A Dangerous Man by Charlie Huston
—Good! Good. You have done your job so well in Las Vegas, it has brought you here again. And this, this is not chance, I think. This is fate. You are meant to be here. I want for us to work together, Henry, for us to work with trust between us. It can happen.
He tilts his head at the huge family photo.
—Between two men who love their families as we love ours, there is always understanding. Where there is understanding, yes? Where there is understanding, there is always room for trust.
Still clasping my hand, he leans his face very close to mine.
—So you will look after this young man.
He lets go of my hand and stands up.
—This and one thing more.
He turns to his desk and speaks to me over his shoulder.
—You will kill my fucking sister-in-law.
THE FIRST TIME was The Kid.
I HAVEN’T FORGOTTEN any of them. Far as I know there’s no way to; forget about the people you’ve killed for hire.
I remember Branko knocked on the door and he answered. The Kid. Sixteen, maybe seventeen. He must have known Branko from business or something because we went in and he asked if we wanted something to drink. Branko said yes and followed The Kid into the kitchen. I stood there in the living room and looked around.
Just your average suburban home. The Kid’s mom must have been a neat freak because there wasn’t a speck of dust anywhere. Other than that, average. I was just standing there, wondering how we were gonna do this, wondering if The Kid was in on it, or if we’d just call it off. I mean, if the guy we were supposed to deal with was The Kid’s father, we couldn’t just do it in front of him. That’s what I was thinking. I stood there.
There was a frozen image of a baseball player on the TV screen. I thought for a second that it was real. Then I remembered that it was winter. Then I saw the big EA Sports logo on the bottom of the screen and the game controller lying on the floor and I figured it out. Then I heard a sound from the kitchen and Branko stuck his head around the corner and told me to get in there.
I nodded and walked in and The Kid was lying on the linoleum in front of the open fridge, a bunch of soda cans and a Tupper-ware container of leftover spaghetti spilled around him. Branko grabbed his arms and flipped him over onto his stomach. I looked around the kitchen and saw how well kept it was, just like the living room. I was wondering if it was a good idea to have let the kid see us. I mean, what did I know, I was a beginner. Branko took a Beretta Tomcat from his pocket, chambered a round, clicked off the safety, and handed it to me.
Branko told me to hurry and I looked at him and he shook his head and said something in Serbo-Croatian that I didn’t understand. He pointed at The Kid. Dots connected. I pointed the gun. His mom and dad were gonna come home and find him.
There were some loud noises and I stood there and looked at the pattern the spaghetti sauce had made around The Kid’s head. It looked like someone had shot him. Then I realized it wasn’t just spaghetti sauce anymore and that I had shot him. Branko took the gun out of my hand and did things to it and dropped it and led me out of the kitchen.
We walked through the living room to the front door and I looked back over my shoulder and saw the screen of the TV with the frozen baseball player and one word flashing at the bottom of the screen.
RESUME?
RESUME?
RESUME?
ANYWAY, THAT WAS the first time.
DAVID TAKES HIS seat behind the desk. The time for socializing over.
He places his hands palms down, flat on the leather blotter his wife picked out.
—Time has passsed. Many things are ready to be forgotten. People forget. Either because it is too painful to remember, or because they no longer care, or because life changes things. Between you and me, everything is ready to change. But some people do not forget, Henry. Some people cling to the past as if it were still in front of them. You, sometimes I have thought you were one of these people.
A person who lives in the past, a person who can’t get over things that happened a couple years ago; he thinks I might be that kind of person. He doesn’t realize I’m the kind who hasn’t gotten over things that happened when I was sixteen.
—With these pills you take.
—I got rid of the pills.
—I know. Branko, he looked in your apartment. He called me, told me the pills were gone and that you did not bring them with you.
He pats the desktop lightly with his right hand. Bravo.
—This tells me something. The work you did with Branko at the Happi Inn, the good impression you made on Arenas, they tell me things. But getting rid of the pills tells me more. You are no longer willing to live in the past. You want a future again.
I think about a future. I think about living another thirty-seven years. It’s not something I’ve been thinking about much lately, so it takes a little effort.
—But not everyone has grown up, Henry. Not everyone is ready as you are to move forward. Some people dwell. It is not healthy, but some people do not know what is good for them. My sister-in-law, she is such a person.
I think about thirteen thousand mornings, give or take, waking up and breathing.
—Her son. Always now, everything is about Mikhail. Her darling Mickey. This nosey little shit who got himself killed.
He drops his head and presses his fingertips to his temples for a moment. I should not think these things about the dead.
He looks up, puts his hands back on the desk.
—She cares only for one thing now. You. Your death is all she lives for.
Thirteen thousand mornings, waking up and wondering if I will have to kill anyone that day so that my parents can stay alive. And somewhere else, this woman waking up, staying alive one more day until she can find me and kill me. Irony tries, but doesn’t really cover it.
—She has pleaded with me for this revenge. Where is he? Why can you not find him? If he is dead, I need proof. Show me where is his grave so that I can spit on it. And I tell her always, You must forget, Anna. Forget and live your life. We may never find him. And if we do? His death will not give you peace. For years she pleads, but now she demands. I want him, I must have him. You do not care. You never loved my son. Your daughter, she is alive. You cannot understand. Find him, or I will have my nephews find him. Find him. I tell her, This will create havoc in my business, Anna. It is no good. And then, Henry, she tells me, my sister-in-law tells me, she says, I do not care about your business. Find him.
He makes a fist and bangs it once against the desk. Enough.
—She does not care about my business? Her husband’s business it was. The business that feeds her. And so there is no more talking to be done. She was my brother’s wife, this is true. But he is dead from cancer. She was my nephew’s mother, true, but he is dead by his own stupidity. So now, there is no blood between us. Now, she is nothing. She is not family.
He circles his finger in the air, taking in the photos.
—We understand family, Henry. We understand what one must sacrifice for family. So you will help me with this woman. And in helping me with this, Henry, you will help yourself, and you will help your family.
He stands.
—This threat, this childish threat to your mother and father that has hung over both our heads. This threat of which I am ashamed.
He comes around the desk.
—Make it go away, Henry.
He pulls me to my feet.
—Deal with this woman who is no longer my family.
He embraces me.
—And your mother and father will be at last safe.
He spreads his arms wide. Could you hope for anything more?
DAVID SHOWS ME out but does not walk me to the elevator. I stand in front of it alone and watch the numbers light up one by one as it crawls closer to me.
The elevator stops and the door slides open. A very attractive woman in black steps out and walks up the hall. I step into the elevator, but something
I want her to be David’s elegant and aristocratic mistress, the woman he spends his afternoons with when he is not at home with his wife, the woman he talks to the way he would never talk to the whores he and his business partners fuck on the weekends. But I suspect I am wrong. I suspect this woman passed her curly hair and almond eyes to her son. And that I met him in Mexico. And that I killed him. I suspect that this woman is David’s sister-in-law.
The elevator doors try to close, but I am blocking them and they make a noise. She turns her head and looks at me looking at her. I pull back into the elevator and the doors close.
Well, that can’t have been good.
DOWNSTAIRS A LIMO is parked out front. The driver stands next to the car, smoking. I’ve seen his type before. Young. Blond spiky hair, meaty but not fat, Ralph Lauren sportswear, oversized pop-star sunglasses on his face. I’ve seen his kind shooting at me. I’ve seen his kind bleeding in the street. I have more than a slight premonition that I’ll see both again.
We ignore each other. But not really.
AS I WALK down the boardwalk, I think about The Kid. I think about killing sons. And about killing their mothers.
Past the Winter Garden and the Moscow Café; past the Tatiana Restaurant with fluorescent green and orange napkins accordioned and tucked into water glasses on the tables; past all the little boardwalk places where Russians and tourists sit at umbrellaed tables, eat pierogies, and stare at the ocean. And past all the many families out in the early Friday sun.
It’s hot in my black jacket and jeans. I take the jacket off and stuff it under the strap of my shoulder bag. I’d like to roll my sleeves up, but the tattoos would show. I feel on display again, walking down the middle of the boardwalk, no cover to cling to, but no one seems to pay any attention to me. I walk past the Brighton Playground, past the handball courts, past the sculpted and textured wall of the aquarium, styled to look like a lower-depths seascape.
I’ve had only the few hours’ sleep I got after I took Miguel and Jay to the airport yesterday morning. My face aches and the hole I put in my wrist feels hot and itchy. But the sky is blue and the breeze is soft, and if David isn’t lying to me, I only have one person left to kill.
And I already killed her child, so how hard can this really be? It takes me about twenty minutes to reach Coney. The Cyclone is clanking up its track, getting ready to drop, the Wonder Wheel spins, “Celebration” booms from the bumper cars. A nice Friday crowd is building.
—Scarface! Yo!
I stop. Miguel is sitting at one of the picnic tables in front of Ruby’s, a crappy carnie-dive version of the Russian places up at Brighton, sipping from a plastic cup of beer and surrounded by shopping bags. “Crazy Train” is playing on the jukebox inside.
—Sorry we didn’t grab you at the airport.
—No problem.
Miguel stuffs half a hot dog in his mouth.
—We came up on a midnight flight after the club sent word I was moving.
Jay comes back from putting money in the jukebox.
—Moving up, yo.
He slaps hands with Miguel and starts digging through the dozens of plastic shopping bags. Bags from the NBA store, Nike-town, the Sony store, Macy’s, and more.
Miguel stuffs the other half of his dog in his mouth and talks as he chews.
—Had late dinner with my agent, got checked into the suite. All that. Then we hit the hotel bar. Had to sleep in. Then we had some shopping to do. And then I called the guy. You know.
He makes a vague gesture that means David.
—And he said you were on your way, so we waited here.
Jay sticks a bubble-wrapped gadget in my face.
—What the fuck is this, yo?
—I don’t know.
—Yo, Mike. What the fuck is this?
—I don’t know, man. You bought it.
Jay laughs.
—Shit, yeah. Man, I was still fucked up this morning.
Miguel laughs, inhales another hot dog. He chews, his face smooth-skinned, surrounded by his toys, hanging with his best friend. He is a boy.
He eats the last of his four dogs, drains his beer, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and then offers it to me. I take it and he pulls me close on the bench and puts his other arm on my shoulder.
—Good to have you here, bro. We’re gonna have fun. Gonna be cool.
—Yeah, thanks.
He lets me go. I think about how much he’s fucking up his life. I think about how that’s not my problem.
—What now?
He smiles, a blob of mustard at the corner of his mouth.
—Ballpark. Gotta get fitted. Game tonight.
Steely Dan comes on the juke. Miguel stands.
—Let’s jet.
Jay pulls his head out of a shopping bag and points into Ruby’s dark interior.
—Yo, “Kid Charlemagne.”
He points at me.
—Played this for Scarface, yo. Old skool for my old motherfucker. He’s a hood, just like The Kid.
He punches me on the shoulder.
—Don’t forget, yo, I want to get into some of that gangsta shit this time around.
IT’S A BEAUTIFUL ballpark.
I sit with Jay in the field-level seats between home plate and the home dugout. Beyond left field we can see Deno’s Wonder Wheel and the Cyclone rising above Astroland and the rest of Coney’s midway. Right field is backed by the ocean. The sun shines down and a breeze blows in off the water.
A ballpark on the beach. What’s not to love?
Jay is pulling a brand-new pair of Nikes out of a box. He dumps the box in the aisle for someone else to clean up.
—Nice place to play ball, yo.
I nod.
He kicks off his old shoes and leaves them next to the box.
—Bet there’s some Annies hangin’ round here. Some beach Annies. Love it.
I nod.
The park is empty except for us. It’s early, but the trainer and the equipment manager wouldn’t let us into the clubhouse while Mike gets fitted.
Jay tilts his face to the sun and closes his eyes.
—Won’t be here long, though. My boy’s moving up. Mean, it’s cool to hang at the beach a couple weeks, but my boy needs to get up and out. Can’t be wastin’ talent down here. These single-A guys, they put ’em up in a fuckin’ dorm. Fuckin’ dorm rooms. Mike just got done with college. Fuckin’ watch, they bring ’em here in a bus. Mike told his agent, told him, No fuckin’ way, yo! Need wheels, need a pad. Hook it up. Told him, I’ll pay the tab, just hook that shit up. Got off the plane from Tennessee, from my boy’s one day in rookie ball, there’s the Escalade waitin’ for us. Got a suite in the City, yo. One of those downtown places. Boutique hotel. My boy says he didn’t come to New York to live in Brooklyn.
A couple groundskeepers have appeared. They start peeling the tarps off the infield dirt.
—Stick it out, Scarface. Mike takes a shine to you, stick it out, yo. He takes a shine and nobody can talk him out of it. And he’s startin’ to shine on you.
He opens his eyes and looks at me.
—Got anything to say to that, yo?
—I like him, too.
Jay sits up.
—That a joke?
—No.
—Good. Cuz Mike likes you. He liked your moves in Vegas. Liked how you were smooth with the crowd at the Palms, liked how you eased us in at the Rhino, and he sure as shit liked that no-nonsense you laid on those yokels in the parking lot. Said to me on the plane back, That guy’s the kind of guy a man wants around to take care of shit. Said, yo, said he felt safe with you. Safe. You get that?
—Sure.
—Do you? Cuz that, yo, that’s some deep shit, someone says they feel safe with you.
He moves into the empty seat between us and drops his voice.
—
—Right.
—We go back. Grew up in San Diego together. Little League. We go back like that. Kids together. Played on the same teams together. School together. When his dad, when he split on the family and went back to Mexico, back to some other family turned out he had goin’ down there, Mike’s moms couldn’t support him and his brothers and sisters on her own. He came to live with me. Moved into my home when he was thirteen. My mom and dad, they took him in. I know all his shit.
He shakes his head.
—People don’t know. His agent told him to get rid of me, said I was trouble. He don’t know, cuz he don’t know Mike. Mike likes trouble. Me, I like fun. That shit in Vegas, that last hurrah. That was a deal we had. I told him he’s in too deep already. Got to stop the betting. But that contract dropped and he had to spend, had to play. So I put him on a budget. Two hundred G’s. Throw it around like you don’t care. But that’s it. In pro ball now. Got to get square with the guy who has the IOUs. Can’t have shit like that hangin’ over his head now. That’s just beggin’ to be Pete Rosed. But Mike has what they call poor impulse control. That hundred grand we split Vegas with? That’s already gone. Twenty-four hours and it’s gone. That Russian set him up with his own personal bookie. Like giving a junkie a on-call dealer who delivers the best shit in town.
He pulls off his Pods visor, runs his finger around the outline of the picture of a friar swinging a bat, keeping his eyes from mine.
—And now you. The man says Mike needs someone while he’s here, to keep an eye on him, help him out. I don’t like it, but as long as the man is holding Mike’s paper, he gets his say and we can’t push too hard. Got to have someone? OK. I say to Mike, Ask for that guy from Vegas. Ask for Scarface.
He looks up from the visor.
—I asked for you. Cuz I think Mike might be right. You could be the kind of guy he needs to have around. You know how to take care of trouble and you don’t take shit. Could be, yo, you’re just what Mike needs.
He pulls the visor back on.
—Mike got himself in this shit and all I can do is help dig him out. I got one mission, that’s watch my boy’s back. He wants to bet, he’s gonna find a way. That doesn’t mean I have to help. You, yo, you have to make that call for yourself. My boy knows what’s best for him, even if he don’t always do it. He’ll see what side you’re playing. He sees you’re part of the solution, you could end up with a new team, whole new livelihood.