Caught Stealing (2004) (7 page)

Red and Roman look at each other in a way that screams, "So it's gonna be like this, is it?" Red sits on the couch next to me and I try to scoot away, but I'm already pressed against the armrest. He just sits there while I stare at him and cringe a little. Roman shakes the paper so it makes a soft rattle.

-What time were these men here?

Bud is probably under my bed. If they hurt him, there are only so many places to hide. So he's under my bed and he's hurt and scared and hungry because I didn't feed him this morning because I was too messed up. I suck.

-What time?

If I could see Bud and see how bad he is, I think I could concentrate to answer. I really want to answer. But as it is, I just keep picturing the poor bastard under the bed. Red slowly reaches out his fist until it is inches from my nose. It hovers there hypnotically for just a moment, then he pops it into my face. The cartilage in my nose gives a crack, blood pours across my mouth and tears flood my eyes. I snap out of it.

-Last night. I think two or so. But I was asleep. I got drunk. I'm not sure.

I'm cupping a hand under my nose, trying to catch the blood. Red puts a hand on my forehead and pushes my head back against the couch. Roman says something in pretty good sounding Russian and Blackie, still on his phone, comes in from the kitchen with a dishcloth and stuffs it in my hand. I put the cloth to my nose and try to slow the blood. I'm thinking to myself that this is just starting. Right now, this is just starting.

Roman asks a few more questions about the cowboys and I tell him everything I can and things seem to be going swimmingly. Red fetches some ice from the freezer for my nose, to keep it from swelling up like a squishy tomato. Whitey finds the bread and is feasting quietly on an enormous Dagwood in the kitchen while Blackie carries on with the phone. The Samoan remains behind locked doors. Roman calmly asks very precise questions. And Bud keeps getting quieter and quieter. Then Roman asks the only question that really matters.

-Where is Miner?

And I just don't have a suitable answer to that question.

-We really need to find Mr. Miner.

-And I really, really wish I could help you guys out. I mean, you have no idea how much, but I just don't fucking know.

Roman leans back in his chair and closes his eyes. He rubs at his forehead like he has this massive pain shooting through his brain. With his eyes still closed, he starts to talk.

-There is an object, something valuable. The ownership of this object is in some dispute. Be that as it may, these men and I can rightfully lay claim to this object, and we intend to do so. We have formed a profit-sharing enterprise, but if we do not find the object, there will be no profits to share. And I assure you, these men value nothing so highly as profit. Therefore, they are inspired in this situation to use means and go to lengths they might not otherwise. This is the nature of motivation. The object in question was last known to be in the possession of Mr. Miner. Now, in a moment, I will ask you a question regarding Mr. Miner and no matter your answer, it is essential that I be certain you are telling the truth. If there is any doubt in my mind, I will allow these men to do with you as they wish until that doubt no longer exists.

Which, I suppose, is one way of saying, "Tell us what we want to know or we're going to kick your ass."

-Where is Mr. Miner?

And as truthfully and sincerely as I possibly can, I answer.

-I don't know.

Roman's eyes remain closed. He sighs a little.

-But he left a key taped to the inside of the cat's carry box, if that's what you're looking for.

And Detective Lieutenant Roman opens his eyes right up.

I have a secret. I have a secret these guys know nothing about. I have a dirty sock stuffed in my mouth to keep my screams from shattering the whole building, but I also have a secret.

I told them where the key was and they looked in the box and just as I was getting ready for my life to get normal again, Red, who was looking in the box, popped his head out with a frown.

-No key.

And those two words revolved around and around in my head. They meant something, but I wasn't sure what. So they just kept plowing through the smog of my hangover, looking for a place to land while my apartment got quieter and everybody could hear Red say, again:

-No key.

And that's how I end up facedown on my bed with a mouth full of sock and Red sitting on my legs, pulling out my staples one by one with the needle-nose pliers they found in the toolbox under my sink. And I have a secret. The secret is, I don't know where the key is. So these guys can do whatever they want and I just won't talk. Because I have nothing to say. Lucky me.

I'm having trouble breathing. I have the sock in my mouth and my nose is clogged with blood, so I'm having trouble breathing. The bad guys seem to be aware of this, so they have developed a system. The way it works is, while they're actually hurting me they leave the sock in to muffle the screaming, and when they ask a question they take it out so I can answer. Every time the sock comes out, I gasp a bit to get as much air as possible before I tell them I don't know anything and they stuff it back in and I start to suffocate again.

I've got about fifty or so staples. The first few they yanked out real quick, without asking any questions at all, just so I'd get the idea, I suppose. Now, they're getting serious about it. Red sits on my legs to keep them from thrashing around and digs the tips of the pliers into my wound until he gets a good grip on one of the staples, then he starts to pull on it, slowly. The Russians have my arms pinned down, stretched straight out from my shoulders to either side of the mattress. Whitey has the right and Blackie the left. They feel like they might pop out of their sockets at any moment. I know Roman is standing near the bed off to my left, because that's where his voice comes from every time he asks another question I don't know the answer to. The Samoan has yet to make himself known to me, so I assume he's still on his own clogging up my toilet. Bud is definitely under the bed; I know this because every time I scream through the sock, he starts to yowl along with me.

They started with the easy questions.

-Where's the key?

To which I mostly spluttered.

-But I left it right there, it was right there. I don't know what could have happened to it.

Then the questions start getting a little weird.

-What is the key for?

The sock comes out.

-Gasp! Gasp! Gasp! What? Gasp! What is the key for? Gasp!

Roman pauses for a moment and I'm expecting the sock to come back, but it doesn't.

-What is the key for, what does it open?

What the fuck?

-Gasp! How the. Gasp! How the fuck should I. Gasp! Know? It's your fucking key. Gasp! Your fucking object.

This is not a state-approved answer. The sock is stuffed in my mouth. I'm in the middle of drawing in a lungful of air and the sock cuts it off. I get sock fluff lodged in my throat and I start to choke. I feel like I might vomit. I don't want to vomit. Please, God, don't let me vomit. Please, God, I don't, I just don't want this. Please make this stop. Please. Red gets a grip on the next staple and starts to tug. The original wound was sharply defined, a pain that had carefully designated borders. As Red pulls at the staple, I feel the wound stretch. The original pain is distorted and twisted and a new pain, more crude, takes its place. Just as the flesh around the staple starts to tear, I feel a pop and the wound snaps back.

The Beach Boys' Pet Sounds has always been one of my favorite albums. When the Russians grabbed me and started dragging me toward the bed, I made a bit of a scuffle. To help cover the noise, someone, Red I think, put on a CD: Pet Sounds. I don't know if this represents personal taste or if it was simply at the top of the stack. In any case it was a really good idea on their part, because even with the sock in my mouth, I'm making a fuck of a lot of noise, but then I guess it should come as no surprise that these guys know their business.

The sock comes out and I vomit onto my pillow.

-What is the key for?

I'm coughing quite a bit now, trying to spit up the puke and breathe at the same time, but I manage to give him an answer.

-I don't. Gasp! Choke! I don't know. I don't know. Choke!

-What did Miner tell you about the key?

-Nothing, he didn't say. Gasp! He didn't say. Choke! Nothing about the key. I don't know about the key.

-You knew where it was.

-Gasp! Accident. I found it by accident.

I get the sock again. Red is having trouble getting at the next staple, he's really digging in. The pain is making me even more nauseous than I was with just the hangover and I think I may vomit again. Please, please, God. My throat is clenching and hitching and the blood in my nose is running back in. The coppery taste of the blood is blending with the bile of the puke. Please. Oh, God, please. The staple gives way and I scream again. They yank the sock and I spill out another flood of puke, this one tinted pink with blood.

-What did he tell you when he asked you to hide the key?

I can't talk, I just can't. I heave and blubber and beg and Roman sticks the puke-and-blood-soaked sock back in my mouth and Red hurts me again and I realize then that they are going to kill me just as soon as they can.

Roman is a cop. Despite what you may have heard, the behavior he is now engaged in, not even an officer of the NYPD can get away with. They will finish asking questions and, when I have no more to offer, they will kill me. And, having had this realization, I start trying very hard to think as clearly as I can, because I don't want to die.

-What did he tell you about the key?

-Gasp! Gasp! He. Didn't. Tell. Me. Anything. Gasp! About. The. Key.

-Why did he give you the key?

-He. He. Gasp! He didn't give me the key.

-Why did you say you had the key?

-He. Fuck. He gave me the. Gasp! The cat. The key was in its box. I didn't know. He didn't give me the key. Gasp! He stuck me with it. I didn't know.

-What is the key for?

Think. Think. I don't want to die. I need to think. I'm trying to think of ways not to die, but the pain and the hangover keep getting in my way and I can't keep my thoughts together in one place long enough to make them work for me. I try to keep answering the questions without saying something that will make me dead.

-I don't know.

-What does it look like?

-I didn't see it.

I get the sock and another staple goes. I think I black out for a couple seconds, I can't really tell for sure.

-How do you know there was a key if you didn't see it?

-It. Gasp! It was in an envelope. Gasp! I felt it. It felt like a key. Gasp! It felt like a lumpy key. Big. Lumpy.

-Where is the key now?

Fuck!

-I. Don't. Know. I just don't.

And the sock. And another staple.

-We did not come here looking for a key, but if Mr. Miner gave you a key, then we want it. Where is the key?

-Gasp! I just. Fuck! Gasp! I just don't know. I put it back in the box yesterday. Gasp! And last night after those guys were here, I got drunk. Choke! I got real fucking drunk. I fucking blacked out. I fucking shit my pants, for God sake. I don't know where it is now. I left it in the box.

The sock. A staple.

-Where is the key?

I say nothing. I try to get as much air as I can. I breathe. I try to figure out a way to live. And Roman says something odd:

-Chew the fat.

I have no idea what that's about until Blackie releases my arm and starts scrabbling under the bed and I hear Bud crying. Then I realize he meant to say, "Get the cat."

In all fairness, he probably did say "Get the cat" and I only heard "Chew the fat." Bud is giving Blackie hell under the bed and the bastard is grunting and cursing in Russian. My left arm is free now, but the circulation is all messed up and it hurts so bad that I can barely move it. Not that I'd know what to do with it if I could move it, but it's nice not to have someone pulling at it for the moment.

-Man, just. Gasp! Just leave the cat. Just leave it alone. Gasp! Don't hurt the fucking cat.

Aren't there rules about this kind of thing? I mean, there are rules, right? You can do whatever you want to people, but you don't hurt fucking animals.

As if on cue, the toilet flushes, the door to the bathroom opens and the Samoan returns. Enter the torturer of animals.

-Sorry, guys, I had ta drop a deuce. Hey, you got air freshener or what?

Sooner or later, even the most profound events of your life are reduced to concerns like this.

-Under the sink.

-I looked there.

-The kitchen. Not the bathroom sink, the kitchen sink.

-Fuck you, who keeps freshener under the kitchen sink?

-I do.

-What, your shit doesn't stink? You don't need no freshener in the bathroom?

Meanwhile, Blackie has got hold of Bud and is dragging him out of his hiding place, but the fur is flying. Bud comes into the light of day howling and clawing at Blackie's eyes. As the Russian stands upright, I get my first look at Bud. He's writhing this way and that, trying to get a piece of someone, but his left leg is twisted up real weird and he's not moving it at all.