A Dangerous Man

by Charlie Huston

  God Zilla: ty, sandy.

  scandy: sure, big Z!

  sidomaniac: We were talking about the Danny Lester rumor.

  budthecat: I love you, Sandy.

  scandy: what rumor, sid? ty, kitty! meow!

  MagickBulletMan: Lester is saying that henry has been in contact with you.

  sidomaniac: It’s bs.

  scandy: it sure is, sid. If Henry Thompson ever made contact with me the first thing I’d do is call the cops!

  MagickBulletMan: That’s what I said.

  God Zilla: He’s dead anyway.

  budthecat: Then show me the body, zilla. habeas corpus. When there’s a body I’ll believe he’s dead.

  God Zilla: There’s no way he could stay hidden this long. They did a Hoffa on him. sidomaniac: Who’s “they,” zilla? scandy: hey, guys! anyone seen henryhunter today? budthecat: Not today.

  God Zilla: Sorry

  sidomaniac: Not here.

  MagickBulletMan: Did you try therealhenrythompson? he hangs there a lot.

  scandy: this is my first stop. anyone know how to get in touch with him?

  God Zilla: Nope

  SCANDY: You have a private message from BUDTHECAT.

  I know his email, sandy. Want to send a message?

  MagickBulletMan: Don’t know where he is.

  Private message for BUDTHECAT.

  could you, honey? Just tell him I’m here! TY!

  sidomaniac: Havn’t seen hh for awhile.

  SCANDY: You have a private message from BUDTHECAT.

  Sure!

  scandy: hey, guys! I have to go do a couple things. I’m gonna stay logged on, so if hh comes by please tell him I’ll be right back!

  MagickBulletMan: Sure.

  Sandy pushes back from the computer in the Internet café on Forty-second.

  —Jesus, they freak me out.

  I watch as their chat continues to scroll down the screen. They bounce various theories about me, opinions about Cramer’s books, quiz each other on the names of my former “associates,” talk about my cat, and whatever else. It’s all mixed together with personal talk, mostly about a chronic lack of girlfriends.

  —Interesting following.

  She slides her eye from the screen to my face, and then back to the screen.

  —They’re not my fans. They’re yours. I’m just extra. If it wasn’t for you, they’d have latched on to some other piece of ass.

  USER HENRYHUNTER HAS SIGNED ON

  henryhunter: Hey room.

  God Zilla: Hey, hh.

  MagickBulletMan: Hi hh

  SCANDY: You have a private message from HENRYHUNTER.

  You here, Sandy?

  sidomaniac: Sandy candy was looking for you, hh.

  henryhunter: ty, sid.

  Private message for HENRYHUNTER.

  hey, hh! Thanks for coming!

  sidomaniac: She said she’d be right back.

  SCANDY: You have a private message from HENRYHUNTER.

  Sure, sandy. What’s up?

  Private message for HENRYHUNTER.

  um, it’s kind of personal. Can we do a room!

  God Zilla: You back, sandy?

  SCANDY: You have a private message from HENRYHUNTER.

  You bet! I’ll call it hhscandy.

  Private message for HENRYHUNTER.

  TY, hh!

  USER HENRYHUNTER HAS GONE TO A PRIVATE ROOM

  USER SCANDY HAS GONE TO A PRIVATE ROOM

  sidomaniac: Oh man! A private with sandy! How’d hh score that?

  USER SCANDY ENTERING ROOM HHSCANDY

  scandy: hh?

  henryhunter: Hey sandy. what can I do for you? You OK?

  scandy: well, remember when you did one of my chats a couple weeks back?

  henryhunter: Yeah! I love your site!

  scandy: TY, hh! Anyway. you were talking about closure and I was thinking about that and you said how talking to someone who actually knew henry might help with my therapy and you said something about his parents and I was talking to my therapist and he said he thinks something like that might really help with my nightmares and stuff and I was wondering if you were like just talking or if you might know how to get in touch with them?!?

  henryhunter: Wow, sandy, that’s pretty heavy.

  scandy: i know! Sorry to like unload on you!

  henryhunter: No! it’s ok!

  scandy: ty, hh! You’re so sweet! can you help me? It’s really important to me!

  henryhunter: Well, pretty much all the serious Henry Thompson people (and I mean the ones who want to seem him brought to justice, not the sickos) know by now that his parents moved to a place in Oregon. Some people have managed to get their hands on an address, but that’s pretty secret stuff.

  scandy: what about a phone number or something?

  henryhunter: Someone might have one. But they would have gotten in illegally so they’d be pretty cautious about sharing it or talking about it.

  scandy: you know someone like that hh? I bet you do!

  henryhunter: I might know something. But this isn’t really what I’d call a secure connection. I could maybe help, but I’d need your private email to send it to you.

  scandy: ok

  henryhunter: And then maybe we could like exchange some emails. I’d like to hear how things are going with your therapy and stuff. We could even sinc up. Chat some more.

  scandy: sure thing, hh! I’d love that! But I have to get back to the club! If I give you my address can you send that number right away?!? Then we can make a date to chat! That’d be cool!

  henryhunter: Great! scandy: super! My address is candicestalbot@earthlink.net

  henryhunter: I’ll send you a message as soon as I sign off.

  scandy: TY, HH! You’re my hero!

  USER SCANDY HAS SIGNED OFF

  —Fucking great. Now I’m going to have to change my private e-mail. Do you know how big a pain that is? All my charges go there. My PayPal. My eBay. Shit.

  I point at the screen.

  —Candice?

  —Candice Sandra Talbot. Sandy Candy. Like it was meant to be.

  —It’s a nice name.

  —Whatever.

  She logs on to her e-mail account. She hits the check mail button four or five times until a new message pops up. She opens it.

  Sandy,

  It was cool chatting with you in private. I think you’re making the right decision trying to get in touch with Mr. and Mrs. Thompson. Everything I read about them and all the stuff that was on TV made them seem like very good people. It’s not their fault their son did the things he did. They’ve probably suffered from his crimes as much as anyone. Please don’t share this number and please delete this email. Like I said, “someone” (wink-wink) probably had to do some illegal hacking to get this. Write me back and let me know your MSMessenger account. We can chat anytime. I live in Ohio, which isn’t so far from Pennsylvania, so maybe we could even meet! That would be great. Good luck and I can’t wait to hear how it goes. Have fun dancing.

  HH

  (But my real name is Sam)

  Sandy scribbles the number at the bottom of the screen onto a scrap of paper.

  —Ol’ Sam probably started jerking off to a picture of me as soon as he hit send.

  SANDY GOES TO the bathroom while I pay for our time on the computer. She comes out and walks past me. I grab my change and run after her. She’s walking fast down Forty-second on her way back to Private Eyes.

  —Sandy. Wait up.

  She keeps walking.

  —Hey.

  I catch up to her, but she keeps storming along.

  —What do you want? You got the number. Go use it.

  —Yeah. Well.

  —What? You want something else?

  —I just.

  —What?

  —I could use a place. For a couple hours. To make my call and think for a little while.

  She nods.

  —So, what, you thought maybe my hotel room or something?
<
br />   —Whatever. I just need someplace quiet to make this call. And I need to sit and——I have to get back to the club.

  —Sure. I just. I.

  —Need more help?

  —Yeah. I do.

  She stops in the middle of the sidewalk and the Saturday night traffic splits and flows around us.

  —Jesus! What have you ever needed from anyone but help?

  —Sandy.

  —That’s your fucking MO.

  She cups her hand over her mouth and talks into it like it’s a radio.

  —Calling all cars, calling all cars. Be on the lookout for a mass murderer that often needs help and who fucks up people’s lives.

  —They’re. They’ll kill my mom and dad.

  She raises her eyebrows.

  —So. Fucking. What.

  She puts her face close to mine.

  —Your parents. Your fucking mom and dad. Like no one else was ever born. Like no one else has a mom and dad. My mom and dad are in Phoenix. They got problems. My mom is a bank teller and she’s worried about all the weight she’s been putting on since she turned fifty, and my dad just took early retirement from his job with Xerox so they wouldn’t lay him off. Their biggest problem is their stripper daughter that they don’t understand and can barely talk to. But at least she never did anything to put their lives in danger. And I didn’t do anything to put yours in danger, either. It’s not my fucking fault. It’s yours. So you fucking save them.

  She turns to start walking and I grab her arm. She looks at my hand and then back up at my face.

  —Let go.

  —I can’t. I. I just. Sandy, I’m sorry. I don’t have anyone else.

  —I wonder why that is. Could it be because everyone who helps you gets killed? Let go of my arm.

  I don’t.

  —Let go of my arm or I will scream.

  I let go. She jerks her head and leads me away from the middle of the sidewalk.

  —Just so we’re clear. I don’t like you. You fucked up my life. I was already pretty messed up. I mean, stripping at Glitter Gulch, dealing grass and fucking Terry the steroid king wasn’t the greatest way to live, but at least I didn’t wake up screaming five nights out of ten. I want you to leave me alone.

  I look at her. I look at the Lucky jeans and the Michael Kors top she changed into when we left the club. I look at the Louis Vuitton shoes on her feet and the matching bag on her shoulder. She watches my eyes as they inventory these items.

  I shrug.

  —You seem to be doing pretty well out of the deal.

  She nods. Smiles.

  —Yeah. Pretty good. Pretty good with the creeps that come out of the woodwork every time I turn around. Pretty good with the guys who like to pretend they’re you. Or with Danny Lester when he gets drunk every couple of months and finds my latest unlisted number and calls to accuse me of hiding you and ends up telling me how much he wants to fuck me in the mouth. Or whatever excop bounty hunter who wants to grill me. I do really good with all the assholes at the clubs who want a lap dance so they can tell their friends they rubbed crotches with Sandy Candy. Fuck you! Fuck you, Henry! You think I want this? You think I want to live off your carcass like those freaks on the computer? This is what I have. This is how I can get by. It’s totally fucked, but it’s what I have. And I didn’t do anything. I didn’t do anything to deserve this shit. You did. You killed people. That’s why your life is fucked. I didn’t do anything.

  She yanks her bag open, pulls out a pill bottle, tries to open it, but can’t stop shaking. I know how frustrating that is. Wanting what’s inside the bottle, but not being able to get to it. Hell, I want what’s in that bottle as much as she does.

  I take the bottle from her hand, open it, take out one of the caps of Librium and hand it to her. She pokes it to the back of her tongue, tilts her face skyward, and swallows. I look at the bottle in my hand. I look at the pills inside. I put the cap back on, twist it into place and hand it to her. She takes it and drops it in her bag.

  —Oh, and by the way, you forgot to ask about T.

  I lick my lips.

  —How’s T?

  —He’s dead. His leg got infected and he wouldn’t let me take him to a doctor and he had a fever of like a hundred and fifteen and I was freaking out and didn’t know what to do and he died and I put his body in the car and drove it to a lake and filled his pockets with rocks and shoved him in so no one would find him ’cause that’s what he told me to do ’cause he didn’t want anyone to find him he just wanted to be dead like everyone he loved, like his mom and dad. And his fucking dog.

  —Sandy.

  —Go away, Henry. And don’t try to follow me. I called the police when I was in the bathroom and told them a creep with a scar was hassling me and they said they’d send a car to the club. So now I got to get back ’cause I’m gonna have to give the fucking cops free lap dances.

  I put a hand on her cheek.

  —Sandy.

  —Go away! You’re going to die. Go do it away from me.

  She slaps my hand from her face, turns and walks back to the club.

  I lean against the wall of the Yankees Store and watch the pedestrians flicker past. My arms are at my sides, my fists balled tight. In one of them is the piece of paper with my parents’ phone number. I guess I should call them. Sandy was so happy to hear from me, why wouldn’t they be, too?

  I WALK AROUND a little bit, looking for someplace quiet to sit down and make the call. I should find a flop is what I should do. I should find a cheapass motel that will let me pay cash at an hourly rate. I remember some places on Forty-eighth or Forty-ninth and head in that direction.

  A cop car stops at a light as I’m waiting on the corner. One of the officers is checking me out. Sandy said she told the cops she was being hassled by a guy with a scar on his face. I should get off the street now. There are two choices on the block, a bar and grill or the inevitable Starbucks. I take the bar.

  It’s an old dive. Above the door is the neon sign that lights up one letter at a time: S-M-I-T-H’-S. The long bar is lined with old-timers watching the last couple innings of a Mets game. I take a seat at one of the teetery tables. A waitress as old as my mom comes by. I order a deluxe burger medium and a seltzer. She walks away. I take out my phone and smooth the piece of paper with the number on it. I look at the number, breathe in and out a few times, and dial.

  It rings.

  And rings.

  And rings some more.

  Then it picks up. And I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that it’s an answering machine, or that it’s one of those robot voices. I’ll have to talk into the machine. If they screen all their calls I’ll never get them to pick up unless I say something first. But what if it’s not them? Worse, what if they’re not home? What if they come home and just hear my voice out of the blue on their machine and they have no idea if it’s really me or just someone fucking with them? Shit. The machine beeps.

  —Uh. Hi. Hello. Is. Is anyone home? Um. This is.

  Shit.

  —This. Is this the Thompsons’? Because.

  Because what, asshole?

  —Because, if it is. If it is, I have something. I—

  My phone beeps loudly in my ear. I look at it. The lone remaining power-bar is flashing. Fucking. Fucking-fucking-fucking.

  —Um. I’m. My phone is gonna die here and. I’m looking for the Thompsons’. So. If.

  —Hello. Hello?

  Oh.

  —Hello. Is? Are you there?

  Oh no.

  —Hello. We’re. Is that? We’re here. Is that?

  Oh. It’s.

  —Please. If this is a joke. Please hang up. Is that? You sound.

  Oh, Mom.

  —You sound like.

  Oh, Mom. You sound.

  —Is that you?

  You sound so old.

  —Mom.

  —Henry?

  My phone beeps again, and dies.

  THE FIRST CABBIE asks me where I wa
nt to go before I get in. When I tell him Brighton Beach, he screeches away. There is no second cab because it’s around 10:30 on a Saturday night in Midtown and the shows are all getting out and traffic is stacked up and all the tourists and the couples from New Jersey are fighting over every cab in sight. I walk back into Smith’s. The waitress is standing by my table with my food in her hand. She gives me a nasty what-the-hell-do-you-think-you’re-doing look, and I point at the food and point at my table and point at myself and point at the pay phone in the back.

  I get change and a phone book from one of the bartenders and start making calls. The first three car services tell me it will be at least forty-five minutes before they can get me anything. I offer to pay double, triple, whatever, and they tell me it’s the busiest couple hours of the week and they just don’t have a car.

  I have to get to Brighton Beach.

  I have to get there now.

  I have to get to Brighton Beach so I can tell David I’m sorry. So I can beg him to leave my parents. So I can beg him to kill me and just leave them alone. And protect them from Adam and Martin. Hearing my mom’s voice. I can’t. I have to stop this. It has to end. Now.

  I start to dial another car service. I stop. I flip a couple pages. I dial.

  —Mario’s personal car service.

  —Yeah, do you have any cars free right now?

  —There’s about a forty-five minute wait. You want to reserve?

  —Uh. Is Mario there?

  —Who’s calling?

  —I’m an old friend and I’m in town and I’m trying to get in touch.

  —You got a number he can call?

  —No.

  —He’s busy.

  —This is really important. Tell him it’s Henry. Tim’s friend Henry. He’ll know who I am. He’ll want to talk to me. Just put me on hold and tell him and if he says he doesn’t want to talk you don’t even have to tell me, just disconnect and I’ll fuck off.

  —Look, guy——Please, man. Please. I need to talk to him. Please.

  —Jesus H. Hang on.

  There’s a click. The hold music kicks in. Tito Rodriguez doing “Cuando, Cuando, Cuando.”

  Will Mario want to talk to me? No. Why would he? All we had was a business arrangement; he gave me a couple rides and I gave him a bunch of money six years ago. What does he know about me since then? Just what he’s seen on TV. The bodies. If he’s smart, he’ll tell the guy to hang up on me. If he’s really smart, he’ll call the cops.