Charlie Huston - A Dangerous Man

I have to kill David. I have to find a way up into his office and kill him. I. No. I have to go to him and beg. I have to explain. No. Kill him. That’s. Wait.

Branko won’t be on a plane. They can’t have me running around. There’s too much I can tell the police if I’m caught. David won’t just kill my parents. He’ll use them. He’ll. What? He’ll.

I lean against the chain-link around the Cyclone. I tilt my head back and close my eyes, letting the sun fall on my face.

They will call me first. They will call me and tell me to come to them or Branko will leave for Oregon. That is what they will do.

My phone rings.

It’s nice to be right about something every now and then.

I answer the phone.

– Henry, what is this? What is this you are doing?

I stand with my back to the fence, my eyes still closed, the sun still on my face.

– Why are you calling, David?

– Henry, Henry. What is this? Why am I calling? Why are you running? What is the trouble? Someone has been talking to you, yes? Yes? This, you do not need to answer. I know.

– Where’s Branko?

– Branko, Branko is here.

He will be pointing at his own forehead. Think, Henry, what else would Branko be doing?

– He’s not on his way to my parents?

– Henry.

His mouth will have dropped open. You could think such a thing?

– Are we children? We are not. We can talk. Is Branko on his way to your parents? No. No, Henry. What sense is there in that? None.

My hand is still stuffed inside the balled jacket, sweating on the gun.

– Let me talk to Branko.

– First, we talk.

– Now, I want to talk to him now.

– Tell me.

– Where’s Branko?

– Branko is here.

– Let me talk to him.

Silence.

– I want to talk to him.

– Of course.

More silence. I stand there waiting. I stand there waiting while David takes his time getting Branko.

I’m standing here waiting, while David takes his time. My eyes snap open and I look down the boardwalk toward Brighton. I don’t see Branko.

But Adam and Martin are ten yards away and getting closer.

More running.

I BREAK AROUND the corner. The Cyclone roars past, burdened with screaming passengers. As I run I unbutton my shirt, peel it off and stuff it in a trash barrel. Now wearing just a wife-beater, the tattoos running down my arms exposed to the sun, I cross the street toward one of the arcades. I unwrap the jacket from my hand. I stuff the gun in my waistband and tie the jacket around my middle so that it hides it. I walk into the arcade. There is a rack of sunglasses. I find a huge bug-eyed pair that sit on my face like goggles and all but cover my scar. I walk to the counter. A teenage girl wearing a blue shirt with the clown face of the Coney Island mascot silk-screened across it stands there making change for the kids playing video games. Behind her is a display of baseball caps. I put the sunglasses on the counter and point at a red and white cap with I NY on the front. She takes the hat down and puts it next to the sunglasses.

– Forty.

I hand her two twenties and grab my purchases.

– Want a bag?

I rip the tag from the hat and put it on.

– No thanks.

I peel the sticker from the lens of my new sunglasses, put them on and head for the arcade entrance. I look down the street back toward the Cyclone. Adam is coming. He’s alone. Martin will be up on the boardwalk in case I try to circle around. The arcade’s other entrance opens on the midway. I turn around and head out that way.

I walk past a couple rides, spinning cars mounted at the ends of giant pinwheels. Barkers man the shooting galleries and penny pitches and ringtosses. They talk into microphones, calling for people to join in the fun and win a sawdust-stuffed Bugs Bunny. I cut straight through it all, making for the Stillwell exit. I come out into the street, walk to the corner and look across Surf Ave. at the subway station. It is shrouded in construction scaffolding, a huge sign announcing that it will reopen next summer.

Down Surf I see Adam standing next to the entrance to the Cyclone, peering up the street. I turn, and at the end of Stillwell, I see Martin coming down the steps from the boardwalk. I cut back onto the midway, walk up to the nearest game and put a ten down. The barker picks up the money.

– How many?

I’m looking back toward the street.

– As many as I can.

– Start with these.

No sign of Martin yet.

– Mister?

– Huh.

– Start with these.

He’s offering me three baseballs.

– Got to knock all of them off. Completely off.

I look at what he’s pointing at, the three wood milk bottles stacked in a pyramid on a little table.

I look at the balls in his hand. Take them. Stare at them. I wonder if the universe does this to everyone or if it’s just me?

– You’re up, mister.

– Right.

I look back at the street. Still clear.

I toss a ball. Miss everything.

– One down!

I look again. Clear. Toss. Miss.

– Two down.

Still no one. Toss. Miss.

– Three down. Got plenty left.

He offers me three more balls. I’m still looking for Martin. No sign. OK, time to go. I take a step toward the street.

– You got more balls coming, mister!

– That’s OK. I.

Martin comes into view. I step back to the counter, take the balls and look at the bottles. I look only at the bottles. I do not look up to see if Martin has seen me. And I throw three misses. Shit. I should be able to hit those things.

– I got more?

– Ten buys nine.

He hands me three more. I throw one and knock the top bottle off. OK, that’s more like it. The barker resets the bottle. I toss a ball up and down, enjoying the feel of it landing in my palm. And not, absolutely not looking up for Martin. The bottles are set. Now, the trick here is to hit them low. The bottoms of the bottles are weighted with lead or something. That’s why it’s so hard to knock them completely off of their little table. I throw hard and hit them dead center. The top bottle flies, but the bottom bottles just get knocked on their sides and spin around a couple times. The barker resets them. I focus on the target, not looking at Martin. Do not look. Let him pass on by. Yeah, I can do this. Shit, if there’s one thing in life I have ever been able to do, it’s throw a goddamn baseball. I throw and miss again.

– Shit. I got more?

– That’s it.

I pull out a twenty.

– Let me get a few more.

I take a look to make sure Martin has moved on. He hasn’t. He’s twenty feet away, looking at the crowd and talking into his cell phone. Then he looks at me. He sees me seeing him, and starts talking a little louder into his phone.

– Balls, mister.

I grab the three balls and start firing them at Martin.

The first one hits him in the thigh and he stops and curses and does a little hop. The second one whizzes past his head and he instinctively covers his face, dropping his phone. The last one plunks him in the chest and he gasps and coughs. I run straight at him, drop a shoulder, and plow him to the ground. I keep running, the crowd parting for me, the barker yelling after me. I hit Stillwell and look over at Surf. Adam is coming around the corner. He sees me. I go straight across the street. A flea market has been set up on a parking lot. I run into it. I start making for the far side of the market, thinking I can cut back out to Surf and maybe grab a cab, but all I find is a chain-link fence. On the other side is a motor pool for the New York Department of Education or something, a couple acres of yellow school buses packed tight. I look back at the entrance of the flea market. Adam is working his way toward me; Martin is right behind him, rubbing his chest. I start to climb the fence. A man working a booth stocked with VHS tapes waves at me.