—Take a wallet. Bend it around, twist it up a bit. Also take a couple pictures. Don’t go crazy, cuz if someone asks you who’s in the picture, you need to be able to answer. Carlyle is single according to his credit applications, so take a girlfriend and maybe a nice middle-aged couple to be your folks, but no kids.
I sift through the photos in the box. I find one of a pretty brunette leaning against a tree. I find another of a couple in their early sixties standing in a kitchen somewhere, looking happy.
—And give me all your old ID. Carry that shit around and you’ll end up giving it to some teller, she asks for a second piece of ID to cash a check.
I hand him all my ID, everything that says Henry Thompson.
—Don’t talk to people, but don’t be rude. If they ask you where you’re from, say New York. Keep the details to a minimum and don’t improvise. You get on a plane, tell some hag in the next seat you live on West Eighty-second, next thing you know, she lives there, too. Give her a bogus address, turns out it’s hers. Then you got to kill the bitch or something. Best bet, wear that Walkman and don’t play it too loud and no one will fuck with you. And don’t try to fly in those clothes; they reek.
I tell him thank you and collect the papers and plastic: passport, driver’s license, Social Security, gym membership, bank card, library card, Blockbuster membership. I put Bud in the bag and head for the door, followed by Billy. He stands aside to let me into the little exit hall.
—You should get rid of the cat.
I stare at him.
—You’re carrying around a cat, man. I can give you papers and bleach the hair, but you’re still a dude walking around with a cat and that’s a pretty big fucking identifying feature. “Did you notice anything unusual about the man?” “Weeelll . . . He was carrying a cat, if that’s any help, Officer.” Get what I mean? Leave the cat here. I’ll take care of it, I know a chick who digs cats.
—I can’t.
He looks me over like I’m just about the stupidest sack of shit he’s ever seen.
—Some mad dog. OK, look: It’s dark out and it’s supposed to rain some. Plus, with the big game, there shouldn’t be a lot of people out tonight. You try to stay away from bright public places and, uh, keep the cat in the bag.
—Great.
I open the outer door. Sure enough, it smells like rain and I can feel the muscles in my damaged calf starting to cramp. I scratch at my head; it itches and burns from the bleach job.
—I’ll send you more cash when the dust clears.
—Whatever. Look, don’t scratch like that or it’ll scab up, look like shit and feel even worse.
I stop scratching.
—Thanks.
—No problem. Well, you go get ’em, Maddog.
I let the door fall closed behind me. John Peter Carlyle and I head for the L train back to Manhattan. Me, myself and my cat.
The asshole in the seat across from mine won’t stop looking at me. He’s got a goddamn magazine. Why doesn’t he just fucking read it? He’ll look at it for a couple seconds, then glance up and check me out again. Fuck! I’ve got my Walkman and my sunglasses and my new blond hair and my reeky clothes and this guy just can’t take his eyes off of me. He looks at me again and I stare right back at him. He puts his eyes in his magazine, then glances back up to find me still staring at him. He looks back down.
—Hey.
He keeps his face in the magazine, I think it’s Film Comment or some shit.
—Hey!
Man, he can really read that magazine when he wants to.
—Hey, you. Scorsese.
He looks up a little.
—Yeah, you. You got a problem?
He looks back at his magazine.
—Hey. I said, “Do you have a problem?”
He doesn’t look up, but he mumbles something.
—What was that? I didn’t hear that.
—I don’t have a problem.
—So then mind your own business and don’t stare at people. It’s rude.
He gives a tiny nod and keeps his eyes locked on the page in front of him. I stare at him for a few more seconds, then take a quick look around the car. Passengers with something to look at are doing so and the ones without are either staring off into space or have their eyes closed. No one will look at me or that other guy for the rest of the trip. My heart goes BANG-BANG-BANG!
The train passes under the East River and stops at First Avenue
in the heart of my neighborhood. The guy with the magazine and several other passengers get off, but I see him and a few of the others board the next car down. Trying to get away from the smelly freak. I watch the people getting on the train, fearing a familiar face, but I don’t recognize anyone. Most of the new passengers are wet. The rain must have started up.
The train moves on. I think about the chase last night, on this train, through these same stops. I still don’t know what happened to Russ. He must have been found by now. I looked at a little news on the TV back at Billy’s, but they didn’t say anything about Russ. It was all about the murders and the search for me. I turned it off before I could get too freaked out.
At Union Square
, some yahoos wearing head-to-toe Mets gear get on. They’re mouthing off to one another and talking real fucking big for a bunch of fans whose team is skidding hard. I want to say something and put them in their places, but I keep my head down and my mouth shut. If I ever had any good karma, it’s been cashed in and then some.
The train stops at Eighth Avenue
, end of the line. The Mets fans pile out in a herd, jostling their way to their favorite sports bar. I trace the path I took with Russ last night, up the stairs and the ramp. This time I take the turnstiles out of the station and go up to the street. There’s a nice soft shower falling. I left Billy’s around 6:30, so it must be just about 7:00. The Mets game starts at 7:30 if this rain doesn’t cause a delay and fuck things up. I walk west on 14th into the meat-packing district.
Past the actual meat markets and the underground sex clubs and the new chichi restaurants, 14th Street
runs into Tenth Avenue
. The street is half cobbles and half ripped-up tarmac here, crosshatched by old train tracks and shadowed by an industrial skyway that links two warehouses. I wait in a patch of darkness, leaning against a billboard’s support pillar. Up the way is a gas station for cabs and the street is dotted with Yellows waiting to be retrieved by drivers on coffee and piss breaks. The Metro buses do driver swaps here as well, so there’s a short line of buses parked along the block. But the real trade is still the hookers. The area is essentially devoid of residential housing or retail, so no one has bothered to clear out the whores, which is good news for all the businessmen who stop here in their SUVs on weekdays to get a quick hum job before they split back to their families in Connecticut. Most of the trade is pretty bent, not the little-boy hustlers you find on Christopher Street
so much as transvestites and transsexuals. I wave off a couple offers. All and all, things are pretty slow, what with it being a Sunday and the rain and the big game. Come by here after the game if the Mets win and the place will be hopping.
I think about these things and they mostly keep me from thinking about Yvonne’s apartment being a short walk away and that helps me not to think about Yvonne and that helps me not to think about Paul’s and that helps me not to think about Russ and how I really did fucking kill him. Shit, oh, shit.
The Caddie glides to a stop at the curb several feet away and the rear passenger door swings open.
I walk over and stick my head inside. Paris is behind the wheel, not looking at me, Ed reclines at the far side of the backseat. It’s dark inside the car and looks even darker because of the sunglasses I’m wearing. The sunglasses, I now realize, that are just like the ones Ed and Paris sport. Ed is looking at me from over his glasses and below the brim of his cowboy hat. He pats the seat next to him. I look at the street around me and let a few more drops of rain fal
l on the back of my neck, then climb in and close the door. Paris puts the Caddie in drive and Ed shakes his head.
—Christ, you stink.
I crack the window to let some of the smell out and take off my headphones.
—Look at you. Man, Paris, take a look at the boy.
Paris turns his head to take a look at me.
—Looks like crap.
He turns back to the road.
—No, nah, man. He looks tough. You lookin’ tough, Hank.
—Thanks.
—Sure, sure. So, not to be rude, but where the fuck’s our money?
I take off the sunglasses.
—Drive over to Twelfth and Twenty-eighth. Chelsea Mini Storage.
—No shit?
—No shit.
Paris makes a turn at 23rd and takes us to Twelfth, then heads north. Ed is watching me and smiling.
—Really, man, I can’t get over it. Couple days ago, you were just some cat with the shit beat out of him, but now you got something. You look like a player now, son. Focused, determined. Look at me.
I look at him.
—No, man, look me in the eyes.
He takes off his sunglasses.
—That’s it, stare right in there.
I stare into his sleepy, bent eyes for a couple seconds, then fear crawls all over me and I look away. He slips his glasses back on.
—That’s all right, man. That is all right. You definitely got a little Eastwood going on in there. Without a doubt. Way to go.
I unzip the bag. Bud sticks his head up and forces the zipper the rest of the way open so he can slide out. He stretches and starts to groom. Ed frowns.
—A cat, huh?
—Yeah.
—That’s cool, I guess. Just don’t let it fuck up the upholstery.
The Caddie pulls to a stop and Paris turns off the engine.
—We’re here. It’s closed.
I look out the window and see the sign posted on the office door, which very clearly sets out the weekly hours for Chelsea Mini Storage. I take special note of the fact that they are open until 8:00 P.M. every night of the week except for Sunday, when they close at 7:00 P.M. I freak.
—Fuck! Shit! Piss! Tits! Motherfucker! Shit!
I pound my head against the back of the front seat and Bud hops from my lap down to the floor.
—Un-fucking-believable! One, just one fucking fucked-up fucking thing can’t fucking work. FUCK! Fuck me! Fucking God! I. I. I.
I wrap my arms around myself and rock back and forth.
—Why doesn’t anything work?
Ed puts a hand on my shoulder.
—Take it easy, man. No sweat. We got it covered.
I look up and he gives my shoulder a little squeeze. Paris reaches under the front seat and pulls out a double-barreled shotgun, sawed off to about twelve inches.
—Yeah, man, we got it covered.
The drizzle is starting to turn to real rain. I stand outside the office door with my headphones and sunglasses on and knock on the glass. It’s 7:37 P.M. There’s one guy inside, trying to get things settled for the night so he can go home and watch the game. I knock again. The guy looks over at me and I wave. He shakes his head and goes back to work. I take out the key to Russ’s unit and tap on the glass with it. He looks up again and I wave the key at him. He points at the sign with the posted hours and then at the clock on the office wall, shakes his head and goes back to work. I start rapping on the glass with the key. The guy tries not to look up, then finally does and I wave for him to come over. He points at the clock, flips me off and goes back to work. I start knocking as hard as I can without breaking the glass. He looks at me, then turns and walks out of the office through a door at the back. I keep knocking. He comes back into the office followed by a big guy in a security guard uniform. The boss guy sits back at his desk and the security guard walks over to the door. I stop knocking and he yells through the locked door.
—We’re closed.
—Yeah, I know, but I have to get some stuff from my unit.
—We’re closed.
—Yeah, but I really need my stuff.
—We’re closed.
He turns his back to walk away and I start banging on the glass again. He turns back.
—Knock it off.
I bang harder.
—You best knock it off or you gonna get it.
Bang, bang, bang.
—OK. You want it, you got it.
He takes the keys from the clip on his belt, unlocks the door and pushes it open. As I move back, Paris steps from the shadows next to the door. He presses the barrels of the shotgun against the guard’s face and marches him right back into the office, followed by me and Ed. The boss guy sees us come in and stands up and puts his hands on his head. Ed locks the door and I take the bandanna he gave me back in the car out of my pocket and tie it around my face. It’s black, just like the ones worn by the brothers DuRanté.
I’m an outlaw.
Every now and then, if you’re lucky, you get to see someone capable of true excellence do what it is they are best at. As a boy I got to see Willie Mays play baseball. He never got credit for half of what he did because he made it look so easy. I don’t know how hard armed robbery is, but Ed and Paris make it look easy.
They work fast and I try to keep up. They force the guard and the boss out of the office and into the loading area, near the elevators. Paris keeps the shotgun where they can see it, while Ed does all the talking and occasionally points at them with a Colt that looks identical to the one Paris used to shoot rats at the dump.
—Who else is in the building?
The boss shakes his head.
—No one.
—Bullshit! Who else?
—No one.
Ed steps over and slaps him lightly on the cheek, like he’s a stubborn child.
—No one?
—They all split fast so they could watch the Mets game.
—Are the elevators still on?
—Yes.
—Are the alarms armed for the upper floors?
—No.
Ed reaches out and gives him that little loving slap again.
—I will kill you. I will kill you.
—Off, they’re all off.
Ed turns to me.
—Where to?
—Fourth floor.
Paris stays behind in case of trouble and the rest of us get on the elevator. Ed makes the guard and the boss stand at the far end of the elevator so he can cover them, while I operate the controls and take us to the fourth floor. I pull the doors open and Ed and I step out, followed by the others. I tell them the unit number and they lead the way.
At the door, Ed covers them and I open the lock and pull the door open. Ed takes a quick look inside.
—Clean that shit up and bring the bag out.
I go inside and stuff the cash Russ and I left scattered on the floor back into the hockey bag, then I zip it up and drag it into the hall. It’s heavy. Really heavy. Ed steps away from the door and waves the guys into the unit. He steps inside the unit, close to the boss.
—Where’s the alarm pad?
The boss nods.
—Right next to the office door in a locked case.
—Where’s the key?
—On the ring in my pocket. It’s the small silver round one.
Ed slips his hand in the boss’s pocket and pulls out the keys.
—How do we activate the alarm?
—Eight-four-five-one. Then press “cycle.” You have thirty seconds to leave and lock the door with the biggest key on the ring before the alarm goes off.
Ed walks very close to him.
—Tell me again.
—Eight-four-five-one. Cycle. Thirty seconds.
The boss tries to cower away from Ed, but Ed slips an arm around his shoulders and pulls him close.
—I’ll kill you both. I’ll come back from the dead and kill you both.
—Eight-four-five-one cycle thirty.
Ed backs out of the room and I close the door and lock it. He helps me carry the money to the elevator. We go down, get Paris, activate the alarm, lock the door behind us, throw the money in the trunk, get in the Caddie and drive away. Ed pulls the bandanna from his face and looks at me.
—See, we got it covered.
We’re in the apartment they grew up in.
—Roman got the Chink, and your boss got Bert, and Russ got Ernie. So who got Russ?
Their mother died some years back, never having reconciled with her hoodlum sons. A cousin got the lease and the brothers arranged for the apartment to be maintained as a hideout. Ed told me about it as we drove out here to Queens. Paris listened and added nothing of his own. I watch Bud lap milk from a little blue bowl on the linoleum kitchen floor.
Paris is sitting at the Formica-topped kitchen table, surrounded by the cash, tapping out numbers on a calculator and scribbling them down in a yellow legal pad. Ed and I sit on a beat-up couch with plastic covers. He’s drinking a Heineken. I’m drinking ginger ale.
—I got Russ.
Paris looks up from his figures and Ed nods his head.
—No shit?
—No shit.
—What’d you get ’im with?
—A baseball bat.
—Fuck.
I’m squeezing little dents into my soda can, then popping them out. Pop, pop, pop, pop.
—Well, Russ was a OK cat, but I guess he kind of screwed us all. Damn, a baseball bat?
—Uh-huh.
—I’m tellin’ you, Hank, watchin’ you, it’s like watchin’ a egg get all hard-boiled. No shit.
Paris clears his throat and Ed looks over at him.
—Well?
—Four million five hundred twenty-eight thousand.
—No shit?
—Yep.
—How ’bout that? Only twenty-two K short. Let’s hear it for Russ keeping his fingers out of the till.
I take a swig of my soda.
—Except for trying to rob it all.
—Well, yeah, but the man wasn’t exactly made of steel, ya know?
—I know.
—Great thief, though. Great fucking thief.
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