Charlie Huston - A Dangerous Man

I think about going back to Mexico, back to my beach. It wouldn’t be the same, I wouldn’t have the 4 million stashed away. But Pedro might still be there running the bar I gave him. He’d give me a job. A place to be. A home. And shit, of course he’s still there. Where else would he be? Pedro and his wife Ofelia and their kids and his brother Leo, and Bud. Bud. Yeah, Pedro will still have my cat Bud. Shit, I’d sure like to see that cat again.

I THINK ABOUT working at the bar and taking swims in the ocean, getting tan and fit again. I wonder if my bungalow is still there. Pedro probably rents it out. But he’ll get rid of whoever’s in it if I come back.

I think about the sun and the impossibly blue ocean and the jungle. I think about not worrying over my mom and dad. Thirteen thousand mornings spent waking up and not worrying that I’ll fuck up and Branko will appear on their doorstep.

Thirteen thousand mornings.

To spend however I like.

A better stash than the 4 million ever was.

Someone bangs on the glass my head is resting against. I jump and twist around to see Jay.

– Yo, Scarface, snap out of it. Batting practice is starting. You want to see this shit.

FANS ARE COMING into the park for batting practice. These are the hard core, the folks wearing authentic Cyclones jerseys and jostling around the white-board on the concourse, copying the starting lineups onto their scorecards. I follow Jay down the steps to our game seats behind home. We settle and Jay gives me a jab with his elbow.

– Yo, these people don’t know. Watch this shit, they’re gonna freak.

I don’t say anything, just push my sunglasses against my face and watch the players as they parade to the plate one by one and take their hacks. The pitching coach pours low-key fastballs down the middle and the players slap them to short or pop them up or send easy flies to the outfield. The first baseman has some power and actually puts a couple over the left field wall, just above the 315-foot mark. None of it matters much. The fielding in single A is almost as bad as the hitting; just making contact with the ball is enough to put a guy on base half the time. Then Miguel comes up.

The atmosphere changes. The feeling from his teammates is less, Now, let’s see what the star can do, than, Man, I can’t wait to watch this asshole flailing at this shit. He sets up in the right side of the batter’s box. The pitching coach puts a little extra on the first one and the ball cuts, coming in on Miguel’s hands. He’s looking middle of the plate, he swings anyway and shatters his bat. It doesn’t just break at the handle, it explodes into four or five pieces.

Jay shifts in his seat and Miguel goes for another bat.

– Oh, this is gonna be good.

Miguel sets, the pitch comes down the pipe and his bat hits it. The ball soars into center, and keeps going. It slaps into the huge black screen in dead center, just over the 412-foot mark.

– Yo, Mike. Get one over! I want to see a Green Monster shot!

Another pitch. The ball goes to the same place, only higher this time.

– Stop topping the ball, bitch, I said I want one over that shit!

Miguel glances at him, adjusts his cap with the middle finger of his right hand, making sure Jay catches the gesture, then steps back into the box.

Jay laughs.

– This is it. This one is a goner.

The coach rears back, puts everything he has into it this time. Miguel swings free and easy, getting all of the ball this time. And the ball climbs and climbs, and clears the top of the screen, cutting through the wind coming off the water.

– That my boy! Now give me another!

Another ball goes over.

– Another one!

Over.

– Give it to me.

Over.

– Again!

And again and again and again. Seven in a row go over the screen, Major League homers all, moon shots. ESPN Top Ten material, every one.

– That’s my boy! Yo! That. Is. My. Boy.

Then Miguel switches sides of the plate, sets up to hit lefty, and does more of the same.

THE COACHES AND players have a bit more enthusiasm for Miguel when he comes up during the game. Not that he seems to care. Not that he seems the least aware that he is playing in his first game of pro ball.

And it may be a silly game for children being played by grown men, but when he comes to the plate in the bottom of the ninth, having single-handedly kept the Cyclones in the game, and swats an RBI double to tie it up, I jump out of my seat and cheer.

And I almost give a shit when they lose it in the tenth.

– Yo, we tried to find a shitty Olds for you, Scarface, but the Caddy was all they had.

We’re in Mike’s Escalade, driving across the Brooklyn Bridge. Mike stares out the window at the lights of the Manhattan skyline.

Jay sticks his face between the seats.

– Sweet. You see that shit on TV, but it’s not the same, yo.

Mike nods.

– Can you fucking imagine if the Mets hadn’t grabbed me number one?

– Don’t even, yo. Playing for the Dodgers would have sucked.

I shake my head.

– Dodgers suck.

They look at me.

– Yo! Turns out Scarface knows some baseball after all.

Shit.

– Not really. My dad, he was a Giants fan. I just know enough to know the Dodgers suck.

Miguel tugs at the bill of his Cyclones cap.

– Well that’s the basics, man.

Jay laughs.

– No shit. Get that down and the rest of the game is easy. So, yo, where we gonna get our drink on?

Drink. Are any of the places I used to know still here? Shit, would they want to go to any of those dives?

Miguel adjusts the A/C.

– What about that Hogs & Heifers spot? That’s by our hotel, right?

Jay reaches between us for the stereo volume.

– Yo, Julia Roberts got topless in that place or some shit. I’m in.

He cranks the bass and “Bombs over Baghdad” shakes the car.

THEY ALMOST GET me clean.

I come out of the hotel and start toward the restaurant the concierge told me Miguel and Jay went to for breakfast. A car is parked a little ways down the street. Two men in the front seat. The passenger gets out, a young guy in expensive jeans, his black hair heavily gelled and styled back from a sharp widow’s peak. He flicks a cigarette butt into the gutter and walks briskly around the car with his hand out and a smile on his face.

– David wants you.

His accent is thick. Russian. I stop for a second, long enough for him to get a couple steps closer. Then I see the one still in the car. Another young guy. One with spiky blond hair and pop-star sunglasses.

They’ll have guns.

I don’t.

I run.

I WAKE UP on a couch, jet-lagged and groggy. I grab my bag and take it to the bathroom. I turn on the light and my hand reaches automatically for the medicine cabinet. I tug on the edge of the mirror a couple times, trying to open it, thinking about starting the day with a Percocet maybe. Then I remember where I am. Miguel’s suite at Soho House.

No one else is around. The bedroom is empty, no sign of Miguel or the bartender he brought back. The other couch looks like Jay and his girl spent the night having a rabid pillow and champagne fight. Thank God I was so wiped out. I can’t imagine having to lie there sleepless and witness that.

I shake my head and try to open the medicine cabinet again; and again go through the process of remembering my pills going down a toilet in Vegas. Right, Henry, you’re in New York and you have no pills. OK, at least that’s settled. Then I realize that this mirror isn’t shattered and covered in black tape. I close my eyes. But it’s too late, I’ve already seen myself. And I look like shit. Fine, let’s get it over with. I open my eyes. Yeah, I was right the first time: I look just like shit. Eyes bagged and bloodshot, hair sticking up on one side, my skin nearly as pale as the scar on my face. I lean closer. I hadn’t realized how much gray there was in my stubble. I knew I was getting old, but no one wants to see the evidence of it right there on his face. That just sucks.