Caught Stealing - Charlie Huston [63]
I watch TV for a while and think about that beer I drank. The clock says 3:15 when I peter out again, tired. I’m so fucking tired. I take a pillow from the bed and toss it on the carpet in front of the door. Now that I have a little time to think, I’m remembering some important stuff. The Giants play at 4:05 P.M. West Coast time and the Mets at 7:30 P.M. EST. I set the alarm for 7:00 P.M. The meet with Roman is at 10:00. We’ll have to leave by 9:00 to get set up, but I should be able to watch at least three or four innings. I lie down on the floor and you’d be surprised just how easy it is to fall asleep. No dreams.
My first thought when I wake up is that the alarm didn’t go off. I know I’m supposed to be up for something and I can’t remember if it’s work or a date or a doctor’s appointment or what the fuck. Then I see that I’m on the floor and the pieces fall back into place, including the empty bed.
In my sleep, I’ve rolled away from the door. Now I see that what woke me was the door bumping lightly into my side. It’s closing! The fucking door is being pulled closed from the outside right now! I’m awake.
Still on the floor, I grab the edge of the door before it can close all the way. My fingers get a little squashed, but he’s trying to be quiet and gentle, so it doesn’t hurt much. I have a good grip now and yank back as hard as I can. He resists for a moment, then thinks better of it. The door flies in at me as he changes his pull to a push. I catch most of it on my left shoulder. It knocks me all the way onto my back and he has a head start. Through the now open door, I see him taking his first big step down the hall toward the elevator.
I lunge up into a sitting position, throw myself into the hall and claw at his ankles. I hook a finger in the cuff of his right pants leg, but he kicks back, freeing himself and knocking me further off balance. I’m trying to go after him and get up at the same time and I end up in a ridiculous crawl crouch, stumbling behind him. I can see that he’s going to beat me to the elevators, but unless there’s one waiting for him, I should catch up to him there. I see a little flash of chrome in his right hand. He has the gun. He picked my pocket while I was asleep and he has his little .22 back. The sight of the gun slows me. I’m not sure I want to catch him if he has the gun. As I consider this, he suddenly and for no apparent reason turns to the left and plows straight into the wall.
He rebounds off the wall and pauses a moment to shake his head. I take two giant steps, throw myself at him and grab his right leg as he steps forward. He goes down full length, no time to use his arms to break his fall. The gun is bounced out of his hand and slides a few feet down the hall. I scramble up onto his back, pin his arms with my knees and grab him by the neck with my left hand. With my right, I reach out and scoop up the gun. I stick the barrel up against his cheek. His mouth is muffled by the carpet, but I hear him.
—Like, chill, man! Chill!
I dig the barrel in deeper.
—Yes, I get it, Hank! Chill, man!
I disentangle myself from him, keeping the gun in place. We stand up together.
—The room, Russ.
—Yeah, man, like, the room. No problem.
We walk the few yards back to our room and no doors open, no one looks out to see what the ruckus is about. I love this hotel. I close the door behind us and relock it, including the little chain. Russ is looking at his face in the mirror over the dresser, inspecting the carpet burn on his chin. I can’t help it; as I go past him, I give him a little shove in the back. He falls right into the mirror, banging his forehead hard enough to cause a small crack in the glass. He straightens and then slides down to the floor along the dresser drawers, which make little