Caught Stealing

Ed has gone over to the fridge for another beer.

– Down the hall on the right. Hold the lever down for a second or it won’t flush all the way.

I put my soda can on the coffee table, grab my bag and walk down the shag-carpeted hallway.

– Don’t take forever. I want to make that call.

The walls of the hallway are lined with photographs, each one marking the passage of another year. The first is of a handsome young couple with their newborn, a chubby little Paris. The next one is the same: the couple is on the plastic-covered couch, Paris between them getting bigger. Ed arrives in the third photo and sits in his big brother’s little lap. They grow, Paris a shy beanpole and Ed, small and intense, always wearing the outfit his brother wore a few photos back. At the tenth picture, the father disappears. There are six more. In each the boys edge toward one end of the couch and their mother toward the other, until in the final picture they sit at opposite ends, staring into the camera, unsmiling. Soon after this point, these small, beautiful boys will whip another child to death. I look at the eyes in the photos: Paris looks afraid, Ed looks hurt. I go into the bathroom.

The toilet has one of those fuzzy covers and a cushy seat. I sit to pee just because it looks so comfy, and it is. I hold the handle down and keep it there while the toilet flushes. I take off my jacket and grimy sweatshirt and crusty T-shirt and unwind my bandage. I dig the first-aid stuff out of my bag and clean my wound again and rewrap it. Then I find an extra T-shirt and a heavy flannel in the bag and put them on. There’s a wicker laundry hamper in the corner and I toss my dirty stuff inside. When I packed the bag, I didn’t bother with pants. Way to think ahead, asshole. I look in the mirror and John Carlyle looks out. He looks like he’d like to kick my ass. I open the door and go back down the hall so I can use Ed’s phone to set up Roman and Bolo to be murdered. I feel pretty good about it. Does that make me a bad person?

Ed tells me what to say.

– You’re a shit eater, Roman.

Great lines.

– And you aren’t too fucking smart, either.

Fucking Shakespeare.

– Isn’t that right, Roman; you’re a shit eater and you aren’t too fucking smart?

He’s not talking yet, so I improvise a little.

– Use that key yet, Roman? Go and open that storage unit yet? By the way, you can have any of my old stuff. I’m gonna buy new stuff with my four and a half million fucking dollars. Just don’t take the beanbag chair. I love that fucking chair.

It speaks.

– You’re making a mistake.

– The only mistake I’m making is not calling the papers and telling them about you. The only mistake I’m making is not spending a few grand of my money on making you dead.

Ed is twirling a finger at me, telling me to get on with it.

– Instead, I’m gonna give you four million. Do you want to know why I’m gonna give you four million and keep only a half million for myself?

– Yes.

– I’m gonna give you four million to help me get out of town and to help keep the Russian fucking Mafia from coming after me. I’m gonna give you that money to get you out of my fucking life forever. And then I want to go away. Sound reasonable?

– Yes.

– Good.

Paris is out front getting something from the car. Ed sits right across the little kitchen table from me. I try not to look at him too much while I’m talking because he has his sunglasses off and those fucking eyes arecreeping me out.

– At ten, I want you and Bolo to walk over to Astor Place and stand out on the traffic island, the one with the big cube.

– And?

– And just stand there, stand there and stand there with cars passing by until I feel safe and then I’ll walk over from wherever the fuck I am and I’ll give you a very big bag full of money.

– And?

– And then I will go away and I will trust that you won’t shoot me in front of a city full of witnesses. I will trust that you understand it is in your best interest that the police do not catch me, because I will tell them all about you. I will trust you understand that if the Russians find me, I will tell them it was you that killed their boys. Which may be a fucking lie, but who’s counting?

I hear the front door open and close as Paris comes back in. Ed is gesturing for me to wrap it up.

– Are we all together on this, Roman?

– Sure.

– See you at ten.

– Too bad about Russ.

– Yeah, too bad.

– I mean, his dying at your hands. That pretty much screwed you and your chances of being Mr. InnocentIn Over My Head. That was your point of no return, Hank. No going back now. No normal life for you.

– Yeah, pretty much.Your point?

– Don’t fuck with me too much, Hank. I’ve got a temper. I’m known for it. And you’re a murderer now. No one will miss you when you’re gone.

– Good point, Roman, I am a murderer. Don’t forget that. OK?

I push the power stud on the phone and break the connection. Ed is nodding his head and smiling.

– Nowthat’s the shit, right there, that’s the shit.Very slick. “I am a murderer. Don’t forget that.” And just, click. Just hang up.Very slick. What do you think, Paris? Pretty slick, huh?

Paris is standing in the doorway of the kitchen, holding a large black alloy attaché case. A little grin slides along his lips.

– Yeah, slick.

He hefts the case and points at the table.

– Why don’t you clean that off and I’ll show you something real slick, Mr. Bad-Ass.

The town I grew up in was a gun town. We never had them in my family, but most of the kids I knew grew up shooting and hunting. I’d go up in the hills with them or out to the Rod and Gun Club and plug away for a few hours. I’d flip through their back issues ofGun magazine andSoldier of Fortune and look at the guns and read about stopping power and firing rates and blow-back and concealment profiles. It was like knowing about cars or my favorite ball players. I fired rounds from an M1 Carbine, a.357 Magnum, a.38 Police Special, a 9 mm ChineseMauser knockoff, aRuger.32, a couple of.30-06 hunting rifles, several shotguns and any number of.22 rifles and handguns. Russ’s.22 was the first gun I’ve picked up in over ten years. I haven’t fired one since I was eighteen.

Paris sets the case on the table, works the little combination locks, flips the catches and opens it up. The interior of the case is lined with black foam rubber. Nestled in this lining are eight very beautiful tools designed for the single purpose of ending human life. Ed reaches into the case and runs his fingertips over all the steel.

– So how ’bout it, Hank? Youwanna carry a piece on this or what?

When I was a kid, my mom would let me go to R-rated films as long as they were rated R because of sex and cursing, not violence. I got to seeSaturday Night Fever, but notFriday the 13th. I wasn’t allowed to watchHogan’s Heroes because it treated war like a game and a joke. I wasn’t allowed even a toy gun. When the kids in the neighborhood played cops and robbers, I used a stick. And when I went shooting with my friends, I never ever let her know. I look at the guns in the case: some vintage pieces, like the set of Colt Peacemakers; others so modern and efficient, they look more like computer components than weapons.

Ed takes a small gun from the case and holds it out to me.