Caught Stealing - Charlie Huston [91]
I nod toward the fake Bolo, adjusting his wig in the rain.
—New friends?
—Shut the fuck up. I will tell you when to talk. Fuckin’ shithead Russians. I told him to pin that fuckin’ thing down, but he wanted to use fucking spirit gum. In the rain. Idiot. Now talk about pissed? I’m pretty flamed. And Roman, well, imagine. But the Russians? Shit. We tell them you kacked two of their top ex–Red Army special forces guys, and not only that, but you also took all the loot. They started talking about black market nuclear weapons and shit. Roman tells them we need two more guys, we’re lucky they didn’t send some fucking Cossack militia riding through the streets on horseback. Roman talked them down, though, explained the whole deal was too loud as it is. Once you get them settled, those guys understand terms like covert operation. All fuckin’ ex-KGB and shit. So when are the coons supposed to show?
—When I call them.
He throws a piece of croissant on the table.
—And when were you gonna fuckin’ tell me that?
—When you told me I could talk. Man, you really are kind of the stupid one.
—Watch it.
—Seriously. I mean, I thought Ed and Paris had mastered the whole Of Mice and Men thing, but Roman is so George and you are so fucking Lenny.
He holds up a giant finger and presses it against my lips and keeps it there for a second.
—OK? Enough. Where are you supposed to call them?
He takes the finger away.
—They’re nearby. I don’t know where. I’m supposed to call Ed’s cell from the pay phone.
He looks over at the pay phone and the few customers scattered through the café and takes out his own cell phone.
—Does Ed have caller ID?
—Don’t know.
He puts the cell away.
—OK. Let’s walk over there and make that call. You go first and go easy.
—Where’s Roman?
He just looks at me, gestures for me to get up. I stand. He stands. I turn and start toward the phone. He follows.
Halfway to the phone I stumble and break my fall by grabbing one of the little café tables. I freeze like that, getting my balance and taking a good grip on the edges of the table, then I speak loudly and clearly.
—I AM HENRY THOMPSON. I AM WANTED FOR MULTIPLE HOMICIDE.
It works great.
There isn’t a beat or a moment of frozen silence. I say my name and people just freak and scatter. I lean back, lifting the table high off the floor, swinging it to my left. I spin around, the table building velocity. Bolo revolves into my line of sight, standing motionless, more stunned by my announcement than anyone else in the place. Frozen, he does nothing to dodge the table.
The impact jolts the table from my hands. It flips and a corner clips me on the chin. I flinch back and the table drops and lands on my toes. I stumble back, crashing through several chairs until I hit the wall ten feet away.
Bolo is standing perfectly still in the middle of the room. A little hole has been punched into his left temple by the triangular base of the table. Blood wells up and gushes out of the gap and floods down the side of his face like it’s running from an open faucet. He puts his hands out as if trying to find his balance, his eyes locked on mine. He wobbles, rights himself and picks up his left foot to step forward. Immediately he’s out of true and his arms windmill and after that, it’s all about the bigger they are and the harder they fall. He goes down face first, sending chairs and tables skittering and crashing across the floor. Then he lies there and quickly bleeds to death while I feel at the cut on my chin and massage my throbbing toes.
The decoys must have seen people scrambling from the Starbucks. I run out the door on one side of the place and the decoy dressed like Bolo goes in on the other side. I spare a glance through the windows that line the street and see one Bolo standing over the corpse of the other Bolo, then I’m crossing the street toward the cube sculpture and the fake Roman standing