—What did you say?
The Culinary Rep walks to the TV, unplugs the game console and starts to wrap the cables around it.
—OK, that’s it. Everybody out.
I stand.
—Yeah, let’s go play.
The Kid stands.
—OK. Jeez, I was going for the single-game scoring record. Would have had it, too. You suck.
The Rep puts a hand on his shoulder.
—Uh-uh, not you. You aren’t going anywhere. Not after using language like that.
—Daaad!—No! Game over. Everybody out. And I’m calling all of your parents and telling them one of you was smoking.
Adam and Martin don’t say anything, they just help each other stand and start hobbling to the door, Adam pulling a fresh smoke from his pack.
I follow them out. The door closes behind us.
—C’mon, guys, let’s go play pickle.
Adam looks at me, blows more smoke out of his neck.
—No. I must smoke.
—C’mooooon.
Martin points at his ruined knee and foot.
—Tetka Anna! Tetka Anna! Tetka Anna!
—OK, OK. Be spoilsports.
I watch them as they weave and lurch down the street, leaning on one another for support.
—Yo!
I turn around. Jay and Miguel are in the middle of the street. Miguel has a ball. He’s throwing it up in the air as far as he can, positioning himself underneath it and practicing basket catches.
I point.
—That’s bad fundamentals. You want to get under the ball, get the glove up and catch it with both hands. Showboat like that and it’ll cost you a run someday.
Jay looks at Miguel.
—Check out Sparky Anderson, yo.
Miguel makes another easy catch.
—Whatever. Let’s play three flies.
I watch the ball go up in the air again.
—I don’t got my glove.
Miguel tosses me his.
—Use mine.
The ball drops and slaps down into his bare hand.
—Take the field.
Me and Jay walk down the street. Miguel walks in the opposite direction. When we’re far enough away he tells us to stop. We take spots in the middle of the street. Miguel tosses the ball up and swats it with his bat, popping it toward us. We jockey for position, lightly elbowing one another, trying to create space as the ball drops at our faces. It veers slightly at the last second and I leap and twist and flop over the hood of a car, snowconing it before it can hit and leave a dent.
Jay slaps me on the ass as I walk over with the ball.
—Nice one, yo.
I throw the ball back to Miguel. He catches it and points up the street behind us.
—Car!
We take a couple steps out of the way and let the car go by. Then we play some more.
I WAKE UP.
I look at the clock.
It’s after 10:00 a.m. Late.
I get up, grab the duct tape and go into the bathroom. I splash water on my face and rub it over my head. I rinse my mouth. I look at the bruise on my ribs. It’s bigger. My whole side is stiff and aches. I peel off a long strip of duct tape and plaster it to my side. I peel off another strip and do the same.
I use the whole roll, taping up my side, fixing the cracked ribs in place. When I’m done it looks like I have a plate of lead covering my left side, bands of it wrapped around my middle and arcing up over my shoulder. It pulls at my skin and makes it hard to breathe, but the ribs don’t move as much.
I put on my wife-beater and underwear and socks. Everything smells of bleach. I pull on my jeans and my jacket and go back into the room and get my shoes. There’s blood on the heel of the right one. I leave it there and put them on. I fill my pockets with my cash and my wallet and the keys to my shitty apartment in Las Vegas. I pick up Adam’s flick-knife and Martin’s sap and the last full bottle of water.
Anything else?
Before I die, anything else?
I take a last look around the room.
No, not really. Nothing else.
So I take the box to the elevator and go downstairs and drag it through the lobby to the curb and hail a cab and the driver puts it in the trunk and I tell him to take me to Brighton Beach.
Wasn’t much of a last night. But at least I got to see some of that game. That was nice. That was OK.
THE CABBIE DROPS me off right in front of the building, but he doesn’t want to help me with the box no matter how much cash I offer him. He does lift it out of the trunk for me, and then I stand at the bottom of the steps looking up. There are only about eight of them, but it’s gonna hurt like hell getting the box up there. I force my water bottle into the right side-pocket of my jacket and lift the box up on the first step. Sure enough, it hurts like hell. There are a couple middle-aged Latinos sitting at the top of the steps playing cards on a little crate between their knees. They watch me struggle to get the box up another step, and then one of them calls into the lobby of the building.
—Chiqui!
A skinny twelve-year-old kid wearing shorts and nothing else comes running out. The man points at me and my box. The kid scampers down the steps, wraps his arms around the box, and muscles it up to the top. I climb up after him. He starts to run back inside.
—Hang on.
He stops.
I get a five out of my pocket and hand it to him.
—To the elevator, OK?
The kid looks at the five and then at the man playing cards. The man nods and says something in Spanish. The kid smiles, grabs the bill and hauls the box over to the elevator.
I nod at the man.
—Gracias.
—De nada.
I walk across the tiles that spell out El Marisol and into the cool lobby. The kid smiles again, pushes the elevator button for me and runs outside. I look around the lobby. I figured David would have someone down here, waiting for me. Nope. The elevator dings and the doors open. I scoot the box in. Standing inside the elevator, looking through the lobby and out the front door, I can see the ocean beyond the two small brown men playing cards. I hear them mumbling to each other in Spanish and, faintly, the crash of a wave. It feels like Mexico for that one second. And then the doors close and the elevator takes me up.
—Henry.
—Hey, David. Can you help me with this?
He comes into the corridor and we carry the box down the hall and into his office. I wait for a moment while he goes back down the hall, closes and locks the door and returns.
—A drink?
He walks toward the sideboard that holds the bottles, going around the box, treating it like just another piece of furniture in the overcrowded room.
I work the water bottle free of my pocket.
—No thanks.
He nods.
—It is early for me. And you do not drink. But still.
He picks up two glasses and brandishes them at me. Today of all days.—No. Thanks, but no.
He puts down one of the glasses in surrender.
—Well, it is good to be true to one’s convictions. Bravo, Henry. But I will drink. You do not mind?
—No.
He pours himself a brandy, sniffs it.
—I need a drink. After this last day, I need a drink.
He takes a drink.
—Yes, I need a drink.
He stands there, staring down into the glass. I stand there, staring at him.
—So, David.
—Yes?
I put my hand on top of the box.
—You want to check this out?
He looks at the box, lifts his glass and waves it back and forth a little. If that will make you happy.
I flip and twist the clasps, pull off the top and set it on the arm of the couch.
David takes a couple steps closer and looks at the money. He smiles. A tiny breath of laughter escapes from his nose.
—To be honest, Henry? To be hones
t, I half expected you would have a weapon or an ally hidden within.
—Someone with a tommy gun waiting to pop out?
—Just so.
—Yeah, that would have been good. Nope, just the money.
He comes closer, reaches out, takes one of the packs of bills from the torn plastic, fingers it, and drops it back inside.
—And it was waiting here?
—Yeah.
—Your friend left it here for you?
—Yeah.
—I have said before.
—What?
—He was a good friend.
—Yeah, he was.
—A loss for you.
I don’t say anything.
—Think of all that could have been avoided if he had lived just long enough to tell you what he had done. Imagine.
He looks up at the ceiling, shaking his head in wonder. The waste, the waste.
I unscrew the top of my water bottle, take a sip and screw it back on.
—What I imagine is that if I had known where the money was that day, you would have killed me there and then.
He raises a hand in objection, lowers it.
—I would like to say, I would like very much to say that you are wrong, Henry, but it is not a day to tell lies. Yes, that would have been the case. But. But it has not all been a tragedy. There have been benefits. Some of the work you have done for me has been good. And for you? Some extra time. Who, if asked, would not do what you have done to extend their life for a year? More than a year. And it has not been your life alone that you have spared. Yes? This is the point, yes? This is the why and the wherefore of it all, yes? This is why you are here now with this money rather than on a plane. I tell you, it has not been all bad. You have done well in this, Henry. You are a good son. No one can question that. Ever.
He lifts his glass to me, brings it to his lips, drains it. And I salute you.
He sets the glass on his desktop.
—Are you carrying any weapons, Henry?
I nod.
—Yeah.
He points at the box.
—Put them there, right on top. When the time comes, instinct sometimes takes over. It is best if you are not armed.
I take the knife from my pocket and put it on top of the money.
David looks at it. He sees the blood. He raises an eyebrow. You have been busy?
I nod.
—The nephews.
—Yes?
—They found me.
—And?
—I killed them, David.
—Yes. What else could have happened? Always you are underestimated, Henry. Always.
—Except by you.
He shakes his head and holds up a hand. Do not flatter me.
—No. Even by me. On some occasions, even by me. Do you have any other weapons?
I take out the sap and put it with the knife.
He smiles.
—You will have to turn around and raise your arms.
I do it.
He comes close behind me and runs his hands down my arms and sides. I flinch when he touches the ribs.
—An injury?
He lifts my shirt and looks at the tape.
—The nephews?
—Yeah.
He drops my shirt and finishes patting me down.
—Yes. That is good.
I turn around.
—What now?
—Branko.
I jerk my head around, expecting to find him behind me. But he’s not.
David pats my shoulder.
—No, Henry. There is time. He will not sneak up on you.
—Where is he?
—Here. In the bedroom. I am not a fool. I would not have you here and be alone. No matter, no matter how much I trust that you love your parents, I would not do that.
—So?
—So we will go in. You will see him. We will talk for another moment or two. And he will take you away somewhere. Yes?
—Yeah. Sure. That was the deal.
—Yes. That was the deal.
He gestures to the hall, to the doors that open off the hall. Two of them are open: one the kitchen, the other the bathroom. The closed door will be the bedroom.
The deliberateness of the exercise has kept it at a distance, but now, walking up the hall, my heart starts to bang. It bangs, and each beat seems to knock against my ribs and pump up the pressure in my face.
My feet stop. Just short of the door, my feet stop.
—Henry?
I try to tell him I’m OK, try to tell him I just need a second, but I can’t get the words to fit together in my mouth. He steps around me, looks at my face.
—Yes. It is hard.
I can’t even nod.
—Here.
He tugs the water bottle from my frozen hand, opens it, holds it to my mouth. He tilts the bottle, water dribbles off my lips, I start to swallow. I reach up and take the bottle, drink a tiny bit more, and lower it from my mouth.
—Thanks.
—Of course.
He hands me the cap and I put it back on.
—That is better?
—Yeah, better.
—Good, good.
He puts his hand on the doorknob.
—Because, Henry, there is, I am afraid, one more thing you will have to do.
He opens the door.
It’s a small room. There is a bed for taking naps on, a TV, a comfortable chair, and a matching footstool. And there is Mickey’s mother, bound and gagged in the chair. And there is Branko, sitting on the edge of the bed.
Branko looks from the woman to the door as it opens. David is standing with one hand on the knob, holding the door open, waiting for me to walk past him into the room. He is watching my face, waiting to see the surprise there when I register his final twist of the knife, when I realize he wants me to kill Anna before he’ll send me away with Branko, before he will ensure my parents’ safety. The smile on his face says it all. Now you see? Now you see what you fucking get when you fuck with me?
And I do see.
I see what I get.
But I don’t want it.
And I’m not going to take it.
Too late, Branko sees what I have in my hand.
—David!
But David is enjoying the moment so thoroughly, he doesn’t see the water bottle coming until I smash it across the side of his head.
The shock of the blow sends the bottle spinning from my hand and David toward the floor. I grab him before he can go down and jerk him up in front of me, my arm around his neck. Branko comes off the bed, the .22 Magnum in his hand.
We freeze.
David is slack in my arms, blood is leaking from his left ear.
Branko stands by the bed, the gun out, but not yet raised.
I look at Mickey’s mother and back at Branko.
—That’s pretty fucked up, Branko.
He brings his empty left hand slowly to his face and adjusts his glasses.
—David will have things his way. Always.
—Still.
He lowers his hand.
—Yes. Still. It is not how I would have wanted this.
—You’re a pro, Branko.
He tilts his head.
—My mother would not be proud.
—Neither would mine, man.
He gives his little laugh-grunt.
David stirs in my arms.
I charge Branko, shoving David ahead of me.
The gun comes up. Branko wastes a moment trying to get some exposed part of me in his sights, then he shoots at our legs. He gets off two rounds. One bullet snaps into the floor, raising a cloud of tiny splinters. I feel the other one, or at least the shock of it as it enters David’s thigh. And then we are plowing into Branko.
He drops his shoulder to take the blow, but the mass of two bodies striking him sends him backward onto the bed. David is sandwiched between us, howling, his wounded thigh being knocked about.
Branko still has the gun.
It is in his right hand, pinned between his body and David’s. He tries to writhe away from the bulk on top of him, tries to free his gun hand. I grab at David’s hair, but it’s too short to get a grip. I latch onto his ears instead, one in either hand. I pull his head back and slam it forward, smashing his face into Branko’s. Things crunch, and I do it again.
David is jerking and twisting, trying to free himself. All his thrashing batters Branko.
Branko moves his head to the side. His nose is a bloody mess. His eyes meet mine.
The gun goes off.
David tenses.
And goes limp.
The gun goes off again. I feel the bullet shiver through David’s corpse. I pull his head back and bash it again into Branko’s face.
The gun goes off again.
This bullet finds a path through David’s ribs, slicing his soft tissues, punching out his back and into my chest.
I yelp.
I heave on David’s ears, slam his head forward again.
And again.
And again.
The gun doesn’t go off anymore. But I keep pounding David’s face into Branko’s, hitting him over and over with something other than my fist.
When David’s ears are too slick with blood for me to keep my grip, I roll off of the two corpses, slide to the floor, and sit with my back to the bed. I pull up my shirt and pick the small, spent slug from the duct tape layered over my ribs. I look at it, and then look up. And see Mickey’s mother as she stares at me.
The maddog who killed her son, in all his glory.
WHEN THE PAIN in my ribs has subsided, when I can breathe again, I go to the living room/office, collect Adam’s knife, and go back to the bedroom. Mickey’s mother is still in the chair. I walk toward her. She sees the knife.
—It’s OK. I’m not. Look, it’s OK.
I kneel in front of her and cut the cords around her legs. She draws them up, away from my touch.
—Your hands.
She doesn’t move.
—Give me your hands.
She doesn’t.
I set the knife down, take hold of her hands and pull them out so I can see the bindings. She leaves them there as I pick up the knife and cut her free.
—You can do the gag.
But she just sits there, knees pulled up, hands sticking out.
—This will hurt.
She closes her eyes. I tease up a corner of the tape on her face, then yank. It rips free. She coughs once and spits the racquetball from her mouth. I look at the floor, find the water bottle, bring it over and offer it to her. She just stares at it. I look. Some blood from David’s ear is on the side. I bend and wipe it on the carpet. She takes it from me this time, fills her mouth, swishes the water around, and spits, trying to rinse out the taste of rubber. Then she drinks.
A Dangerous Man Page 20