Charlie Huston - A Dangerous Man

He stands.

– This threat, this childish threat to your mother and father that has hung over both our heads. This threat of which I am ashamed.

He comes around the desk.

– Make it go away, Henry.

He pulls me to my feet.

– Deal with this woman who is no longer my family.

He embraces me.

– And your mother and father will be at last safe.

He spreads his arms wide. Could you hope for anything more?

DAVID SHOWS ME out but does not walk me to the elevator. I stand in front of it alone and watch the numbers light up one by one as it crawls closer to me.

The elevator stops and the door slides open. A very attractive woman in black steps out and walks up the hall. I step into the elevator, but something about her curly, just-graying hair reminds me of someone, and I peek out before the door can close. She’s standing outside David’s door.

I want her to be David’s elegant and aristocratic mistress, the woman he spends his afternoons with when he is not at home with his wife, the woman he talks to the way he would never talk to the whores he and his business partners fuck on the weekends. But I suspect I am wrong. I suspect this woman passed her curly hair and almond eyes to her son. And that I met him in Mexico. And that I killed him. I suspect that this woman is David’s sister-in-law.

The elevator doors try to close, but I am blocking them and they make a noise. She turns her head and looks at me looking at her. I pull back into the elevator and the doors close.

Well, that can’t have been good.

DOWNSTAIRS A LIMO is parked out front. The driver stands next to the car, smoking. I’ve seen his type before. Young. Blond spiky hair, meaty but not fat, Ralph Lauren sportswear, oversized pop-star sunglasses on his face. I’ve seen his kind shooting at me. I’ve seen his kind bleeding in the street. I have more than a slight premonition that I’ll see both again.

We ignore each other. But not really.

AS I WALK down the boardwalk, I think about The Kid. I think about killing sons. And about killing their mothers.

Past the Winter Garden and the Moscow Cafe; past the Tatiana Restaurant with fluorescent green and orange napkins accordioned and tucked into water glasses on the tables; past all the little boardwalk places where Russians and tourists sit at umbrellaed tables, eat pierogies, and stare at the ocean. And past all the many families out in the early Friday sun.

It’s hot in my black jacket and jeans. I take the jacket off and stuff it under the strap of my shoulder bag. I’d like to roll my sleeves up, but the tattoos would show. I feel on display again, walking down the middle of the boardwalk, no cover to cling to, but no one seems to pay any attention to me. I walk past the Brighton Playground, past the handball courts, past the sculpted and textured wall of the aquarium, styled to look like a lower-depths seascape.

I’ve had only the few hours’ sleep I got after I took Miguel and Jay to the airport yesterday morning. My face aches and the hole I put in my wrist feels hot and itchy. But the sky is blue and the breeze is soft, and if David isn’t lying to me, I only have one person left to kill.

And I already killed her child, so how hard can this really be? It takes me about twenty minutes to reach Coney. The Cyclone is clanking up its track, getting ready to drop, the Wonder Wheel spins, “Celebration” booms from the bumper cars. A nice Friday crowd is building.

– Scarface! Yo!

I stop. Miguel is sitting at one of the picnic tables in front of Ruby’s, a crappy carnie-dive version of the Russian places up at Brighton, sipping from a plastic cup of beer and surrounded by shopping bags. “Crazy Train” is playing on the jukebox inside.

– Sorry we didn’t grab you at the airport.

– No problem.

Miguel stuffs half a hot dog in his mouth.

– We came up on a midnight flight after the club sent word I was moving.

Jay comes back from putting money in the jukebox.

– Moving up, yo.

He slaps hands with Miguel and starts digging through the dozens of plastic shopping bags. Bags from the NBA store, Nike-town, the Sony store, Macy’s, and more.

Miguel stuffs the other half of his dog in his mouth and talks as he chews.

– Had late dinner with my agent, got checked into the suite. All that. Then we hit the hotel bar. Had to sleep in. Then we had some shopping to do. And then I called the guy. You know.

He makes a vague gesture that means David.

– And he said you were on your way, so we waited here.

Jay sticks a bubble-wrapped gadget in my face.

– What the fuck is this, yo?

– I don’t know.

– Yo, Mike. What the fuck is this?

– I don’t know, man. You bought it.

Jay laughs.

– Shit, yeah. Man, I was still fucked up this morning.

Miguel laughs, inhales another hot dog. He chews, his face smooth-skinned, surrounded by his toys, hanging with his best friend. He is a boy.

He eats the last of his four dogs, drains his beer, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and then offers it to me. I take it and he pulls me close on the bench and puts his other arm on my shoulder.

– Good to have you here, bro. We’re gonna have fun. Gonna be cool.

– Yeah, thanks.

He lets me go. I think about how much he’s fucking up his life. I think about how that’s not my problem.

– What now?

He smiles, a blob of mustard at the corner of his mouth.

– Ballpark. Gotta get fitted. Game tonight.

Steely Dan comes on the juke. Miguel stands.

– Let’s jet.

Jay pulls his head out of a shopping bag and points into Ruby’s dark interior.

– Yo, “Kid Charlemagne.”

He points at me.

– Played this for Scarface, yo. Old skool for my old motherfucker. He’s a hood, just like The Kid.

He punches me on the shoulder.

– Don’t forget, yo, I want to get into some of that gangsta shit this time around.

IT’S A BEAUTIFUL ballpark.

I sit with Jay in the field-level seats between home plate and the home dugout. Beyond left field we can see Deno’s Wonder Wheel and the Cyclone rising above Astroland and the rest of Coney’s midway. Right field is backed by the ocean. The sun shines down and a breeze blows in off the water.

A ballpark on the beach. What’s not to love?

Jay is pulling a brand-new pair of Nikes out of a box. He dumps the box in the aisle for someone else to clean up.

– Nice place to play ball, yo.

I nod.

He kicks off his old shoes and leaves them next to the box.

– Bet there’s some Annies hangin’ round here. Some beach Annies. Love it.

I nod.

The park is empty except for us. It’s early, but the trainer and the equipment manager wouldn’t let us into the clubhouse while Mike gets fitted.

Jay tilts his face to the sun and closes his eyes.

– Won’t be here long, though. My boy’s moving up. Mean, it’s cool to hang at the beach a couple weeks, but my boy needs to get up and out. Can’t be wastin’ talent down here. These single-A guys, they put ’em up in a fuckin’ dorm. Fuckin’ dorm rooms. Mike just got done with college. Fuckin’ watch, they bring ’em here in a bus. Mike told his agent, told him, No fuckin’ way, yo! Need wheels, need a pad. Hook it up. Told him, I’ll pay the tab, just hook that shit up. Got off the plane from Tennessee, from my boy’s one day in rookie ball, there’s the Escalade waitin’ for us. Got a suite in the City, yo. One of those downtown places. Boutique hotel. My boy says he didn’t come to New York to live in Brooklyn.

A couple groundskeepers have appeared. They start peeling the tarps off the infield dirt.