Down Surf I see Adam standing next to the entrance to the Cyclone, peering up the street. I turn, and at the end of Stillwell, I see Martin coming down the steps from the boardwalk. I cut back onto the midway, walk up to the nearest game and put a ten down. The barker picks up the money.
—How many?
I’m looking back toward the street.
—As many as I can.
—Start with these.
No sign of Martin yet.
—Mister?
—Huh.
—Start with these.
He’s offering me three baseballs.
—Got to knock all of them off. Completely off.
I look at what he’s pointing at, the three wood milk bottles stacked in a pyramid on a little table.
I look at the balls in his hand. Take them. Stare at them. I wonder if the universe does this to everyone or if it’s just me?
—You’re up, mister.
—Right.
I look back at the street. Still clear.
I toss a ball. Miss everything.
—One down!
I look again. Clear. Toss. Miss.
—Two down.
Still no one. Toss. Miss.
—Three down. Got plenty left.
He offers me three more balls. I’m still looking for Martin. No sign. OK, time to go. I take a step toward the street.
—You got more balls coming, mister!
—That’s OK. I.
Martin comes into view. I step back to the counter, take the balls and look at the bottles. I look only at the bottles. I do not look up to see if Martin has seen me. And I throw three misses. Shit. I should be able to hit those things.
—I got more?
—Ten buys nine.
He hands me three more. I throw one and knock the top bottle off. OK, that’s more like it. The barker resets the bottle. I toss a ball up and down, enjoying the feel of it landing in my palm. And not, absolutely not looking up for Martin. The bottles are set. Now, the trick here is to hit them low. The bottoms of the bottles are weighted with lead or something. That’s why it’s so hard to knock them completely off of their little table. I throw hard and hit them dead center. The top bottle flies, but the bottom bottles just get knocked on their sides and spin around a couple times. The barker resets them. I focus on the target, not looking at Martin. Do not look. Let him pass on by. Yeah, I can do this. Shit, if there’s one thing in life I have ever been able to do, it’s throw a goddamn baseball. I throw and miss again.
—Shit. I got more?
—That’s it.
I pull out a twenty.
—Let me get a few more.
I take a look to make sure Martin has moved on. He hasn’t. He’s twenty feet away, looking at the crowd and talking into his cell phone. Then he looks at me. He sees me seeing him, and starts talking a little louder into his phone.
—Balls, mister.
I grab the three balls and start firing them at Martin.
The first one hits him in the thigh and he stops and curses and does a little hop. The second one whizzes past his head and he instinctively covers his face, dropping his phone. The last one plunks him in the chest and he gasps and coughs. I run straight at him, drop a shoulder, and plow him to the ground. I keep running, the crowd parting for me, the barker yelling after me. I hit Stillwell and look over at Surf. Adam is coming around the corner. He sees me. I go straight across the street. A flea market has been set up on a parking lot. I run into it. I start making for the far side of the market, thinking I can cut back out to Surf and maybe grab a cab, but all I find is a chain-link fence. On the other side is a motor pool for the New York Department of Education or something, a couple acres of yellow school buses packed tight. I look back at the entrance of the flea market. Adam is working his way toward me; Martin is right behind him, rubbing his chest. I start to climb the fence. A man working a booth stocked with VHS tapes waves at me.
—Hey. Hey, man. You can’t do that.
At the top of the fence are three strands of barbwire. I boost myself up so that both my feet are on the top bar of the fence. I balance there for a second, then push off, driving with my legs.
—Hey! I’m gonna call a cop, man.
I clear the barbwire and belly flop on top of the nearest bus.
—Hey.
The wind knocked out of me, I worm to the edge of the bus and push myself over. I drop to the ground and lay there for a second, trying to get my wind back. Sprawled on my stomach, I can see under the bus and through the chain-link. I see two sets of feet run up. One of them starts to climb. The feet of the VHS guy come around his booth.
—Hey! That’s city property. You can’t go in there.
I see the VHS guy’s feet leave the ground, and then he’s lying on his back, holding the side of his head. The other feet are going up the fence. I stand, one hand held over my stomach, and start working my way into the maze of yellow school buses. By the time I realize I’ve lost my gun, Adam and Martin are over the fence.
I STAY HUNCHED below the level of the windows. It’s easy enough because my gut still aches from slapping down on the roof of the bus. Crap. That’s where my gun is, either on top of that bus or on the ground next to it. I can cut back, circle back to that spot in the fence. No. Think. There are two of them, they’ll be spreading out. I can’t circle back. I need to lose them in here. Maybe go to ground. Find a good spot to hunker down and wait them out until they give up. I look around for a good hiding spot. It’s all buses, the same hiding places over and over. I keep moving, heading toward what I think is the farside of the yard. I hear something. A voice? I stop. There are footsteps. They crunch in the gravel and then stop. I get down on my hands and knees and look under the buses, back in the direction I came from. Several buses back, Martin is lying on the ground, his phone pressed to his face. The footsteps crunch after me. I stand and start running. He’s spotting for Adam, tracking my legs under the buses. I need to put a few more between us so he loses sight of me in the jumble of tires.
I dodge back and forth randomly, losing all sense of where I came from or which way might lead to the edge of the yard. I stop. I hear nothing but “99 Problems” blasting from the bumper cars. I’m sandwiched between two of the short buses that used to bring the special education kids to my high school. Straight ahead is the rear of one of the big buses. A ladder runs up past its emergency exit, bolted there so a guy can climb up and clean the roof. I run to it, climb on top and flatten myself on the sunbaked steel.
The hot metal feels good against my sore stomach. I rest my face against it. It burns for the first second and then starts to ease the pain beneath my skin. I crane my neck to get a look around. The Coney midway is to my left, the boardwalk and the ocean straight ahead.
The buses are packed tight. There’s just enough room between them for a man to walk, just enough room for him not to have to turn his shoulders to get through. What I can do, I can stand up and run across the tops of the buses to the fence. By the time these guys realize what I’m doing I’ll be halfway there. I can be over the fence and back on the boardwalk, back where there are people. That’s what I need. People. Coming in here was stupid. I need to get back to where there are people.
I get up to my hands and knees, ready to jump to my feet and start running down the length of the bus.
—Hey!
I flatten.
—Hey.
It’s coming from below.
—You! Hey, you! Hang on there. Hang on.
I twist my head from side to side, looking for who is calling to me. But nowhere does a head poke up above the level of the bus tops.
—Hang on, hang on!
—What? Yes. We are. Hello.
Adam’s voice. He’s below me.
The new voice comes closer.
—Yeah, you. Who the hell do you think I’m talking to? Hold on there. And tell your buddy to hold on.
—Uh, yes. Da. Yes.
Adam says something i
n Russian.
—You guys see the No Trespassing signs around this place?
—We are sorry. What?
—The signs. No Trespassing?
—No. No. Sorry.
—This is off-limits in here. Verboten, like.
—Sorry. No. We did not know.
—Yeah. Well there’s a guy over in the flea market says you gave him a shove. Want to explain that to me.
—We. No. A man. He tried to.
He mumbles to himself in Russian.
—He tried to grab my brother.
Martin starts chattering loudly in Russian.
—Whoa. Fucking whoa! Tell your brother to settle down.
Adam says something else in Russian and Martin is quiet.
—The guy grabbed your brother?
—Da. Yes.
—The little guy out there shoved your bigass brother?
—He. Bigass? He grabbed him. Da.
—OK. Well, that’s not his story.
—He is. He is bigass! We. We do not.
He starts rattling off Russian again.
—Whoa! Fucking shut it.
Adam shuts it.
—OK. Whatever happened, you guys are not supposed to be in here. What we are going to do, we are going to walk to the exit. We are going to go talk to the guy in the flea market and sort out who grabbed who. We’re gonna take it all very easy, ’cause no one has been hurt. And if you and the guy out there can settle your differences without any charges, and that is how I’d really like to handle this, I will give you a citation for trespassing on city property. OK? Sound good? You get all that?
—Citation?
—Like a ticket. Just. Just come on. Come on.
Adam talks in Russian, Martin answers, and footsteps start walking away.
—Hey! Hey! Where’s your friend?
—Friend?
—Tavarich. Right?
—Yes, I know what a friend is.
—Great. So where is he? Guy said there were three of you.
—No. Nyet. No. Only us.
Silence.
—Yeah, OK, fine. Just. Let’s just get out of here, it’s hot as hell.
I scoot to the edge of the roof and look down and see Adam and Martin threading their way through the buses, followed by a cop.
And my phone rings.
I pull it out of my pocket and press the power stud. The phone turns off, but not before emitting one final loud chime to let me know it won’t be ringing again. I wait. The footsteps don’t come back.
OK. Good. That was good. Sometimes a cop is good. Now I’ll. They were going that way. So now I’ll just go the other way and I’ll. I’ll. Shit. I don’t know what I’ll do. I’ll get out of here. I dangle my legs over the side of the bus and drop to the ground right at Branko’s feet.
I try to run. Branko trips me. He’s on top of me. His arms dragging mine behind me, his legs twining around mine.
—Calm down.
I jerk and writhe, trying to break free.
—I cannot talk until you calm down.
I open my mouth wide and scream. Branko pulls a racquetball from his pocket, stuffs it in my open mouth and holds his hand over it.
—Stop! We must talk. We will go someplace where we can talk. Out there.
He jerks his chin in the direction of the midway.
—We will go someplace where there are people. You will feel safe and we will talk.
I’m screaming through the ball, trying to force it out of my mouth with my voice.
Branko squeezes my face.
—Stop this. There is no more of this to do. You are not saving your parents this way. Think.
I stop screaming.
I think.
—Yes, think.
I think.
—You see now?
I think.
—Yes, you see.
He takes his hand from my face and holds it below my mouth. I push the ball out with my tongue and it lands in his palm. He wipes it off on his pants and puts it back in his pocket.
—These things, you never know when you may need them again.
I WAIT WHILE Branko buys the tickets.
He waves me over and I go stand with him. We wait side by side, saying nothing. Our turn comes.
We get into our car and sit on opposite benches facing one another. The operator closes the door. It latches, he pulls the big lever that releases the brake and the Wonder Wheel spins, carrying us slowly into the air.
Branko looks out the side of the car, watching the ground drop away. I shift in my seat and the car rocks back and forth.
He looks at me.
—I cannot kill you here.
—I know.
—But you must be killed.
—Sure. That was the plan, right? I kill David’s sister-in-law, and that’s it. Hey, why not? I’m a fucking mess.
He shakes his head.
—No.
I watch his eyes as they gaze down at the midway.
—No. You are a mess. But no. You were not to be killed. No.
He looks at me.
—No.
—Bullshit, Branko. You’re here. You are here.
—Yes. I am here. And I have something for you. Look what I have for you.
He reaches into his pocket and comes out with the Smith & Wesson .22.
—I am here to help you. With Anna. To help. Because you are a fucking mess. But the baseball player wants you. So David wants you. So I must help you. But now. Yes, now you are fucked.
Oh, crap. Wrong again, Henry.
The Wheel stops as the operator lets one couple off and puts another on. And then it spins again. We are near the top.
He puts the gun back in his pocket. He points over my shoulder, back toward Brighton Beach and David’s office. Toward David.
—He is not unreasonable.
—Sure.
—But you had a gun. Those marks.
He points at the welts the bindings left on my wrists.
—These mean you have been held. Threatened. And you came to see David with a gun.
—His sister.
—Yes?
—She. Oh, shit, Branko. His sister-in-law and her damn nephews.
He nods. He looks at the ocean. He nods again.
—I cannot kill you here.
—You said that.
—We will go somewhere else. You will tell me about Anna and her nephews and what they told you.
He touches his upper lip, scratches a slight itch.
—And then I will kill you.
Behind Branko I can see the Cyclone’s ballpark. The stands are full. The players are on the field. A game is being played.
—And what do I get?
—Your mother and your father. What else is there left?
—Right.
The Wheel spins again, carrying us toward the ground.
—But it must be now. You must go with me now. I know David.
He grunts.
—And he likes to have his way.
—Right.
We dip down, and the ballpark is lost to view.
The Wheel spins.
I AM EVIDENCE.
This is what I saw while I was being held down in the dirt with the ball in my mouth. Branko cannot kill me anywhere that he cannot safely dispose of my body. Nor can he march me down the boardwalk, or even out to the street and into a car. He can do none of that unless I am willing, unless he knows I will not start yelling for the police.
I am evidence.
My body and its fingerprints and its new face. The fingerprints will lead to Henry Thompson. The face will lead to the photo in the paper. The photo will lead to Miguel. And sooner or later, after the questions start, Miguel will lead to David.
He has to be careful.
But I don’t.
OUR CAR CIRCLES to the ground. The operator opens the door and we climb out. Branko leads me past a cluster of kiddy rides and back to the boardwalk. We turn left and start the long wa
lk to Brighton Beach.
We walk past the fried clam shacks and the beer booths and the Cyclone and the Aquarium. And then I turn left, heading for the walkway that will take me to the Aquarium subway station. Branko catches up with me and walks by my side.
—This is not the way.
—This is the way I’m going.
—David is waiting.
—You should go then. You can tell him I’m not coming.
—I cannot let you go.
—What are you going to do, Branko? You can’t drag me screaming. You can’t kill me here. Go back to David. Tell him I said no.
—I cannot leave you.
—OK.
We get to the station. There are two cops standing next to the token booth. I walk up to them.
—Excuse me, officers?
—Yeah?
I point at Branko.
—This guy wants to know which train to take to get to Queens.
One cop looks at me.
—Sorry, I’m from Staten Island.
The other cop points at the map on the wall.
—Let’s take a look.
He walks to the map, taking Branko over with him. I wave.
—Good luck.
Branko smiles.
—And to you.
He keeps the smile on his face and follows the cop to the map. I buy a MetroCard from the booth, walk upstairs and get on a Manhattan-bound F train. Cops just when I needed them, twice in one day. Go figure. Maybe things are turning my way at last. But probably not.
I HAVE TO talk to Mom and Dad. I have to tell them I didn’t kill David. And that means Adam and Martin will be coming, coming to interrogate them.
I never wanted to talk to them again, never wanted to see them. There are no explanations for the things I have done. No way you can tell your mother and father that you have murdered people to keep them alive.
So while I sit on the train, I try to figure out how I’m going to tell them all of that. But, oh yeah, first I have to figure out how I’m going to find their damn phone number.
A Dangerous Man Page 14