Caught Stealing - Charlie Huston [69]
Roman looks around at his feet, bends over and picks up his gun from where he dropped it when Russ started shooting. Bolo walks slowly toward us, his left thumb in his mouth and a 9 mm dangling casually from his right hand. Behind him Roman is trying to aim at us, but Bolo is in his way.
The Celica goes WAH-WAH-WAH!
Bolo walks up to the front of the car and starts to raise his pistol. Roman is moving a few steps to his right, looking for a clean shot. The engine catches, but the clutch is out.
The Celica leaps forward in little hops and slams Bolo in the knees, folding him over the hood. I stomp on the floor, trying to find the clutch. Russ holds Bud, pressed tightly against his neck. Roman gets off a shot, but our motion spoils it and he takes out the side window behind me. I get my foot on the clutch pedal. The engine coughs and recatches. Bolo is on the hood.
I let the clutch out and hammer down on the gas. Gravel spits out behind us and the rear end fishtails and Bolo slides off the hood. The tires catch traction and we jet forward. I cram it into second and aim for Roman, ten yards away. He doesn’t bother with another shot but dives out of the way as I crash through the bushes and around his car. I jump us back onto the access road and put it in third as we race down the road toward the pier and the FDR on-ramp.
I spare a glance to check Russ. He’s sideways in the seat and getting himself straightened out, all the while holding Bud close. I look back at the road.
—Russ.
—Yeah?
—Put on your seat belt.
—Sure.
In the rearview, I see Roman getting his car turned around to come after us.
Driving, it seems, is like riding a bike: you never forget. The wheel feels good in my hands, my feet find the pedals with ease and I flip the shift knob from gear to gear until it’s in fourth. I cannot deny my true nature. I am a Californian. And just like every true Californian, I like to drive. Christ, I love to drive.
The Celica is a beige hatchback about fifteen or twenty years old. It has some problems. The wheel has an inch of play in either direction, the alignment pulls slightly to the right, it has no power or acceleration, the tires are bald and the brakes are mushy. Still, it should be much quicker in the corners than Roman’s big-block cop sedan. That would help if there were any corners here. The access road is just one long straightaway back to the gate and Roman is already right behind me, trying to stick his car’s nose up my ass and nudge me off the road.
The kids on the diamond are lining up at the chain link to watch as we blow past. Most of the pedestrians are along the water side of the park, but a few are scattered on the road. I shift my right hand toward the center of the wheel, jam my thumb down on the horn. My high beams are on and ahead of me it looks like clear sailing. The car lurches as Roman slams into the rear bumper.
The wheel jumps a bit in my hand and we swerve to the left. We glance off a park bench and bounce back to the center of the road. I get control and slam the gas pedal back to the floor. Roman drops back for a second to see what will happen, then he’s right back on us. Next to me, Russ has his legs jacked out straight in from of him like he’s trying to hit an imaginary brake pedal. His right hand is frozen around the “Oh, my God!” strap and he’s holding Bud with his left.
—Hank?
I keep my eyes on the road.
—Yeah?
—I don’t want to be a backseat driver, but ya know this thing does, like, have a fifth gear.
Shit!
I hit fifth and we pull away smoothly. It won’t last. Just ahead the Williamsburg Bridge cuts the sky above us. Below it, running parallel to the big bridge, the Delancey Street footbridge crosses the FDR and drops its ramp smack into the middle of the access road. There’s space to go around on either side, but it looks a lot smaller going out at seventy than it did coming in at fifteen.
Roman taps us again and I veer slightly left. He guns it and pushes up alongside us on the right. I edge farther to the left,