Caught Stealing - Charlie Huston [76]
It’s not good sleep. I’m cold, the ground is hard and when I do manage to drift off, some pain or other fights through the chemicals and wakes me soon after. Mostly I lie on my right side with my back pressed up against the building and watch people’s feet walk past. I have Bud’s bag half-open and I keep one hand tucked in there, feeling him breathe and purr. I think about Russ, dead and alone on a downtown local. I think about my aluminum bat, the murder weapon, splotched with blood and covered with my fingerprints. I can’t remember if I left it in my apartment or his. No matter. The cops will have it soon, if not already. I wonder if Roman and Bolo grabbed an uptown train back to Spring Street or if they got off at Canal to wait for our train. What will they do if they find Russ? My head is clogged with mud. I wish I had a beer. I can’t tell if I’m falling asleep or just blacking out.
Yes, I have the nightmare. Yes, it’s changed. Yes, Russ is in there now. I don’t want to think about it.
At some point, while I sleep, Bud crawls out of his bag and curls up under my chin. When I wake he’s still there, trying to keep me warm.
It’s light out, but Ed and Paris won’t pick me up for many hours. Bud is making a pained sound and I dig in the bag until I find his little bottle of pills. I hold him tight and force his jaws open and push one of the pills to the back of his throat. I hold his mouth shut until I feel him swallow. I look at the label. He’s supposed to take them with food. Fuck. Food. When was the last time he ate? I tuck him back in the bag, trying not to hurt his leg, and zip him in. Getting myself off the ground takes a couple of minutes. I can’t catalog the pains; everything hurts. I take a look around. It’s early Sunday morning. Little traffic, no people. I love Sunday in New York. The city exhales at the end of the weekend. It’s nice.
I walk up the block to the grocery at the corner of Mercer and Bleecker. I keep my Yankees jacket zipped way up and I have on my sunglasses and headphones. I try to get some news on the radio, but the batteries are dead.
The store is empty except for the kid at the cash register looking at a martial arts magazine. He gives me a once-over, but I think it’s just because I look broke. I grab a couple cans of 9Lives, some AA batteries and a bagel with cream cheese wrapped in cellophane. I look at the beer; the coolers are locked until noon on Sundays. I get a bottle of water. The kid rings it up and I pay with the singles I got in change when I bought the tokens. On my way out of the store, I see the papers and remember the games. I want to check the scores, but I look at the headlines instead.
The Daily News: MANHUNT!
The Post: MANHUNT!!!
The New York Times: Suspect Sought in Barroom Slayings
All feature large reproductions of my booking photo. I glance at the kid. He reads his magazine, not bothering with me now that I’ve paid. I flip the Daily News over and look at the sports headline: THE SHOTS HEARD ROUND THE WORLD! I think about simultaneous home runs being hit last night while Russ and I fought in the car. I can’t bear to read the details of “one of the most bizarre and serendipitous events in the history of America’s favorite pastime.” Atlanta 2, New York 0. San Francisco 5, Los Angeles 3. And I missed it. And now the Mets and the Giants are all tied up for the wild card with one game each left. Tonight. And I’m gonna miss those, too. Because I’m gonna be at a fucking showdown.
The clock next to the register says 8:22 A.M. I have almost nine hours to kill and I need to stay out of sight until then. I shuffle my way over to Broadway and Prince, just another stinky bum with a bad haircut and a cat in a bag.
The token booth in the station for the N and R trains has a photocopy of a Wanted poster taped to the window. Guess who? I give the girl one of my twenties and ask for a fifteen-dollar MetroCard. It’s a great deal: