Caught Stealing

by Charlie Huston

  —Hank?

  I keep my eyes on the road.

  —Yeah?

  —I don’t want to be a backseat driver, but ya know this thing does, like, have a fifth gear.

  Shit!

  I hit fifth and we pull away smoothly. It won’t last. Just ahead the Williamsburg Bridge cuts the sky above us. Below it, running parallel to the big bridge, the Delancey Street

  footbridge crosses the FDR and drops its ramp smack into the middle of the access road. There’s space to go around on either side, but it looks a lot smaller going out at seventy than it did coming in at fifteen.

  Roman taps us again and I veer slightly left. He guns it and pushes up alongside us on the right. I edge farther to the left, trying to line up with the thin space between the foot ramp and the row of lampposts along the road there. I’d like to spare a look for Roman, but the play in the wheel is giving me fits. Never fear. He reminds me of his presence by giving us another shove before peeling off right to line up with the gap on that side of the ramp. The shove takes us over too far and the driver’s-side rearview snaps off against a lamppost. It ricochets into my window. The window shatters instantly, and hundreds of little pebbles of glass collapse into my lap while the rearview flies past my left ear and into the backseat.

  I flinch and blink. When I open my eyes, we’re at the gap. I have to jerk the wheel to get us back on line. We swerve through the narrow space and I think I feel the bumper clip something as the rear end gives a slight tug. We’re through but come out veering to the right. I try to put us straight on the road. It’s too late. We broadside Roman’s car as he comes through on the other side of the ramp. His car is much bigger than ours and we rebound back to the center of the road. He loses the wheel for a moment and scrapes the side of his car down the iron fence on that side of the road. A fountain of sparks roostertails into the sky and we pull away again.

  The road takes a nice easy arc to the right, passing Corlears Hook Park on our left. Just ahead it narrows down to one car’s width as it passes the pier’s storage yard. Roman is just about on us as I gear down and brace myself.

  —Russ, hold on to Bud.

  I catch his rapid nodding out of the corner of my eye as we hit the eighteen-inch speed bumps at just over forty miles per hour. The front end springs up and, as it starts to drop, the rear hits the bump and pops up, driving the front down at an even steeper angle. I pump the brakes and try to keep the wheels pointed straight ahead. We bounce and skitter to the next one and hit it hard. We come down skidding to the left. I try to steer into the skid and goose the gas. We get traction and I straighten us out for the last bump and ease over it at twenty. Just behind us, Roman hits the first bump at top speed.

  He just about flips but hangs on. The second one pops him off the road and into the chain link of the storage yard. His car plows to a sudden stop against the fence and we’re in the parking lot. I cut the wheel hard right, heading for the exit, jump the light at the intersection there and hairpin us straight up the FDR on-ramp, picking up speed. We pass Roman’s car, still pointed the opposite direction on the access road. He’s already moving, headed for the FDR.

  I try to get lost in the traffic. I mix in and slow down to match the flow. We pass under the Williamsburg Bridge again, going north this time. Russ is nuzzling the back of Bud’s neck and whispering to him and Roman drives right up on us.

  We’re in the far right lane and he pulls up on our left. I look out the window. Bolo is there, just a few feet away, sucking his scratched thumb. Roman doesn’t spare me a look, just keeps his eyes on the traffic. I can see Whitey still in the backseat, but I can’t tell if he’s alive or dead. I’ll never lose them as long as this is a race about speed. I need to slow the chase down. I pull onto the Houston Street

  exit ramp. Roman brakes fast and veers over to follow us. At the top of the ramp, I ignore the stop sign and blaring horns of the other cars and take us halfway around the traffic circle and onto Houston headed west. Roman trails.

  Traffic is heavy and Roman stays right with us. From the middle lane, I take a right off Houston onto Avenue A. I cut in front of several cars and the drivers all lean on their horns. Roman gets tangled in the mess and I take a lead down the avenue.

  The weekend traffic has us slowed way down by the time we get to 9th Street

  , Roman is back with us. But that’s OK, because I can already see the lights up ahead.

  It looks like a movie set up on my block: cop cars, news vans, barricades and rubberneckers galore. Roman has caught on and he’s dropping back. It might be worth it to me to drive through and chance being recognized, but not even Roman can get through all those cops with a dying Russian gangster in his backseat. He turns off at 12th Street

  , heading east. He’ll have to detour a few blocks. Otherwise he’ll no doubt end up at a similar mess a block away outside Paul’s. Russ takes his face out of Bud’s neck, looks up and registers the scene.

  —Hey, Hank, like, what the fuck? Mmmm.

  —Just take it easy, man.

  —Mmmm.

  —Easy.

  He rubs his nose against Bud’s face.

  —Hear that, Buddy? Take it easy. Mmmm. Easy. Mmmm.

  I look at him. He keeps his face close to Bud’s.

  The cops wave cars through the intersection at A and 13th one at a time and they creep past my apartment building. We get to the front of the line and the cop holds us there for a second with an upraised palm as crosstown traffic passes by. I spot a few people I know from the block mixed in with the reporters and sightseers. I pull up the collar on my jacket and hunch down a little in the seat.

  The cop waves us through and never once looks in the car. The cops have been forced to use barricades to create room for a narrow lane in the middle of the street. We edge along and I picture a similar scene in front of my parents’ house. Reporters on the front lawn, strangers driving by to gawk and neighbors on porches pointing their fingers and shaking their heads. Russ never looks up from Bud’s neck. We’re held up at 14th by another traffic cop and I look east down the street, trying to see if Roman has circled around. I can’t see him, but now this car has become a target and I want out of it. The cop gives us the OK and I turn left just as the Celica starts to cough and shiver.

  We wobble across the intersection and I pull us over to the curb just past the bus stop on the right-hand side of the street. I look out the window and the traffic cop is pointing from himself to us, signing, asking if we need any help. I smile and wave “no thanks” back to him. He nods and turns back to his job.

  —Russ.

  —Mmmm.

  —Russ!

  —Mmmm. What?

  —The car died.

  —Mmmm.

  —Russ?

  —Yeah?

  —Are you OK?

  He takes his face from Bud and looks at me. His left pupil has swollen, almost eclipsing the entire iris.

  —Like, I don’t know, Hank. I don’t feel too good.

  We have to get out of this car.

  —It’s good to see you, Buddy. Mmmm.

  We have to get out of this car.

  —Good to see you. Mmmm. Sorry, I’m sorry I, like, left you for so long, Buddy.

  We have to get out of this fucking car. The cop back at the intersection keeps glancing over at us. A few blocks away, Roman and Bolo are dumping Whitey or stuffing him in the trunk and coming after us. The left side of Russ’s face is sagging and frozen and he keeps rubbing it against Bud and whispering to him. We have to get out of this car before that cop comes walking over here to see what’s up, but I don’t know where to go next.

  The cell phone rings.

  —Buddy, Buddy, Buddy. I missed you, Buddy. Mmmm.

  It rings again.

  —Buuuuddy.

  I take it out of my pocket and stare at it as it rings a third time.

  —I’m sorry you, like, got hurt, Buddy. Mmmm. That was, that was really my fault.

  It starts to
ring again and I flip it open.

  —Hello?

  —Hello?

  —Hello?

  —Is this Russ Miner?

  Fuck!

  —Uh, yes.

  —Mr. Miner, this is Detective Craig Williams of the New York City Police Department.

  Oh, fuck.

  —Yes?

  —Mr. Miner, are you alone? Are you free to speak?

  —Yes.

  The cop is looking over at us again.

  —Mr. Miner, we’ve been tracking your credit card transactions and found you had opened this account in the last twenty-four hours.

  —Uh-huh.

  —That’s how we got this number.

  —Uh-huh.

  —Mr. Miner, we believe that you are in great danger.

  —Uh, why?

  —Mr. Miner, do you know Henry Thompson? His parents were called from this number earlier today.

  Oh, oh, fuck.

  —Uh.

  —Are you with Henry Thompson? Is he holding you against your will?

  Are you fucking kidding me?

  —Uh.

  —If you’re not free to speak, just answer yes or no. Do you understand?

  —Uh.

  The cop is now openly staring at us. I keep my face well inside the shadowed interior of the car.

  —Mr. Miner? Russ? Russ, this is a very dangerous man. Mr. Thompson is a very dangerous man. We know you’re in trouble, but if you’re with Henry Thompson, you are in worse danger than you know. We can help. Do you understand?

  —Uh.

  —Russ, we want to help you. Russ, are you still there?

  I turn the phone off and toss it in the backseat. Russ takes his face away from Bud again and looks at me with his crooked stare.

  —Who was that? Anybody I know?

  I get out of the car, walk around to Russ’s side and start to help him out. The cop waves one of his buddies over to take control of the traffic and strolls toward us.

  I have Russ out of the car and we’re moving away. I’m counting seconds. I’m counting seconds until I get to thirty so I can look back and see if the cop has stuck his head in the car to gander at all the broken glass and the hot-wired ignition. I make it to twenty before I turn.

  He’s not looking in the car, he’s got his back to the car. He’s got his back to the car so he can talk to Roman, who has just pulled up in his now Russian gangster–free sedan and who is, no doubt, asking about the two guys in the beige Celica. I hustle Russ down the steps of the L train station at the end of the block.

  Getting the fucking tokens takes for-fucking-ever. Russ leans against me while I dig out one of the twenties. The guy in the booth wants to know how many we need and I blank out for a second, trying to figure if I should get more than one token each, just in case. Then I get a grip on where I am and how close Roman and Bolo are and I tell him to just give me a couple and please hurry. He slides the tokens through the slot and starts counting out my seventeen dollars in change, all in singles. Then I feel the breeze from the tunnel that means the train is coming. The token guy stuffs the bills at me and I grab them and drag Russ to the turnstiles. It’s another project just to get the two of us through and then down the next set of steps. The train is pulling in, but it’s on the opposite track, heading into Brooklyn. I start moving Russ down the platform toward the far end, away from the entrance and the turnstiles.

  —What do you say, Russ?

  —Mmmm. I don’t know, Hank.

  We’re moving along OK now. I’m on his left side, helping him, but he does seem to have some control over the left leg and all I really have to do is keep him balanced.

  —You feelin’ any better?

  —Hank?

  —Yeah?

  —What the hell are you doin’, man?

  —Well, Russ, I’m trying to get us out of here.

  —But, like, all those cops back there, man. Let’s just. Mmmm. Let’s just, man, just hand me over, cuz, like, I think I’m pretty fucked up.

  We’re getting close to the end of the platform and I can see the tunnel brightening ahead of us as a train approaches the station. I look back up the platform in the opposite direction. Still no Roman. We get to the end and I lean Russ against the wall. He has Bud’s bag hanging from his neck and Bud is trying to squirm out. I push him back in and zip the bag all the way shut as the train comes rocketing into the station.

  —The thing is, Russ, I thought we might go pick up the money. Then I thought we might go see a doctor and get you fixed up. Then I thought we might take off someplace and hide out. What do ya say, man, sound good?

  —Yeah, that’s, like, cool and all, but you, like, gave fucking Roman the key. Mmmm. You gave him the key, man.

  I pull Russ to the edge of the platform as the train comes to a stop. The doors slide open with a little sound. Ding-dong! We stand aside while a load of young artist poseurs from Williamsburg pile off to go drinking in the East Village.

  —I gave him the wrong key.

  —Huh?

  —I gave him the key to my storage unit, Russ. We still have the money.

  As we step into the last car of the train, I catch some action at the other end of the platform: Roman and Bolo plunging down the stairs and through the crowd, trying to make it into the first car.

  —We, like, still have the money?

  —That’s right, man, we still have it. So just relax and everything’s gonna be OK.

  Ding-dong! The doors slide halfway shut, stop, and slide back open the way they do when someone is blocking a door somewhere on the train. Ding-dong! They slide shut all the way. Me? I’d say Roman made it onto the train.

  The train will make three stops before it reaches the end of the line at Eighth Avenue

  . I’m trying to figure how long it will take Roman and Bolo to work their way back through the whole train to us. The trains are eight cars long. Every other car has a locked door; they’ll have to jump cars at each station to get around the locked doors. I’m thinking about the layout of the stations between here and the end of the line, thinking about where to make our break. We pull into the Third Avenue

  station.

  Ding-dong! The doors open and a few people get on and off. I’ve got Russ parked in a seat. I go to the door and stick my head out. At the far end of the train, in the second car, Bolo is doing the same thing. He sees me. I duck back into the car. Ding-dong! And we’re off again. Next stop: Union Square

  . When the train pulls in we’ll be near the stairs at the back of the platform. We can make a run for it, hope they don’t see us get off, and catch another train or hit the street.

  I grab Russ’s arm and start to lift him off the seat, but he’s just deadweight. I look around the car. No one is paying the slightest attention to us. New Yorkers: God forbid you should look up, you might see something. I sit next to him and feel his wrist. There’s a pulse. Hopefully he’s just blacked out and not in a coma. We’re hitting Union Square

  .

  —Russ, come on, man. Time to go. Let’s go.

  No response. The train is stopping. I can leave him here. There is no reason not to leave him here. Except, of course, that Roman and Bolo will kill him if they find him.

  —Russ.

  I slap his cheek lightly. Nothing. In his lap, the bag shifts slightly as Bud moves around. Ding-dong! People are pouring off the train, on the train. I step to the door and look out. Bolo is there, still in the second car. He waves. I wave back and step off the train. He says something to someone inside the train and he and Roman both step off. I step back on. They step on. I step back off. Roman stays on the train. Bolo jumps onto the platform and starts heading toward me. Ding-dong! I dive back on as the doors slide shut. The doors stop and slide back open. Ding-dong! They close all the way. He made it back on. But it was worth it to watch him dance. Next stop: Sixth Avenue

  .

  Russ won’t come around. We pull into the Sixth Avenue

  station. Ding-dong! I
look out the door again. Bolo and Roman duck out of the second car and into the first door of the third car. They’re gone from view for a moment. I pray for the doors to close before they can get any closer. No luck. They pop out the doors at the near end of the fourth car and jump into the fifth car. Ding-dong! They’ll hit another locked door between the six and seven cars. That’s as close as they can get until we pull into Eighth Avenue

  . The end of the line. I sit on the seat next to Russ and take his hand as we start to move.

  —Wow.

  I look at Russ.

  —Wow, man, I just, like, went out there.

  He shakes his head and looks around.

  —So yeah, man, let’s, like, get that money.

  We pull in at Eighth Avenue

  , standing in front of the door, waiting for it to open. It takes forever. Ding-dong! The stairs are right in front of us. Russ holds on to me and we rush ahead of the other passengers and up the stairs into the station proper. Two cars behind us, Roman and Bolo get pinned in the thick of the crowd trying to cram up the one stairway.

  We hit the top of the ramp that leads into the heart of the station and I pause to look back. Roman and Bolo are at the bottom of the ramp. They’re moving quickly through the crowd, Bolo cutting a path for them. I look at the turnstiles, but Russ is just moving too slow for us to make a break for it on the street. I turn right, deeper into the station, heading for the A train platform.

  We pass two down staircases, both closed for repairs. Russ has his left arm draped over my shoulder and is doing a little hop-skip to keep up. I hear a train pulling into the station on the A-C-E tracks, but I can’t tell if it’s on the uptown or downtown platform. I make a guess and drag Russ to the left and down the stairs to the downtown platform, with Roman and Bolo breathing down our necks. If there’s no train we’ll be pinned down here.