Charlie Huston - A Dangerous Man

– Stick it out, Scarface. Mike takes a shine to you, stick it out, yo. He takes a shine and nobody can talk him out of it. And he’s startin’ to shine on you.

He opens his eyes and looks at me.

– Got anything to say to that, yo?

– I like him, too.

Jay sits up.

– That a joke?

– No.

– Good. Cuz Mike likes you. He liked your moves in Vegas. Liked how you were smooth with the crowd at the Palms, liked how you eased us in at the Rhino, and he sure as shit liked that no-nonsense you laid on those yokels in the parking lot. Said to me on the plane back, That guy’s the kind of guy a man wants around to take care of shit. Said, yo, said he felt safe with you. Safe. You get that?

– Sure.

– Do you? Cuz that, yo, that’s some deep shit, someone says they feel safe with you.

He moves into the empty seat between us and drops his voice.

– See, I know all Mike’s shit. Right, yo?

– Right.

– We go back. Grew up in San Diego together. Little League. We go back like that. Kids together. Played on the same teams together. School together. When his dad, when he split on the family and went back to Mexico, back to some other family turned out he had goin’ down there, Mike’s moms couldn’t support him and his brothers and sisters on her own. He came to live with me. Moved into my home when he was thirteen. My mom and dad, they took him in. I know all his shit.

He shakes his head.

– People don’t know. His agent told him to get rid of me, said I was trouble. He don’t know, cuz he don’t know Mike. Mike likes trouble. Me, I like fun. That shit in Vegas, that last hurrah . That was a deal we had. I told him he’s in too deep already. Got to stop the betting. But that contract dropped and he had to spend, had to play. So I put him on a budget. Two hundred G’s. Throw it around like you don’t care. But that’s it. In pro ball now. Got to get square with the guy who has the IOUs. Can’t have shit like that hangin’ over his head now. That’s just beggin’ to be Pete Rosed. But Mike has what they call poor impulse control. That hundred grand we split Vegas with? That’s already gone. Twenty-four hours and it’s gone. That Russian set him up with his own personal bookie. Like giving a junkie a on-call dealer who delivers the best shit in town.

He pulls off his Pods visor, runs his finger around the outline of the picture of a friar swinging a bat, keeping his eyes from mine.

– And now you. The man says Mike needs someone while he’s here, to keep an eye on him, help him out. I don’t like it, but as long as the man is holding Mike’s paper, he gets his say and we can’t push too hard. Got to have someone? OK. I say to Mike, Ask for that guy from Vegas. Ask for Scarface.

He looks up from the visor.

– I asked for you. Cuz I think Mike might be right. You could be the kind of guy he needs to have around. You know how to take care of trouble and you don’t take shit. Could be, yo, you’re just what Mike needs.

He pulls the visor back on.

– Mike got himself in this shit and all I can do is help dig him out. I got one mission, that’s watch my boy’s back. He wants to bet, he’s gonna find a way. That doesn’t mean I have to help. You, yo, you have to make that call for yourself. My boy knows what’s best for him, even if he don’t always do it. He’ll see what side you’re playing. He sees you’re part of the solution, you could end up with a new team, whole new livelihood.

He holds out his arms, taking in the ballpark and the ocean.

– Spend your time watchin’ ball games, hookin’ up with Annies and hangin’ with us, yo. Instead of fightin’ with guys in parking lots or whatever the hell you’re used to. Could be sweet. Could even learn to like the game.

He lowers his arms.

– Anyway, I’m just talkin’. But this could be an opportunity, yo, to change your life. You just got to decide the right thing to do.

He holds out a fist.

– Cool?

I bang my fist against his.

– Sure.

– Alright. See, that’s the shit. Now we’re all in the open and we just get to be ourselves and everybody gets to see what everybody’s made of. Gonna be sweet, yo.

He slips his feet into the new Nikes and bends to lace them up. I look at the back of his head. I see what I usually see when I look at the back of someone’s head, I see exactly how it would look if I put some bullets in it. He straightens, and I look at the water.

Miguel comes walking up out of the home dugout. He’s wearing the white-and-red Cyclones uniform, red socks worn up and out, old skool.

– S’cool, right?

Jay jumps up, runs down the steps and vaults the wall.

– Sweet, yo. Need some help though.

He reaches up and twists Miguel’s cap to the side.

– That’s the shit.

He pulls a cell phone out of his pocket and tosses it to me.

– Scarface, snap a picture.

I flip the phone open, push a couple buttons until I figure out the camera and point it at them.

– Wait a sec, yo.

Jay jumps up and Miguel catches him in his arms.

– Snap it.

I take the picture and Jay jumps down.

– It good? Need another one?

I look at the picture on the phone’s tiny screen.

Miguel is tall and straight. The uniform fits him perfectly, like second skin. He looks born to play the game. He looks like a ballplayer, looks like just what he is. Jay is cradled in his arms, looking like a child in an adult body, looking like what maybe he wants you to think he is.

I look up from the phone.

– Yeah, it’s fine.

THE PLAYERS ARE over Miguel before they even see him. They pulled up, saw the Escalade parked next to the players’ entrance, and word got around quick who it belonged to. Not what you want to see when you’re getting bused to work and living in a dorm. They tap fists with Miguel and say yo, but no one hangs out with him. He makes it worse because he doesn’t seem to care. Just does his thing, lets the publicity guy take his photos, talks with the GM, does some jogging, meets the manager and coaches, everything smooth and professional and with the air of a guy who knows this is a pit stop. All the while Jay tags after him, whispering in his ear, blatantly pointing at other guys on the team and talking shit about them.

There’s press around, and the Staten Island players are starting to drift onto the field to stretch. First game of the season, everyone’s early. This may be single A, but add the Mets farm vs. Yankees farm matchup to that first-day vibe and throw in Miguel’s debut. It may not be a game for ESPN, but local interest is high. There are reporters from all the city papers, and TV cameras are set up to do a cable broadcast of the game. I decide it’s time to lie low.

I duck past a couple of the visitors and cut through their dugout into the tunnels. Down at one end I can see an Aramark vending truck pulling up to the loading dock. I turn in the other direction, past a stack of boxes filled with player photos; a guy walking around in a seagull suit carrying the mangy head under his arm.

THEY HAVE A little museum devoted to Brooklyn baseball. I go in. There’s a bench just inside the door. I sit down and lean my back against the window and watch a young woman as she leads a group of kids around the place, showing them relics of the Brooklyn Dodgers.

I try to relax, try to enjoy the air-conditioning and let myself be soothed by the woman’s voice as she tells the kids about the importance of Jackie Robinson. But all I end up doing is grinding my teeth and wishing I’d at least kept some Xanax.

I’m itchy and antsy and sweaty and my face hurts and I’m thinking about the thirteen thousand. All those mornings I might have if I kill Mickey’s mom.