Caught Stealing (2004) (31 page)

More headlines at the newsstands.

Daily News: SHOOTOUT!

The Post: WILD, WILD, WEST!

The New York Times: Four Dead in Late Night Gunfight

I end up back on 14th Street, the axis of my life. Krazy Fashions is right there off of Sixth Avenue. I slip a pack of fifties into my pocket, leave the cart on the street and go into the store, hauling the big money bag and the little cat bag.

Do they think I'm a criminal? I walk in off the street, stinking and beaten and start passing out fifties. Of course I'm a criminal. But they just don't care and they sure as shit don't think I'm the criminal. I keep Bud zipped up in his bag and I get outstanding service. I buy a nice, light olive three-button two-piece Italian suit, a cream Yves Saint Laurent shirt, oxblood wing tips and a selection of underwear and socks. The staff tosses my old shit, gives me a robe to wear and does the alterations while I wait. I keep Bud in the bag and he keeps quiet. I borrow the phone and, about the time the suit is ready, my car pulls up outside. The Pakistani guy that owns the store carries my bag out for me and puts it in the trunk. I slip him a couple extra fifties and he tells me to come back soon.

I slide into the back of the Town Car. Mario holds out his hand and I give him skin. He's listening to the Saturday Night Fever sound track: "If I Can't Have You."

-Newark International.

-Sweet.

He put us on the road and turns his head to look back at me.

-Got a joint on you, man?

-Sorry.

-No sweat.

He reaches into his breast pocket, whips out a bone and sparks it. He tokes and holds it up for me.

-Bro?

-Thanks.

I take the joint and rip off a lungful. It burns like shit and, as I pass the number back, I start hacking. Mario takes the joint and hands me a bottle of water. I take a couple swallows between coughs.

-Thanks.

-No sweat. Take another?

He offers the joint again. I pass. The one hit is mellowing me out, mellowing me and helping me not to think too much.

The cops are in evidence at the airport. Heavily. Mario drives us to the dropoff curb for American departures. He hops out, opens my door and fetches my bag from the trunk. I put the bag on the ground and kneel next to it. I open it about six inches, reach in, pull out three packs of hundreds and wave Mario down to my level. I give him the cash.

-One for you. Give two to Tim and tell him one is for Billy. OK?

-Very.

-You know who I am?

-Undoubtedly.

-Stay cool, Mario.

-Very.

He takes the cash and gives me skin. I let a skycap carry my bag to the counter and tip him twenty.

-Aisle or window?

-Aisle, please. And if you can get me next to an empty seat, that would be great.

-No problem.

My reservation is all in order. I pass the ticket girl John Carlyle's Visa card and passport. She looks from me to the picture, twice, then slides it back. Her eyes flick to my face a few times as she does the paperwork.

-Got rear-ended.

-Oh, my God. Was anybody hurt?

-Not badly. Just me.

I have a thought.

-Uh, is there any room in first class?

-Sure.

-Would you mind, I think I need the, uh, I'd like to upgrade.

-No problem.

It costs a lot.

-Bags?

-One to check, one carry-on.

I fill out the tag, she attaches it to the big black bag and I watch all that money slide away on the conveyor. Nothing ventured . . .

-You're all set, Mr. Carlyle. You might want to hurry a bit, that flight is getting ready to board. Have a nice trip.

I take my ticket and head toward my gate. I pass about five or six cops standing in a circle, talking about the Mets. My picture is still on the front page of all the papers, and I am unseen. I feel powerful. Then I get to the X-ray machines and remember I have a cat in my bag and no papers to take him on board.

The bathrooms are off to the left. I go in and take the first stall. I put the bag on my lap and unzip. Bud pokes his head out and I give him a little rub. I should have left him with Billy. He would have given him to the chick who digs cats. Now?

I dig around in the bag until I find his pill bottle. I read the label very carefully. I'm supposed to give him two a day, one in the morning and one at night. I chuck Bud under the chin and shake three of the pills into my hand. I feed them to him one after another, then hold him until he's still. I stand and set Bud down on the floor. I take off my jacket and shirt and pull up my T-shirt. I sit back on the toilet, unwind the Ace bandage from my middle and pick Bud back up. It's hard, but I manage to hold him against me and wrap the bandage around him at the same time, making a kind of sling for his body. I look in the bag and find the spare bandage and use it as well. I stand up and he stays put, bound to my stomach by the double bandage. I tuck the T-shirt back in, button and tuck in my Yves, put the jacket back on and do up all three buttons. I open the stall door and step out. In the mirror it doesn't look bad, a beer belly.

I get to the checkpoint. I set the bag on the conveyor and watch it slide through. I walk through the metal detector and set off no alarms. I don't sweat, I don't tremor, my eyes are not shifty. I am a criminal mastermind. I am cold as ice. The cops and the airport security are barely looking. I have already become a myth to them. No one so wanted could ever make it this far, so they sip their coffee and bitch about their jobs and I stroll past.

I stop at the pay phones. When she picks up, I hear a series of clicks and voices in the background.

-It's me, Mom.

-Are you all right, Henry? Are you all right?

-I'm OK, Mom. I'm going away.

-Where?

-I can't say.

-Oh. They're here, Henry. They want to talk to you.

-I love you, Mom.

-Oh, Henry.

-Tell Dad I love him.

-Henry.

-I love you.

-I love you, Henry.

First class is nice. They give me a hot towel and I put it over my face to hide all the tears.

When the seat belt light goes off, I go to the can with my bag and unwrap Bud. His breathing is shallow. I hope he's OK. I pad myself with some towels from the bag so I still look fat and put Bud back in. I leave it a tiny bit unzipped so he can breathe easier. The whole flight, they offer me cocktails. I take a couple Vics instead.

We land in Cancun. I've never been to Mexico before, but I've heard customs is very easy here. When I go to claim my luggage, the money bag is already there, revolving on the carousel.

The customs agent looks at my face and at my passport. He grimaces a little and looks inquisitive. I smile ruefully.

-Car accident.

-?Si? Ouch.

-Mucho ouch.

He laughs and stamps my papers.

-Have a nice visit, sir.

-Thank you.

I'm walking toward the exit. Up ahead there is a small traffic light. As passengers arrive at the light, they push a little button. If the light flashes green, they exit the airport. Red, and they and their bags are subjected to a random search. I push the button.

It's a very Christmassy kind of green.

EPILOGUE

OCTOBER 1, 2000

Single-Game Playoff

The town is about an hour south of Cancun. It's small, nice. I'm in a bar. The bar is on the beach; it has no walls and is covered by a roof of logs and thatched palm leaves. Instead of a stool, I sit on a rope swing suspended from the timbers of the roof. I sway in a warm breeze and, if I dangle my legs right, my toes drag back and forth in the sand. It is early evening and a thunderstorm is swinging in from offshore. Lightning is crackling over the perfect sea and bathwater-warm rain will soon fall. There are pretty girls everywhere and the stereo behind the bar is playing Stevie Ray Vaughn's "Pride and Joy." Bud is sprawled on the bar next to me, woozy but awake. The bartenders think it's very funny I brought my cat, but they like him. Everybody likes Bud. The pretty girls especially like Bud. I have a room up the beach a little. It has a balcony and a hammock. I stopped by the gift shop long enough to buy some shorts and sandals, took a shower in my room and left the money bag in the closet. Then I took a walk and found this place.

On the bar I have spread out various relics I found in Bud's bag. The plane ticket I would have used to get home at Christmas. Mario's card. Ed's card. Roman's card. The police photo of Yvonne's neck. I think about how mad she used to get at me for always living in the past. I close my eyes and feel the sun and the breeze and see the pile of bodies behind the bar at Paul's. Russ holding Bud. Ed and Paris holding hands. Bolo putting out his arms for balance just before he went down. Roman just wanting me to get it over with.

On the bar they have set out bowls full of Spanish peanuts dusted with chili powder. I take a handful and eat them one by one. They're good. I hold one out to Bud and he licks the powder off.

I'm drinking Jarritos orange soda. Soon, at 6:00, it will be happy hour. For every drink I order, they will bring me three. At 6:30, they will turn on the TV above the bar and show the satellite broadcast of the Mets vs. Giants, live from New York. I curl my toes and crunch the cool, damp sand. My feet don't hurt at all. Someone rings a bell. It's 6:00. I signal the bartender and order a beer.

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