Caught Stealing - Charlie Huston [75]
Roman and Bolo jump off the A. Ding-dong! And back onto the A as the doors slide shut and their train pulls out. Right behind ours.
The trains run on parallel tracks. For a while our C local has a bit of a lead. But then the A express carrying Roman and Bolo picks up speed and soon it’s running right alongside us. I watch through the scratched Plexiglas window while, just a few feet away on the other train Bolo mouths curses at us and Roman shakes his head. Then they are speeding away, ahead of us on the express track, racing toward Canal Street, as we slow to make our first local stop at Spring Street. I ease Russ down into a seat and try to remember how to breathe.
Russ sits there slumped against me. Bud rustles around in the bag and I unzip it a bit to see how he is. He sticks his head out through the hole and forces it open so he can stretch up and rub his head against Russ’s chin. The train is entering the station.
—Let’s go, guys.
I take Russ’s arm and it’s deadweight. He’s blacked out again. I sit back down. The car is quiet, almost empty, just the few people who didn’t get off to join or watch the fight. There’s a little drool at the corner of Russ’s mouth and Bud is licking at it. I feel his wrist, then alongside his throat and then I put my ear against his chest.
His eyes are open. I slide them closed. He looks asleep. I have to force Bud back into the bag. The train pulls to a stop. I take the bag from around Russ’s shoulder and drape it around my own. I stand up. The doors open, I step out. And all my bridges are burned, because now I really am a murderer.
Ding-dong!
PART FOUR
SEPTEMBER 30, 2000
Final Day of the
Regular Season
—Hello?
—I love you, Mom.
—Henry.
—Tell Dad I love him, too.
—Oh, Henry.
—I got to go, Mom. Bye.
I stand there on the corner of Prince and Mercer, holding the pay phone receiver. It’s about 10:30, half an hour since we met Roman in the park. I can’t stop shaking and it’s making it hard to get change in the slot to make my next call. All around me, kids from NYU and weekenders from Jersey are walking the streets of SoHo, asking for directions to Balthazar. I bite down hard on my tongue until I taste blood and the shaking eases up.
The card is in my back pocket where I put it when I changed clothes at my apartment. It’s folded inside the police photo of Yvonne’s bruises. I fold the picture back up, put it away and dial the number. It rings once.
—Yes?
—It’s me.
—’Bout time.
—Yeah.
—That’s some fucking mess you got over there, boy.
—Yeah.
—Shoulda called me like I said.
—Yeah.
—Got anything to say ’bout that?
—Sorry.
—Yeah, well. So you ready to work together now?
—Yeah.
—Good, glad to hear it.
Ed can’t come for me right away. He tells me I’ll have to wait and lie low until tomorrow evening. He tells me where and when to be, then hangs up.
Every time I get a chance to stand still, I realize how much everything hurts and how tired I am. The wound in my side burns, my face throbs, all my bruises ache and my feet are cramped beyond belief. I stand here on the corner and look around at the normal people who aren’t being hunted by psychotics and the police, and I hate them.
I stink of sweat and my clothes are a mess. I’m a wreck and I look it and I need a place to lie low and to not be noticed until morning. I eat two Vics and try to sleep on a sheet of cardboard spread out on the sidewalk under a construction scaffold outside the Angelika movie