Caught Stealing - Charlie Huston [81]
—It’s about nine grand. I have a bit more on me, but I might need it. I can get more to you later. I didn’t kill any of those people they say I did.
He looks from the cash to me and back again.
—How much more?
—A lot, but it may take a while.
He looks down again, the gun still on me, and then backs up.
—Fuck it. Nine’s good for now.
He stuffs the gun in his waistband.
—I’m Billy. Let’s go up to the shop and get started. Bring the money.
He turns and heads for a spiral steel staircase over by the bed. I pick up the cash and follow.
Billy has an awesome stereo. Most of the components are exotic German stuff I’ve never heard of, the speakers wired throughout his workshop to provide virtually flawless surround sound no matter where you stand. We’re listening to the Psychedelic Furs’ Mirror Moves. I haven’t heard this stuff since high school. It’s really kind of cool. Billy moves around the shop, switching on various pieces of computer equipment and gathering tools and materials.
—These guys really never got their due, ya know? There was so much crap being ground out in the early eighties that they just kind of fell through the gap, except for “Pretty in Pink.” And that was more a hit because of the movie, which I do love, don’t get me wrong. But listen.
I listen.
—This stuff holds up. Try listening to fucking ABC or Flock of Seagulls now, or even Duran Duran and it just sounds dated. Totally dated.
The second floor has been gutted just like the first, but up here it’s all shop space. Billy sets stuff out on a bench next to his drafting table and a custom desktop computer, that looks to be based around a couple Power Mac G4s. He waves me a bit closer and switches on a set of lamps and shines them in my face.
—Come here. Let me get a good look at you, Maddog.
I step closer and he takes hold of my chin and tilts my face this way and that in the light.
—I’m not a mad dog.
He lets go of my face and takes a step back to look me over.
—I didn’t kill those people. I’m not a mad dog.
He sits down in front of his computer.
—At this point, man, I don’t really give a fuck.
—I do.
He looks at me over his shoulder.
—Fair enough, Maddog. As long as you’re paying, you didn’t kill anybody. But like I said, I really don’t give a fuck. So can it and I’ll try and get some work done.
I sit on a folding metal chair, unzip Bud and take him out. He’s awake, but a little dopey I think. Those pills kind of knock him out. I put him on the floor and he curls up under my chair. Billy starts doing things with the computer and pieces of paper and plastic and pens and razor blades and ink. I stay out of the way.
—I’m gonna give you some hair.
Hours have passed. Billy sent out to the White Castle and had a sack of burgers and fries delivered. It was really good. Bud is walking around, checking stuff out. I’ve been watching Billy, doing what he tells me to.
—It will be better if the passport and the driver’s license show you with some hair, especially if it’s two different styles. That way everything doesn’t look like it was done at the same time. Thing is, I don’t want to give you your natural color, cuz then you’ll just look like the Wanted posters. So you’re gonna be blond, OK?
—Sure.
—OK.
He took a few photos of me earlier and scanned them into the computer. He’s already digitally removed the bruises and cuts from my face and now he starts laying in various styles and shades of blond hair. I’ve moved my chair close so I can peek over his shoulder. He is good. He’s really fucking good.
—So, for the passport, I’m giving you a little buzz thing and how about this moppy thing for the license?
I just watch while he moves things around with his mouse and occasionally pushes a button. He gets up and goes over to a set of large printers. He feeds a small sheet of plasticized cardboard into one.
—Those will burn for a while. So, let’s do some work on you.
He leads me to a corner of the shop concealed behind a heavy rubber drape on ceiling tracks, like in a hospital. He pulls