Caught Stealing - Charlie Huston [92]
The Russian Roman is to the right of the cube. I run to the left and put it between us before he can take another shot. He dodges to his left and I go to my right, listening to his skipping feet as he tries to juke me into the open for a clear shot. I back away from the cube until I can see his shoes. He’s edging around to his right now, letting the sound of the rain cover his creeping steps. I move in close to the cube, put my shoulder against it, and push it counterclockwise. It’s big and doesn’t move very fast, but has tremendous mass. I feel the softest of thuds vibrate through its bulk and step back to get a look. He’s laid out on the pavement with a gash on the back of his head, his gun on the ground a few feet from his grasping hand.
I dive down on the slick cement under the edges of the balanced cube and my cap bounces from my head. I put my hand on top of his just as he grabs the gun with his right hand. I look at him. He could be Blackie or Whitey, whatever their fucking names were. I use both my hands to keep his right pinned on the gun and the gun pinned to the ground. He’s trying to pry my fingers loose with his free hand. I drag myself forward on my elbows, open my mouth wide and bite down hard on his fingers. There’s blood and rainwater in my mouth. He screams. I get the gun and hit him in the head with it. A bullet strikes the pavement next to us, skips once, peppering me with little cement chips and hits him in the face.
I hear Russian behind me. I let go of the gun and flip over onto my back. The Russian Bolo, minus his wig, stands on the edge of the traffic island, pointing his gun at me.
—Freeze and give us our money!
—I don’t have it.
—Freeze and give us the fucking money!
Sirens somewhere. I lie there next to the dead fake Roman and shake my head.
—Get up! Get the fuck up!
I stand up and behind him I see Roman come up the steps of the 4-5-6 subway station just outside the Starbucks. Guns blazing. One in each hand. Just like in a John Woo movie.
He shoots the Russian Bolo in the back. He shoots him and shoots him and shoots him as he walks over. Then he stands over the dead body and shoots it some more until his guns are empty.
—I told them not to hurt you till we had the money.
I point at the corpse at his feet.
—Well, I guess he learned his lesson.
—I told you, Hank. I told you I have a fucking temper.
He starts to reload. I start to run. I take two steps, see the gun at my feet, stop, pick it up and turn to do I don’t know what the fuck. He’s finished reloading. I go back to running. Running is something I know how to do. The sirens are very loud and, down Bowery, I can see flashing lights heading for the intersection.
I run east on St. Mark’s, cut north on Third Avenue and east again onto Stuyvesant. I shout as I run.
—I know where the money is! Don’t shoot me, Roman! I know where the money is! DON’T SHOOT ME!
He doesn’t shoot me. Behind me, I hear sirens and screeching tires and bullhorn voices and Roman yelling. I run through the rain and the shadows and into the little square outside St. Mark’s Church at Stuyvesant and Second Avenue. I look back up the street to the intersection at Third Avenue. Roman is showing his badge to a bunch of cops and pointing in various directions. I see flashing lights coming up Second Avenue. I hop over the cast-iron fence and into the small churchyard and hide in the bushes.
The cop cars drive past. I can hear sirens and megaphones at Astor Place. And the chop of helicopter blades from above. I peek out from the bushes but can’t see much beyond the square. I scuttle to my left, hop another fence and dodge behind the pillars that support the church portico.
St. Mark’s Church is the oldest place of Christian worship on the island of Manhattan. It says so on a plaque next to the door.