Charlie Huston - A Dangerous Man

I go to switch off the light, but stop and look at myself again. Cleaned up, I look a little better. Could I spend the rest of my life looking at this face? Strange thought. I still haven’t gotten used to the idea that I might have one of those, a rest of my life. Besides, if I want it, I still have to kill Anna Dolokhov.

I find a note next to the phone, written on thick hotel stationery.

Yo! Went for breakfast. You were laid out like a bitch so we left you alone. If we’re not back you can call my cell and come watch us drink bloodies. Mike’s worried about getting the party bus. Will you check that shit?

J

PS

Good looking out last night.

Good looking out last night. I guess so.

HOGS & HEIFERS sucks.

It’s packed with tourists hoping to catch sight of a star, not realizing that a true celebrity hasn’t stooped to dancing on top of the bar here for a good many years. It’s a sad scene until Miguel and Jay get the party started. Within an hour Jay is on the bar with his shirt off dancing to “The Devil Went Down to Georgia” and Mike is getting lessons from one of the bartenders on how to spray Bacardi 151 from his mouth and light it on fire. Miguel does get recognized, but the response is pretty temperate. I mean, most of these people came hoping to see Julia Roberts’s tits after all.

I find a corner by the pool table and try to stay out of the way. Miguel comes by on his way to the bathroom.

– Man, hey, man. This place is great, right? I love this shit.

He’s having the night of his life. Why shouldn’t he be? He’s a twenty-one-year-old millionaire who just had a monster game, and everybody loves him. I’d feel good, too.

– So, do me a favor.

He glances at Jay, dancing a two-step on the bar.

– Slip me your phone, bro.

I look at him.

He leans against the wall next to me.

– Jay has mine and I need to make a call.

Jay looks in our direction and hoots. Miguel hoots back, trying to look like we’re talking about nothing at all. He looks at his watch.

– I have to make this call.

He wants to make a bet. He wants to call his personal Russian bookie and lay a bet and get deeper into David’s hole. Fine. Jay can say what he wants to say about having an easy life, about getting in on something good, having friends and all that shit. But David’s already made me an offer. All I have to do is kill someone. That, and don’t fuck up with Miguel.

He has his hand down low, open and waiting.

– The phone, bro.

Not my fucking problem.

– No problem.

Not my problem, his problem. Just the one problem he has in his superstar life. The one huge fly in the otherwise perfect ointment. Let him ruin his life. Me, if I had had the chance he has, I would never have pissed it away.

So I put my hand in the pocket where my phone is, and I wrap my fingers around it, and I nod my head.

– Sure thing, Miguel.

Not my problem at all .

I take my hand out of my pocket. And it’s not holding the phone. And I point at Jay.

– Except the thing is, your mom over there? He says you aren’t allowed.

He looks at Jay and back at me.

– That’s harsh.

I shrug.

– Take it up with him.

So he walks to the bar, grabs Jay by the ankles, and pulls him down.

I RUN. THE Russians chase me.

If they catch me they’ll kill me. If they kill me I’ll have broken my contract with David. If I break my contract he’ll kill my mom and dad.

If they catch me David will kill my mom and dad.

I run faster.

MIGUEL AND JAY are rolling around on the beer-soaked floor. The fat, hairy bouncer who gives people shit at the door grabs the seat of Jay’s baggy jeans and yanks. The jeans pop off Jay’s hips and the bouncer falls backward over a table, crashing into a pyramid of empty PBR cans. Now Jay is topless and his pants are tangled around his ankles and one of the bartenders has started spraying him and Miguel with her soda gun.

Miguel is on top of Jay, his knees pinning Jay’s shoulders to the floor.

– What the fuck, man?

Jay tries to kick him in the back of the head.

– Yo! Yo! Yo!

Miguel has a fistful of Jay’s hair.

– I could kill you right now. I’m that mad.

– So do it, yo.

Miguel nods his head, his mind made up.

– OK, man.

He yanks Jay’s hair, forcing his head back, and starts hocking up a loogie from the back of his throat. Jay twists and thrashes.

– Don’t do it, yo.

Miguel hocks again.

– Say you’re gonna mind your own business.

– No way, yo.

Miguel positions his face right over Jay’s, lets the loogie slip from his lips, and sucks it back in.

– Gonna be eatin’ it. Say it.

– No.

– Open wide.

The bouncer is being helped up.

A couple tourists are going for their cameras.

The rope of spit is dropping toward Jay’s face.

I grab Miguel’s collar and pull him back and the spit drops on Jay’s chest.

– Gross! Yo, sick!

Miguel shrugs me off easily. Jay kicks free. I get a grip on Miguel’s arm.

– Chill. We have to go.

A flash goes off. Another.

He looks at me. Another flash. Looks at the people looking at him, and at the bouncer crossing the room. Jay stands up, pants around his ankles.

– Yo, let’s jet.

He starts to waddle toward the door. Miguel grabs him and throws him over his shoulder. The bouncer gets closer, realizes how big Miguel is, slows down. I put a hand in his chest. He looks at it, sees the C-notes and takes them. I toss a couple more on the bar and follow Miguel and Jay out the door, flashes popping around us, making our escape.

SOME THINGS CAN’T be outrun.

The Russians catch up to me a little over a block from the hotel, right out front of Hogs & Heifers as fate would have it. The car screeches around the corner and cuts me off, and the guy on foot tackles me and sends me face-first into the hood. Heat flashes in the bones of my face and a vice clamps my skull. I want to fight. I need to fight. But the pain is followed by a wave of nausea and instead of fighting I puke up a little fluid onto the hood of the car. My arms are pulled behind me and something is wrapped around my wrists and I hear a zipping sound. I’m jerked back off the hood and hauled toward the rear passenger-side door of the sedan. The one behind me has a hand on the plastic bindings he zipped around my wrists, pulling my arms up and back, and the other clamped on my neck. The driver with the spiky hair reaches into the backseat and pushes the door open. I plant my feet. The one behind me pushes my arms higher and something grates in my right shoulder as it threatens to dislocate. I lurch as the pain leaps up my neck and meets up with the agony in my face and he trips me into the back of the car. My upper body flops onto the seat. Spiky grabs the collar of my jacket and pulls while the one on the sidewalk pushes on my legs. I roll, land on my back in the footwell, pull my feet free of the one on the sidewalk and kick him in the neck. He stumbles back.

MIGUEL RUNS AROUND the block toward Soho House where we left the Cadillac, Jay still draped over his shoulder. I trail them, making sure no one follows. Halfway to the hotel Jay slips from Miguel’s shoulder, lands on his feet, and hops up the street pulling his pants back on.

– Yo, I left my shirt.

He turns and starts back toward the bar. I put out my arms and herd him in the other direction.

– Uh-uh. Bad call.

– Yo, my nippies are hard. I need my shirt.

I take off my jacket and hand it to him.

He looks at it.

– Little big.

– Roll the sleeves.

He pulls on the jacket and rolls the sleeves, but still he’s swimming in it.