The music stops.
—Where are you?
—Place called Smith’s. Corner of—
—I know where it is. Be out front in ten minutes.
He hangs up. I hang up. I walk back to my table and poke my cold burger. I eat a cold french fry. I take a sip of my seltzer. I put a twenty on the table. I think about going out the back door. I look around. There is no back door. I think again that if Mario is really smart he will have called the cops. But if he’s really, really smart, he will have found out where I am and then called the cops and then he can collect on the huge reward that is available for information leading to my capture and conviction. The capture has always been the tricky part, conviction on at least a few of the crimes I’ve been accused of being a foregone conclusion. Which is only right, seeing as I have done some fucked-up shit. I think about what it would mean to get scooped up by the cops right now. As opposed to my other options. Which are?
Suicide by Branko.
Kill everyone.
I eat another cold fry and walk out the front door. It seems about as good an idea as any of the others. And maybe it is, because a brand-new black Lincoln Continental pulls smoothly to a stop just as I hit the curb and the driver side window zips down and there’s Mario, with his short Puerto Rican fro and his carefully etched beard, and he takes a look at me and nods and I get in the backseat and close the door.
He turns around.
—I’m gonna show you something, man.
I look out the back window to see if a squad of SWATs is surrounding us. Nope. I look at Mario and nod.
—OK.
He brings his hand above the seatback and shows me the little automatic resting in his palm.
—See?
—Yeah.
He points at the gun with his other hand.
—You try anything, I’ll use it. I never shoot anybody, man. But I got kids. You try anything, I’ll fucking do it. OK?
—OK.
He shakes his head and bites his lower lip.
—OK. OK then.
He puts the gun back in his pocket, turns to the wheel, drops the car into drive and rolls.
I lean forward and put my arm on the back of his seat.
—I need—
—You just sit the fuck back, man. Sit back.
His right hand has gone to his pocket.
I sit back.
—Right. It’s cool.
His eyes flick at me in the rearview mirror and he shakes his head.
—You just chill and I’ll take you to your money. Take you to the fucking money and then I’m through with this shit.
IT’S A TWENTY-FOUR-HOUR self-service place on Third Ave., down near the Bowery. I watch from a couple hundred miles away as Mario slips a plastic card into the slot next to the door and enters a code. There’s a beep and he pulls the door open and it buzzes loudly. He walks through and looks back at me standing there, watching him.
—Come on, man.
I walk through the door and he lets it go and it swings shut behind me and the buzzing stops. He goes to the elevator, slips his card into another slot, enters his code again, there’s the same beep and the elevator doors slide open. He steps in, and again he has to prompt me.
—Son of a bitch. Move!
I get into the elevator. He pushes a button and we go up for a few seconds and the elevator stops and the doors open and he gets out and shakes his head at me standing there not moving and grabs my sleeve and pulls me along with him down the corridor of identical doors.
—You stoned, man? You on something?
I shake my head.
I am not on anything. But I can see where he got the idea. I’ve been acting like this ever since he said the magic words. Ever since he told me where we were going. I want to snap out of it, but I can’t. I know this feeling. I’ve had it before in my life. It’s the feeling you get when you realize nothing is going to be the way you thought it would be. When you realize nothing has been the way you always thought it was.
The first time I had this feeling was when I woke up after the surgery on my leg and saw the rods sticking out of it. The second time was when I plowed my Mustang into the tree and saw my friend smash through the windshield. The third time was in here in the City before I ran, when I found Yvonne’s beaten body. The last time I felt it was the first time I killed someone for David. The Kid. And now it’s here for one final visit.
Mario stops in front of one of the doors.
He slips the card into its slot.
He enters his code.
Beep.
He pushes the door open and steps back out of the way and I look inside the tiny storage unit and see the large, rectangular black travel box, the kind people use when they have to haul around expensive electronics and whatnot. I walk over to the box. It’s standing on end; its top reaches the bottom of my rib cage. I fumble with one of the key-shaped clasps. I fumble with it because my fingers are suddenly sausage-thick and about as useful. Except they’re not. Not really. They just feel that way. I manage to pop the clasp down and twist it. I repeat the action with the other three clasps. I wrap my sausage hand around the handle on top of the case and pull. It’s fitted tightly and sighs off. A little sand from a Mexican beach is caught in the cracks and rains down onto the concrete floor. I hold the lid in one hand and look inside the box.
It’s packed in tight, right up to the top.
Packed and wrapped in plastic.
Just like I left it.
Mario steps close behind me.
—It’s all there, man. I never touch the shit. Even this unit, the money came out of my own pocket. I almost dumped it in the river a couple times, but I never took none of it.
I nod.
I’m sure he’s telling the truth.
Anyway, it looks like all 4 million is in there. It surely looks like it.
PART FOUR
SUNDAY, JUNE 26, 2005
GAME THREE
—Just before Christmas. Year before last. Tim came to town. He gave me a key for a unit. He said hang on to the key. Said he probably wouldn’t be coming for it. Said I might have to send it somewhere. Said you might come for it. Asked me if I remembered you. I said, Timmy, you think I forget that shit? Think I forget I drove him to the airport? Think I forget I could be up to my ass in aiding and abetting if I ever opened my mouth about him? But, Timmy, I said, I got kids now. I got two kids and a wife and a business and employees. I can’t be in that kind of shit no more. He said you needed help. He told me to remember where I got the money. I could start my own business in the first place. He said hang on to the key. He said nobody comes to pick it up, just pay the bills on the unit and hang onto the key. Shit. I saw his body on the TV, I almost threw the key in the garbage. Then I think, What is it? What’s it all about? Came over here. Looked in the box. That stain on the floor? That’s where I threw up when I saw that shit. I saw that money. I just about died. This shit is trouble. This shit is trouble like no man should have. I think, Throw it in the river. Then I think, What if he comes for it and I threw it in the river? What a man gonna do then? Shit. So I hang onto the key. Sweat every day. Say to myself, Two years. He ain’t here in two years, it goes in the water. Two years means he’s dead. After two years I don’t want nothing to do with shit like this. This shit. I have an ulcer from this. I yell and my wife, she don’t know why. Can I tell her? No. Got to lie to her about some shit at work. Try to play with my kids, all I think about is this locker and that box. Shit. Now, I’m finished.
I’m still standing there, the lid in my hand, staring at the money. Mario’s hand appears from behind me and he snaps the key-card down on top of the cash.
—This is the spare key. You gotta use it to get back out. Code is 4430640. My card, I’m gonna toss it in the sewer as soon as I get out of here. So that’s it. I’m leaving.
I don’t say anything. And he doesn’t move.
—You hear me, man? I’m out. OK? Sweet?
I manage t
o nod.
—Yeah. Sweet.
I hear him walk out of the unit. I stand there, listening to his footsteps retreating down the corridor. Then I drop the lid, rip the plastic and dig out two fat handfuls of cash. Two chunks of money. I rush out the door.
I turn the corner and there he is, just stepping into the elevator. He hears my footsteps and spins. He sees me and starts jabbing at the buttons. I hurry toward him, my arms held out in front of me, the bills clutched in my hands, the individually rubber-banded packets stacked high between my fingers. His hand is trying to find its way into his pocket, pawing for the gun inside. I stop and show him the money. I take a step closer, offering it to him.
—For you. For your kids. I.
—Keep that shit away from me. I told you, want nothing to do with that poison. That shit, it kills people. Keep it away from me. Keep it away from my family. I ever see you again, long as I live, I’ll think it’s bad, and I’ll kill you.
The doors slide shut on him, and the money squeezed so tightly between my fingers slips loose and spits onto the floor. I bend over and pick it all up.
IT’S AFTER MIDNIGHT.
I close the door of the unit and haul the case to the elevator. I use the key card. I have to punch in the code three times before I get it right. The elevator takes me down. I walk out of the storage place and look up and down the street. I need someplace safe. Just for a little while. Just till I figure out what to do with this shit. There’s a pay phone at the end of the block.
I find the scrap of stationery in my pocket and make the call. Then I tilt the case onto its side, sit on it and wait.
Times like these. Times like these I wish I still smoked. Wish I still drank. Wish I had some pills. Times like these I wish I had all my bad habits to make the time pass more quickly, and to keep me out of my own head. But I don’t. So I sit and watch the traffic flow by until an airport shuttle bus jerks to a stop right in front of me and rocks back and forth on its shocks, shades pulled down over the windows.
The door folds open and a huge cloud of tobacco and pot smoke rolls out along with the sound of “Lovin’, Touchin’, Squeezin’ ” at full volume.
—Yo, Scarface.
I get up, lift the case, and climb up the steps. Jay moves out of the way and I squeeze past him.
THE PARTY BUS is packed. Cyclones players, girls from wherever, and assorted odds and ends are crammed onto the banquets that wrap around the interior. More bodies heave in the wide center aisle, swaying to the music as a disco light spins above their heads and fog pumps in from below their feet.
Miguel squirts out of the press of bodies, the bartender from last night hanging off his arm. He has to scream over the music.
—My man! Where you been?
—Had some things to do!
—No shit? What’s in the box?
I look at the box.
—Something I lost!
Jay grabs me.
—Lost? Yo! You know we don’t talk about losing up in here! This is where the winners roll! Missed a game, Scarface! Missed my man’s first official pro home run. Missed the Cyclones beating the fucking Yankees!
He shakes the beer he’s holding and sprays it in my face.
—Now get your party on, yo! Tonight’s the night!
The song hits the nah-nahs, and everybody sings along at the top of their lungs.
I DRIVE THE party bus.
I drive the party bus because Jay has been feeding cocktails to Walter, the sixty-year-old chauffeur who’s supposed to be driving it. Now Walter is squashed into a corner in the back of the bus, passed out cold and sleeping it off. So I drive the bus with a box of money riding shotgun beside me.
Jay sticks his face through the curtain that separates the driver’s compartment from the rest of the bus.
—Yo! We’re running low on supplies back here. Need a beer stop.
He disappears back into the maelstrom. I cruise around until I spot a grocery on the corner of Third and Eleventh Ave. I double-park on the avenue, find the button that opens the door, hit it, and a crowd of drunken kids tumbles to the street and charges into the grocery for beer and cigarettes and snacks. I turn on the emergency blinkers, set the parking brake, and go into the back of the bus.
The lights are still spinning, but the fog has slowed to a trickle. Whatever the machine uses for juice must be just about out. I kick through the litter of empties, crushed cigarette butts and discarded clothing. The stereo is still blaring. I find the controls mounted above a cluster of empty decanters and switch it off, silencing “No Sleep Til Brooklyn.”
A lone couple has stayed on the bus. They’re half naked and twisting around on one of the banquets, oblivious to me. I have to push Walter out of the way to get the bathroom door open. I step inside the tiny cabinet and close the door.
I take off my sweaty, crumpled jacket and hang it on the hook on the back of the door. I flip up one of the levers on the sink and a sluggish trickle of cool water dribbles out. I hold my hands under it until they fill and splash the water onto my face. I look at myself in the mirror.
My hair is twisted and crushed from sweat and the hat I was wearing. There are streaks of dirt down my neck and on the front of my wife-beater. I get some water on a couple paper towels and use them to wipe away the dirt on my skin and blot at my shirt.
The bus rocks as people start to pile back on. I get more water on my hands and rub them over my head, brushing my clipped hair back into something resembling its usual shape. Someone turns the stereo back on. Someone else bangs on the bathroom door.
I look at my face again. Would Mom recognize this face? The way she recognized my voice, would she see me inside this thing?
More banging on the door.
—Yo, Scarface, time to roll.
Yeah, right, time to roll. Not sure to where, but got to keep rolling.
I open the door and edge out into the press of bodies. Jay bugs his eyes at my tats.
—Jesus, yo. Look at you, all inked up and hooded out.
He squeezes into the can and closes the door. I maneuver back to the wheel, the kids around me cracking open fresh sixteen-ounce cans of Coors Light and tearing into bags of Doritos and packages of Chips Ahoy. I part the curtain and drop into the driver’s seat.
—Hey, man.
Miguel is sitting in the passenger seat. He’s shoved the box aside and has one long leg propped up on it.
—Mind if I ride up here?
—Nope.
He looks me up and down.
—Where’d all the tattoos come from?
—Different places.
—Cool.
—Thanks.
—I’ve been thinking about getting one. My nickname in college was The Hammer. I’ve been thinking about getting a sledgehammer hitting a baseball. Cool, right?
—Yeah. Cool.
I close the door, turn off the flashers and the brake and drop the shifter into drive.
—Where to?
—Doesn’t matter. Just driving is cool here. Everything is cool here. I fucking love New York.
We catch green lights down the avenue. Miguel has his arm stuck out the window, his hand flattened into a wing riding the wind.
—We missed you today, man. What happened?
—I got a call. Had to do some stuff.
I pull to a stop at Houston.
—Stuff for David?
—Yeah.
He reaches over and tugs the curtain closed all the way.
—What’s that like? Working for him?
I watch the signal light up ahead cycle from red to green. Traffic doesn’t move.
—It’s a job.
—Sure. I get it. You can’t say much. But, David. Is he OK? I mean, this deal I have with him. You think that’s OK?
The light goes to yellow. We move forward maybe a car length.
—It’s a deal. You take what you can get, I guess.
He turns in his seat to face me.
—Yeah, I kn
ow you work for the guy and all. I’m not looking to get you in trouble or anything. It’s just. You know I think you’re all right. So I’m just looking for your opinion if, I don’t know, if I’m doing this right.
I look at the box of money right next to him.
—Look, Miguel, here’s the thing—
The light goes red.
Jay yanks the curtain open.
—What’s up, yo? Where we headed?
Miguel points at the street.
—Cruisin’.
—Yo, man. We need to get out and stretch.
—We just got out.
—No, we need to like really get out. Get some air. This party needs some air before it punks out.
Miguel looks back into the throbbing heart of the bus.
—Man, this party ain’t punking anytime tonight.
—Uh-uh. Major punk danger. Must have O2. Driver, take us to a park or something.
I look at Miguel. He shrugs.
—Sure. A park. That’s cool.
The light is green and we move forward this time. I turn west on Houston.
Jay grabs Miguel’s sleeve.
—Get on back here, yo.
—Gonna sit up here for awhile.
—No, yo. Party needs you.
He tugs on Miguel. Miguel tries to pull away.
—Chill, Jay.
—Yo. You got guests here.
—They’re cool.
—No they ain’t. Come on back with the party.
He drags Miguel up out of the seat.
—OK. Chill, chill, chill. I’m coming.
—Then come on, fag. Chicks back here need you.
Miguel pats my shoulder.
—Check you later, man. I want to finish this.
Jay shoves him into the mass of sweaty kids, looks at me, nods, and follows Miguel, pulling the curtain closed behind him. I drive.
I take a left on West Broadway. The money box tilts and clunks against the door. I think about it. It’s pretty much impossible to think about anything else.
A Dangerous Man Page 17
