Caught Stealing - Charlie Huston [83]
—I can’t.
He looks me over like I’m just about the stupidest sack of shit he’s ever seen.
—Some mad dog. OK, look: It’s dark out and it’s supposed to rain some. Plus, with the big game, there shouldn’t be a lot of people out tonight. You try to stay away from bright public places and, uh, keep the cat in the bag.
—Great.
I open the outer door. Sure enough, it smells like rain and I can feel the muscles in my damaged calf starting to cramp. I scratch at my head; it itches and burns from the bleach job.
—I’ll send you more cash when the dust clears.
—Whatever. Look, don’t scratch like that or it’ll scab up, look like shit and feel even worse.
I stop scratching.
—Thanks.
—No problem. Well, you go get ’em, Maddog.
I let the door fall closed behind me. John Peter Carlyle and I head for the L train back to Manhattan. Me, myself and my cat.
The asshole in the seat across from mine won’t stop looking at me. He’s got a goddamn magazine. Why doesn’t he just fucking read it? He’ll look at it for a couple seconds, then glance up and check me out again. Fuck! I’ve got my Walkman and my sunglasses and my new blond hair and my reeky clothes and this guy just can’t take his eyes off of me. He looks at me again and I stare right back at him. He puts his eyes in his magazine, then glances back up to find me still staring at him. He looks back down.
—Hey.
He keeps his face in the magazine, I think it’s Film Comment or some shit.
—Hey!
Man, he can really read that magazine when he wants to.
—Hey, you. Scorsese.
He looks up a little.
—Yeah, you. You got a problem?
He looks back at his magazine.
—Hey. I said, “Do you have a problem?”
He doesn’t look up, but he mumbles something.
—What was that? I didn’t hear that.
—I don’t have a problem.
—So then mind your own business and don’t stare at people. It’s rude.
He gives a tiny nod and keeps his eyes locked on the page in front of him. I stare at him for a few more seconds, then take a quick look around the car. Passengers with something to look at are doing so and the ones without are either staring off into space or have their eyes closed. No one will look at me or that other guy for the rest of the trip. My heart goes BANG-BANG-BANG!
The train passes under the East River and stops at First Avenue in the heart of my neighborhood. The guy with the magazine and several other passengers get off, but I see him and a few of the others board the next car down. Trying to get away from the smelly freak. I watch the people getting on the train, fearing a familiar face, but I don’t recognize anyone. Most of the new passengers are wet. The rain must have started up.
The train moves on. I think about the chase last night, on this train, through these same stops. I still don’t know what happened to Russ. He must have been found by now. I looked at a little news on the TV back at Billy’s, but they didn’t say anything about Russ. It was all about the murders and the search for me. I turned it off before I could get too freaked out.
At Union Square, some yahoos wearing head-to-toe Mets gear get on. They’re mouthing off to one another and talking real fucking big for a bunch of fans whose team is skidding hard. I want to say something and put them in their places, but I keep my head down and my mouth shut. If I ever had any good karma, it’s been cashed in and then some.
The train stops at Eighth Avenue, end of the line. The Mets fans pile out in a herd, jostling their way to their favorite sports bar. I trace the path I took with Russ last night, up the stairs and the ramp. This time I take the turnstiles out of the station and go up to the street. There’s a nice soft shower falling. I left Billy’s around 6:30, so it must be just about 7:00. The Mets game starts at 7:30 if this rain doesn’t cause a delay and fuck things up. I walk west on 14th into the meat-packing district.
Past the actual meat markets and the underground sex clubs and the new chichi restaurants, 14th Street runs into Tenth Avenue. The street is half cobbles and half ripped-up tarmac here, crosshatched