Charlie Huston - A Dangerous Man

– Is that guy fingering that chick?

It’s one of the guys who got kicked off our table. It’s very, very late and he and his buddies have gotten a new table right next to ours. Jay is pointing at the guy.

– Seriously, yo. Is he finger-fucking that chick?

What the guy is doing is definitely spending a lot of time trying to get his fingers inside the dancer’s g-string. The current song is almost over, his special moment drawing to a close, so she just keeps pulling his hand away. But then the song ends and she goes to get up and he grabs her wrist and holds out a fifty.

– Uh-uh, baby. One more dance. Come on, baby.

She cranes her head, looking for a bouncer, but the only one nearby is chatting up another dancer and not paying attention, not enforcing the no-touching-the-dancers-ever rule. She points a long fingernail at Finger Fucker.

– OK, one more, honey. But be nice. No touching.

– Yeah, yeah. No touching.

She starts writhing on his lap and he winks at his buddies over her shoulder and stuffs his finger into her G-string, yanking it to the side and almost ripping it off. She jumps back.

– That’s it, asshole.

She makes a move toward the bouncer and Finger Fucker grabs her again.

– No way, baby. I still got some song left.

His buddies are laughing. One of them looks like Uncle Fester’s long-lost son. The other has a perfect Prince Valiant haircut.

The dancer is still trying to get away, calling for the bouncer, who looks like he might finally have noticed a customer getting out of hand.

– Hey, mister.

It’s Miguel.

– Lay off.

Finger Fucker looks over.

– Wha’d you say?

– Said lay off the talent, guy. Let the lady go.

Jay stands up.

– And stop trying to stick your fingers up her action.

– Say what?

Finger Fucker lets go of the dancer’s wrist and stands up and the bouncer and three of his cohorts pile into him and his buddies and wrap them up and drag them toward the front door. They go out, shouting back at us, Uncle Fester pointing at Miguel.

– Fucking asshole. Fucking big shot. Fucking take our table. You ain’t shit. Mets suck!

They get stuffed out the front door.

Everybody still in the place is looking at us now. Talking about what happened.

The bouncer who got us the table is coming over.

– You guys cool?

I nod.

– Yeah, but we need to split. Can we use the back door?

He points toward the bathrooms. Miguel and Jay are already up and moving. The girls are gathering their things to follow us. I pull out a C and hand it to the schoolteacher.

– Party’s over ladies. You can get a cab out front.

The girls don’t like it, but they take the cab fare.

The bouncer leads us past the bathrooms, out to the rear parking lot. The Olds is about thirty yards away. Three guys are standing in a circle, taking turns dipping their keys into a little bag of coke. They ignore us as we walk past.

– Hey, big man.

Fuck.

– Hey, Mr. Baseball.

Fuck me running.

They’re coming around the side of the club, on a path to cut us off. I put a hand to Miguel’s back, then Jay’s.

– Just walk to the car. Don’t say anything.

– Big shot. Fucking table stealer.

Uncle Fester is doing the talking, but Finger Fucker is the first one to arrive. I stop and turn to face him and he puts his hands up.

– Oh, the bodyguard. I’m scared.

Valiant starts sprinting and moves to cut in front of us. I see him put a hand on Miguel. Jay jumps, lands on Valiant’s back and takes him to the ground. They start rolling around, grappling. Fester plants himself in front of Miguel. Finger Fucker starts hopping around, his fists up just like he was taught in his boxing class at his gym.

I hate the Spearmint Rhino.

JAY SPRINGS UP from the gutter, a rip in the right knee of his suit pants and a scrape on his chin. He points at me.

– Yo, Scarface fucked ’em up .

Miguel is looking at the three men on the ground.

– Should we call someone?

I shake my head.

– The doormen at the club will call someone. Let’s get out of here.

Jay grabs Miguel and starts dragging him toward the car.

– Hell yeah, yo. You don’t need this kind of shit on you now.

I lead them to the car, looking back over my shoulder to make sure no one is coming after us. The guys who were standing out back doing blow are starting to walk toward the three assholes on the ground, asking if they’re alright. None of them are answering.

MIGUEL WANTS TO go back to the Palms and hit the tables again, but Jay shows him his watch. It’s almost 6:00 a.m.

– Flight’s in a couple hours, yo. Time to chill.

– Man, we still got a hundred Gs credit at the Palms.

– So, that’s like going home up. Put that shit on your hip, yo.

Miguel shakes his head like a little boy being told it’s time to come in and get ready for bed.

– Yeah, OK, man. But this sucks.

He rolls down his window and leans his head into the hot breeze.

– You’re right, but it sucks.

SPORTSCENTER PLAYS ON the main screen in the empty Caesar’s sports book. Miguel and Jay watch the highlights while they fill out dozens of keno tickets. They’ve commandeered one of the few cocktail waitresses on the shift. She shuttles back and forth between them and the keno lounge, dropping their slips off and bringing them fresh drinks.

Jay points at the screen.

– Yo, here it is again.

Miguel and I look up and watch Sean Watson make a sliding, run-saving catch. Miguel goes back to his keno slips. Jay shakes his head.

– Fucking Watson.

Miguel sips his Cuba Libre.

– He’s a stud.

– Yo, he’s a stud. Fucker’s looking to build permanent housing in center field.

– S’cool. I ain’t in a hurry.

They have the same conversation every time the highlight comes on, and it’s been on a lot. I didn’t even know who the guy was, but it turns out Sean Watson is the Mets’ Gold Glove center fielder. The same position Miguel plays.

– Long as he’s there they can keep you down, yo.

– S’cool. I’m just starting. There’s shit to learn. Gotta hit that big league curve.

Jay looks down from the screen and at his friend.

– Bullshit, you can hit the curve. You are big league, yo. You are ready.

In the last hour I’ve seen more baseball than in the last five years. It’s strange, kind of like the dreams I sometimes have about people I’ve killed. Seeing the dead walk again. But this is different. For the first time I can remember, I’m watching baseball and it doesn’t make me want to curl up in a ball and feel sorry for myself. Must be the x. Whatever it is, I like it.

– Yo, Scarface, my boy ready for the bigs or what?

Is Miguel big league ready? No one is big league ready straight out of college. No one. Everyone spends a few years in the minors. Rookie ball, single A, double A, triple A. Even a top pick like Miguel? It’ll be a major achievement if he ends the season in double A. Hell, I would have had to spend a few years in the minors. Of course, I was going to go in straight from high school. If I had played in college, I might have been ready to hit big league stuff. Sure I would have. I was practicing with a wood bat every day. I was born big league.

– Scarface?

I come back to earth. Big league? I was never even bush league. Just a hotshot high school jock.

– Scarface?

– Sorry. What?

– My boy ready or what?

– Sorry, man, I don’t really know anything about baseball.

Jay slumps back in his seat.

– Oh damn, just when I was thinking you might be the man. Mike, Scarface doesn’t like baseball.