Caught Stealing - Charlie Huston [80]
—No problem. I know how to talk to cops.
—Sure, but some other guys might call, too.
—Oh.
—Yeah. So just go hang out somewhere. Don’t go home at all today.
—What about tomorrow?
I drape the strap of Bud’s bag over my shoulder and put my hand on the door latch.
—Tomorrow they won’t be around.
—Cool.
—Yeah. Cool.
I open the door and climb out. The driver’s window zips down, weed smoke and Barry waft out. Mario smiles at me from behind his glasses. I take three hundreds from my pocket and hand them to him. He nods his head.
—Sweet.
He reaches inside his jacket, takes out a card and hands it to me. It’s glossy black and has Mario etched across its face in gold Gothic script. Beneath his name it says sweet and then a phone number. I tuck the card in my pocket and he puts out his hand. I give him some skin.
—You need a lift, call me.
I nod. His window zips back up and the Lincoln pulls away smoothly and disappears around a corner.
There’s a White Castle just up the street and my mouth actually waters at the thought of steam-grilled miniburgers, but it’s just another public place where I could be spotted. The duplex in front of me is a two-story wood job, exactly the kind of building they don’t have in Manhattan. In fact, the tallest buildings around here are no more than six stories. The sky seems huge and open and I can see storm clouds moving in from the south.
I walk up to the right-hand door and push the little black button set into the door frame. I hear a chime and then a loud buzz and a click as the door unlatches for me. I step quickly inside and the buzz stops. I close the door and I’m standing in a small entryway with a linoleum floor and Sheetrock walls and an old steel factory door in front of me. There’s an intercom unit set into the wall next to the door with the Plexiglas-shielded lens of a videocamera above it. I push the talk button.
—I’m Billy.
A moment’s pause, then another buzz and click and I push the steel door open and step through.
It’s not really a duplex. The interior of the ground floor has been gutted to make a single large space. It looks like a living area. I can see a couch and a TV and, off in a corner, a bed. But I can’t see much more because of the guy standing in front of me, holding the big gun.
The gun is a Desert Eagle .45. I know because I have seen it waved around by so many bad guys on TV. The dude on the other side of the gun is in his twenties, has black hair with bleached tips, is wearing a vintage Star Wars T-shirt over very groovy green corduroys and has the prettiest blue eyes I have ever seen. He blinks them and shakes his head tightly from side to side.
—Get the fuck out, Maddog.
Clearly there has been a misunderstanding.
—I’m Billy.
The gun is pointed at my face.
—You’re a fucking mad dog killer. Get the fuck out.
Oh.
—No, I’m.
—Get the fuck out so I don’t have to figure out a way to get rid of your fucking corpse.
—Tim sent me.
—No shit. If you see him before the cops gun you down, you can tell him I’m pissed. Get. The. Fuck. Out.
—Can I show you something?
I start to move my hand toward my jacket pocket.
—Don’t put your hand in that pocket.
My fingertips are inside my jacket. He jabs the barrel of the gun an inch closer to my face.
—Don’t put your hand in that pocket.
My fingers are all the way inside. The gun moves closer still and the end of the barrel now looks big enough for me to stick my head inside. My hand is in the pocket.
—Leave it there. Leave your hand in that fucking pocket.
I start to take my hand out.
—Don’t! Don’t!
He has the barrel of the gun stuck up against my right eyebrow. He’s got his arm stretched out to the limit. Trying to keep as far from me as possible so he won’t be splashed by too much of my blood when he shoots me, I suppose. My hand is out of my pocket. His pretty eyes are locked on mine.
—Drop it. Fucking drop it.
I drop it and it hits the floor with a soft flap. We stand there. Then he takes three quick steps straight back away from me and looks