Caught Stealing - Charlie Huston [97]
Bud has some blood drying in his fur. I spit on the edge of Paris’s huge sweatshirt and work at the blood. Through the window I watch both games.
The Braves and the Dodgers are taking it easy, resting their best players for the postseason, trying not to let anyone get injured. The Giants and Mets go all out, pitching their aces and fielding all their starters, even if they have to play hurt. I watch both games through the window right up to the last outs, long past the point where it is clear that both the Mets and Giants are being creamed and will be forced into a one-game playoff tomorrow to decide the wild card. They’ll play here in New York. My Giants in town. God, I’d like to see that game.
I stay on the grate with Bud. It’s pretty warm. When the bar closes, some of the guys toss me their spare quarters as they pass by on the way home. That’s pretty cool because I need to make some calls and I don’t have any small change. The bum had fragments of the Sunday Times in the cart and I’ve been thumbing through the travel section. Truth is, I’ve never been much of anywhere. It all looks good. I make my decision. There’s a pay phone right outside the bar. It works. I make the call and set it up. There’s another call I need to make, but I can’t now, I just can’t. I sit back on the grate.
Fucking Giants. Fucking Giants. Fucking Giants.
I don’t think I sleep, not really, but the sun comes up quickly. Time flies when you’re thinking about all the people you’ve killed. I get myself up and moving. I have things to do.
More headlines at the newsstands.
Daily News: SHOOTOUT!
The Post: WILD, WILD, WEST!
The New York Times: Four Dead in Late Night Gunfight
I end up back on 14th Street, the axis of my life. Krazy Fashions is right there off of Sixth Avenue. I slip a pack of fifties into my pocket, leave the cart on the street and go into the store, hauling the big money bag and the little cat bag.
Do they think I’m a criminal? I walk in off the street, stinking and beaten and start passing out fifties. Of course I’m a criminal. But they just don’t care and they sure as shit don’t think I’m the criminal. I keep Bud zipped up in his bag and I get outstanding service. I buy a nice, light olive three-button two-piece Italian suit, a cream Yves Saint Laurent shirt, oxblood wing tips and a selection of underwear and socks. The staff tosses my old shit, gives me a robe to wear and does the alterations while I wait. I keep Bud in the bag and he keeps quiet. I borrow the phone and, about the time the suit is ready, my car pulls up outside. The Pakistani guy that owns the store carries my bag out for me and puts it in the trunk. I slip him a couple extra fifties and he tells me to come back soon.
I slide into the back of the Town Car. Mario holds out his hand and I give him skin. He’s listening to the Saturday Night Fever sound track: “If I Can’t Have You.”
—Newark International.
—Sweet.
He put us on the road and turns his head to look back at me.
—Got a joint on you, man?
—Sorry.
—No sweat.
He reaches into his breast pocket, whips out a bone and sparks it. He tokes and holds it up for me.
—Bro?
—Thanks.
I take the joint and rip off a lungful. It burns like shit and, as I pass the number back, I start hacking. Mario takes the joint and hands me a bottle of water. I take a couple swallows between coughs.
—Thanks.
—No sweat. Take another?
He offers the joint again. I pass. The one hit is mellowing me out, mellowing me and helping me not to think too much.
The cops are in evidence at the airport. Heavily. Mario drives us to the dropoff curb for American departures. He hops out, opens my door and fetches my bag from the trunk. I put the bag on the ground and kneel next to it. I open it about six inches, reach in, pull out three packs of hundreds and wave Mario down to my level. I give him the cash.
—One for you. Give two to Tim and tell him one is for