A Dangerous Man

by Charlie Huston

  —Yo, let’s lay off and go dance.

  Miguel waved him off and kept rolling. At first the girls were pissed about losing their places in line and not being taken to the club, but then they saw the money flying and got friendly. Miguel’s been friendly with the girls, throwing his arms around whichever one is near when he hits on a big bet, but they’re clearly a sidebar to the dice.

  Jay shoves one of them my way. She tries to chat with me, tells me she’s an elementary schoolteacher from Flagstaff and God! Does she need to blow off some steam. I tell her I’m working and she goes back over to Jay. He whispers something in her ear. I see his lips mouth Scarface.

  I look over the little crowd that’s gathered at the tables. A few are playing, but most have been drawn by the big-spender show Miguel and Jay are putting on. A couple of beefy guys in baggy business suits are standing by the head of the table, Coors Lights in their hands, whispering to each other, pointing at Miguel, pointing at me. Sweat beads between my shoulder blades.

  Are they planning to follow us out and rob Miguel? Are they sizing him up for a fight because they think he’s a show-off? Or are they talking about him at all? Maybe they’re talking about me. Maybe they’re big true crime fans and they never miss an Unsolved Mysteries or America’s Most Wanted. Maybe they’re looking through the botched face job, the crew cut, the sunglasses. Maybe they see me.

  They start walking around the table toward us.

  If they confront me, if they try to finger me, I’ll just laugh it off: Am I who? Oh, not again. I get that all the time.

  They’re around the table. Miguel has the dice now, holding them above his head, one in each hand, showing them to the crowd. The croupier is asking him to please lower the dice, but he’s smiling. He’s smiling, the pit boss is smiling, somewhere the manager is smiling. Miguel has dumped a hundred G’s on this one table and no one who works this place is gonna stop smiling at him until they wring out whatever he has left in him.

  The business suits are coming toward me. One is holding his beer bottle down at his side. It’ll be easy for him to flip it and bring it up at my face. They’re both rumpled and have their collars open and ties tugged down. They look exactly like a pair of early twenties business guys. Pals who knocked off early from their cubicle brokerage gig in L.A. and hopped the flight to Vegas for an overnighter. They look as inconspicuous as Branko.

  They stop right in front of me. The one holding his bottle starts to bring it up. His buddy turns his head, looking at the crowd around us. All eyes are on Miguel, who has just rolled a four. The beer bottle moves higher. I take a step back and get ready to kick the guy in the balls. Why did I leave the gun at home?

  The beer bottle is up. It goes to the guy’s lips and he takes a drink.

  —Uh, hey, man?

  His buddy is still looking at Miguel, who has just made the point.

  —Um, we don’t want to bother anybody, but we were wondering.

  The girls squeal as Miguel hits another point. The other guy is still watching.

  —Would it be cool if we said hi to him?

  The other one turns his face to me.

  —Maybe get an autograph?

  Uh.

  The guy with the bottle holds up his hands.

  —Like, we know you have a job to do and he’s just hanging out. But? After he’s done rolling?

  I look past them to Miguel. He craps out. I look back at the guy.

  —I guess I’d.

  —Great, man. Thanks. We won’t be a pain.

  They don’t wait for me to finish saying that I guess I’d have to ask, they just walk up behind Miguel and tap him shyly on the shoulder.

  —Hey, hey. Sorry to bother you, Mike. We just. Man. Congratulations. And thanks for last year.

  —You’re not bothering me, man. S’cool. And thanks.

  —Yeah, yeah. Hey, any chance we could get a couple autographs?

  —Sure. S’cool.

  Miguel grabs a couple cocktail napkins from the waitress who’s been standing by to take his and Jay’s orders, pulls a pen from inside his jacket and scribbles his name.

  —Man, thanks. You’re the coolest, man. Good luck this year.

  Miguel shakes both their hands.

  —Thanks, guys.

  And the floodgates open. The crowd flows, its center point shifting from the table to Miguel. And I suddenly realize that all the whispering and pointing at the table hasn’t been about Miguel’s money or Jay’s antics, it’s been about Miguel.

  I start moving into the crowd and I hear voices. I hear MVP. I hear first round. I hear 6 million. I hear gold medal.

  Jay’s face pops up in front of me. He’s got the three girls from the Rain line.

  —Scarface, yo. Grab my boy. We’re moving this party to the Spearmint Rhino.

  And he’s plowing his way out, towing the girls.

  I put a hand on Miguel’s shoulder. He turns from signing another autograph.

  —Jay said I should get you out.

  He nods.

  —Yeah. S’cool, let’s blow before it gets uncool.

  Someone produces a disposable camera and I turn my head at the last second to avoid having my face photographed alongside Miguel’s. I put my left arm over his shoulder, start making room with my right, and lead him out of the crowd. We dodge a couple people coming over to see what’s up and Miguel picks up his pace, striding toward the exit. Behind us I hear a few people chanting USA! USA! USA! And the dots connect.

  I don’t have a TV, but I do pick up a paper sometimes. Miguel Arenas. Star of Stanford’s 2003 College World Series–winning baseball team. Miguel Arenas. Star of the USA’s 2004 Olympic gold medal–winning baseball team. Miguel Arenas. Out of school at the end of his junior year, the New York Mets’ first round pick in this year’s Major League draft. First pick overall. Number one.

  I watch Miguel’s back as he weaves smoothly through the packed casino. And now I know what’s familiar about him. It’s not his face or his accomplishments that I know him from. It’s his walk, his grace. He moves like me. The way I was meant to move. The way I still move in my dreams. The good ones anyway.

  I FOLLOW UNCLE Fester as he stumbles away and kick him in the asshole again. He screams and reaches back, but my next kick is already on the way. It lands on his fingers and his pinkie pops out of joint. He’s reeling around now, reaching down between his legs with one hand, grabbing at his anus, and waving the other hand in the air, his pinkie sticking out at a right angle to the rest of his fingers. I grab the tail of his T-shirt and yank it up, dragging his arms up over his head. I push him to his knees and kick him three more times on the asshole and he flops forward, crying, blood starting to seep through the seat of his pants.

  WE’RE ROLLING IN the Olds, cruising from the Palms to the Rhino. From the frying pan to the fire, Vegas style.

  Miguel is up front with me. One of the girls, I think it’s the schoolteacher, in his lap. Her legs are getting tangled in the stick shift and I keep having to push them to the side. It happens again and she takes her tongue out of Miguel’s mouth.

  —Sorry. Am I in your way? Sorry. Here.

  She wiggles around until she’s straddling Miguel’s lap. He takes advantage of having his mouth free for a second and has a word with Jay.

  —Screw the Rhino, let’s hit some more tables.

  Jay is in the backseat with the other two girls. He’s been making out with both and talked them into kissing each other, but he was disappointed by the little peck on the lips they shared.

  —No, yo. Like, kiss. Let’s see it, get some tongue in there.

  The girls start frenching.

  Miguel slaps Jay’s knee.

  —Hear me, man?

  Jay keeps his eyes on the girls as their tongues slide in and out of each other’s mouths.

  —I hear you, yo, but I’m a little distracted.

  The schoolteacher is chewing on Miguel’s ear as he talks to Jay.

  —Get undistracted
. I want to roll some more.

  Jay takes his eyes from the show and puts his face close to Miguel’s.

  —Yo, that was a hundred G’s and change back there. Let’s take a break.

  —Fuck the hundred G’s. Last hurrah, man. Got another hundred to get even with. I want to roll.

  Jay puts a finger in his face.

  —No. We’re taking a break. Yo.

  He points at the necking girls.

  —Check this shit out. Get into this shit. Get your head in this game, yo.

  Miguel nods.

  —Yeah, yeah, man. S’cool. You’re right.

  —Yo.

  Jay claps his hands.

  —I know what this party needs. This party needs some x. You ladies know where we can score some x?

  The schoolteacher in Miguel’s lap detaches her mouth from his ear.

  —I’m from Flagstaff. But if you can get some that would be great.

  Jay separates the girls in the back.

  —Ladies?

  They whisper in each other’s ears, then the one in the silver top gives him their verdict.

  —No, but we’ll totally take it if you can get it. But don’t think you’re going to get us in a three-way.

  —Yo. A three-way? What’s that?

  She laughs.

  Jay’s eyes go wide with innocence.

  —No, seriously. What’s a three-way?

  He puts his face close to hers.

  —Explain it to me.

  She laughs.

  —Nooo.

  —Come on, baby. Here.

  He taps his earlobe.

  —Whisper it in my ear.

  She puts her mouth close to his ear and starts to whisper. Jay puts his hand over his mouth.

  —Oh my. You girls are naughty. Yo, Mike, these girls are naughty. We got to get these girls some x.

  He leans forward.

  —So, yo, Scarface. Know where we could score a little sumthin’ sumthin’?

  Do I know where they could score?

  I reach into my jacket pocket and touch the unmarked brown pill bottle that contains exactly five white tablets imprinted with tiny smiling monkey faces. I wonder, will this qualify for keeping them out of trouble or getting them into trouble?

  Fuck it. It’ll be better than having them running around the Rhino trying to score off the strippers. I pull out the pill bottle and hand it to Jay.

  There is a moment of utter silence. Then Jay grabs my neck, leans over my shoulder and kisses my cheek.

  —Yo, Scarface!

  And he leads the chant that fills the car.

  —Scar-face! Scar-face! Scar-face!

  JAY AND VALIANT are still at it. I walk toward them, looking at the ground for a weapon so I don’t have to punch the guy and risk breaking my hand. I see a magazine. I pick it up and roll it into a tight cylinder and stand over the two writhing bodies. I take aim and slam the magazine across the back of Valiant’s head. He goes cross-eyed and I grab him by the collar and drag him off of Jay. I hit him a few more times, the magazine cracking his cheekbone before I drop him.

  WEDNESDAY NIGHT AT the Spearmint Rhino and the place is a zoo.

  Jumping the line is easy, just a matter of a couple C-notes for the guys at the door, but it makes me even more of a hero to Miguel, Jay and the Rain girls. Once inside, the trick becomes moving. The only open space is around the huge rectangular bar. I make a stop there and get a thousand dollars in dance tokens and hand them to the guys. Miguel starts shaking his head, but I force them into his hand.

  —It’s part of the service.

  Jay is doling out tokens to the girls.

  —Yeah, yo, it’s part of the service.

  I order Cuba Libres for the boys and Stoli cranberries for the girls. There are booths along the wall where strippers are giving lap dances. The real action is in the other direction, but the crowd around the stages and tables is so thick that the only way you can see the dancers is by looking at the video monitors above the bar. Jay points at the crowd.

  —Yo, Scarface. We want in.

  So I get them in. It costs another couple hundred, but one of the bouncers plows into the crowd and comes back a couple minutes later and waves us to a table. The group he just kicked off of it stands to the side and gives us dirty looks.

  The atmosphere is a touch less formal here than at the Palms. In less than half an hour I notice people starting to notice Miguel. Soon after they start coming by the table to shake his hand. He takes it in stride, and I try to look intimidating to anyone who might want to cause trouble. In the normal course of events, an MLB draft pick, even the first pick, would only be recognized by the most rabid seamheads. But Miguel is different. His achievements during last year’s Olympics gave him unprecedented visibility for an amateur player. He’s not superstar recognizable, and mostly it’s the men who know who he is, but he still draws traffic. I keep my sunglasses on.

  At first Miguel keeps pestering Jay about heading for another casino.

  —There aren’t even slots in here, man!

  But eventually Jay pours enough booze down Miguel’s throat, and he sees enough tits, that he gets into the spirit of the place.

  Jay gets lap dances. Miguel gets lap dances. The Rain girls get lap dances. Jay pays the dancers to lap dance each other. Glasses pile on the table.

  Hours pass like that.

  Then Jay says something.

  —Is that guy fingering that chick?

  It’s one of the guys who got kicked off our table. It’s very, very late and he and his buddies have gotten a new table right next to ours. Jay is pointing at the guy.

  —Seriously, yo. Is he finger-fucking that chick?

  What the guy is doing is definitely spending a lot of time trying to get his fingers inside the dancer’s g-string. The current song is almost over, his special moment drawing to a close, so she just keeps pulling his hand away. But then the song ends and she goes to get up and he grabs her wrist and holds out a fifty.

  —Uh-uh, baby. One more dance. Come on, baby.

  She cranes her head, looking for a bouncer, but the only one nearby is chatting up another dancer and not paying attention, not enforcing the no-touching-the-dancers-ever rule. She points a long fingernail at Finger Fucker.

  —OK, one more, honey. But be nice. No touching.

  —Yeah, yeah. No touching.

  She starts writhing on his lap and he winks at his buddies over her shoulder and stuffs his finger into her G-string, yanking it to the side and almost ripping it off. She jumps back.

  —That’s it, asshole.

  She makes a move toward the bouncer and Finger Fucker grabs her again.

  —No way, baby. I still got some song left.

  His buddies are laughing. One of them looks like Uncle Fester’s long-lost son. The other has a perfect Prince Valiant haircut.

  The dancer is still trying to get away, calling for the bouncer, who looks like he might finally have noticed a customer getting out of hand.

  —Hey, mister.

  It’s Miguel.

  —Lay off.

  Finger Fucker looks over.

  —Wha’d you say?

  —Said lay off the talent, guy. Let the lady go.

  Jay stands up.

  —And stop trying to stick your fingers up her action.

  —Say what?

  Finger Fucker lets go of the dancer’s wrist and stands up and the bouncer and three of his cohorts pile into him and his buddies and wrap them up and drag them toward the front door. They go out, shouting back at us, Uncle Fester pointing at Miguel.

  —Fucking asshole. Fucking big shot. Fucking take our table. You ain’t shit. Mets suck!

  They get stuffed out the front door.

  Everybody still in the place is looking at us now. Talking about what happened.

  The bouncer who got us the table is coming over.

  —You guys cool?

  I nod.

  —Yeah, but we need to split. Can we use
the back door?

  He points toward the bathrooms. Miguel and Jay are already up and moving. The girls are gathering their things to follow us. I pull out a C and hand it to the schoolteacher.

  —Party’s over ladies. You can get a cab out front.

  The girls don’t like it, but they take the cab fare.

  The bouncer leads us past the bathrooms, out to the rear parking lot. The Olds is about thirty yards away. Three guys are standing in a circle, taking turns dipping their keys into a little bag of coke. They ignore us as we walk past.

  —Hey, big man.

  Fuck.

  —Hey, Mr. Baseball.

  Fuck me running.

  They’re coming around the side of the club, on a path to cut us off. I put a hand to Miguel’s back, then Jay’s.

  —Just walk to the car. Don’t say anything.

  —Big shot. Fucking table stealer.

  Uncle Fester is doing the talking, but Finger Fucker is the first one to arrive. I stop and turn to face him and he puts his hands up.

  —Oh, the bodyguard. I’m scared.

  Valiant starts sprinting and moves to cut in front of us. I see him put a hand on Miguel. Jay jumps, lands on Valiant’s back and takes him to the ground. They start rolling around, grappling. Fester plants himself in front of Miguel. Finger Fucker starts hopping around, his fists up just like he was taught in his boxing class at his gym.

  I hate the Spearmint Rhino.

  JAY SPRINGS UP from the gutter, a rip in the right knee of his suit pants and a scrape on his chin. He points at me.

  —Yo, Scarface fucked ’em up.

  Miguel is looking at the three men on the ground.

  —Should we call someone?

  I shake my head.

  —The doormen at the club will call someone. Let’s get out of here.

  Jay grabs Miguel and starts dragging him toward the car.

  —Hell yeah, yo. You don’t need this kind of shit on you now.

  I lead them to the car, looking back over my shoulder to make sure no one is coming after us. The guys who were standing out back doing blow are starting to walk toward the three assholes on the ground, asking if they’re alright. None of them are answering.