A Dangerous Man ht-3

by Charlie Huston

– So?

  – Tough. Say little. Look at everyone. Wear your sunglasses inside.

  I shrug into the jacket and Branko looks me over.

  – This will do.

  We’ve only been in the mall for thirty minutes, but already I have three new shirts, some black Levi’s that actually fit, a pair of black shoes, and now the jacket. We head for the register and I pull a roll of bills from my pocket. Branko pushes my hand down.

  – Business expense.

  He takes out a billfold, I pile the clothes on the counter, and he lays plastic next to them. The name on the card is Fred Durben. I don’t know who Fred is. Could be he’s a guy who handed his cards over in lieu of cash. Now he spends his sleeping hours having nightmares about the waste being laid to his credit rating; his waking hours a worse nightmare of watching the red-marked bills pile up. Could be he’s a guy who never existed, just a name with a credit history and this one account. Could be he’s in a hole in the desert, could be he’s in several holes in the desert. All I know for certain is that the card isn’t hot. If it belongs to a dead body, it’s a body that’s never been found and will never be missed. Branko would never trade in hot plastic. As it is, he’ll probably clip the thing into a hundred pieces when he gets home, and drop each piece into a separate storm drain.

  The cashier slides Branko the receipt and he signs it with a scrawl that might say Fred Durben, but that most certainly looks nothing like the signature he uses when he signs his real name. If he has a real name anymore. I pick up the bags and we head for the parking lot.

  WE BUZZ UP the parkway into North Las Vegas.

  – You have money?

  – Some.

  – How much?

  – About eight hundred.

  Branko pulls out the billfold again and produces a thick slab of cash. He thumbs through the bills, careful to count each one, peeling apart the new ones that have stuck together. It’s a nice lump of cash, but not ostentatious, not for Vegas anyway. Having counted the money, he evenly divides it and hands half to me. I fold mine and tuck it into my back pocket.

  – Pay for everything that is not gambling. Do not offer, do not ask. Just pay.

  – Everything?

  – You pay for food, drinks, strippers and whores.

  Because what else is there to buy in Vegas?

  – What if he hits the shops and wants a Rolex or something?

  – He will not want to shop. He will want to gamble.

  – OK. Where’s his room?

  – No room. He is here to party like a rock star and be on a flight in the morning.

  He looks back out the window. I tap the rim of the steering wheel in x-time. Branko looks at the finger and then at me. I make an effort to stop tapping. I succeed, but it isn’t easy. He points at the finger that I have to force to be still.

  – David talked to you about this job?

  – Yeah.

  – He told you it is important?

  – Yeah.

  – He told you how important?

  – Yeah, Branko, I get it. The kid is worth a lot of money and David wants his cut. He wants the kid not to be fucked with and he wants him impressed so that he’ll use David’s bookies. Got it.

  – He told you how important this job is for you?

  The finger taps a couple times. I stop it. Branko doesn’t talk business with me. He talks detail. Where, when, who and how much to hurt them. But he doesn’t talk business.

  – He said some things.

  – My friend.

  I flinch.

  Two years Branko’s apprentice. Two years his charge. Two years this man’s pupil, batboy, valet. He’s never called me friend.

  – My friend. This is an important job for you.

  He points a rock-steady finger at my finger, which is tattooing the wheel again. I stop it.

  We don’t talk. Branko has commandeered the radio as usual and we listen to Billy T on KCEP 88.1. Billy T is getting his mellow on, turning back the clock, “Strawberry Letter 23” grooving us down the road.

  YOU’D THINK I’D be losing weight. What with the pills, it’s not like I have much of an appetite. But the amount of time I spend zonked on the couch or Web surfing seems to have taken the upper hand. That, plus I don’t eat anything that isn’t driven to my door or doesn’t fit in a microwave. I also sleep over ten hours a day. Depression and self-medication are just bad for the waistline. But I’ll be burning some calories tonight. The x will see to that.

  It’s just before six. The guy’s flight gets in at a quarter to seven. I strip to my underwear and start tearing open the shopping bags, leaving ripped paper, tabs of sticky tape, and pins from the folded shirts scattered on the living room floor along with my dirty clothes. The jeans are stiff, but I can do the buttons without having to suck my belly into my spine. The shirts are all long-sleeve white button-ups. All my shirts are long-sleeved to cover the tattoos on my arms. The tattoos are some of the identifying features that predate, and survived, my surgery. There’s also a lurid scar that bisects my left side, the remnant of a hole that one of my kidneys came out of. I fasten the buttons of the shirt with jittery fingers and then have to undo and redo them because I’ve done them crooked. I dump the shoes out of their box and that’s when I realize we didn’t buy any black socks. All my socks are white athletics. The only thing left to me that’s athletic. Fuck it. I slip the shoes over my tube socks. The jacket is in a cheap plastic garment bag. I toss the bag on the floor with the rest of the trash and pull on the jacket. It fits fine in the shoulders and sleeves, but I can’t button it without stretching the buttonholes. Whatever, I’ll wear it open. A belt. I go back to the bedroom and find my only belt; black leather with a plain silver buckle and a couple extra notches I had to cut into it with a steak knife. I thread it through the loops and buckle it at the last of those homemade notches.

  I gather my money, keys, cell, wallet with fake ID; the latest in a chain of fake identities that string back to New York, and I look at the gun. No. I slip the gun under one of the couch cushions and go to the bathroom.

  I pull out the Ziploc full of ups, find the bottle of x and shake one into my hand. Then another. For later. In case it’s a late night. Late night? Shit, a kid with money, this is gonna be an all-nighter. I shake two more into my hand. That leaves two in the bottle. Hell with it. I dump all but one back in the bottle, pop that one in my mouth, and drop the bottle in my left jacket pocket. For emergencies.

  I look at the shattered mirror.

  I wonder how I look.

  I pick at a corner of the tape. Think about jagged glass reflecting blood as it cuts the skin. I smooth the tape into place, turn off the light and walk into the kitchenette. I turn on the overhead light and look at myself in the microwave door; a smeary, warped reflection in dark glass. I touch my face. Shave? No. Branko said I should look tough. Stubble is tough. I guess.

  AT THE AIRPORT I stand with the livery drivers near the exits from the baggage claim area. I watch the crowds of weekenders jostling around the huge silver carousels, getting bombarded by the advertising throbbing from the massive digital screens hanging from the ceiling. I feel edgy and exposed. Standing here in my brand-new clothes, the package creases still in my unironed shirt, I feel like I’m posed on a pedestal, like every eye is gawking at me. They’re not. To the rubes I’m just another driver in black, wearing his sunglasses inside and holding a sign with the name of some lucky stiff written on it. But I feel naked. Just like anyone wanted by the FBI and several police agencies for multiple homicides should feel.

  Fuck, maybe there’s too much speed in this x. Maybe that second hit was a bad idea.

  – Arenas?

  Or maybe I should do another one.

  – Arenas?

  Maybe I could cope better if I was just a little higher.

  – Yo, man, Arenas?

  – What?

  I look at the guy in front of me. He’s very young, my height, maybe a touch taller, with wide shoulders; buil
t under the black DKNY suit and Ratpack-style open-collar shirt.

  – Arenas?

  – What?

  He points at the sign in my hand, the name I wrote with a Sharpie on the back of one of the shirt cardboards.

  – You here for Arenas?

  – Yeah.

  He points at himself.

  – That’s me. Miguel Arenas.

  – Oh. Sorry, Mr. Arenas.

  He puts out his hand.

  – Mike. Call me Mike.

  I take his hand. It’s even bigger than mine, his wrists are thick with muscle.

  I take my hand back, fold the sign in half and point at the doors.

  – Right out here.

  – Hang on a sec. There’s some baggage.

  I take a step toward the carousels.

  – Would you like me to?

  He puts up a hand.

  – No, s’cool, it’s coming along.

  – Yo! Dude! Checking bags sucks!

  He has a friend. His friend is maybe five-six on a good day, but also built under his black DKNY suit. He’s passed on the Sinatra look and gone with a Hawaiian shirt, throwback Air Jordans, and a San Diego Padres sun-visor on top of his head. He’s dragging a massive Nike athletic bag stuffed to bursting, the zipper popping teeth. He walks up to us and drops the bag.

  He looks at me.

  – This the bodyguard?

  Miguel nods.

  – Yeah.

  – Sweet.

  Miguel points at his friend.

  – This is Jay.

  Jay spreads the index and middle fingers of his right hand.

  – Peace, yo.

  Neither of them is twenty-five. Neither of them is twenty-three, for God sake. I point at the door.

  – The car.

  Jay bounces.

  – Shee-at! The car!

  He heads for the door. I pick up his bag and gesture for Miguel to go ahead of me. Out on the curb Jay is leaning against a white limo. He spreads his hands in Miguel’s direction.

  – I don’t know, yo. It’s classic, but on the tritish side don’t ya think?

  I walk past him to the Olds, pop the trunk and dump his bag inside. He spreads his hands wider.

  – No. Way. Oh. Man. That. Car. Sucks.

  He pumps a fist.

  – Sweet.

  I close the trunk. Jay runs his hand along the hood.

  – Oh, man. This is some shit.

  I open the passenger door and fold the seat back. Jay laughs.

  – Dude. It’s not even a sedan. This is hot.

  Jay piles in. Miguel smoothly bends himself in beside him.

  Miguel looks familiar. Not his face so much. His build. The way he moves. Something.

  I walk around the car, climb in and start the engine.

  – Where to, gentlemen?

  Miguel puts a hand on my shoulder. I flinch. He takes his hand away.

  – Let’s hit Caesar’s sports book first.

  It’s getting a little dark. I slip my shades off and turn my head to check my blind spot before pulling from the curb. Jay points at my face.

  – Dude! Scarface! I mean total fucking Scarface.

  FINGER FUCKER THROWS a haymaker at me. I lean back out of the way. Behind me, Uncle Fester is still taunting Miguel, trying to get him to take a swing. In the gutter, Jay is rolling around with Prince Valiant. Our only audience is the three guys doing blow by the back door of the Rhino, but that’ll change if this isn’t over soon.

  The job is to keep the kid out of trouble.

  Screwed that up.

  Finger Fucker squares up to take another poke at me.

  AT CAESAR’S SPORTS book, Miguel looks over the late West Coast games and starts to head for the windows. Jay grabs his arm.

  – Yo.

  Miguel taps his own forehead.

  – Yeah, yo. Sorry.

  He goes in his pocket, comes out with a rubber-banded roll of hundreds, and hands it to Jay.

  – Uh, get me five on Oakland. A G on St. Louis and the over. And…-That’s plenty, yo.

  – No, no. And, you’ll like this, and five on the Pods, money line.

  – That’s a weak bet.

  Miguel flicks Jay’s Padres visor.

  – Yeah, but you like it.

  – Fuck you.

  Jay walks to the window with Miguel’s money and lays the bets. He comes back, hands Miguel the cash, but keeps the slips.

  – What now, yo?

  – Craps.

  – OK, yo, I’ll meet you there. Gonna see about some refreshments. Scarface, keep an eye on him.

  MIGUEL LIKES CRAPS. A lot.

  He fans twenty hundreds on the green felt and the croupier counts it and slides him his chips. He starts tossing them out and calling his bets. Jay comes back from his detour carrying a couple Cuba Libres. Miguel takes one.

  – What took you so long?

  – Yo. I was sweating this chick. She’s gonna be at Cleopatra’s Barge later with some friends. We should check that shit out.

  Miguel takes a sip of his drink and nods.

  – S’cool. Later.

  Jay notices me.

  – Scarface, yo, sorry, man. I didn’t bring you a beverage. You want something?

  I’m standing a couple feet behind them, trying to look inconspicuous and tough at the same time.

  – No, thanks.

  – No sweat, man, you want something, it’s cool by us.

  He nudges Miguel.

  – Right, yo?

  Miguel looks from the table to me.

  – Sure, man, s’cool, whatever’s good for you is fine.

  I try to look like I’m calculating threat vectors or something badass and shake my head.

  – No, thank you.

  Jay clinks his glass against Miguel’s.

  – Scarface on the job, yo. Scarface lookin’ out.

  Miguel smiles.

  – Quit fuckin’ with him, man.

  Jay spreads the fingers of one hand over his chest.

  – Fuckin’ with him? Yo, I got nothing but respect. ’Sides, Scar-face don’t mind me callin’ him Scarface. Do ya, Scarface?

  The x has settled down some and I’m feeling loose in my spine, perfectly balanced and relaxed. I could stand here all night just like this and be utterly comfortable. Do I mind him calling me Scarface? Hell, he could cut a couple new ones in my face and I wouldn’t care just now.

  – No, I don’t care.

  – See, he’s cool. Scarface’s mellow.

  Miguel points at Jay.

  – S’cool, man, you can tell him he’s an asshole if you want.

  Jay’s jaw drops.

  – Cold, man, that’s cold.

  I shake my head.

  – It’s OK, I’m fine.

  – OK, but you don’t have to take his shit.

  – Harsh, yo.

  Miguel smiles and turns back to the action on the table. Jay winks at me and gives me a thumbs up.

  – Don’t let no one fuck with my boy, yo.

  – No problem.

  Miguel cuts some chips from his stack and offers them to Jay.

  – You gonna play, or you gonna fuck around?

  Jay looks at the chips, takes them.

  – Yo, I’m gonna play. Last hurrah. Got to play.

  I look at the clock on my cell: 8:33 p.m.

  By 10:00 p.m., they’ve maxed out the cash draw on Miguel’s bank card.

  He tosses his last black chip to the croupier.

  – For the table, man.

  The croupier tilts his head at him and drops the chip in the tip box. Jay sucks down the last of his fifth Cuba Libre and sets the glass on a passing cocktail waitress’s tray. The tray tilts off balance and she has to do a sudden shuffle step to keep from dumping the whole thing. She gives Jay a nasty look and keeps walking.

  – Baby, yo, I didn’t mean it. Don’t be that way. Don’t be cruel. I love you.

  She doesn’t look back, but he watches the ass she has
just barely hidden beneath a minidress-toga as it twitches away. He looks at Miguel.

  – Cleopatra’s Barge, yo.

  Miguel drains the last of his fifth Cuba Libre and shakes his head.

  – Palms.

  THE ATM CARD was the tip of the iceberg.

  At the Palms Miguel passes a black AmEx to the girl in the cage and says he’d like to open a line of credit. Before the vibrations of his words have left the air, a manager materializes from a trapdoor somewhere. He supplies Miguel and Jay with a bottle of Cristal, offers a comp room, passes to Rain a thick stack of meal tickets, and processes Miguel’s two-hundred-thousand-dollar line of credit.

  – You may, of course, extend it if you wish.

  Miguel shakes the manager’s hand.

  – No, man, s’cool.

  – Well, let me just say how happy we are to have you here. And congratulations, of course.

  Miguel bobs his head; humble as all hell.

  – Yeah, thanks, man.

  I follow him and Jay into the casino, wondering what the fuck the manager was congratulating him for.

  FINGER FUCKER SWINGS and I lean out of the way. I almost fall down because I’m so buzzed on x, and so fat and slow. But I keep my feet and watch as the momentum of his punch spins him around. I shove the back of his right shoulder as he rotates past me and use my right foot to scoop his off the ground and he goes down face-first and I hear a little crunch that might be his front teeth biting into the tarmac. I turn around and there’s Uncle Fester, still in Miguel’s face, wagging his head back and forth and bugging his eyes.

  – What ya gonna do ’bout it? Gonna show me somethin’, big man? I’m right here. I’m right here.

  JAY WANTS TO go to Rain.

  The line for the place snakes around the casino, circling the wall. A purgatorial conga line of twenty and thirty-somethings dressed in every possible interpretation of hip and cool, desperate to get inside the hottest club in Vegas. Miguel eyes the line and shakes his head.

  – Uh-uh. Veto.

  Jay protests.

  – Yo, we got passes. All we got to do is cruise to the VIP entrance. Come on, yo.

  He points at the line, singling out the girls sporting the most conspicuous absences of clothing.

  – Bang! Bang! Bang! Can you imagine the talent that’s inside? The shit they don’t make wait in line?