Caught Stealing - Charlie Huston [94]
—What the fuck, man? I told you, no fucking improvisation.
I walk past him and collapse into the car. He climbs in behind me and closes the door.
—Like I said, what the fuck, man? Where are the bad guys?
I scoop up Bud from the seat and put him on my lap.
—I’m the bad guy here. I’m the fucking bad guy. Get me the fuck out of here.
—I’ll give it to you, Hank, that is one cool cat. An’ you? Well, shit.
I’m down on the floorboards in the back, Bud curled up on my stomach. Ed is up on the seat. He talks to me without looking at me. He doesn’t want the cops at the roadblock to know there’s anyone besides two black guys in the car. Both he and Paris have removed their sunglasses and cowboy hats. In this car, they look like a record producer and his driver/bodyguard. Paris has switched tapes and we’re listening to One Nation Under a Groove, Funkadelic’s finest.
—Hey, Ed?
—Yeah?
—Aren’t you guys kind of wanted yourselves?
—Sure.
—So?
—See, Hank, all these cats are thinking about is you. I mean, your ass was just in a gunfight a few blocks from here. So they’re on the lookout for a skinny white dude, not a couple of black hard-asses wanted for robbin’ banks in the Midwest. Follow?
—Sure. But this car is kind of distinct.
—You think we robbed in this baby? No way, man. This thing has been in storage in Jersey awaiting our return. We used a whole shitload a cars to do our jobs. This honey is clean.
—Yeah, but.
—Shut the fuck up. It’s our turn.
They’ve got the traffic blocked up at Union Square. Anything heading south is being diverted. Anything going north, west or east that might have come from the vicinity of Astor is being checked out. Paris pulls us forward and stops. The beam from a flashlight dances over the interior. Ed turns his head and nods. We pull forward. Ed glances down at me and winks.
—First time bein’ black kept me from gettin’ hassled by the cops.
We drive west. From the footwell I look up through the windows and the buildings swerve by overhead as Paris turns left on Seventh Avenue, taking us downtown toward the Holland Tunnel. We drive. Ed reaches forward and taps his brother on the shoulder.
—Here.
From my angle, I can just see the back of Paris’s head as he nods. He pulls the car over and stops. Through the window behind Ed I can see part of a tenement and an old warehouse. I think we’re somewhere below Houston, in Tribeca. I start to pull myself up onto the seat, but Ed puts his hand on my chest and gently pushes me back.
—Just stay there for now.
I settle back into my spot. My wound is throbbing. Throbbing. It feels like someone is stabbing me in the side. My feet hurt.
Funkadelic swings into “Maggot Brain,” their endless guitar solo from hell. Ed picks his hat up from the seat and holds it in his lap, fiddling with the shape of the brim.
—I’ll tell you, Hank. Me and Paris are torn.
—How’s that?
Paris swivels around in his seat so he can look down and see me. It’s the first time I’ve seen his eyes. They look anxious.
—Well, what you did back there, that’s some pretty wicked shit. Very impressive.
—But?
Ed rubs the top of his head.
—Truth is, the smart play for us would be to just bump you and dump you.
Bud purrs, sleeping on my stomach, rising and falling with my breath. I scratch him behind the ears with my left hand.
—See, the heat on you is gonna be pretty fucking intense. Combine that with the heat on us and things could get sultry.
—Yeah?
—So, another option, we could just drop you off and let you do for yourself. Give you some scratch and shake hands.
—Fair enough.
—Sure, that’s fair enough, but is it the right play? The smart play? Follow?
—Sure, I follow.
I scratch Bud with my left hand. My right hand is tucked