A Dangerous Man

by Charlie Huston

  I go to the bed. I pull David off of Branko. He falls to the floor. There are wounds in his right thigh and three in the right side of his chest. I look at Branko, but not at what I’ve done to his face. I take the gun and go through his pockets. There are no more bullets, but I find his phone and some car keys.

  I turn around. Mickey’s mother is watching me. She’s still clutching the half-empty water bottle. I point at it.

  —Done?

  She nods. I put out my hand and she gives it to me. I drink. When it’s empty I drop it on the floor.

  —Let’s go.

  She looks at me.

  —We have to go now.

  She stands up.

  —Come on.

  I walk to the living room. She follows. I put the lid back on the box.

  —I’ll need help.

  She doesn’t move.

  —Anna, I’ll need your help with this.

  THERE ARE HANDLES on either side. We carry the box between us, like two pallbearers carrying a child’s coffin.

  THE MEN ARE still playing cards. They look up as we come out, and then look right back down at their game. I look up the street and see what I want.

  I point with my chin.

  —There, that one.

  We walk over and set the box down. I fish the car keys from my pocket and push the trunk release and it pops open, the only rental car on the street: a Camry. We lift the box into the trunk, close it, and I lead her to the passenger side. I hold the door open. She gets in. I go around and see her through the windshield as she reaches across and unlocks my door. I get in.

  —Put on your seat belt.

  She does.

  I start the engine and turn us around.

  —I have to make a stop. A quick stop. And then we can go.

  IT’S STILL A couple hours before game time. I find a spot by the player’s entrance, right next to Miguel’s Escalade. I pull in and turn off the engine.

  Anna hasn’t moved. She sits up in her seat, legs together, hands flat on top of her thighs, looking straight ahead.

  —I have to do something inside.

  She doesn’t move.

  —I’m gonna go in for a couple minutes. I want you to stay here. OK?

  Nothing.

  I look at the dash clock. Time is passing. I need to move.

  —Anna.

  She looks at me.

  —Don’t go anywhere. OK?

  —OK.

  I open the door and get out. The sun is bright and hot. I turn my face to it. It feels good on my face, makes my bones hurt less. I take off my jacket so I can feel the sun on as much of my skin as possible. I bend over and drop the jacket on my seat. I look at Anna.

  —Stay right here.

  —OK.

  —OK.

  I close the door, go around to the trunk and pop it. I work the top off the box and start scooping money out into the trunk. I scoop what looks to be half of the money. Then I put the top back on the box, hoist it out and close the trunk.

  The box is much easier to handle now. I walk around the car toward the player’s entrance. Through the windows of the Camry I can see Anna, still and quiet. Somewhere inside, her brain is churning, trying to find someplace to settle, but nothing gives her peace.

  I think about helping her with that. I think about not just getting her away from David’s place and the cops who will be showing up. I think about whoever is going to come along and take over where David left off. Will they know about his crazy sister-in-law? Will they think she had a hand in his murder? Possibly. They won’t know about me. I’m David’s ghost. No one knows about me except David and Branko, and the people I’ve hurt. I’m clear now. Clear and rich. And alone.

  I think about showing Anna how to run. Protecting her. It’s a silly idea, childish. But I guess it’s to be expected. I thought I’d be dead by now, and I’m having to make up the rest of my life as I go along.

  THERE’S A SECURITY guard just inside the entrance. I tell him I’m Miguel Arenas’s bodyguard. He checks out my bruises and tattoos. I guess he decides I fit the bill because he picks up a phone and makes a call and then waves me on down the corridor.

  There’s a buzz in the air, the slow anticipation of the game that will start in a little less than two hours. A groundskeeper passes me, bases stacked in his arms. The door to the promotions room is open. It’s packed with giveaways: mini-bats, key chains, stuffed seagulls, hats, batting gloves. There’s a guy going through a pile of what look like hot dog costumes. Around the corner, Miguel is waiting for me outside the home clubhouse.

  —Hey, man.

  —Hey.

  He looks me over.

  —You’re a mess, man. Did you look that bad last night?

  —Yeah. Pretty much.

  —I was loaded.

  —Yeah.

  —Yeah.

  He kicks at the concrete floor. He’s half dressed for the game: pants and cleats, but he’s wearing a Stanford T-shirt.

  —How’s Jay?

  He rubs the top of his head.

  —They had to wire his jaw shut. It was broken. And his nose. And his cheekbone was cracked. They said he was lucky his eye didn’t pop out.

  —You talk to him?

  —A little. They got him totally stoned.

  —He say anything?

  —No, not really. Can’t talk with the jaw shut.

  —How’s he gonna deal with that?

  He grins.

  —Gonna drive him nuts.

  —Yo.

  He laughs.

  I point at the bruise on his neck.

  —How’re you?

  —OK. It’s sore. And I got some scrapes on my hands and stuff. No biggie.

  —Uh-huh.

  —Yeah. But. Someone in the emergency room recognized me. And they, I guess they know someone, so they called that Page Six deal and a photographer showed up.

  —Oh, shit.

  —No, it’s cool. My agent and a lawyer for the club made some calls. They promised those guys a better story later if they killed this one. Said publicity like that two days in a row would hurt my career. Whatever.

  —That’s cool.

  —Yeah, but. The club is sending me back down. After the game. Sending me back for rookie ball. Said I can play, but I’m not ready to handle life in the City. So. Shit.

  —Sorry.

  —Yeah.

  Another player ducks out the clubhouse door. He nods at Miguel and heads for the tunnel to the field. Miguel watches him, and then turns back to me.

  —So look. I’m thinking.

  —Yeah?

  —I’m thinking this is maybe not gonna work out with, you know, with your boss and all. I’m thinking. Man, you said those guys last night were hooked up with him?

  —That’s right.

  —Well. I mean, that’s not cool. Those guys hurt my best friend. That’s not. I can’t live like that, man.

  —Uh-huh.

  —So. I’m thinking you can talk to him. And tell him I want to make an arrangement. Start maybe making some payments. Work something out. And. I mean. I can’t.

  He gestures, taking in the stadium above us.

  —This, all this. The game. This chance. I don’t want to lose this. Jay. I can’t have that kind of thing happen. Ever. I can always play. That I can do. I can play this game wherever. But I can’t have my friends being hurt. So. Will you talk to him? Tell him. I don’t know what.

  A guy comes around the corner. He’s carrying the hot dog costumes. I wait till he’s gone.

  —Here’s the thing, Miguel. I talked to David this morning. And things are gonna change a little. Someone, I don’t know who, but someone else is going to have your paper. My guess is they won’t be interested in the kind of deal you had, that whole letting-the-debt-float thing. Payments won’t really cut it.

  —Oh, shit.

  —No. Now. Look. Don’t worry about it. It’s gonna be OK. I’m gonna help. And it will work out.

  —I do
n’t know, man. This is. I need out.

  —We’re gonna get you out. I. Hey. I’m gonna get you out. I am. I really. I am. So do something for me.

  I put my hand on the box.

  —This is for you. I mean, really, it’s for whoever comes to collect on your paper. What you do is, you put this someplace safe. When they come around, when they call, you give them this.

  He looks sideways at the box.

  —Man, do you know what I owe?

  —Yeah.

  —And you got something there that will cover it?

  —Yeah. This will do it.

  —And. Is that drugs?

  —No.

  —’Cause I want nothing to do. No more trouble, OK. So no drugs.

  —Miguel. Take the box. I want you to have this. Get out, man. Get out of trouble. This will do that. Take it, man. Take it and use it. Trust me.

  He doesn’t say anything. Then he reaches out and puts his hand on the box.

  —OK. OK, man. Thanks.

  —Sure. OK. I. I got to go.

  —What?

  —I got to.

  —The game!

  —Yeah, I know.

  —Maaan.

  —Sorry.

  —So when?

  —Later. Later sometime.

  —That bites, man.

  —Yeah.

  I put out my hand. He grabs me and crushes me, slapping my back hard a couple times. It feels like he’s breaking more of my ribs.

  Miguel goes back into the clubhouse to get ready. He has to play the rubber game of the first series of the season. Must be nice. I walk back out the tunnel.

  Outside, the sun is still hot and it still feels good. Cops may be at David’s right now, but they won’t know who they’re looking for for awhile. I can figure out what to do with Anna, how to help her best, and be on my way. I may not get a full thirteen thousand mornings out of the deal, but I’m going to get something. I open the car door.

  BANG!

  The shock wave vibrates out of the car, ruffling my shirt, and dissipates over the parking lot. I bend over and look inside. Anna has my jacket on her lap, the pocket the gun was in is flipped inside out. Her hands are over her ears. The .22 is in her left hand, smoke oozing from the barrel. Her eyes are fixed on something. I look down to see what it is. There’s a hole in my shirt and, under that, a hole in my stomach. It’s about five inches to the left of my belly button. I get in the car. Anna is still staring at the hole she put in me. I have the tail of my shirt pulled up. I’m staring at it, too.

  She says something.

  I look at her.

  —What?

  She shakes her head.

  —No.

  I nod.

  —It’s OK.

  —No. I’m sorry. I.

  —It’s OK.

  I reach for the gun.

  —Here, let me have that.

  She lowers the gun.

  BANG!

  This one is up higher. The tape slows it down, but it gets through and buries itself between two ribs. I inhale and feel it grinding against the bone.

  It hurts.

  I black out.

  I come to.

  Anna still has the gun in her left hand. She’s crying. She shouldn’t cry.

  I point at the gun.

  —I didn’t know you were left-handed.

  She nods.

  —Here. I’ve got it now. I’ll take it.

  She nods, and pulls the trigger again, but the gun is empty. I take it from her hand and drop it on the backseat.

  —OK. That’s over, that’s. Oh. Oh, man. Wow. This hurts. This really. OK. Here’s what. Can I have my jacket please?

  She hiccups a couple times, covers her mouth with her hand, holds it there, then moves it away when she doesn’t vomit.

  —My jacket, Anna. Please.

  She picks up the jacket. I lean forward.

  —Just, just wrap it around me, around my middle.

  She leans over and wraps the sleeves around me.

  —Good. Thanks.

  I lean back, adjust the sleeves so that they cross the wound in my belly, and tie them in a tight double knot.

  —OK. That’s better. That’s. And see.

  I show her the hole in the tape where her second bullet entered. There is only the slightest dribble of blood leaking out.

  —That one’s not bad at all. So now. Now all we have to. All we have to do is.

  My head spins. I grip the steering wheel. It stops spinning.

  —I’m gonna sit still for a sec, OK?

  I lean back.

  —Why did you kill my son?

  I turn my head to face her.

  —What did he do to you?

  —I.

  —He must have done something.

  I remember Mickey. How smug he was when he figured out who I was and he demanded money from me. I remember how he threatened to tell David where I was, how he threatened Mom and Dad. I think about Mom and Dad, what it must feel like knowing some of the terrible things I’ve done. How much worse it would be if they knew them all.

  —He didn’t do anything to me.

  —No. He must have.

  —Anna. Nothing. He did nothing. All he did. He. He just stumbled across me and recognized me. I got scared. I couldn’t take a chance he’d tell. That’s why. I killed him. He did nothing. He was a good kid. I. I liked him.

  She closes her eyes. Tears leak out.

  —Yes. Yes. He was a good boy.

  I’ve started. I’ve started, and I find I can’t stop.

  —And. I. I dream about him sometimes, too. Like you. I. I dream about all of them sometimes. And. If I could. Anna, if I could change. I was. When I was young, when I was a kid. I was driving and I, I hit this, this tree. And if. My friend was in the car and he died, you know. It was. And I thought, sometimes I thought I wished it had been me. But I really didn’t. When I was honest, honest to myself, I was thanking God that it was him and not me. But. Now. Now I wish, God, every day I wish it had been me. All the lives, Anna. You have no idea. All the lives that could have been saved. Oh, shit.

  I spin again. Stop spinning.

  Anna reaches over and presses her hand over the wound in my chest.

  —I’ll get someone. An ambulance.

  I look past her, through the window, and see the water beyond the boardwalk.

  —That’s OK. That’s. Here’s what. OK, I’m gonna go and. I’m gonna go. I’m. I think I’m gonna just go down to the beach, OK? I think that’s what. Jesus. Jesus. I’m gonna go to the beach.

  She still has her hand pressed against my chest. I put mine over hers.

  —What you. There will be people. David has other people. They’ll want to know what happened. So the best thing. What you should do is. There’s money in the trunk. There’s a lot of money in the trunk. You need to take it. Take the car and go somewhere. Take the money and go somewhere. Back to Russia. Somewhere. Go away.

  She’s staring at the blood seeping between her fingers.

  —Don’t look at that. Don’t.

  I put a finger under her chin and tilt her face up to mine.

  —Don’t worry about that. I can. I know how to fix that. You just need to go. Just go. OK?

  Her upper lip is glazed with snot.

  —OK. OK.

  —Good. Good for you. OK. So.

  I open the door. I swing my feet out. I stand up. My head swirls. The parking lot swirls with it. I lean over and puke. It hurts. I look into the car. Anna is still in the passenger seat. I reach in and pat the driver’s seat.

  —Here. Scoot over here.

  She looks down at the seat. Some of my blood is pooled there. I brush at it, smearing it over the material.

  —Don’t worry about that. That comes out. Just come on over here.

  She lifts her legs over the gearshift and scoots her bottom into the seat.

  —Good. That’s good. You can? Can you drive?

  She nods.

  —OK.
Great. So start ’er up.

  She turns the key and the engine starts.

  —Good. OK. So. So. So. Out of town. That’s where you want to go. Drive. Boston. Maybe Philly. One of those places. Get a bag on the way. For. You’ll need it for the money. And go to an airport. And buy a ticket. And go away. Go away. It’s OK. You can go away. And. You just don’t come back. And. Oh, hey, and Anna?

  —Yes?

  —Don’t worry about this.

  I point at the hole in my stomach.

  —This is. I’ll be fine. This is nothing. OK?

  —OK.

  —Good. So. OK. Bye-bye then. Bye-bye.

  I push the door closed. She sits there, staring at me through the window. I wave bye-bye to her. Bye-bye. She puts the car in reverse and pulls out. I wave again. Bye-bye. She looks at me, raises her hand. Her lips move. Bye-bye. And she drives away.

  I look up, over at the beach. Wow, that’s a long way away. If I want to get there I better start now. So I do. I start walking to the beach.

  And close my eyes long before I get there.

  EPILOGUE

  I OPEN MY EYES.

  I’m sitting on a beach.

  I’m sitting in the sand watching a dog trailing its own leash as it runs through the surf. It barks madly, running from the waves as they crash in, chasing them as they roll out. The dog bites the waves, swallowing seawater, crazed by the ocean. It runs around in little circles, jumps into a pile of rotting seaweed and rolls around on its back. It jumps up, chases and bites another wave, then sprints up the beach toward the dry sand, squats and starts spraying diarrhea.

  —Don’t shit on your leash!

  I look back over my shoulder and see a middle-aged couple holding hands and walking toward the dog. The man is yelling at the dog.

  —Don’t shit on your leash, for Christ sake.

  The dog ignores him and shits seawater on its leash.

  —Ah, Jesus, that’s gonna be a pain in the ass.

  The couple is next to me now. I look up at them.

  —That’s good advice.

  They look at me. The man smiles.

  —What’s that?