A Dangerous Man

by Charlie Huston

  —Gross! Yo, sick!

  Miguel shrugs me off easily. Jay kicks free. I get a grip on Miguel’s arm.

  —Chill. We have to go.

  A flash goes off. Another.

  He looks at me. Another flash. Looks at the people looking at him, and at the bouncer crossing the room. Jay stands up, pants around his ankles.

  —Yo, let’s jet.

  He starts to waddle toward the door. Miguel grabs him and throws him over his shoulder. The bouncer gets closer, realizes how big Miguel is, slows down. I put a hand in his chest. He looks at it, sees the C-notes and takes them. I toss a couple more on the bar and follow Miguel and Jay out the door, flashes popping around us, making our escape.

  SOME THINGS CAN’T be outrun.

  The Russians catch up to me a little over a block from the hotel, right out front of Hogs & Heifers as fate would have it. The car screeches around the corner and cuts me off, and the guy on foot tackles me and sends me face-first into the hood. Heat flashes in the bones of my face and a vice clamps my skull. I want to fight. I need to fight. But the pain is followed by a wave of nausea and instead of fighting I puke up a little fluid onto the hood of the car. My arms are pulled behind me and something is wrapped around my wrists and I hear a zipping sound. I’m jerked back off the hood and hauled toward the rear passenger-side door of the sedan. The one behind me has a hand on the plastic bindings he zipped around my wrists, pulling my arms up and back, and the other clamped on my neck. The driver with the spiky hair reaches into the backseat and pushes the door open. I plant my feet. The one behind me pushes my arms higher and something grates in my right shoulder as it threatens to dislocate. I lurch as the pain leaps up my neck and meets up with the agony in my face and he trips me into the back of the car. My upper body flops onto the seat. Spiky grabs the collar of my jacket and pulls while the one on the sidewalk pushes on my legs. I roll, land on my back in the footwell, pull my feet free of the one on the sidewalk and kick him in the neck. He stumbles back.

  MIGUEL RUNS AROUND the block toward Soho House where we left the Cadillac, Jay still draped over his shoulder. I trail them, making sure no one follows. Halfway to the hotel Jay slips from Miguel’s shoulder, lands on his feet, and hops up the street pulling his pants back on.

  —Yo, I left my shirt.

  He turns and starts back toward the bar. I put out my arms and herd him in the other direction.

  —Uh-uh. Bad call.

  —Yo, my nippies are hard. I need my shirt.

  I take off my jacket and hand it to him.

  He looks at it.

  —Little big.

  —Roll the sleeves.

  He pulls on the jacket and rolls the sleeves, but still he’s swimming in it.

  —This sucks.

  Miguel points at him.

  —Makes you look…

  He points at me.

  —Like his bitch.

  He starts laughing. Jay shakes his head.

  —Harsh, yo.

  We pass a bar on Ninth Ave.

  —Yo! I need a drink.

  Miguel pulls the door open.

  —Let your new girl buy you one.

  He goes inside and lets the door swing shut.

  Jay opens the door and smiles at me.

  —See, yo, how hard was that?

  They get silly drunk. Miguel picks up the bartender and Jay picks up her friend. We stay after closing. I drink seltzer and try to calculate the hours since I slept. The bartender tells us about the party bus.

  —It’s, like, exactly like a limo, but it’s, like, a bus.

  Jay and Miguel love it.

  —We have to. Yo! We need one to pick us up after tomorrow’s game.

  Miguel looks at his watch.

  —Today’s game.

  They drink more.

  On the way back to the hotel, the girls walk together whispering in each other’s ears while Jay walks right behind them, still wearing my jacket. Miguel puts his arm around my shoulder.

  —You know I wasn’t really mad, right? About you not giving me the phone?

  —Sure.

  —You know, I know what’s right. I know Jay’s right about that shit. How I’m a little out of control. I just get a little pissed when he sticks his nose in it. Telling other people and shit. But that’s, you know, man. That’s kinda why he thought you’d be good to have around, I guess. Anyway, we’re cool. OK?

  —OK.

  —Cool.

  He pats my shoulder once and runs up to the girls and throws his arms around them.

  —What’s the big secret? Jay, what’s the big secret here?

  Me, I follow behind, watching their backs, trying to figure out why the hell I didn’t give him the damn phone. But knowing the answer. It’s easy enough after all. I like the guy. Fuck me.

  I HAVE TO get out of the car. If I stay in the car they can take me anywhere and kill me. I have to get out of the fucking car, Mom and Dad.

  I heave myself up and scoot on my ass toward the open door. Spiky tries to grab my hair, but it’s too short. He reaches for something in his pocket. He’s going to do it. He’s going to shoot me right here in the car. The one on the sidewalk is coming back, a hand held to his neck.

  I can’t get out of the car.

  I have to do something.

  So I scream.

  AFTER I’M CLEAN, before I go down to see if I can find Miguel and Jay at the restaurant, I pull the phone book from the desk and flip to the pages for limousine services. My eyes drift over the open Yellow Pages. I see a small ad in the lower right corner. It’s black with yellow lettering in gothic script.

  Mario

  Personal Car Service

  sweet

  And a phone number.

  Mario. Looks like he’s moved up in the world some. Good for him. But nothing in his ad about what I need. So I turn the page and keep looking. I find it and make the call. A woman comes on the line and asks me what I need.

  —Yeah, uh, do you have a party bus available tonight?

  They do.

  Then I go downstairs, the concierge tells me where she sent the guys for breakfast. I walk onto the street into a beautiful day, feeling far from the worst I’ve ever felt.

  And they almost get me clean.

  SPIKY SWINGS SOMETHING at me. I flinch and it hits me in the shoulder that was almost dislocated. Pain jumps to my wrist and the arm goes dead.

  I scream.

  The one on the sidewalk is trying to get a grip on my legs as I kick and thrash. Spiky swings his sap again.

  I scream.

  The sap hits the top of my head.

  I’m going to die. I’ve done these things and I’m going to die. Oh, God. Oh, no. Please. Save me please. Someone save me. I don’t want to die.

  I scream.

  The sap comes down again.

  I stop screaming.

  A DOOR OPENS. Closes. Footsteps. Three people, I think.

  There’s pain in my right arm and shoulder, something digging into my wrists and ankles, a hard ache at the top of my head. And my face, the bones behind my face feel cracked. I open my eyes. The light makes the pain worse, but I keep them open. It takes several seconds for my vision to clear, for the living room to resolve.

  I’m facedown on a couch, my arms bound behind my back and my ankles strapped together. A man, the guy with the gelled widow’s peak, is sitting on a flowered armchair across from me, smoking. The spiky blond driver is standing behind him, sunglasses on. Between us, perched on the edge of the chair’s ottoman, is a beautiful woman dressed in black. She is very small.

  I remember Mickey telling me his mother was once a dancer. She must have been a ballerina.

  She’s looking at me.

  —You killed my son.

  It seems pointless to say I’m sorry.

  PART THREE

  SATURDAY, JUNE 25, 2005

  GAME TWO

  THE SECOND TIME was The Rep for the Culinary, the Vegas union that handles restaurant an
d hotel workers. The bulk of the Culinary’s members are Mexican. The Rep was Mexican. He was helping more Mexicans join the union. Big deal. That’s how things work. You have a choice between helping out someone who’s familiar to you, someone you understand, as opposed to say, some Russian guy, and you’re going to help the one you understand, the one from your country who was recommended to you by your cousin’s husband. That’s what he did, and he kept doing it. David kept sending people over, trying for Culinary jobs that this guy controlled, and he kept helping Mexicans instead. He was offered money. He didn’t take it. He didn’t care about the money, he cared about helping people from his country. So David sent me and Branko.

  He worked as a cook in a restaurant inside the Bellagio. He made enough money to own two cars, a house in a gated community, and to send his two kids to a private Catholic school, not to mention health insurance for the whole family. That’s how good those Culinary jobs can be. Shit, I would have liked a job in the Culinary.

  It was a parking lot deal. Parking lots are popular for this sort of thing. It’s easy to be anonymous in a parking lot. Easy to get a moment’s privacy. And you’re close to your car.

  He worked the swing, 5:00 p.m. to 1:00 a.m. We sat in a used car Branko had bought for cash. I don’t remember what model or make. I don’t remember the color. By then I was too high to remember shit. Xanax, Darvocet, and Dexedrine, I think.

  The Rep came out an employee entrance, into the underground parking lot. He started toward his 4x4, walking slow, stretching his back after the long shift. We got out of our car and started walking toward him, Branko in front, me right behind, both of us wearing ball caps, sunglasses, and fake beards for the security cameras. A couple more people came out the employee door. One of them called to The Rep and he turned and waved. We slowed a bit, but he didn’t stop to talk, just reached in his pocket for his keys and pressed the button to turn off his car alarm. The alarm beeped as we came abreast the truck, blocking his passage. Branko turned sideways to let The Rep by. He waited politely at the hood of his truck, gesturing with his arm that we should go by him first. Branko gave a little nod, stumbled, and I bumped into his back. His keys fell out of his hand and skittered toward The Rep. Branko turned to me and I told him I was sorry. Behind him, The Rep bent to pick up the keys, and I nodded. Branko turned, grabbed The Rep’s neck, and rammed his head into the fender of the car parked next to his truck. The Rep grunted, tried to stand, and Branko rammed his head again. The Rep went limp and Branko dropped him.

  I was carrying the gun this time, but for a second I forgot what came next and Branko had to pull it out of my pocket and put it in my hand. I don’t remember the car we drove, but I remember the gun. It was a Ruger, a Rimfire .22. I remember because it had a ten-round magazine. And I was supposed to use all the bullets. And I did. Branko had drilled little holes down the length of the barrel to vent gases as the pistol was fired, an integral silencer. But the shots were still loud in the enclosed garage. Branko watched the first two bullets go in, then he started for our car as I pulled the trigger.

  There was a hesitation between the fifth and sixth bullets. Branko paused halfway to our car when he heard it. If he had turned just then, he would have seen that I had raised the gun, bringing it up to point it at either the back of his head or the front of my own. I’m not sure which. But I lost my nerve, kept firing into The Rep, and Branko got into the car. I wiped the gun, dropped it, and Branko pulled the car up in front of me. I got in.

  The new rep opened the book to a few Russians and David got his first toehold in the Culinary. And I went and saw my dealer the next day and told him I needed something new. He said Demerol. I said I’d take all he had.

  —You killed my son.

  This time the words aren’t addressed at me, but at the floor, as if she’s trying to put it together, make sense out of how I could have killed her son.

  She looks up. Her brown, curly hair is shot with gray, her eyes are bloodshot and dark-ringed, a weary tension pulls at the corners of her mouth. She licks her dry lips.

  —How?

  She gets that one word out. I wait for another, but if there was anything more it’s caught inside her. I wonder if she really wants to know how I killed Mickey. How I pushed him from the top of a Mayan ruin and watched him tumble down, spilling blood on the steps. No, she must surely know. She must know how her own son died. I say nothing.

  She finds the words in her throat.

  —How could you…

  She breathes.

  —Do that?

  She is breathing through her mouth now, her chest heaving, hyperventilating.

  I don’t know what to tell her. I try to think of the answer that will keep me alive the longest, the one that will give me the most time to try to get out of this. I try to think. I think the top of my head feels cracked and itchy, like the sap split the skin and a scab has formed. I think my right shoulder hasn’t been seriously damaged, but it hurts like hell. I think the plastic handcuffs zipped tight around my wrists are cutting off the circulation to my hands. I think my face has had nails driven into it and I want something to make the pain go away.

  —How?

  There is more, but she can’t get it past all the air rushing in and out of her lungs.

  I think I have something I want to say. It’s hard to speak. It hurts to say things. But I try.

  —I don’t want to die.

  Whatever was to come out of her mouth next doesn’t.

  I say it again.

  —I don’t want to die.

  She shakes her head.

  —Shut.

  It is less a word this time than a gasp. Air shaped like a word, but carrying none of the weight of spoken language.

  —Up.

  But I won’t.

  —I don’t want to die.

  She starts to rise on trembling legs, strong dancer’s legs weak with rage.

  —Shut. Up.

  But I can’t.

  —I don’t want to die.

  She takes a step toward me. Her fists balled at her sides, arms shaking. Tears hot, spilling from her eyes.

  —Shut up.

  But it’s true. What I am saying is true.

  —I don’t want to die.

  She crosses the space between us, and her fist crashes down on the side of my head.

  The nails in my face are driven deeper. But I don’t shut up.

  —Please.

  Her other fist slams into the back of my neck.

  —Shut up.

  No.

  —I don’t want to die.

  She swings her arms, pummeling me, hammering at my back and shoulders and head and neck. Sobbing.

  —You shut up. Shut up, you. You. Shut. Shut. You don’t. No. Never. Shut up.

  And me.

  —Please. Let me live. I don’t want to. I can’t die yet. I want. Don’t want to die.

  Both of us begging in whispers.

  She’s falling to her knees, wheezing, her blows have no strength.

  —You shut up. Shut up. Please shut up.

  She’s on her knees next to the couch, her face a foot from mine, her hands clenched together, pounding on my back.

  —Please shut up.

  Spiky says something in Russian. She stops hitting me, says something in Russian. He walks to her and offers her something. She stays on her knees, takes it from his hand. I see what it is.

  —Please. I don’t want to die.

  She puts the gun below my chin, presses it into my throat.

  —Shut up.

  I open my mouth. Something comes out; a noise, the tail end of a years-long sob.

  —Please.

  She digs the gun into my flesh.

  —Shut up. Please shut up. Please shut up. Please shut up.

  They are whispers. Pleas.

  I shut up.

  She breathes.

  She looks at my face, the face I was not born with.

  She breathes.

  The barrel of
the gun is deep in the hollow beneath my chin, shivering.

  She breathes.

  Her mouth opens wide, mirroring my own, and a sound, a ragged wail like the one that escaped mine, comes from hers.

  She slumps, the gun falls from her hand and thumps on the carpet. Spiky touches her shoulder.

  —Tetka?

  She looks at me, closes her eyes.

  Whispers.

  —No. It is all right. Everything is all right.

  But it’s not. How could it be?

  —How do you kill?

  She speaks English beautifully, just the trace of an accent to let you know it is not her native tongue, so I know there is no misunderstanding. I know it’s not what she means, but still, I think of all the many ways I have killed.

  —How?

  And she is not speaking to me in any case.

  —How can you kill another human being?

  She is speaking to the wall-to-wall carpet.

  —And a boy?

  She gestures to the carpet, trying to eke an answer from it.

  —How do you kill a boy?

  She shakes her head.

  —A simple boy. A beautiful boy.

  She looks at the ceiling now.

  —You. You have killed so many people. A boy, more or less, what was he to you?

  She puts her hand to her chest.

  —But he was everything to me.

  She clutches a handful of material at her breast.

  —Everything.

  Her eyes fall back to the carpet.

  —You have killed so many.

  Her hand goes to her forehead.

  —And I cannot kill even one.

  And now she looks at me.

  —Not even if that one is you.

  She spits on my face.

  —A murderer. A killer of boys.

  She stands, gets up from the floor where she has been sitting right next to me.

  —I cannot kill you.

  She is straightening her dress, her hands scuttling over her body, tugging at wrinkles.

  —But I know who you are.

  She steps to the ottoman and picks up the small black handbag sitting next to it.

  —I know who you are.

  She opens the bag, takes out two pieces of paper and unfolds them.