Charlie Huston - A Dangerous Man

– This sucks.

Miguel points at him.

– Makes you look…

He points at me.

– Like his bitch.

He starts laughing. Jay shakes his head.

– Harsh, yo.

We pass a bar on Ninth Ave.

– Yo! I need a drink.

Miguel pulls the door open.

– Let your new girl buy you one.

He goes inside and lets the door swing shut.

Jay opens the door and smiles at me.

– See, yo, how hard was that?

They get silly drunk. Miguel picks up the bartender and Jay picks up her friend. We stay after closing. I drink seltzer and try to calculate the hours since I slept. The bartender tells us about the party bus.

– It’s, like, exactly like a limo, but it’s, like, a bus.

Jay and Miguel love it.

– We have to. Yo! We need one to pick us up after tomorrow’s game.

Miguel looks at his watch.

– Today’s game.

They drink more.

On the way back to the hotel, the girls walk together whispering in each other’s ears while Jay walks right behind them, still wearing my jacket. Miguel puts his arm around my shoulder.

– You know I wasn’t really mad, right? About you not giving me the phone?

– Sure.

– You know, I know what’s right. I know Jay’s right about that shit. How I’m a little out of control. I just get a little pissed when he sticks his nose in it. Telling other people and shit. But that’s, you know, man. That’s kinda why he thought you’d be good to have around, I guess. Anyway, we’re cool. OK?

– OK.

– Cool.

He pats my shoulder once and runs up to the girls and throws his arms around them.

– What’s the big secret? Jay, what’s the big secret here?

Me, I follow behind, watching their backs, trying to figure out why the hell I didn’t give him the damn phone. But knowing the answer. It’s easy enough after all. I like the guy. Fuck me.

I HAVE TO get out of the car. If I stay in the car they can take me anywhere and kill me. I have to get out of the fucking car, Mom and Dad.

I heave myself up and scoot on my ass toward the open door. Spiky tries to grab my hair, but it’s too short. He reaches for something in his pocket. He’s going to do it. He’s going to shoot me right here in the car. The one on the sidewalk is coming back, a hand held to his neck.

I can’t get out of the car.

I have to do something.

So I scream.

AFTER I’M CLEAN, before I go down to see if I can find Miguel and Jay at the restaurant, I pull the phone book from the desk and flip to the pages for limousine services. My eyes drift over the open Yellow Pages. I see a small ad in the lower right corner. It’s black with yellow lettering in gothic script.

Mario

Personal Car Service

sweet

And a phone number.

Mario. Looks like he’s moved up in the world some. Good for him. But nothing in his ad about what I need. So I turn the page and keep looking. I find it and make the call. A woman comes on the line and asks me what I need.

– Yeah, uh, do you have a party bus available tonight?

They do.

Then I go downstairs, the concierge tells me where she sent the guys for breakfast. I walk onto the street into a beautiful day, feeling far from the worst I’ve ever felt.

And they almost get me clean.

SPIKY SWINGS SOMETHING at me. I flinch and it hits me in the shoulder that was almost dislocated. Pain jumps to my wrist and the arm goes dead.

I scream.

The one on the sidewalk is trying to get a grip on my legs as I kick and thrash. Spiky swings his sap again.

I scream.

The sap hits the top of my head.

I’m going to die. I’ve done these things and I’m going to die. Oh, God. Oh, no. Please. Save me please. Someone save me. I don’t want to die.

I scream.

The sap comes down again.

I stop screaming.

A DOOR OPENS. Closes. Footsteps. Three people, I think.

There’s pain in my right arm and shoulder, something digging into my wrists and ankles, a hard ache at the top of my head. And my face, the bones behind my face feel cracked. I open my eyes. The light makes the pain worse, but I keep them open. It takes several seconds for my vision to clear, for the living room to resolve.

I’m facedown on a couch, my arms bound behind my back and my ankles strapped together. A man, the guy with the gelled widow’s peak, is sitting on a flowered armchair across from me, smoking. The spiky blond driver is standing behind him, sunglasses on. Between us, perched on the edge of the chair’s ottoman, is a beautiful woman dressed in black. She is very small.

I remember Mickey telling me his mother was once a dancer. She must have been a ballerina.

She’s looking at me.

– You killed my son.

It seems pointless to say I’m sorry.

THE SECOND TIME was The Rep for the Culinary, the Vegas union that handles restaurant and hotel workers. The bulk of the Culinary’s members are Mexican. The Rep was Mexican. He was helping more Mexicans join the union. Big deal. That’s how things work. You have a choice between helping out someone who’s familiar to you, someone you understand, as opposed to say, some Russian guy, and you’re going to help the one you understand, the one from your country who was recommended to you by your cousin’s husband. That’s what he did, and he kept doing it. David kept sending people over, trying for Culinary jobs that this guy controlled, and he kept helping Mexicans instead. He was offered money. He didn’t take it. He didn’t care about the money, he cared about helping people from his country. So David sent me and Branko.

He worked as a cook in a restaurant inside the Bellagio. He made enough money to own two cars, a house in a gated community, and to send his two kids to a private Catholic school, not to mention health insurance for the whole family. That’s how good those Culinary jobs can be. Shit, I would have liked a job in the Culinary.

It was a parking lot deal. Parking lots are popular for this sort of thing. It’s easy to be anonymous in a parking lot. Easy to get a moment’s privacy. And you’re close to your car.

He worked the swing, 5:00 p.m. to 1:00 a.m. We sat in a used car Branko had bought for cash. I don’t remember what model or make. I don’t remember the color. By then I was too high to remember shit. Xanax, Darvocet, and Dexedrine, I think.

The Rep came out an employee entrance, into the underground parking lot. He started toward his 4x4, walking slow, stretching his back after the long shift. We got out of our car and started walking toward him, Branko in front, me right behind, both of us wearing ball caps, sunglasses, and fake beards for the security cameras. A couple more people came out the employee door. One of them called to The Rep and he turned and waved. We slowed a bit, but he didn’t stop to talk, just reached in his pocket for his keys and pressed the button to turn off his car alarm. The alarm beeped as we came abreast the truck, blocking his passage. Branko turned sideways to let The Rep by. He waited politely at the hood of his truck, gesturing with his arm that we should go by him first. Branko gave a little nod, stumbled, and I bumped into his back. His keys fell out of his hand and skittered toward The Rep. Branko turned to me and I told him I was sorry. Behind him, The Rep bent to pick up the keys, and I nodded. Branko turned, grabbed The Rep’s neck, and rammed his head into the fender of the car parked next to his truck. The Rep grunted, tried to stand, and Branko rammed his head again. The Rep went limp and Branko dropped him.

I was carrying the gun this time, but for a second I forgot what came next and Branko had to pull it out of my pocket and put it in my hand. I don’t remember the car we drove, but I remember the gun. It was a Ruger, a Rimfire .22. I remember because it had a ten-round magazine. And I was supposed to use all the bullets. And I did. Branko had drilled little holes down the length of the barrel to vent gases as the pistol was fired, an integral silencer. But the shots were still loud in the enclosed garage. Branko watched the first two bullets go in, then he started for our car as I pulled the trigger.