Caught Stealing (2004) (26 page)

I step closer and he takes hold of my chin and tilts my face this way and that in the light.

-I'm not a mad dog.

He lets go of my face and takes a step back to look me over.

-I didn't kill those people. I'm not a mad dog.

He sits down in front of his computer.

-At this point, man, I don't really give a fuck.

-I do.

He looks at me over his shoulder.

-Fair enough, Maddog. As long as you're paying, you didn't kill anybody. But like I said, I really don't give a fuck. So can it and I'll try and get some work done.

I sit on a folding metal chair, unzip Bud and take him out. He's awake, but a little dopey I think. Those pills kind of knock him out. I put him on the floor and he curls up under my chair. Billy starts doing things with the computer and pieces of paper and plastic and pens and razor blades and ink. I stay out of the way.

-I'm gonna give you some hair.

Hours have passed. Billy sent out to the White Castle and had a sack of burgers and fries delivered. It was really good. Bud is walking around, checking stuff out. I've been watching Billy, doing what he tells me to.

-It will be better if the passport and the driver's license show you with some hair, especially if it's two different styles. That way everything doesn't look like it was done at the same time. Thing is, I don't want to give you your natural color, cuz then you'll just look like the Wanted posters. So you're gonna be blond, OK?

-Sure.

-OK.

He took a few photos of me earlier and scanned them into the computer. He's already digitally removed the bruises and cuts from my face and now he starts laying in various styles and shades of blond hair. I've moved my chair close so I can peek over his shoulder. He is good. He's really fucking good.

-So, for the passport, I'm giving you a little buzz thing and how about this moppy thing for the license?

I just watch while he moves things around with his mouse and occasionally pushes a button. He gets up and goes over to a set of large printers. He feeds a small sheet of plasticized cardboard into one.

-Those will burn for a while. So, let's do some work on you.

He leads me to a corner of the shop concealed behind a heavy rubber drape on ceiling tracks, like in a hospital. He pulls back the drape to reveal a bathroom. He switches on more lights and looks at me again.

-You're stuck with the bruises. I could put some makeup on them, but it wouldn't last very long. Leave them alone and if anyone asks, tell them you were in a car accident. Tell them you got rear-ended and smacked the steering wheel with your face. The hair I want to change. That fuzz is too dark for the blond I gave you in the photos. We can't match the color exactly, but we can bleach it so it looks like you're trying to be hip or something. You ever bleach your hair before?

-No.

-It hurts, gonna burn your scalp like hell.

It does hurt. Quite a bit.

My name is John. John Peter Carlyle. Billy made me write it out a couple hundred times before he'd let me sign it on the documents. He said I needed to work at it to make it look natural. And it does, it looks great, it all looks great. Billy has everything laid out on a table and he explains it all to me while he takes sips of Dr Pepper from a two-liter bottle.

-The passport and the license should get you through any kind of airport thing and past any border. I put stamps for Mexico, Canada and France in the passport to give you a little travel history, backdated everything and distressed it all so it looks like you've had it for a while. The problem is, there's no backup identity in any of the official computers. If a cop or someone actually runs your name through a computer or tries to zip that driver's license, it's gonna come up blank and the jig will be up, so don't let it happen. Got that?

Bud is back in my lap. I scratch his ears and nod.

-OK. Now, the credit cards? Those are different. I do most of my business in high-end plastic. Carlyle is a fake identity, but he has an actual credit history. You could use those cards and as long as you paid the bills, you could just hang on to them. Don't. Use them for plane tickets cuz they look for people booking last-minute trips in cash. Use them for the tickets, then get rid of them. You got a wallet?

-No.

He digs in a crate under the table and pulls out two cardboard boxes. One is filled with used wallets, the other with photos.

-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 fall 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.