Charlie Huston - A Dangerous Man

– 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.