A Dangerous Man

by Charlie Huston

  —You shut up now and take it like a man.

  He pulls a roll of duct tape from his other pocket, tears off a strip and seals it over the ball. He stands up and looks at me.

  —You are OK?

  I finger my singed eyebrow.

  —Yeah, I’m fine.

  —Where is the coke?

  —It’s on the table in there.

  He glances over his shoulder into the room.

  —Good. OK.

  He points at the big man kneeling on the bathroom floor.

  —His fingers.

  I open my mouth. Branko shakes his head, cutting me off.

  —His fingers. I will get the coke.

  He steps out of the bathroom, but calls back through the open door.

  —And do not forget his thumbs.

  I look at the cop, his hands held out in front of him, his face red and tear-streaked as he pleads through the rubber ball. I try to grab his wrists, but he wrenches them away, so I kick him in the stomach. Air explodes out his nose and he folds.

  There are reasons why people do the things they do. You have to have a reason, otherwise you couldn’t do them.

  I have a reason.

  A good one.

  And at times like these I remind myself of what it is.

  I kick him in the stomach one more time and grab his wrists and lay his fingers across the lip of the open toilet seat and slam the lid so hard the seat cracks and I have to get the blood-splotched tank lid off the floor to finish the job.

  And the whole time I say the same thing to myself over and over.

  This is for you Mom and Dad. This is for you.

  Then Branko comes in, nods once at my handiwork and tells me to go wait in the car while he cleans up.

  THIS IS HOW you lose your life.

  You’re a kid, you play baseball. You are better at baseball than a human being has a right to be at anything. You’re going to the pros, everybody knows it. But before it can become a reality, you hurt yourself, bad.

  Things happen.

  You wallow in your own misery and start hanging with the crowd of kids you would have nothing to do with before you shattered your leg. You do some drugs, break into some houses, get caught.

  Things happen.

  You trade baseball and petty crime for hot rods. You’re a big fucking show-off. You crash your Mustang and your best friend is in the car and he sails through the windshield and you get to see what it looks like when a teenager’s head explodes against a tree.

  Things happen.

  You go to college. You learn things, lots of things. You learn how things work, you learn some first aid, you learn some history and some books and some politics. All the things you didn’t have time for when there was baseball. You meet a girl and move to New York City to be with her. She dumps you.

  Things happen.

  You learn to drink. You tend bar, you develop a drinking problem that’s like the rest of your life: nothing special. Years pass. Blah, blah, blah. Boo, hoo, hoo.

  Nothing happens.

  Then everything happens at once.

  A friend leaves something in your care, a cat. That is, you think it’s a cat he leaves with you, but it’s not. It’s a key, a key at the bottom of the cat’s cage. The key opens a door and behind the door is a prize, and lots of people want the prize. Who wouldn’t want the prize when it’s over 4 million clean, untraceable dollars? People come for the key. People threaten you and push you around and hurt you bad and try to kill you, and finally, they kill people you care about. Someone you love. And you kill back.

  Things happen.

  You stop drinking. You hide. You are severed from your life, huddled on a beach in Mexico, trying to pretend it’s OK being a fugitive, cool being on the lam and living on a beach. The mysterious Americano. But it’s not OK. It’s not cool. And then you meet someone, someone who knows who you are. Someone who wants the money. Threats are exchanged. He threatens you, you threaten him, he threatens your parents. He dies. You run. Back home, to your parents, back to protect them. Bad call.

  Things happen.

  You lose the money. Lose it like an idiot. Lose over 4 million dollars. Lose the only thing that can save your parents’ lives. You make moves. You play both ends against the middle, you make it up as you go along. You fail. Guns. Vicious dogs. Dead friends. Carnage, bloody and awful. You decide to die.

  Something happens.

  A man saves you. A man saves your life and offers you a new one. The money was his and you have lost it, but he has a use for you. He sees your talents. He sees the things you have done. He knows that you are better at violence than a human being has a right to be at anything. He has uses for a man like you.

  Things happen.

  But you don’t want to think about them.

  And that is how you lose your life. Because this is not your life. It is the life that has been allowed you. You live it, but it is not your life.

  And then things start to happen again.

  MY HANDS SHAKE.

  They shake so bad I have to stab at the release button on the glove compartment three times before I hit it and the little door drops open. They shake so bad they turn the bottle of pills into a maraca. I fumble with it until Branko climbs into the car, takes the bottle from my hands, twists the cap off and looks at the pills inside.

  —What are these?

  —Vicodin.

  He looks at me. I hold out my hand.

  —My face hurts.

  —It is hurting again?

  —It hurts all the time.

  He grunts, taps two of the pills into his hand and drops them in my waiting palm. I keep my hand out. He shakes his head, drops two more in my hand. I toss the pills in my mouth and dry-swallow them.

  He seals the bottle and puts it back in the glove box.

  —David wants to speak to you.

  I flex my fingers, curling and uncurling them.

  —He’s in town?

  —David is a man who likes to speak on the phone?

  I shake my head.

  —So where is he?

  Branko jerks his thumb over his shoulder.

  I look behind us at the reflective gold tower of the Mandalay Bay.

  —Across the street?

  —Yes.

  He points at my hands.

  —You can drive?

  They’ve stopped shaking. Sometimes it’s like that, just swallowing the pills makes me feel better.

  —Yeah.

  I stick the key in the ignition, turn it, and the Olds pops to life. I pull us out of the parking space and Branko starts fiddling with the radio. I stop at the exit, waiting for a break in the traffic. Branko hits Lauryn Hill singing “Ex-Factor” and stops spinning the dial. He taps his finger on his knee, slightly out of time.

  —I miss Hal Jackson.

  His Serbian accent makes it sound like Hell Jycksin.

  —What?

  —Hal Jackson. Sunday mornings. WBLS. I miss him from New York.

  I had a girl back in New York once. She liked Hal Jackson. Sunday mornings reading the paper, coffee and bagels.

  I pull us onto The Strip. Branko is looking at me.

  —Sunday Morning Classics?

  She’s dead now. Now. As if it happened recently. It didn’t.

  I drive to the end of the block and stop at the light and wait for a green arrow that will let me turn left. Branko wants me to remember. He sings.

  —Listen to the Sunday Classics. Doubleyou bee ell esss. Hal Jackson. He’s got a lot of soul.

  I get my arrow and turn.

  —Yeah. OK. I remember.

  He nods.

  —Yes. Everybody knows Hal Jackson.

  I have to wait again to make the left into the Mandalay’s drive. A siren sounds from somewhere up The Strip. I glance into the mirror and see an ambulance pulling into the Happi Inn Motel lot. I look at Branko. He shrugs.

  —I call the 911.

  He holds up his hands.

&
nbsp; —He would have to dial with his nose.

  He taps the tip of his own nose.

  I turn into the drive and join the long line of cars and cabs waiting to pull up to the entrance of the hotel. I glance once more back at the Happi.

  —Guy was a cop.

  Branko nods. I rub my right eyebrow, grinding away the last of the singed hairs.

  —No one told me he was a cop.

  Branko shrugs.

  I watch the taillights of the car in front of us, flashing pale in the shaded drive.

  —I’d like to’ve known he was a cop.

  Branko nods.

  —Next time.

  Next time. Next time I’m supposed to bait a guy into a motel room with coke, they’ll let me know if the guy’s a cop. Color me reassured. We pull up to the valet stand and climb out. I take the ticket from the valet and follow Branko into the lobby where we get slammed by a wall of cocoa butter–scented freezing air and the screams of caged parrots and macaws. Branko points toward the elevator banks.

  —Twenty-seven-twenty.

  —You coming up?

  —No.

  —Where should I meet you?

  —Nowhere. I will stay here.

  —OK.

  He sticks out his hand and I take it.

  —Good today. Better.

  I look at his hand holding mine.

  —Thanks.

  He lets go of my hand, slaps my shoulder and walks off toward the sports book. He’ll sit there until David calls for him, watching the ponies and placing the occasional two-dollar bet. He disappears around a bar just off the lobby. Squat, balding and potbellied. He looks like any number of tourists in here. The cheap blue pants, the sneakers, the short-sleeve collared shirt and the Wal-Mart Windbreaker. He could be any Slavic American on vacation.

  I step into an elevator and see myself reflected as the shining metal doors close. I don’t look like anybody. I don’t even look like myself.

  THE DOORS OPEN on the twenty-seventh floor and I wander until I find the right room. I knock and wait and David opens the door. He smiles.

  —Come in, come in.

  He looks the same as ever. Buzzed gray hair, trimmed beard, silver-rimmed glasses, the slight belly and the hairy hands. I step past him and he pats my back as I walk ahead of him into the room. The gold tinting on the outside of the windows tinges the air green.

  No one else is in the room. This is how I always meet with David, alone, in private. I am his ghost. The weapon no one knows he owns. No one but Branko.

  He points at the honor bar.

  —Something to drink?

  —No, thanks.

  —No. Something. You must have something.

  He squats down in front of the bar.

  —I am having Black Label. I know you will not join me. But a juice? Water?

  I shrug.

  —You will have juice, then. It is good for your blood sugar. My daughter tells me.

  He looks heavenward. The things young people worry about.

  He takes a bottle of orange juice from the bar, shakes it and hands it to me.

  —A glass?

  —No.

  He points at a chair and I sit. He plops onto the bed and scoots his back against a small pile of pillows he’s arranged. His jacket and shoes are off, and he sits there in slacks and socks, the knot in his designer tie loose at the collar of his designer shirt. He picks up the remote and points it at the TV, muting the hotel station that has been telling him how to play roulette. He drops the remote on the bedspread, picks up his glass of Scotch from the nightstand and takes a sip.

  —When I was a younger man, the first time I was in a hotel with one of these.

  He points at the honor bar.

  —I drank everything clear. Vodka, gin, white wine, and filled the bottles with water from the bathroom and put them back just as they had been.

  He smiles, closes his eyes, and shrugs. Yes, I too was once young and stupid.

  He opens his eyes.

  —It embarrasses me now because there was no need. It was not long after I had left the Soviet Union, but still, I could have afforded these things even then. But, we have all done things of which we are embarrassed. Things we regret.

  I take a sip of my juice. He looks at the TV, at the silent figures of smiling people now rolling dice.

  —Branko tells me you are still taking the pills.

  I shift in my seat.

  —My face hurts.

  He looks from the TV screen to my face.

  —Still it hurts?

  My hand goes to the scar.

  —Some days are worse.

  He looks into his glass.

  —I am sorry for that. If there had not been a need…But.

  He looks back up at me, raises his eyebrows and tilts his head to the side. Why talk about “buts”?

  I take my fingers away from the scar.

  —It doesn’t matter. I can live with it.

  —That, I have never doubted.

  He points at the window.

  —And today? It went well?

  I look out the window. Across The Strip I can see the purple-and-green sign of the Laughing Jackalope and, next to it, the tarpaper roof of the Happi. The ambulance is pulling away, but two LVMPD cars are parked in front of the room.

  —The guy’s a cop.

  David swings his legs over the side of the bed, stands and walks to the window. He looks down at the police cars.

  —This matters?

  —What if he hadn’t bit on the coke? What if he busted me instead?

  He glances at me, looks back out the window.

  —You would let that happen?

  —It might have happened.

  He faces me.

  —And this is what it is that bothers you about this job? That you might have been arrested?

  I look back out the window. I can see a blue uniform walking across the parking lot toward the Jackalope.

  —You broke his hands?

  I swallow.

  —Yeah.

  —You did it? Not Branko?

  —Yeah, I did it.

  —And yet you try to tell me you are bothered now because this man is a cop.

  He hoists his glass slightly, sighting his eyes at mine over the rim. Do we not know each other better than this by now?

  He sips his drink.

  —This man, this cop. Do you know what he has done to make me so angry? So angry that I would have his hands broken?

  —No.

  —He is a cop that I pay. Every month he is paid money. It is a good arrangement. It is especially good for this cop because he is a man who knows that I can do him more harm than he can do to me. But still, still he abuses this arrangement. He takes more than is his fair share. He takes drugs from my dealers. He takes extra protection from my whores. He is especially greedy with the whores. Two nights past, the same evening after he has been paid what he is due for this month, that very night he shows up at the apartment of one of my whores. He wants money, yes, but he wants also to fuck. Well.

  He lifts his shoulders. What else are whores for?

  —But he is not a normal man. Fucking is not enough for this man. He likes also to beat my whores when he fucks them. This he has done before. And this night, two days past, he does it again. And he does this girl great harm.

  His lips tighten. He sips his drink, exhales, and his lips relax.

  —My family is from Armenia. This whore’s family is from Armenia. She is from a family that I know from when I was born. Am I close to this family? No. If I were close to these people I would not let their daughter be a whore. But I knew her father and he was not a bastard. And she is, this whore, she is my daughter’s age. Her hair. The same color.

  He swallows the rest of his drink and places the empty glass on the windowsill.

  —One whore beaten more or less. What is that? Nothing. But this cop has done it many times, and now he does it with a girl I have met. A girl who could be my daught
er.

  He rubs tears from his eyes, looks at his fingers, and then shows them to me. You see, you see how I feel these things in my soul?

  —So I tell Branko what will be done. And I tell him you are to do it. Why? Because these are the things you are meant to do for me. You are meant to do difficult things. Things that would make most men throw up their dinners and crap like babies in their pants. This is how you are meant to pay your debt to me.

  David reaches out, puts his hand on the side of my face, the tip of his index finger touching the scar, and gently turns my head to face him.

  —But you do not do these things anymore. You fail again and again, and Branko must do your work for you. We have talked about this?

  I can feel his fingers on my face, but not the one that rests on the patch of wrinkled, white skin.

  —Yes.

  —Yes, we have. And you try. I know this. I know you take these pills not just for the pain in your face. So today, this job? It was a gift for you. A man to hurt that truly deserved to be hurt.

  He smiles at me, crinkles the corners of his eyes. You see how I care for you, how generous I am with you?

  —But you must do better. You must get back the taste for this work.

  His hand drops from my face.

  —Soon.

  He walks to the bed, sits.

  —You understand this?

  —Yes.

  —That is why I ask to talk to you. So you understand this. I am being unreasonable?

  —No.

  —Good. That is good. Then.

  He settles back into his nest of pillows, crosses his legs at the ankles and picks up the remote.

  —The flight was long and I will take a nap now.

  —Sure.

  I get up and stand there looking for a place to put my nearly full bottle of juice.

  —Take it with you. For your blood sugar.

  He smiles. I nod and walk toward the door. I have it open when his voice floats up the hall.

  —There will be more work for you this week. You are free?

  I stand there with the doorknob in my hand.

  —Yeah.

  —Of course you are. Go home and rest. You are tired.

  I nod back down the hall toward the room, where all I can see of him are his stocking feet.

  —Yeah. Thanks.

  I step out into the hotel corridor, and before the door is closed I hear the sound of the TV click back on, chattering about the artificial beach behind the hotel. I walk to the elevators and push the button and stand there wondering how long I have left before David Dolokhov sends Branko to kill me, and whether he’ll send him to kill my parents before or after I am dead.