I wake up and the cabbie is pulling my arm and shouting at me:
—Not for sleeping in. You are here now, so you must pay. Pay and get out. Stop sleeping and get out.
We’re parked in front of Yvonne’s building. I shake the cabbie off, give him some cash, get my bag and step onto the curb. The cabbie doesn’t even wait for me to close the door, he just peels out and crams his taxi into the never-ending stream of cars sweeping past. I stand there for a moment, collecting myself. My side feels damp and the throb in my nose is worse than ever. Plus, the hangover still has my head wrapped in Jell-O. I try to buzz Yvonne, but there’s no answer.
She still has my key and I still have hers. I open the door and start up the stairs. She has a small loft on the sixth floor that doubles as her apartment and studio. I climb the steps a half flight at a time. Bud continues to breathe.
I get to the top floor and slump against the wall. I’m losing it. I support myself against the wall and walk–stumble to Yvonne’s door. It takes a while to work out the keys and, while I’m tinkering with the lock, the door opens and Yvonne is standing there still wet from the shower, wearing a robe, her hair up in a towel. She looks great. When she gets a look at me, she gives a little gasp and puts her hand over her mouth. One of the clumps of gauze falls from my nose and a stream of blood dribbles out. I smile apologetically.
—Someone hurt my cat.
And. I. Black. Out.
Part Two
September 29, 2000
Three Regular Season
Games Remaining
—Henry. Henry. Hen, wake up for just a sec, OK?
Henry, that’s me. Henry.
—Hen, doll, I have to go to work, OK? Are you with me, doll?
Henry is my name and baseball is my game. Was. Is? What the fuck?
—Henry, please, just for a sec, OK?
Henry, that’s me, but most people call me Hank. My mom, my mom calls me Henry.
—Ma?
—Henry, just open your eyes a sec, OK?
My eyes peel open. They feel gummy. It’s dark. The room is dark and through the corner of the window I can see it’s dark outside. It’s dark out. It’s night. When is it? Where am I? I feel gummy. Every fucking thing feels gummy.
—Ma?
—No, Hen, it’s me.
Me? Well, that’s a big fucking . . .
—Yvonne.
—Yeah, babe. How ya feelin’, doll?
—Gummy.
She giggles, she actually giggles.
—Good, gummy is good.
—Crummy. I don’t feel gummy, I feel crummy.
I’m in a bed on my stomach and my body feels far away. She’s stroking the back of my head. I want to roll over and look at her, I want to ask her questions about things I don’t really remember, but I can’t. I just can’t seem to move and my eyes keep falling shut.
—Hen, I have to go out for a while. I’m leaving water and the phone right here and a note in case you forget where to call me, OK?
—Yeah, right.
—Henry?
—Yeah?
—What did I just say?
Oh, fuck, a quiz.
—Henry!
—What?
—What did I say?
—Water, note, call you.
—I’ll be back late, so just sleep, OK?
—No problem.
I feel her get up off the bed. I hear her grabbing keys and her bag. I hear the front door open and close and I hear her locking up. Then I hear her walking away down the hall.
I drift.
I wake.
I drift.
Henry, that’s me. I’m at Yvonne’s. She’s at work. I’m supposed to sleep. No problem. Sandbags fall on my head. I shake them off.
—Hey, baby, how’s Bud?
But no one is there to answer.
I wake up curled on my right side. The bed seems harder than it should be and that’s because it’s a futon instead of my mattress. There’s a morning kind of light coming in through the shades, a small digital clock next to the futon reads 11:48 A.M. Next to the clock is a phone and, leaning against that, is a note:
Hen, I had to go to work. Sorry. Try to sleep and don’t move around. I took care of everything I could. I’ll be back in the morning sometime early. Call me at the bar if you need me. Y.
Well, it’s morning now. And that’s when I realize that the warm thing curled against my back must be Yvonne and the smaller warm thing curled against my stomach is Bud.
He’s asleep. His left front leg is stuck straight out from his body, wrapped in a hard cast. Some of the hair on his head has been shaved away and he has a few stitches and a big scab on his snout. He breathes slowly and regularly, and when I shift, he moves a little to press his body against mine. I look over my left shoulder at Yvonne, who is pressed against my back. She’s not under the covers and all she’s wearing is an oversize Knicks jersey. Number thirty-three, Patrick Ewing. She loves that guy, cried the day the Knicks traded him.
I try to twist around to face her and the sudden flame in my side serves as a reminder that I was busy being tortured about twenty-four hours ago. I gasp at the burst of pain and tears spill out of my eyes. Yvonne’s eyes flip open and she gives me a grim little smile.
—Morning, sleepyhead. Ready for a doctor?
After I blacked out, she got me inside and tried to call 911. Apparently, I managed to convince her that was a bad idea and she did the best job she could rebandaging me. She took Bud to a vet with emergency service, left him, and came home to check on me, but all I did was sleep. Eventually she went to work, and when she came home early this morning, she was able to pick up Bud. She told the vet Bud was hit by a car; he told her to be more careful and gave her some little kitty painkillers for him. The stitches are the dissolving kind, but he’s stuck with the cast for at least a few weeks. So all in all, it’s not such a bad morning. Especially the part about still being alive. But Yvonne’s patience with my loose-lips-sink-ships attitude is wearing thin and she wants some answers about what the hell is going on. Welcome to the club.
In the end we make a deal. I’m lying on the bed and Yvonne gently pulls the bandage away from my side.
—You know, I never went to college like you, Henry, but me? I’d say you’re pretty fucked up. So, now that you’re not all delirious with pain, I thought I might be able to get you to a doctor or something.
I grit my teeth as she wipes more blood away from the wound.
—No.
—Fuck you, Hank. Unless you have a better idea, I’m calling 911 and getting an ambulance over here before you ruin my bed with your fucking blood.
She stands and heads for the phone.
—Baby, wait.
—Don’t “baby” me, Hank.
She has the phone in her hand, waiting.
She’s right. I do need a doctor. I tell her the number to call.
Yvonne has her loft set up with her studio at one end and the living area at the other. Everything is open except for the curtained-off bathroom in one corner. In the middle she has a little kitchen built around an enormous antique oak table. She uses the table for counter space and dining, it bears innumerable burns and scars from both. She found it abandoned on the street a couple years back and me and some guys from the bar helped her to get it up here. We had to take the legs off and Wayne, this ex-marshal from the bar, tore his groin muscle getting it up the last flight. Yvonne sanded it down and refinished it, then promptly began abusing the hell out of it. I’m facedown on it right now because it’s the brightest spot in the room and Dr. Bob wanted as much light as possible to stitch up my side.
This is service above and beyond the call of duty even for the doc. A morning house call to sew up mysteriously brutal wounds on a surly and unforthcoming patient is not covered in the Hippocratic oath. However, ministering to the sick all measures that are required is. For that matter, there’s something in there about respecting the privacy of the patient, and the do
c is doing a particularly good job on that one. Which makes a lot of sense, seeing as he’s made it clear he doesn’t want anyone to ever know he was here doing this.
—What I don’t want is some emergency room doctor asking for the name of the butcher who sutured you rather than sending you to the hospital. I don’t want to suddenly start receiving calls from lawyers regarding malpractice charges. I don’t want your buddies popping up at my door in the middle of the night with bullets they need taken out of their guts. I also don’t happen to want you slowly bleeding to death as you wander around the city.
He punctuates each statement by pulling the knots tight on each suture. He gave me a shot of Novocain, so all I feel are little tugs against the skin. A wild improvement over Red’s technique.
He applies a dressing and helps me to sit up.
—You were lucky the surgery was healing so well. I could probably take out the rest of the staples, but we may as well leave them in. You might need them. The real risk is infection. I’m going to give you some penicillin. Other than that, you need rest and pain management. You’ve already flunked out on getting rest. So what do you have for pain?
—Vicodin.
—Uh-huh. Take them. That thing is going to hurt like hell. Clean the wound once a day. Get some Advil for the swelling. Have the sutures and staples removed next week.
—Right. Thanks. Anything else?
He’s packing his stuff away. Yvonne grabs his coat from the bed and brings it over.
—Anything else. Yeah. Call the cops and stop fucking around. Whoever did this to you needs to be locked up. Before they hurt someone who cares about their life.
I try to give him money. Bad call.
I’m sitting at the table now instead of lying on it, fingering a deep knife scar in the oak grain and watching Yvonne in her Knicks jersey while she makes me a waffle. She’s doing a great job of not asking questions, but the way she clunks down the waffle plate on the table in front of me is a good indication that the levee will soon break.
I tear into that waffle. She makes great waffles, warms up the real maple syrup and everything. Besides which, I really don’t want to see her sitting across the table from me, drinking her coffee and rolling up a Drum cigarette. Waiting. I finish the waffle and the half grapefruit she cut for me and my water and the O.J. and, man, was I hungry. I look at the empty plates and close my eyes for a second. I want to stay here. I want waffles three times a day and the smell of her cigarettes and the sound of her kiln roaring, firing a new piece, and Bud sleeping on her too-hard futon and just to stay here. I open my eyes, push back from the table and look at Yvonne. She’s leaning back in her chair, feet up on the table, staring across the room out one of the windows that looks toward the Hudson. Her jersey has slipped up her thigh just enough for me to see that she has no underwear on and I feel a little horny all of a sudden. She takes a sip of coffee and drags on the cigarette. I make a little throat-clearing noise and she turns her head slowly to look at me and hear what I have to say.
—Baby, I have to get out of here.
She takes another drag. She put a Leonard Cohen album on her old turntable earlier and now “Suzanne” is playing; such a beautiful song. She exhales a cloud of smoke and looks back out the window.
—Fair enough.
I stand up. It’s so nice in here, so warm.
—Do you, babe, do you know where my stuff is?
She looks at me.
—Sure.
She takes her feet off the table and the legs of her chair bang down on the floor. She gets up, takes a last drag off her smoke, drops the butt on the floor, and grinds it out with her bare foot. She walks over to the living area and digs around under the futon frame until she comes up with my bag and then sits on the bed and reaches over to stroke Bud where he lies still sleeping. I go sit on the bed too and start putting on my boots.
My body is sore as hell, but my head is pretty straight. A beer would help most of the aches. My boots are tied. I pull an old black sweater from my bag, stand up, and put it on. I’m looking around for my jacket, but I can’t find it. Yvonne reads my mind, gets off the futon and walks over to one of those rolling clothes racks you see in the garment district. It’s what she has instead of a closet. She pulls an old leather jacket off a hanger and holds it out to me.
—You didn’t have one when you showed up yesterday. Take this. It’ll fit.
I come over and take the jacket. It fits perfectly and has a nice lining.
—Thanks.
—Sure.
I go back to the bed, get my bag, and zip it up.
—Something else.
—The cat?
—Yeah.
—How long?
—I’m not sure.
—Fair enough. I’ll get his stuff from your place, OK?
I look at her. I look her in the eye.
—No. Don’t go there, OK? Don’t go there at all.
I reach into the bag and take out some cash.
—Don’t. Don’t even fucking try to give me money.
I toss it on the bed anyway.
—For Bud. For the vet. And he’ll need new stuff.
—Fine.
I walk over to her and put a hand on her head and we wrap our arms around each other. Her face is in my chest and her voice is muffled.
—You gonna be OK?
—Sure.
—You gonna be safe?
—Sure.
—You gonna call me if you need help?
—You know it.
She squeezes me and then pushes me away. I take a look at Bud sleeping, then I head for the door. She calls.
—Hey.
—What?
—I’ve been rooting for the Giants.
I stop with the door half-open.
—Yeah?
—Yeah.
—Well, they’ll choke in the clutch.
—I’ll keep rooting for them anyway.
—You always like the underdogs.
—Yep.
I leave and close the door behind me. I have to get the key. I have to get the key, get it to Roman and get lost before any of my friends get hurt. I repeat this to myself over and over as I go down the stairs, leaving that warm room farther and farther behind. It’s not easy, none of it is easy, because she’s so cool. And me? I’m just a fucking idiot.
Out on the sidewalk in front of her building, someone grabs me from behind and someone else punches me in the crotch. They drag my doubled-over body to the curb, throw me in the trunk of a car, and close the lid. I hear the driver’s and the passenger’s doors open and shut. Then the engine starts and the car pulls away from the curb.
As it turns out, the small one is Ed and the big one is Paris. And I was right, they do wear cowboy boots. Matching black snakeskin boots with rattler heads on the toes.
I’m rolled up in a little ball, blinking up at them from the trunk they’ve just opened. After about an hour of me bouncing around in here, we stopped. I heard the doors open and close, then the lid popped open and there they were. The little one took off his hat and smiled.
—I’m Ed, this is my brother, Paris. Sorry about the ride.
It’s bright out and I can see dozens and dozens of seagulls wheeling in the sky behind Ed’s and Paris’s heads. There is a terrific stink in the air. Ed puts his hat back on and reaches out his hand to me.
—Let’s get you out of there.
I blink. I take his hand and let him help me out. My legs are cramped up and I almost fall over, but Ed catches me and holds me steady while I get my balance. Paris just stands there a few feet away and watches. We’re in a landfill. We are way out in the middle of what must be a New Jersey landfill and there is no one in sight except ourselves and the seagulls. Paris reaches inside his vest, pulls out what looks like a vintage .45 Colt Peacemaker revolver and starts walking around the dunes of garbage, shooting rats.
—The Chink do that to you?
CRACK!
—Huh?
/> —Your face, the Chink do that to you?
CRACK!
—Uh, yeah. The guy with the red hair.
—Yeah, the Chink is a mean motherfucker. No doubt.
CRACK!
Every time Paris shoots a rat, his gun makes a nice firm crack that ripples across the landfill and sends any nearby seagulls leaping into the air. He’s emptied and reloaded the revolver twice now and doesn’t seem to be getting bored. Ed and I lean against the lip of the open trunk and converse.
—Paris and me, we met him, he was straight out of juvie. Crazy little fucker.
CRACK!
—Who?
—The Chink, the guy busted your nose there.
They know him. And why not? Why shouldn’t goons know each other? All members in the goon union, no doubt.
—You know him?
CRACK!
—All of ’em, we know all of ’em.
—All of them?
CRACK!
Paris flips the cylinder on the revolver and dumps the empty shells onto the ground. He feels around in his pockets and, not finding what he wants, walks back over toward the car. Ed reaches behind himself in the trunk, finds something and tosses it to Paris. It’s a full box of cartridges. Paris loads up and goes back to work.
CRACK!
—Sure, we know ’em. The Chink, Bolo, he’s the Hawaiian-lookin’ guy, those fucked-up Russian fags, and Roman. Now he’s one zombie motherfucker. Yeah, we know all those cats, but we’re really looking for our man Russ. You know Russ.
CRACK!
Ed is about five eight or so and has little bowling balls stuck in his arms where his biceps should be. He never turns his face toward me, just stares out in the direction of his brother, his eyes hidden behind his pitch-black sunglasses.
Caught Stealing Page 7
