Downtown Beirut pt. 6
Ryan and Stiles go shoplifting. Animal continues to burn his bridges. Kristen makes a big decision.
Previously: Animal’s wanted by Internal Affairs and he’s flailing. He stops by Downtown Beirut and meets Kristen.
8
The subway car rattles and screeches through the tunnels beneath Manhattan, every surface seemingly streaked with grime and layers of graffiti. Ryder sits slumped in a corner seat, his backpack clutched tightly to his chest, his fingers tapping nervously against the fabric. Across from him, Stiles leans against the window, looking bored. The fluorescent lights flicker overhead, casting a sickly glow over the handful of passengers—a would-be mugger eyeballing everyone nearby, a woman clutching her purse like a lifeline, a group of teenagers smoking cigarettes and laughing too loudly.
The city is a blur of decay and desperation, but Ryder isn’t thinking about that. He’s thinking about a Telecaster.
Exiting the subway station, they turn left on West 48th Street, Stiles hanging back a bit so they’ll walk into the music shop separately. Ryder adopts his kid-from-the-burbs face and walks inside and starts checking out the rows and rows of guitars hanging on the wall. The owner is watching him.
“You here to buy something or give me grief?” he asks Ryder.
Ryder smiles, “I got birthday money.”
Semi-satisfied, the owner turns his attention to another customer. Stiles comes in, being gentle with the door so the bell doesn’t jingle that much. He walks past Ryder towards the back of the shop.
Ryder lifts a white Telecaster from the wall and noodles on it a bit, trying to look casual and serious at the same time. Yeah, I got plenty of cash, but I gotta take my time and pick out the best one. He rests the Telecaster against the counter and pulls down another guitar.
Stiles is doing something back there. Ryder tries not to look and moves back to the Tele. It’s perfect, the finish smooth and flawless, the neck just the right shape. He glances over at Stiles, who is crouched in front of a rack of cymbals, pretending to examine them, hoping he’s mostly out of the eyeline of the owner.
They need this gear. Without it, they’re just two street kids with mostly broken gear that sounds like shit. With an upgrade, they can finally get gigs. They can finally be taken seriously. Plus Kristen’s essentially abandoned the idea of playing with them. NATO’s a two-piece now so they gotta shine.
The shop owner is still busy with the customer, his back turned. Ryder’s pulse quickens as he grabs the guitar and turns towards the door. The bell jingles loudly as they step outside. Stiles follows close behind, the cymbals clutched to his chest. They walk quickly, their footsteps echoing on the sidewalk, their eyes darting around for any sign of trouble.
They are almost to the corner when they hear the shout.
“Hey! Stop!”
Ryder glances over his shoulder and sees the shop owner running up the block, his face red with anger. They break into a run, their feet slapping against the pavement as they dart around pedestrians and dodge street vendors.
The subway station is just ahead, promising a dozen different ways to blend in and disappear. Ryder and Stiles take the stairs three at a time, their breath coming in ragged gasps. To their amazement, the guy is still following them.
The platform’s crowded. A train is just pulling in, its brakes screeching as it comes to a stop. Ryder and Stiles push their way through the crowd, their stolen goods clutched tightly, and jump onto the train just as the doors start to close.
Safe. No way that old man shop owner can keep up.
But then they see him—almost indescribably furious, squeezing through the doors just as they close. Shit shit shit, Ryder thinks, as he and Stiles weave their way through the train car, heading for the sliding doors that will take them to the next car.
The crowd is thinner in the next car, which isn’t helping them much. They head quickly to the next car, almost losing their balance as the train lurches to one side. The shop owner is yelling something in gasps. Ryder can’t make it out. What the hell is up with this guy? Who’s watching the store? Why does he care this much about a three-hundred-dollar guitar?
The train is slowing down, the lights of the next station coming into view. He glances at Stiles, who nods, and they position themselves near the door, their stolen goods clutched tightly.
The train screeches to a halt, and the doors slide open. Ryder and Stiles wait, wait, and just as the doors begin to close, they burst out onto the platform. They run for the stairs and take them two at a time, their legs burning. The street is just ahead, the familiar noise and chaos of their neighborhood a warm welcome. They dart around a corner and stop, their backs pressed against the wall as they try to catch their breath. Ryder keeps his eyes open for the shop owner.
He doesn’t show. They lose him, or he gives up.
For a moment, they just stand there, their chests heaving, their hearts pounding. Then, slowly, the tension begins to ease, replaced by a giddy sense of relief.
Ryder breaks into a grin. Stiles smiles back, his eyes bright with adrenaline.
Long live NATO.
Kristen’s reaction to the theft isn’t what Ryder was expecting. He doesn’t understand her annoyance, and that makes him angry. What’s the big deal? We’re already living in a squat, for fuck’s sake.
“Ryder, I could have bought you the guitar if you had said something,” she says under her breath, not wanting Stiles, in the other room, to overhear.
Ryder’s startled. “You have that much money? Where’d you get it?”
“I work for it!”
He has no reply to that. He’s still caught off guard. Kristen, my girlfriend, he thinks, has three hundred bucks. Maybe more. Jesus. He can’t help but wonder where she’s hiding it.
Kristen’s not loving the look on Ryder’s face right now, and there’s nothing but silence coming from the other room. How much did Stiles overhear? She gets an unfamiliar stab of paranoia, and fear.
She vows, right then and there, to move out as soon as she can find something. Later, when she can’t sleep, she invites Ryder out to the 24/7 diner to talk.
9
At 2am Animal limps into Odessa Diner and sits in a booth all the way in the back. His side throbs, and he’s forced to take shallow breaths. He definitely cracked a rib, maybe more than one. The painkillers he’s swallowed dry are doing fuck-all because all he can get his hands on is fucking Motrin.
The waitresses at Odessa know him, and dispense with the chit chat. He orders a coffee and nothing else. Twelve hours ago, he was a cop who got respect from both his peers and the lowlifes on the street. Now he feels like a dead man with a badge, blood on his shirt, and alone.
The bell above the door jangles. A figure shuffles in, clocks Animal, and makes his way back. Frankie—a local kid with a preternatural ability for being in the right place at the right time. He’s almost invisible on the street and can act stupid enough to plausibly deny anything. Animal pays him well because Frankie usually earns it.
He slides into the booth across from Animal and asks for a hamburger. “You look bad,” he says to Animal.
“I know. Frankie, listen, have you heard anything about me? Maybe from other cops?”
Frankie’s eyes dart around as he speaks. “Like what?”
“Like anything. If I already knew I wouldn't ask,” Animal accidentally takes in a deep breath and spasms in pain. Frankie finds this pretty interesting.
“Are you hurt?”
“Had a bad fall, but it's ok, I’m going to the doctor in the morning,” he lies. Frankie can get fixated on random details and then it’s like talking to a brick wall. Plus, he believes the kid actually cares about him, and hates the idea of causing him worry.
“I hope you made an appointment or you might have to wait a long time.” His food arrives and he starts scarfing it down. Poor kid. Animal lets him finish the burger in peace.
“Frankie,” Animal says as the waitress takes his plate away, “anything you hear about me will help.”
Frankie is getting visibly, almost comically sleepy and slides over on his side. He can do a hell of a lot worse than spend the night inside Odessa, so Animal calls the waitress over and gives her two twenties to let the kid sleep and give him some eggs when he wakes up.
As he pauses at the door and peers into the street, looking out for fellow police, a young couple pushes past him. With a start he realizes the girl is the bartender he talked to at Downtown Beirut, only a few hours ago. She doesn’t seem to recognize him, however. How is that possible? Did they not have a conversation? Did he not share his troubles? Wait… did he do something he shouldn’t have? He can’t remember. But he remembers her.
The kid she’s with looks like the pricks he chases off stoops and out of squats. Animal instantly dislikes him, whoever he is. And what’s with the shove he gave him when they walked in? Asshole.
Animal steps out onto the sidewalk. He’s furious.
Animal’s girlfriend lives on the second floor of Village View in a one-bedroom she keeps immaculately. Animal goes there now in hopes of taking a shower and getting a few hours sleep. His ribs scream with every step, his shirt stiff with dried blood. All he wants is a shower, a bed, and silence.
He lets himself in. His girlfriend is sleeping but wakes up at the sound. “John, what’s wrong?” she asks. Animal says nothing. He walks past her to the bathroom.
“John?”
The shower runs hot, scalding his skin, but he endures it like a punishment. He cleans the blood off his knuckles, winces when the soap finds the split skin. His side is a mess of bruises, dark and angry. Now that he’s off the street, he starts to relax, and finds he can’t keep his eyes open. He shuts off the water, steps out of the tub, and grabs the nearby towel. It smells like his girlfriend’s shampoo. He rubs himself dry, leaving spots of blood on the towel. He makes a half-hearted attempt to rehang it, but when it falls on the floor he leaves it there.
When he steps out, she’s standing in the doorway, arms crossed. “Are you okay?”
He brushes past her. The bedroom is dark. He goes to the closet and pulls on an old t-shirt and sweatpants, then collapses onto the bed. She stands in the doorway. “You’re not even gonna talk to me?”
He closes his eyes and turns over. After a while, she sighs and heads to the couch.
Sleep comes in jagged pieces, interrupted constantly by the pain in his ribs. When sunlight finally appears through the blinds, he gives up. He gets to his feet and changes into his street clothes with difficulty.
His girlfriend’s in the kitchen, coffee in hand, watching him from the counter. She is clearly furious.
“You’re a fucking asshole, you know that?” she asks.
He doesn’t answer. Just fills a glass with water and drinks it slowly, staring at the wall.
“We’re done,” he says.
She blinks. “What?”
He walks to the door.
“That’s it?” Her voice was shaking. “You don’t talk to me for days, then just—”
He’s already outside, the door clicking shut behind him. The morning air is sharp, clean. He doesn’t look back.
He thinks of the bartender and her boyfriend from last night. He’s not furious any more. But he sure as shit hates himself right now.
##
##
Continues weekly.
-