I reach over and touch the top of the box. I rest my hand on it. And I drive like that all the way down to the Battery.
—Yo! All out. Everybody out. Time to recharge.
There’s some bitching, but Jay herds them all toward the door. Through the windshield I see Miguel, the bartender riding on his back. I leave the engine running and go through the curtain. I need to find a pay phone again.
Jay is standing in front of the door, blocking the exit. In one hand he has my jacket. In the other hand he has two pieces of paper. The photocopy of my old ID and the clipping from the Post.
—So, yo, Scarface. What’s the most fucked-up thing you ever did?
—You were supposed to be the shit, right, yo?
—How’s that?
—That was the deal. You were like the all-American boy. That was the way they played it on the TV. You were, like, the shit. Baseball stud. Top prospect.
—Yeah. I guess so.
—Yo. I was the shit.
We sit on a bench that faces Hudson Bay. The plaza here is cobbled. Benches surround old trees. The ferry landing for the boats that take you to Ellis and Liberty Islands is quiet. We can see the statue in the middle of the bay. I have my jacket draped over my lap. Jay sits with his elbows on his knees and fiddles with the two pieces of paper.
—I was, yo, I was the shit. Little League. High school. I was the shit.
The gang from the bus is drifting around. A few of the players and their girls flag down a couple cabs on State and take off. Some others are wandering away toward the bar at American Park. Looks like the party is breaking up.
—Shortstop, yo. Started freshman ball, JV and varsity. Had all the school records, and a bunch of the district’s, too. Stolen bases. Hits. Runs. Fielding percentage. Average. Big numbers. Mad numbers. ’Course there was a problem. I’m five-fucking-six in cleats. That’s a fucking problem. Plus, you know, I’m playing with that guy.
He points at Miguel. The bartender is perched on the railing by the water, Miguel snugged between her knees as they make out.
—My man Mike was part of the problem. I was setting records, but he was, too. And he had the power. All-time single-season home run champ, California high school baseball. And he pitched. Led the state in strikeouts. And, yo, he had the body. Scouts come around to watch us both play, but once they get a look at him, I’d just drop right off the fucking scout-radar. Word got around I was even smaller in person than I was on paper and they stopped even pretending they were interested. Like a bunch of chicks, yo. All over Mike. All about the body.
He drops into a hick accent.
—Seen the body on that A-ray-nuz kid? Six-four, two hundred, and growing. Not a ounce a fat on that boy. Ripped like a NBAer. Kid’s got the pro body an he ain’t even eighteen. Kid’s gonna be a star.
He spits between his feet.
—Shit, yo. All about the fucking body. Mike got picked in the first round. The Brewers. That was a no-brainer. Said no thanks and took the Stanford scholarship. Me? Didn’t get picked by no one. Got a couple semipro teams called. Got a partial ship at UCSD. But, yo, my boy was headed up north. He says, Come upstate. Can’t break us up. Hang out. Take some classes. Get you on the team next year. Scouts see what you do in a big-time program, they’ll be all over you. Blew off SD. Went up there. But my grades weren’t good enough for that place. And they didn’t care I was Mike’s boy. Spent all my time hangin’ with him, working on his swing. See that flat swing he’s got, yo? That shit’s mine. Way he plays the field? Always getting the right jump on the ball? My shit. That ain’t no college coaching. That’s me and him. That’s what I did. I worked his ass, yo. He wants to fuck around with chicks, booze. Wants to find a poker game, head up to Reno. I kept his ass working. Junior year he goes back in the draft. First pick. Mets. Big time. My boy is big time.
He takes his elbows from his knees, leans back and looks over at Miguel.
—But I was the shit, yo. I was most definitely the shit.
Cooler air is starting to drift in off the water. I pull on my jacket.
—So, Jay.
—Yo?
I point at the papers in his hands.
—What were you doing in my jacket?
He smiles.
—Shit, yo, thought you might have some more of that x in there.
He holds up the papers.
—Imagine my surprise I find this shit.
—Uh-huh. You got any plans for those?
He dangles the pieces of paper, one in each hand pinched between his thumb and forefinger.
—These? I got a plan for these? Yeah, I got a plan. My plan is to get your ass away from Mike as quickly as fucking possible.
—Seems wise.
—Yo, it does.
I put out my hand.
—So let me have ’em and I’ll be on my way.
He pulls the papers back and shakes his head.
—Uh-uh. First there’s something you’re gonna need to do.
I look at him. Sitting there. Leaning back. I could put my elbow in his throat and grab the papers. But I don’t.
—Jay. Can I say something?
—Sure.
—Don’t fuck with me.
—Yo?
—Seriously. Don’t fuck with me. I’m. You really have no idea how at the end of my rope I am right now.
He sits up straight.
—I’m not fucking with you, yo. I’m not looking for. Shit. I’m not looking for…I don’t know what. Like money? I don’t. Yo. Fucking with you?
He pulls out his cell phone.
—See this? I could have called the cops. Found this shit, I could have dialed 911 right away and had them here. Think I want to fuck with you? I want something from you. I need. Yo. I need your help. This?
He starts folding the papers into a little square.
—Fuck this. Yo.
He points at Miguel.
—I need help with my boy. He’s starting to listen to reason. He’s here. He’s playing pro ball. He likes it. And he’s starting to think for a change. He’s thinking how shit can get off track. He’s looking around at the guys he’s playing with and how bad they want the bigs, and how none of them, yo, not one, is gonna make it. But him? All he has to do is keep his eyes on the ball and he’s in. He’s starting to think about that shit. But he’s sick of hearing from me. I can’t open my mouth about the gambling or the debt without him tuning me out. Not what he wants, to be lectured. So you. You have a talk with him. You sit his ass down, yo, spell it out. Tell him this ain’t shit to be messing with. Tell him to pay off now. He can get his moms that house later. He can dump the Escalade and drive a fucking Olds like you. All that will come later. Tell him about this Russian. An, yo, any doubts I had about that guy not being bad news have been put to rest by the fact he has someone like you working for him. That guy can take a stone-famous psycho off the map and cut his face up and turn him into a driver? That’s some fucked up, top-ten-box-office-summer-blockbuster-movie shit. And we don’t need any of that, yo. So you tell him that he’s dealing with some bad motherfuckers and it’s time to get out while he can. You help him out. You back him. This.
He holds up the square of folded paper.
—This shit, yo?
He tears the square into tiny pieces, tosses them in the air, and they fall to the ground where they are stirred and scattered by the breeze coming off the bay.
—Fuck that. You do this, yo. Help my boy. Do it ’cause it’s the right thing to do. How’s that for some shit, yo?
THE THIRD TIME was The Bank Manager.
She was a compulsive gambler. Ponies. She had run her losses to over a quarter-million. She’d already taken the second mortgage on the house and refinanced the car. Already taken all that money and blown it on long shots, trying to get even. Messages had been sent. I imagine her showing up at the bank after the first message, explaining away a black eye and a limp as the result of a fall. After the second message things probably got tricky. Maybe one of her fr
iends sitting her down at lunch to ask if there were problems at home. That kind of thing.
Someone doesn’t find a way to generate more income after the second message, they get offered suggestions. She’s a bank manager? Maybe she can approve some loans.
She declined.
We got her after work. She stopped at a bar on the way home, had the three drinks she’d been having every night since things started getting bad, put a couple dollars in the progressive slot machine, hoping for a jackpot. All the usual things losers do. She came out, just a little drunk, walked to her car. As she was putting her hand on the door I came walking up and called her name. She looked up, squinted against the darkness, and Branko appeared behind her and hit her on the back of the head. She fell down. I walked over.
I was working the pills pretty hard by then. Hard. I was stoned out of my gourd. I reached in my pocket for whatever kind of gun I was carrying, but couldn’t find it. Branko had to show me that it was already in my hand. The safety was off, a round was chambered. The woman moved and Branko bent and hit her again with his sap.
She was wearing bank clothes; a conservative skirt suit in a dark color, flesh-tone hose, low heels. She was nearly fifty, plump, and had fat ankles. I emptied the gun into the back of her head and kept pulling the trigger until Branko took it from me, wiped it, and dropped it. Then he towed me to the car he’d bought for the job and drove us away.
He came by the Suites the next day and found me with the newspaper, looking at the photo of the dead woman when she was still alive: a family portrait with her husband and two daughters. He crumpled the paper and stuffed it in the trash. These things, he said, are better forgotten.
Good tip. Wish someone’d told me sooner.
I LOOK AT the scraps of paper being spread across the pavement. One of them flips over and I see a tiny photocopied image of my face from my old driver’s license.
I think about The Bank Manager. I think about killing mothers. I think about killing Mickey’s mother. I don’t want to do that.
I think about doing the right thing.
Jay is watching me.
I find my phone in one of my jacket pockets. I remember the battery is dead. I look at Jay.
—Can I borrow yours?
He tilts his head.
—Yo.
He pulls his out and passes it to me.
I stand up.
—Give me just a minute here.
He shakes his head and laughs.
—Sure. Whatever.
I walk a little ways away in the direction of the war monuments. I dial a number. I get an answering machine like I knew I would.
—Hey, it’s me. Call me back at this number.
I say the number and hang up. Less than a minute later Jay’s phone rings. I answer it.
—Hello, Henry.
—Hey, David.
—Have you decided to come in?
—Well, yeah.
He sighs deeply, letting the air slowly drain away like tension. It is sad, but it will be for the best.
—Good.
—Yeah. The thing is.
—Yes?
—The thing is, and this is kind of funny, the thing is I found something. And I think you’re gonna want it.
IT’S NOT EASY. You don’t just tell someone, Hey, remember all that money we thought was lost forever. Well you won’t believe this, but it just walked up to me and turned itself in. But he listens. And he asks questions. And in the end, he believes.
We work out a deal. It’s pretty much the kind of deal I’ve come to expect in these circumstances. David gets the money. I get my mom and dad. I get protection for Mom and Dad.
I’ll go to David’s office in the morning. He’ll be alone. I’ll show him the money. He’ll shake my hand and embrace me and congratulate me on fulfilling my contract. And then he’ll turn me around.
And Branko will be standing there.
And before I can say or do anything, Branko will do something to me, and I will die.
And I can live with that. So to speak.
Because 4 million dollars is not enough to buy my life at this point. But it is certainly enough for David to stick on a scale against the hassle of killing my folks after I am already dead. It’s enough to count on as a guarantee that he’ll take care of Adam and Martin.
At least it seems that way to me.
Having no other choice and all.
I HANG UP and walk back over to Jay. Miguel is by the curb with the bartender. She’s climbing into a cab. I hand Jay his phone. And with nothing to lose, I can afford to do the right thing for a change.
—Sure. I can talk to Miguel. I can tell him to stay away from David. Want me to do that now?
Jay takes his phone and stands up. He looks over at Miguel trying to get in the cab with the bartender. She pushes him out, the door slams, and the cab drives away.
—Better wait, yo. Hit him when he’s sober. Tomorrow after the game maybe.
I think about my plans for the next morning.
—That might not work out.
—Nice one, Jay.
Miguel is walking toward us.
—Good plan, taking a break and all. Way to keep the party going.
Jay waves him off and turns back to me.
His eyes open wide.
They’re looking over my shoulder.
—What the fuck, yo?
I drop.
The sap ruffles my hair.
Jay leaps over me.
I hear the sound of two bodies colliding. Stumbling feet. Flesh hitting stone. I flip onto my back. I can see Jay tangled up with Martin on the cobbles. Martin rolling on top of Jay. I start to get up. Adam kicks me in the ribs.
Martin is hurting Jay.
I start to get up.
Adam kicks me in the ribs.
Pain spears my left side. I gasp. I try to get up. The pain shoots deeper. Martin is sitting on Jay’s chest, pinning him to the ground, whipping the sap back and forth, shattering his young face.
Adam grabs me by the collar and starts dragging me toward the bus.
Miguel smashes into his back and they slam down to the pavement.
Martin is standing up. Jay isn’t moving.
Miguel doesn’t know how to fight. I can see from here that he doesn’t know how to fight at all. But he’s just so strong he’s crushing Adam into the concrete. Martin is walking toward them, sap raised. Adam has stopped resisting Miguel. I’m on my hands and knees. I see Adam’s hand slipping into the pocket where he carries his knife. I start to crawl.
—Miguel! Mike! Mike!
His head comes up. The knife comes out of the pocket. I fling myself forward and catch Adam’s wrist as the blade flicks open. Martin’s sap smashes down on the back of Miguel’s neck and he sprawls on top of Adam, jarring his arm, and I twist the knife free.
Martin grabs my hair and jerks my head back and forth.
—Tetka Anna! Tetka Anna! Tetka Anna!
Adam is heaving Miguel’s bulk off of him.
—Martin!
I aim for the center of Martin’s foot, miss, and jam the blade down into his toes. Blood squirts out of the cut in his Pumas. He brings his foot up, yanking it free and tearing the knife from my hands. It flips through the air and clatters back down. Martin hops a couple times and stumbles over Miguel, falling on top of him just as Adam squirms free.
I look for the knife. It’s lost in the darkness. But Adam is crawling after something. I crawl after him. I grab his ankle and pull. Pain worms through my rib cage. I yank Adam’s right leg out from underneath him and he balances on his left leg and his arms and looks back at me, kicking and jerking, trying to rip free. I clutch his leg with both hands. He gives up on the knife and tries to turn himself around, coming back at me.
Martin is getting up. He stands, his right foot planted, his left raised gingerly, blood leaking from his shoe. He looks at the ground, bends, picks up his sap, and looks at me.
Adam flips himself onto his back
and kicks me in the forehead with his left foot. I let go with one hand and feel at the cobbles, my fingers dig in around a loose stone and pull it free.
Martin is hopping toward me.
Adam’s left foot tags me on the ear. I heave my weight on top of his right leg and pin it. I raise the cobblestone and smash it down on his ankle. He screams and stops kicking me. I bring the stone down again and feel the bone give beneath it. He screams again. I hammer him once more. He doesn’t scream this time.
I let go of the leg and roll onto my back, the stone in my hand. I feint a throw at Martin’s leaking foot. The memory of the balls I fired into him at Coney pops up in his eyes. He flinches. I throw the cobblestone at his good knee. He’s back on the ground.
I take off my shoe.
I stand up.
Hunched over the pain in my ribs, I walk to where Martin is trying to figure out the best way to stand up on his mutilated foot and his cracked kneecap. He looks up at me. I hit his face with the shoe. I keep hitting him until I’m sure he gets the point. He collapses, blood and snot leaking from his nose.
Adam has pulled his leg up close to his body, his foot dangling from the pancaked ankle. One of his hands is scampering over the ground, feeling for his lost knife. I take a couple steps, bend, and pick up the knife.
I point at the ankle.
—Can you walk on that?
—No.
I put out my hand. He takes it. I pull, wincing at the pain in my ribs.
—Come on.
He leans on me, hopping on his good leg as I lead him over to the railing.
—Wait here.
He slumps against the rail, digs a cigarette out of his pocket and lights up.
I walk over to Martin. He’s out. I look at Jay. His face is cracked and swelling. Bubbles of blood inflate and pop between his lips. Miguel shifts. He groans and puts a hand to the back of his neck. His eyes open.
—What the. What the fuck, man?
—Jay’s hurt.
—Huh?
—Jay’s hurt.
—Where? What?
He sits up too fast and his eyes spin. He starts to go back down. I kneel. A new and different pain in my ribs. I hold him up until he stops spinning.
—OK?
A Dangerous Man Page 18