—Don’t shit on your leash.
The woman laughs.
—Oh, she’s a good dog. She just goes crazy at the beach.
The man nods.
—Goes maddog on us.
I look at the dog. It has returned to harassing the waves.
—Yeah, I know the type.
The man and woman sit down a couple yards away. The man picks up a piece of driftwood and starts sketching something in the sand.
—You a dog person?
I nod.
—Yeah, mostly. But I had a cat once.
He shakes his head.
—Could never stand cats.
—Well, this was one hell of a cat.
The woman looks at me.
—Are you local?
I shake my head.
—No. Not really. Just moved here.
The North Pacific wind gusts and she pulls her jacket tighter around her shoulders.
—We moved here a few years back.
I feel at my pockets and take out a pack of cigarettes.
—My folks used to bring me here every year. That’s how I know the place.
—We used to come here. With our son.
She looks at the sun dipping into the ocean.
I shake a cigarette loose.
The man passes the piece of driftwood to the woman and she takes over the sketch. He points at the pack of Benson & Hedges in my hand.
—Bad habit.
—I know. I quit for awhile, but something about the weather up here, it makes me want to smoke. You mind?
He shrugs.
—We all got bad habits.
I light up.
—Yes we do.
The dog is slowing down, wandering after the waves now rather than chasing them, a stream of thin, green fluid leaking from its backside.
—Dog looks sick.
The man nods as he gets up.
—Yeah. She’s a good dog, but she has to learn the same lesson every time we bring her here. Don’t drink the water.
I take a drag on my smoke.
—And don’t shit on your leash.
He smiles, helping his wife to her feet.
—Yep, that one, too.
The woman plants the stick of driftwood in the sand next to their sketch.
—Nice to meet you.
I wave.
—Nice to meet you, too. Take care.
She smiles, waves back, and they walk together, calling to the dog as it wanders toward them, tired and sick, but still lolling its tongue and barking happily at the ocean.
Stupid maddog.
I smoke and watch them walk back up to the road where their car is parked. When my cigarette is done I grind the cherry out in the sand and tuck the butt back in the box. The sun is almost gone now, sliced in half by the horizon. I close my eyes and try to feel what little heat it gives.
The sun is down.
The wind cuts deeper. I stand up and tuck my hands in the pockets of my jeans. I take a step over to where the couple was sitting and look at their sketch.
A heart with an arrow piercing it.
In the middle, a word.
Henry.
Funny they didn’t recognize me. I touch my carved face. But I guess not. Not really. I think about going after them. But that would be a bad idea. They already have one maddog to deal with. I think about smoking another cigarette. But I don’t. I think about going home. But I don’t. I stand here and watch the stars come out.
And then I close my eyes.
I OPEN MY eyes.
I’m sitting on a beach.
The sun shines. I can feel it baking my face, the heat occasionally relieved as clouds sweep across the bright blue sky. A wave crashes and the surf washes up over smooth dark sand, stopping just short of my toes. “Easy” is playing somewhere behind me.
I look at the people on the beach.
There are kids, mostly Latino, playing in the surf. Off to my left is a woman in a lime green bathing suit and pink headscarf, knitting something orange. A man with skin tanned like an old, brown penny jogs past. A tiny, round Mexican woman is pushing a shopping cart filled with mangoes through the sand.
I raise my hand to her. She pushes the cart over. The mangoes are on sticks that are stuck into a giant Styrofoam block. She plucks one out and offers it to me.
I wave my hand up and down.
—No bolsa. Por favor.
She undoes the twisty at the top to the stick and pulls the mango free of its plastic bag. Thank God. It would have taken me an hour to get that thing off. I take the mango and offer her a dollar. She takes it. She looks at it, then at me, then she grips her cart and shoves it away. I look at the rest of the money in my hand. It’s bloody.
I look down. Blood is soaking through the knotted sleeves of my jacket, dripping slowly to be sucked up by the sand between my legs. That’s not good. You only have so much of that.
I crane my head around. There is a trail of tiny red spots on the sand leading back to the boardwalk. They might be the drippings from a child’s Popsicle, but they’re not.
The boardwalk is very far away, the music is coming from Rudy’s. How’d I get all the way here? Lucky, I guess. I look down again. The sand had absorbed too much of my blood; it has begun to pool at my crotch.
So, not that lucky.
I look at the mango in my hand. It’s been peeled, slit in rings around and around. It looks like a giant, pale orange artichoke dusted with chili powder. I bring it to my mouth. It’s sweet and peppery on my lips, but I’m no longer strong enough to bite into the soft fruit. It feels heavy. I want to put it down. I try to jam the stick in the sand, but I can’t get it in deep enough to stand upright. It lists slowly to one side until it falls and is crusted in sand.
What now?
Shoes.
Gonna take my shoes off.
It’s not easy, but I manage. Then I tug my socks off. Then I get to push my bare feet deep in the sand. And you know what? It was worth it. My eyes try to close. I open them. My eyes closing now would be a bad thing.
My eyes start to close.
I stop them.
Look for something to look at.
Some teenage girls sit in a circle to my right, all of them talking into their cell phones.
Cell phones.
I shift, and tug at my jacket. It pulls at my wound and I gasp. I feel in the jacket pockets and find Branko’s phone. I go through my pants pockets and find the number.
I dial.
It rings just once.
—Hello!
—Hey, hey, Mom.
—Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh. Oh.
—Hey. Hey. Sorry I. Last night. I didn’t mean to scare you. My phone. The battery.
—I knew. I knew. Henry. Oh. Henry. Henry, Henry.
—I love you, Mom.
—Henry. I love you. I love you so much. I.
—Is Dad there?
—He’s here. He’s.
—Henry? I’m here. Where? Are you OK? Where are you? Are you? What can we?
—Dad. Hey, Dad. Wow. You guys sound.
—What is it, Henry? We. How do we?
—Hey. Hey. I just. I can’t talk. Just. I wanted to tell you. I really love you guys. And.
Mom clucks her tongue.
—Are you drunk, Henry?
—No, Mom.
—You sound drunk.
—No, Mom.
—Well. I. Oh, God.
—It’s OK, Mom. Dad?
—Yeah?
—I love you guys. And. I know. Nothing I did. You guys were great to me. No matter what people say. Nothing that happened. It was all me. And I love you. And.
Mom is crying now. Of course. Making Mom cry is the easiest thing in the world.
—Don’t cry, Mom.
—Don’t be stupid. How can I not cry?
—Dad, tell Mom not to cry.
—Your mom cries at TV commercials.
—Right.
Mom cries for awhile. N
obody says anything. She stops.
—I’m better. Sorry.
—That’s OK.
More of nobody talking. The beach spins a couple times. My eyes try to close some more.
—OK. I. I need to go, guys.
Mom starts crying again.
—Will you call again? Are you OK? Do you need anything? I can send something. What do you need?
—No, Mom, I’m fine. I just. I love you both. And I miss you. Every day.
My eyelids dip. I force them to stay open.
Mom talks.
—We love you, Henry.
Dad coughs.
—Love you, Hank.
—Love you guys. Bye. Love you.
I hang up.
I start to close my eyes.
Stop myself.
If I close my eyes now, I’ll never open them.
I’m tired. My body is too heavy to keep upright. I lean back and let myself drop into the sand. I look up into the bright blue sky. It feels good on my face, but it hurts my eyes. I start to close my eyes. Open them.
If I close my eyes now, I will never open them.
If I close my eyes.
I will never open them.
I close my eyes.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Not a word of the Henry Thompson trilogy would have seen print were I not the beneficiary of amazing good luck, remarkable friendships, and love.
My thanks to Johnny Lancaster, friend. You changed my life.
To Robyn Starr and Simone Elliot, benefactors.
To Cindy Murray, Ingrid Powell, Paul Taunton, Daniel Lazar and Michael Mejias, all of whom have done me great services, and shared a drink or two.
To Maura Teitelbaum, Simon Lipskar and Mark Tavani, coworkers and friends, the ones who showed belief. My debt is great.
Thanks to my readers, those who feel the money was well spent, and those who want it back. It’s nice to know you’re all out there. I am grateful.
I was given special technical assistance in the writing of this book by Anna Isaacson of the Brooklyn Cyclones. She took me around the ballpark and, among other things, showed me where they keep the hot dog costumes. Alas, my suspicions were correct, the race is rigged. Thank you, Anna.
I have been taken in by the Smiths, Farmers and Kressmans. My east coast family. Thank you for the love, and for the young woman in question.
My mom and dad have given me what every child should have, faith, hope and love. All without bounds. If only I had more to give back.
Virginia.
My wife.
My greatest piece of luck.
Stay with me. Make me a better man.
I’ll try to deserve you.
New York City
February 3, 2006
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
CHARLIE HUSTON is the author of The Henry Thompson Trilogy, which includes the Edgar Award–nominated Six Bad Things, as well as The Joe Pitt Casebooks. He is also the writer of the recently relaunched Moon Knight comic book. He lives in Los Angeles with his wife, the actress Virginia Louise Smith. Visit him at www.pulpnoir.com.
ALSO BY CHARLIE HUSTON
In the Henry Thompson Trilogy:
Caught Stealing
Six Bad Things
The Joe Pitt Casebooks:
Already Dead
A Dangerous Man is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
A Ballantine Books Trade Paperback Original
Copyright © 2006 by Charles Huston
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
BALLANTINE and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Huston, Charlie.
A dangerous man / Charlie Huston.
p. cm.
eISBN-13: 978-0-345-49565-5
eISBN-10: 0-345-49565-9
1. Russian American criminals—Fiction. 2. Murder for hire—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3608.U855D36 2006
813'.6—dc22 2005048173
www.ballantinebooks.com
v1.0
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