russ makes soft snoring sounds while I make a sandwich and eat it. There’s one beer left and it keeps staring at me. I get tired of trying not to stare back so I put it in the john where I won’t see it or hear it. Russ may want it later.
I pull on my clothes. I’ve got the TV on with the sound off and the radio tuned to a station I like. Springsteen sings “Atlantic City,” and I listen all the way through. Then I take out the cell phone and his card and make the call.
—Roman.
He sounds so normal and professional, no stress, no panic, nothing at all. Just a cop on the job.
—Hey, Roman. How’s the cat?
—Yes, well, it is difficult to talk here, right now. Maybe you could give me your number.
—Fuck that. Give me the number of your cell and I’ll call you back.
—It would be easier if.
—I have the key now, Roman. I have the key and I have the fucking four and a half million dollars, so give me the fucking number.
He gives me the number.
—I’ll call in five minutes, so get yourself somewhere private.
I hang up. I feel good, just like a regular toughguy. I set the phone down, go in the can and stick my head in the toilet until I’m sure I’m not really gonna throw up. When I raise my head, I’m right on eye level with Russ’s last beer and that’s about all it takes. I guzzle it down and, I have to say, it makes me feel a hell of a lot better, except for the fact that I instantly want about twenty-five more. I splash water on my face and rinse out my mouth and go back in the room to make the call.
—Roman.
—So, how’s the cat?
He’s quiet for a moment.
—Actually, the cat’s fine. Bolo has taken a liking to him