—What is the key for, what does it open?
What the fuck?
—Gasp! How the. Gasp! How the fuck should I. Gasp! Know? It’s your fucking key. Gasp! Your fucking object.
This is not a state-approved answer. The sock is stuffed in my mouth. I’m in the middle of drawing in a lungful of air and the sock cuts it off. I get sock fluff lodged in my throat and I start to choke. I feel like I might vomit. I don’t want to vomit. Please, God, don’t let me vomit. Please, God, I don’t, I just don’t want this. Please make this stop. Please. Red gets a grip on the next staple and starts to tug. The original wound was sharply defined, a pain that had carefully designated borders. As Red pulls at the staple, I feel the wound stretch. The original pain is distorted and twisted and a new pain, more crude, takes its place. Just as the flesh around the staple starts to tear, I feel a pop and the wound snaps back.
The Beach Boys’ Pet Sounds has always been one of my favorite albums. When the Russians grabbed me and started dragging me toward the bed, I made a bit of a scuffle. To help cover the noise, someone, Red I think, put on a CD: Pet Sounds. I don’t know if this represents personal taste or if it was simply at the top of the stack. In any case it was a really good idea on their part, because even with the sock in my mouth, I’m making a fuck of a lot of noise, but then I guess it should come as no surprise that these guys know their business.
The sock comes out and I vomit onto my pillow.
—What is the key for?
I’m coughing quite a bit now, trying to spit up the puke and breathe at the same time, but I manage to give him an answer.
—I don’t. Gasp! Choke! I don’t know. I don’t know. Choke!
—What did Miner tell you about the key?
—Nothing, he didn’t say. Gasp! He didn’t say. Choke! Nothing about the key. I don’t know about the key.
—You knew where it was.
—Gasp! Accident. I found it by accident.
I get the sock again. Red is having trouble getting at the next staple, he’s really digging in. The pain is making me even more nauseous than I was with just the hangover and I think I may vomit again. Please, please, God. My throat is clenching and hitching and the blood in my nose is running back in. The coppery taste of the blood is blending with the bile of the puke. Please. Oh, God, please. The staple gives way and I scream again. They yank the sock and I spill out another flood of puke, this one tinted pink with blood.
—What did he tell you when he asked you to hide the key?
I can’t talk, I just can’t. I heave and blubber and beg and Roman sticks the puke-and-blood-soaked sock back in my mouth and Red hurts me again and I realize then that they are going to kill me just as soon as they can.
Roman is a cop. Despite what you may have heard, the behavior he is now engaged in, not even an officer of the NYPD can get away with. They will finish asking questions and, when I have no more to offer, they will kill me. And, having had this realization, I start trying very hard to think as clearly as I can, because I don’t want to die.
—What did he tell you about the key?
—Gasp! Gasp! He. Didn’t. Tell. Me. Anything. Gasp! About. The. Key.
—Why did he give you the key?
—He. He. Gasp! He didn’t give me the key.
—Why did you say you had the key?
—He. Fuck. He gave me the. Gasp! The cat. The key was in its box. I didn’t know. He didn’t give me the key. Gasp! He stuck me with it. I didn’t know.
—What is the key for?
Think. Think. I don’t want to die. I need to think. I’m trying to think of ways not to die, but the pain and the hangover keep getting in my way and I can’t keep my thoughts together in one place long enough to make them work for me. I try to keep answering the questions without saying something that will make me dead.
—I don’t know.
—What does it look like?
—I didn’t see it.
I get the sock and another staple goes. I think I black out for a couple seconds, I can’t really tell for sure.
—How do you know there was a key if you didn’t see it?
—It. Gasp! It was in an envelope. Gasp! I felt it. It felt like a key. Gasp! It felt like a lumpy key. Big. Lumpy.
—Where is the key now?
Fuck!
—I. Don’t. Know. I just don’t.
And the sock. And another staple.
—We did not come here looking for a key, but if Mr. Miner gave you a key, then we want it. Where is the key?
—Gasp! I just. Fuck! Gasp! I just don’t know. I put it back in the box yesterday. Gasp! And last night after those guys were here, I got drunk. Choke! I got real fucking drunk. I fucking blacked out. I fucking shit my pants, for God sake. I don’t know where it is now. I left it in the box.
The sock. A staple.
—Where is the key?
I say nothing. I try to get as much air as I can. I breathe. I try to figure out a way to live. And Roman says something odd:
—Chew the fat.
I have no idea what that’s about until Blackie releases my arm and starts scrabbling under the bed and I hear Bud crying. Then I realize he meant to say, “Get the cat.”
In all fairness, he probably did say “Get the cat” and I only heard “Chew the fat.” Bud is giving Blackie hell under the bed and the bastard is grunting and cursing in Russian. My left arm is free now, but the circulation is all messed up and it hurts so bad that I can barely move it. Not that I’d know what to do with it if I could move it, but it’s nice not to have someone pulling at it for the moment.
—Man, just. Gasp! Just leave the cat. Just leave it alone. Gasp! Don’t hurt the fucking cat.
Aren’t there rules about this kind of thing? I mean, there are rules, right? You can do whatever you want to people, but you don’t hurt fucking animals.
As if on cue, the toilet flushes, the door to the bathroom opens and the Samoan returns. Enter the torturer of animals.
—Sorry, guys, I had ta drop a deuce. Hey, you got air freshener or what?
Sooner or later, even the most profound events of your life are reduced to concerns like this.
—Under the sink.
—I looked there.
—The kitchen. Not the bathroom sink, the kitchen sink.
—Fuck you, who keeps freshener under the kitchen sink?
—I do.
—What, your shit doesn’t stink? You don’t need no freshener in the bathroom?
Meanwhile, Blackie has got hold of Bud and is dragging him out of his hiding place, but the fur is flying. Bud comes into the light of day howling and clawing at Blackie’s eyes. As the Russian stands upright, I get my first look at Bud. He’s writhing this way and that, trying to get a piece of someone, but his left leg is twisted up real weird and he’s not moving it at all.
—What the fuck? What, man, what did you do to the cat?
Suddenly the Samoan reaches over and grabs Bud. He wraps those huge hands around the struggling cat and locks him up. Bud’s legs are all trapped, just his head sticks out of the Samoan’s grasp. And then Blackie hits him, the fucker makes a little fist out of his little hand and hits Bud in the face.
—I kicked this shit cat, this fucking shit cat I fucking kicked. This fucking shit cat, I tried to pet and it fucking bit me and I fucking kicked the shit cat. So fuck you, Mr. Bartender, can’t make a fucking cosmopolitan. Mr. Fucking Shitty Drink Maker with the Shitty Cat.
He punches Bud again. They get the sock back in my mouth before I can finish screaming at Blackie.
My head is clearing. The few minutes I had to breathe helped and the adrenaline has cut some of the haze and I’m starting to think a little more clearly. They want the key. I don’t know where the key is. As soon as they feel sure I don’t know where the key is, they will kill me. If I did know where the key was and I told them, they would get the key and then kill me. I have no idea what to do. Done battering the cat, Blackie gets a fresh grip on my
left arm and stretches it back out.
Roman twists my head to the left so I can get a good look at the Samoan and whatever he’s gonna do to Bud. Red is still on my legs and he resettles himself, getting comfortable for the next round. Roman is getting cute.
—If you were the key and you had mysteriously disappeared, where would you be?
The sock is still in my mouth, but I grunt so he knows I’m following him.
—Where would you hide if you were a key?
Breathing is starting to be a problem again.
—Would you hide in this apartment?
Bud now has a scrape on the side of his face where he was hit. I can’t really tell if he’s awake or not. The Samoan tucks the cat into his left armpit, keeping all his limbs pinned except for the broken left leg.
—Would you put yourself in an envelope and send yourself somewhere?
Very gently, the Samoan has taken hold of Bud’s injured leg. He extends it until it’s fairly straight. I can see the little bend where the bone is broken. I can hear Bud give a mew of protest, but he’s clearly run out of fight.
—If you were a key that wanted to hide itself, would you give yourself to a friend for safekeeping?
The Samoan starts to twist Bud’s broken leg. He twirls it around and I can see the loose skin bunch up on itself at the break. Bud comes back to life for a moment, yowling and trying to wrestle free, but the Samoan has him pinned tight. A thin stream of urine is leaking out from under the Samoan’s arm, but he doesn’t notice or care. Bud is shaking now and probably going into shock and dying. I’m jerking around on the bed, but I can only move a couple inches in any direction and the boys dig in and hold me tighter. Black speckles are filling the corners of my eyes and that’s OK because I really don’t want to see what it looks like when the Samoan gives Bud’s leg another twist. If I were a key, where would I hide? I guess I would hide with a friend, yes, that sounds like me. Fuck, yes! I start screaming it.
—I took it to the bar! I took the fucking key to the bar! I gave the key to Edwin to put in the safe! The key is in the safe at the bar!
They pull out the sock so they can understand what I’m saying.
—On the roof, the key. Gasp! It’s on the roof. Gasp!
There is a pause. I breathe.
—Where on the roof?
—My. Gasp! My laundry bag is up there. Gasp! I did, I did my laundry yesterday. I. Gasp!
—Why is it with your laundry?
—I put it, I put the key in my pocket when I found it. And. Gasp! Later I did the laundry and I washed those pants. Gasp! It’s. It’s gotta be on the roof. I left it there.
—Why on the roof?
—Yesterday. When I saw you guys yesterday and I went to the roof. Gasp! I had it with me. I left it there. I forgot about it.
The Samoan still has hold of Bud’s leg, but he’s not twisting it anymore. Roman lets go of my head and I breathe and breathe. He turns to the Samoan.
—Go check.
The Samoan drops Bud. Just lets him flop to the floor into the little puddle of cat pee. Bud lies there, like me, and breathes. The Samoan is heading out the door.
—There’s a lock.
Roman looks at me.
—Where?
—The door to the roof has one of those push-button lock things.
—And?
—Three-nine-eight-nine-two.
Roman looks at the Samoan to make sure he’s got it and the Samoan nods once and goes out the door. Roman drifts into the living room and this seems to indicate a time-out. The Russians let go of my arms and light cigarettes and Red climbs off my legs and walks around, stretching his own. I watch Bud. He doesn’t look very good.
A couple minutes pass.
That’s when the Samoan pushes in the wrong combination for the door to the roof, tries to force it open, and sets off the fire alarm for the building.
Things go about as well as you could hope for I suppose. Roman looks at me. He just stares into my swollen eyes as he tells Red and the Russians to get out. They leave just as the Samoan is coming back down the stairs and, over the alarm, I can hear them shouting at him to get out. I can hear people starting to drift out into the hall as Roman pushes my door closed and comes back over to the bed. He is careful not to step on Bud, which I appreciate. He sits on the edge of the bed. I can move a bit, so I roll onto my right side to look at him. Everything hurts. People are talking in the halls, but no one seems to be evacuating the building. This is the nature of New York City: alarms go off so often that no one wants to respond to them until things start burning down or blowing up in front of their eyes. Nonetheless, the NYFD should be here in a moment and that gives me comfort. Roman rubs the back of his neck.
—Is it up there, the key?
I would like to smile at him enigmatically. I would like to rip off some cunning bon mot or scintillating repartee. I settle for spitting up some blood.
—If you know where either the key or Mr. Miner is, you should really tell me now.
I look at Bud. He’s a mess. I look back at Roman and keep my mouth shut. He gets off the bed and heads for the door. He opens the door and takes a last look around the apartment like he’s reliving fond memories from his wistful youth of bygone days.
—I really do need that key. So get it and call me or I’m going to start hurting your friends. Don’t call the police. It won’t help. I know everyone. Good-bye.
And he waves as he goes out, the door swinging shut behind him.
The alarm turns off, which means the fire guys must be out there now. I could yell. I could yell for help and they would come and take me and Bud to a hospital and make us better. And then someone would ask questions and someone would call the cops and I won’t know who to trust. I need to get up and help Bud. And I will in just a second. The phone rings. I let the machine pick it up.
—Hey, it’s your mom. Are you there? OK, I just called to say hi and check up on you. We didn’t hear from you yesterday when you got home from the hospital. . . . Anyway, give us a call when you get in so we know you’re all right. Dad’s at a soccer game today, but I’ll be around. Oh, did you get a package? I sent a care package with some stuff to make you feel better while you rest. Just stupid stuff, but let me know when it shows up so I don’t worry about it. OK, we miss you, can’t wait to see you at Christmas. We love you. Call soon.
I miss you, too, Ma.
Mom and Dad still live in the house I grew up in. Mom is the principal at a continuation school, and Dad has a little garage and spends his days working on specialty cars. I love going back to visit. And I always go home for Christmas. I get my ticket a couple months early because it’s cheaper. The ticket is in my desk drawer right now, and I’m gonna use it to get the fuck out of here.
I get off the bed and everything hurts. My legs are stiff and asleep, my arms and shoulders are sore and feel unnaturally heavy. My nose pulses hotly with every beat of my heart. The flesh around my wound feels grated. I stand and I can feel blood running down my side, into the waistband of my jeans. I limp over to Bud.
He’s breathing very rapidly and shallowly and his broken leg is still twisted around. I bend over stiffly and, with as much care as possible, I try to untangle his limb. He jerks a bit and makes a slight sound but remains unconscious, which I take as a very bad fucking sign. I leave him on the floor for now and head to the bathroom. On the way, I remember something and grab the air freshener from under the kitchen sink before I go in. Good call; it reeks in here.
I can’t get my shirt off over my head, so I take the scissors from the medicine cabinet and cut it off. They ripped out about nine staples and left a tear in my side just above my left hip. I drench a towel in hydrogen peroxide and use it to clean the hole. It’s bleeding, but the bulk of the stapling is intact. I get a huge wad of gauze and use it to cover the bad stuff. I have to get some electrician’s tape out of my toolbox to hold the bandage in place.
My nose is a real mess. I clean up all the goo
p to get a good look. It’s bright red, squashed, and bent to the left, but it has stopped bleeding. I touch it gingerly with my fingertips until I get a sense of how it has been broken and what belongs where and then I give it a rasping twist and a yank.
—Mother! Fucker!
It gives a little crackle and starts to bleed again. I tilt my head back and stuff some more gauze into the nostrils and that’s about all the time I figure I have for first aid.
The fire department has left the building and I have no idea how soon Roman and Co. might return, so it’s time to go. Bud hasn’t moved, but he’s still breathing. I get an athletic bag from the closet. I grab some clothes, my plane ticket, my ID, keys, credit cards, about a grand in cash tips from the bar. I stuff it all in the bag. Then I put in a couple towels, molding them to create a little hollow. I could put Bud in his case, but I’m afraid he’ll bounce around in there. I pick him up and tuck him snugly into the little nest of towels and zip the bag about halfway. I have him on his back so the broken leg won’t fold up underneath his body and it’s easy to imagine he’s sleeping peacefully, but he’s not. I have to get out of here.
I get a cab right away and sit in there with my head back against the seat until the driver snaps me out of it.
—Where to? This is not a taxi for sleeping in, it is for driving in. Where to?
Which is a great fucking question, I suppose.
I give the driver an address across town just off the West Side Highway. I can’t get on a plane yet. I need to get cleaned up, I need to think.
I pass out.
I met Yvonne right after she showed up in New York about six years ago. She was hanging out at Paul’s and mentioned she needed a job. Edwin put her to work. She was a few years younger than me, twenty-two at the time, and we hit it off because we were both from California. But she had a boyfriend, so I backed off. One night, I was working and she came in, her boyfriend had just dumped her. She stayed till closing and took me home.
She’s an artist, a sculptress. She uses ceramics, old rusted iron, bits of antique wood, and assorted trash to make dollhouses. She populates the houses with handmade glass figures shaped to look like people from her own life or books or TV or movies or whatever. Sometimes she sells them, sometimes she breaks them up and uses them in new pieces and sometimes she sets them on fire, takes a picture of that and sells the picture. I have two of her houses in my apartment and last year I gave another one to Mom for Christmas. I think they’re pretty cool. I think Yvonne is pretty cool. I’m just not in love with her. Which would be fine if I didn’t know she was in love with me. We carried on for quite a while, but I cut it off in the end. Mostly.
Caught Stealing Page 6
