A Dangerous Man

by Charlie Huston

  He holds out his arms, taking in the ballpark and the ocean.

  —Spend your time watchin’ ball games, hookin’ up with Annies and hangin’ with us, yo. Instead of fightin’ with guys in parking lots or whatever the hell you’re used to. Could be sweet. Could even learn to like the game.

  He lowers his arms.

  —Anyway, I’m just talkin’. But this could be an opportunity, yo, to change your life. You just got to decide the right thing to do.

  He holds out a fist.

  —Cool?

  I bang my fist against his.

  —Sure.

  —Alright. See, that’s the shit. Now we’re all in the open and we just get to be ourselves and everybody gets to see what everybody’s made of. Gonna be sweet, yo.

  He slips his feet into the new Nikes and bends to lace them up. I look at the back of his head. I see what I usually see when I look at the back of someone’s head, I see exactly how it would look if I put some bullets in it. He straightens, and I look at the water.

  Miguel comes walking up out of the home dugout. He’s wearing the white-and-red Cyclones uniform, red socks worn up and out, old skool.

  —S’cool, right?

  Jay jumps up, runs down the steps and vaults the wall.

  —Sweet, yo. Need some help though.

  He reaches up and twists Miguel’s cap to the side.

  —That’s the shit.

  He pulls a cell phone out of his pocket and tosses it to me.

  —Scarface, snap a picture.

  I flip the phone open, push a couple buttons until I figure out the camera and point it at them.

  —Wait a sec, yo.

  Jay jumps up and Miguel catches him in his arms.

  —Snap it.

  I take the picture and Jay jumps down.

  —It good? Need another one?

  I look at the picture on the phone’s tiny screen.

  Miguel is tall and straight. The uniform fits him perfectly, like second skin. He looks born to play the game. He looks like a ballplayer, looks like just what he is. Jay is cradled in his arms, looking like a child in an adult body, looking like what maybe he wants you to think he is.

  I look up from the phone.

  —Yeah, it’s fine.

  THE PLAYERS ARE over Miguel before they even see him. They pulled up, saw the Escalade parked next to the players’ entrance, and word got around quick who it belonged to. Not what you want to see when you’re getting bused to work and living in a dorm. They tap fists with Miguel and say yo, but no one hangs out with him. He makes it worse because he doesn’t seem to care. Just does his thing, lets the publicity guy take his photos, talks with the GM, does some jogging, meets the manager and coaches, everything smooth and professional and with the air of a guy who knows this is a pit stop. All the while Jay tags after him, whispering in his ear, blatantly pointing at other guys on the team and talking shit about them.

  There’s press around, and the Staten Island players are starting to drift onto the field to stretch. First game of the season, everyone’s early. This may be single A, but add the Mets farm vs. Yankees farm matchup to that first-day vibe and throw in Miguel’s debut. It may not be a game for ESPN, but local interest is high. There are reporters from all the city papers, and TV cameras are set up to do a cable broadcast of the game. I decide it’s time to lie low.

  I duck past a couple of the visitors and cut through their dugout into the tunnels. Down at one end I can see an Aramark vending truck pulling up to the loading dock. I turn in the other direction, past a stack of boxes filled with player photos; a guy walking around in a seagull suit carrying the mangy head under his arm.

  THEY HAVE A little museum devoted to Brooklyn baseball. I go in. There’s a bench just inside the door. I sit down and lean my back against the window and watch a young woman as she leads a group of kids around the place, showing them relics of the Brooklyn Dodgers.

  I try to relax, try to enjoy the air-conditioning and let myself be soothed by the woman’s voice as she tells the kids about the importance of Jackie Robinson. But all I end up doing is grinding my teeth and wishing I’d at least kept some Xanax.

  I’m itchy and antsy and sweaty and my face hurts and I’m thinking about the thirteen thousand. All those mornings I might have if I kill Mickey’s mom.

  I think about going back to Mexico, back to my beach. It wouldn’t be the same, I wouldn’t have the 4 million stashed away. But Pedro might still be there running the bar I gave him. He’d give me a job. A place to be. A home. And shit, of course he’s still there. Where else would he be? Pedro and his wife Ofelia and their kids and his brother Leo, and Bud. Bud. Yeah, Pedro will still have my cat Bud. Shit, I’d sure like to see that cat again.

  I THINK ABOUT working at the bar and taking swims in the ocean, getting tan and fit again. I wonder if my bungalow is still there. Pedro probably rents it out. But he’ll get rid of whoever’s in it if I come back.

  I think about the sun and the impossibly blue ocean and the jungle. I think about not worrying over my mom and dad. Thirteen thousand mornings spent waking up and not worrying that I’ll fuck up and Branko will appear on their doorstep.

  Thirteen thousand mornings.

  To spend however I like.

  A better stash than the 4 million ever was.

  Someone bangs on the glass my head is resting against. I jump and twist around to see Jay.

  —Yo, Scarface, snap out of it. Batting practice is starting. You want to see this shit.

  FANS ARE COMING into the park for batting practice. These are the hard core, the folks wearing authentic Cyclones jerseys and jostling around the white-board on the concourse, copying the starting lineups onto their scorecards. I follow Jay down the steps to our game seats behind home. We settle and Jay gives me a jab with his elbow.

  —Yo, these people don’t know. Watch this shit, they’re gonna freak.

  I don’t say anything, just push my sunglasses against my face and watch the players as they parade to the plate one by one and take their hacks. The pitching coach pours low-key fastballs down the middle and the players slap them to short or pop them up or send easy flies to the outfield. The first baseman has some power and actually puts a couple over the left field wall, just above the 315-foot mark. None of it matters much. The fielding in single A is almost as bad as the hitting; just making contact with the ball is enough to put a guy on base half the time. Then Miguel comes up.

  The atmosphere changes. The feeling from his teammates is less, Now, let’s see what the star can do, than, Man, I can’t wait to watch this asshole flailing at this shit. He sets up in the right side of the batter’s box. The pitching coach puts a little extra on the first one and the ball cuts, coming in on Miguel’s hands. He’s looking middle of the plate, he swings anyway and shatters his bat. It doesn’t just break at the handle, it explodes into four or five pieces.

  Jay shifts in his seat and Miguel goes for another bat.

  —Oh, this is gonna be good.

  Miguel sets, the pitch comes down the pipe and his bat hits it. The ball soars into center, and keeps going. It slaps into the huge black screen in dead center, just over the 412-foot mark.

  —Yo, Mike. Get one over! I want to see a Green Monster shot!

  Another pitch. The ball goes to the same place, only higher this time.

  —Stop topping the ball, bitch, I said I want one over that shit!

  Miguel glances at him, adjusts his cap with the middle finger of his right hand, making sure Jay catches the gesture, then steps back into the box.

  Jay laughs.

  —This is it. This one is a goner.

  The coach rears back, puts everything he has into it this time. Miguel swings free and easy, getting all of the ball this time. And the ball climbs and climbs, and clears the top of the screen, cutting through the wind coming off the water.

  —That my boy! Now give me another!

  Another ball goes over.

  —Another one!
>
  Over.

  —Give it to me.

  Over.

  —Again!

  And again and again and again. Seven in a row go over the screen, Major League homers all, moon shots. ESPN Top Ten material, every one.

  —That’s my boy! Yo! That. Is. My. Boy.

  Then Miguel switches sides of the plate, sets up to hit lefty, and does more of the same.

  THE COACHES AND players have a bit more enthusiasm for Miguel when he comes up during the game. Not that he seems to care. Not that he seems the least aware that he is playing in his first game of pro ball.

  And it may be a silly game for children being played by grown men, but when he comes to the plate in the bottom of the ninth, having single-handedly kept the Cyclones in the game, and swats an RBI double to tie it up, I jump out of my seat and cheer.

  And I almost give a shit when they lose it in the tenth.

  —Yo, we tried to find a shitty Olds for you, Scarface, but the Caddy was all they had.

  We’re in Mike’s Escalade, driving across the Brooklyn Bridge. Mike stares out the window at the lights of the Manhattan skyline.

  Jay sticks his face between the seats.

  —Sweet. You see that shit on TV, but it’s not the same, yo.

  Mike nods.

  —Can you fucking imagine if the Mets hadn’t grabbed me number one?

  —Don’t even, yo. Playing for the Dodgers would have sucked.

  I shake my head.

  —Dodgers suck.

  They look at me.

  —Yo! Turns out Scarface knows some baseball after all.

  Shit.

  —Not really. My dad, he was a Giants fan. I just know enough to know the Dodgers suck.

  Miguel tugs at the bill of his Cyclones cap.

  —Well that’s the basics, man.

  Jay laughs.

  —No shit. Get that down and the rest of the game is easy. So, yo, where we gonna get our drink on?

  Drink. Are any of the places I used to know still here? Shit, would they want to go to any of those dives?

  Miguel adjusts the A/C.

  —What about that Hogs & Heifers spot? That’s by our hotel, right?

  Jay reaches between us for the stereo volume.

  —Yo, Julia Roberts got topless in that place or some shit. I’m in.

  He cranks the bass and “Bombs over Baghdad” shakes the car.

  THEY ALMOST GET me clean.

  I come out of the hotel and start toward the restaurant the concierge told me Miguel and Jay went to for breakfast. A car is parked a little ways down the street. Two men in the front seat. The passenger gets out, a young guy in expensive jeans, his black hair heavily gelled and styled back from a sharp widow’s peak. He flicks a cigarette butt into the gutter and walks briskly around the car with his hand out and a smile on his face.

  —David wants you.

  His accent is thick. Russian. I stop for a second, long enough for him to get a couple steps closer. Then I see the one still in the car. Another young guy. One with spiky blond hair and pop-star sunglasses.

  They’ll have guns.

  I don’t.

  I run.

  I WAKE UP on a couch, jet-lagged and groggy. I grab my bag and take it to the bathroom. I turn on the light and my hand reaches automatically for the medicine cabinet. I tug on the edge of the mirror a couple times, trying to open it, thinking about starting the day with a Percocet maybe. Then I remember where I am. Miguel’s suite at Soho House.

  No one else is around. The bedroom is empty, no sign of Miguel or the bartender he brought back. The other couch looks like Jay and his girl spent the night having a rabid pillow and champagne fight. Thank God I was so wiped out. I can’t imagine having to lie there sleepless and witness that.

  I shake my head and try to open the medicine cabinet again; and again go through the process of remembering my pills going down a toilet in Vegas. Right, Henry, you’re in New York and you have no pills. OK, at least that’s settled. Then I realize that this mirror isn’t shattered and covered in black tape. I close my eyes. But it’s too late, I’ve already seen myself. And I look like shit. Fine, let’s get it over with. I open my eyes. Yeah, I was right the first time: I look just like shit. Eyes bagged and bloodshot, hair sticking up on one side, my skin nearly as pale as the scar on my face. I lean closer. I hadn’t realized how much gray there was in my stubble. I knew I was getting old, but no one wants to see the evidence of it right there on his face. That just sucks.

  I go to switch off the light, but stop and look at myself again. Cleaned up, I look a little better. Could I spend the rest of my life looking at this face? Strange thought. I still haven’t gotten used to the idea that I might have one of those, a rest of my life. Besides, if I want it, I still have to kill Anna Dolokhov.

  I find a note next to the phone, written on thick hotel stationery.

  Yo! Went for breakfast. You were laid out like a bitch so we left you alone. If we’re not back you can call my cell and come watch us drink bloodies. Mike’s worried about getting the party bus. Will you check that shit?

  J

  PS

  Good looking out last night.

  Good looking out last night. I guess so.

  HOGS & HEIFERS sucks.

  It’s packed with tourists hoping to catch sight of a star, not realizing that a true celebrity hasn’t stooped to dancing on top of the bar here for a good many years. It’s a sad scene until Miguel and Jay get the party started. Within an hour Jay is on the bar with his shirt off dancing to “The Devil Went Down to Georgia” and Mike is getting lessons from one of the bartenders on how to spray Bacardi 151 from his mouth and light it on fire. Miguel does get recognized, but the response is pretty temperate. I mean, most of these people came hoping to see Julia Roberts’s tits after all.

  I find a corner by the pool table and try to stay out of the way. Miguel comes by on his way to the bathroom.

  —Man, hey, man. This place is great, right? I love this shit.

  He’s having the night of his life. Why shouldn’t he be? He’s a twenty-one-year-old millionaire who just had a monster game, and everybody loves him. I’d feel good, too.

  —So, do me a favor.

  He glances at Jay, dancing a two-step on the bar.

  —Slip me your phone, bro.

  I look at him.

  He leans against the wall next to me.

  —Jay has mine and I need to make a call.

  Jay looks in our direction and hoots. Miguel hoots back, trying to look like we’re talking about nothing at all. He looks at his watch.

  —I have to make this call.

  He wants to make a bet. He wants to call his personal Russian bookie and lay a bet and get deeper into David’s hole. Fine. Jay can say what he wants to say about having an easy life, about getting in on something good, having friends and all that shit. But David’s already made me an offer. All I have to do is kill someone. That, and don’t fuck up with Miguel.

  He has his hand down low, open and waiting.

  —The phone, bro.

  Not my fucking problem.

  —No problem.

  Not my problem, his problem. Just the one problem he has in his superstar life. The one huge fly in the otherwise perfect ointment. Let him ruin his life. Me, if I had had the chance he has, I would never have pissed it away.

  So I put my hand in the pocket where my phone is, and I wrap my fingers around it, and I nod my head.

  —Sure thing, Miguel.

  Not my problem at all.

  I take my hand out of my pocket. And it’s not holding the phone. And I point at Jay.

  —Except the thing is, your mom over there? He says you aren’t allowed.

  He looks at Jay and back at me.

  —That’s harsh.

  I shrug.

  —Take it up with him.

  So he walks to the bar, grabs Jay by the ankles, and pulls him down.

  I RUN. THE Russians chase me.

 
; If they catch me they’ll kill me. If they kill me I’ll have broken my contract with David. If I break my contract he’ll kill my mom and dad.

  If they catch me David will kill my mom and dad.

  I run faster.

  MIGUEL AND JAY are rolling around on the beer-soaked floor. The fat, hairy bouncer who gives people shit at the door grabs the seat of Jay’s baggy jeans and yanks. The jeans pop off Jay’s hips and the bouncer falls backward over a table, crashing into a pyramid of empty PBR cans. Now Jay is topless and his pants are tangled around his ankles and one of the bartenders has started spraying him and Miguel with her soda gun.

  Miguel is on top of Jay, his knees pinning Jay’s shoulders to the floor.

  —What the fuck, man?

  Jay tries to kick him in the back of the head.

  —Yo! Yo! Yo!

  Miguel has a fistful of Jay’s hair.

  —I could kill you right now. I’m that mad.

  —So do it, yo.

  Miguel nods his head, his mind made up.

  —OK, man.

  He yanks Jay’s hair, forcing his head back, and starts hocking up a loogie from the back of his throat. Jay twists and thrashes.

  —Don’t do it, yo.

  Miguel hocks again.

  —Say you’re gonna mind your own business.

  —No way, yo.

  Miguel positions his face right over Jay’s, lets the loogie slip from his lips, and sucks it back in.

  —Gonna be eatin’ it. Say it.

  —No.

  —Open wide.

  The bouncer is being helped up.

  A couple tourists are going for their cameras.

  The rope of spit is dropping toward Jay’s face.

  I grab Miguel’s collar and pull him back and the spit drops on Jay’s chest.