Charlie Huston - A Dangerous Man

– What?

– I could use a place. For a couple hours. To make my call and think for a little while.

She nods.

– So, what, you thought maybe my hotel room or something?

– Whatever. I just need someplace quiet to make this call. And I need to sit and-I have to get back to the club.

– Sure. I just. I.

– Need more help?

– Yeah. I do.

She stops in the middle of the sidewalk and the Saturday night traffic splits and flows around us.

– Jesus! What have you ever needed from anyone but help?

– Sandy.

– That’s your fucking MO.

She cups her hand over her mouth and talks into it like it’s a radio.

– Calling all cars, calling all cars. Be on the lookout for a mass murderer that often needs help and who fucks up people’s lives.

– They’re. They’ll kill my mom and dad.

She raises her eyebrows.

– So. Fucking. What.

She puts her face close to mine.

– Your parents. Your fucking mom and dad. Like no one else was ever born. Like no one else has a mom and dad. My mom and dad are in Phoenix. They got problems. My mom is a bank teller and she’s worried about all the weight she’s been putting on since she turned fifty, and my dad just took early retirement from his job with Xerox so they wouldn’t lay him off. Their biggest problem is their stripper daughter that they don’t understand and can barely talk to. But at least she never did anything to put their lives in danger. And I didn’t do anything to put yours in danger, either. It’s not my fucking fault. It’s yours. So you fucking save them.

She turns to start walking and I grab her arm. She looks at my hand and then back up at my face.

– Let go.

– I can’t. I. I just. Sandy, I’m sorry. I don’t have anyone else.

– I wonder why that is. Could it be because everyone who helps you gets killed? Let go of my arm.

I don’t.

– Let go of my arm or I will scream.

I let go. She jerks her head and leads me away from the middle of the sidewalk.

– Just so we’re clear. I don’t like you. You fucked up my life. I was already pretty messed up. I mean, stripping at Glitter Gulch, dealing grass and fucking Terry the steroid king wasn’t the greatest way to live, but at least I didn’t wake up screaming five nights out of ten. I want you to leave me alone.

I look at her. I look at the Lucky jeans and the Michael Kors top she changed into when we left the club. I look at the Louis Vuitton shoes on her feet and the matching bag on her shoulder. She watches my eyes as they inventory these items.

I shrug.

– You seem to be doing pretty well out of the deal.

She nods. Smiles.

– Yeah. Pretty good. Pretty good with the creeps that come out of the woodwork every time I turn around. Pretty good with the guys who like to pretend they’re you. Or with Danny Lester when he gets drunk every couple of months and finds my latest unlisted number and calls to accuse me of hiding you and ends up telling me how much he wants to fuck me in the mouth. Or whatever excop bounty hunter who wants to grill me. I do really good with all the assholes at the clubs who want a lap dance so they can tell their friends they rubbed crotches with Sandy Candy. Fuck you! Fuck you, Henry! You think I want this? You think I want to live off your carcass like those freaks on the computer? This is what I have. This is how I can get by. It’s totally fucked, but it’s what I have. And I didn’t do anything. I didn’t do anything to deserve this shit. You did. You killed people. That’s why your life is fucked. I didn’t do anything.

She yanks her bag open, pulls out a pill bottle, tries to open it, but can’t stop shaking. I know how frustrating that is. Wanting what’s inside the bottle, but not being able to get to it. Hell, I want what’s in that bottle as much as she does.

I take the bottle from her hand, open it, take out one of the caps of Librium and hand it to her. She pokes it to the back of her tongue, tilts her face skyward, and swallows. I look at the bottle in my hand. I look at the pills inside. I put the cap back on, twist it into place and hand it to her. She takes it and drops it in her bag.

– Oh, and by the way, you forgot to ask about T.

I lick my lips.

– How’s T?

– He’s dead. His leg got infected and he wouldn’t let me take him to a doctor and he had a fever of like a hundred and fifteen and I was freaking out and didn’t know what to do and he died and I put his body in the car and drove it to a lake and filled his pockets with rocks and shoved him in so no one would find him ’cause that’s what he told me to do ’cause he didn’t want anyone to find him he just wanted to be dead like everyone he loved, like his mom and dad. And his fucking dog.

– Sandy.

– Go away, Henry. And don’t try to follow me. I called the police when I was in the bathroom and told them a creep with a scar was hassling me and they said they’d send a car to the club. So now I got to get back ’cause I’m gonna have to give the fucking cops free lap dances.

I put a hand on her cheek.

– Sandy.

– Go away! You’re going to die. Go do it away from me.

She slaps my hand from her face, turns and walks back to the club.

I lean against the wall of the Yankees Store and watch the pedestrians flicker past. My arms are at my sides, my fists balled tight. In one of them is the piece of paper with my parents’ phone number. I guess I should call them. Sandy was so happy to hear from me, why wouldn’t they be, too?

I WALK AROUND a little bit, looking for someplace quiet to sit down and make the call. I should find a flop is what I should do. I should find a cheapass motel that will let me pay cash at an hourly rate. I remember some places on Forty-eighth or Forty-ninth and head in that direction.

A cop car stops at a light as I’m waiting on the corner. One of the officers is checking me out. Sandy said she told the cops she was being hassled by a guy with a scar on his face. I should get off the street now. There are two choices on the block, a bar and grill or the inevitable Starbucks. I take the bar.

It’s an old dive. Above the door is the neon sign that lights up one letter at a time: S-M-I-T-H’-S. The long bar is lined with old-timers watching the last couple innings of a Mets game. I take a seat at one of the teetery tables. A waitress as old as my mom comes by. I order a deluxe burger medium and a seltzer. She walks away. I take out my phone and smooth the piece of paper with the number on it. I look at the number, breathe in and out a few times, and dial.

It rings.

And rings.

And rings some more.

Then it picks up. And I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that it’s an answering machine, or that it’s one of those robot voices. I’ll have to talk into the machine. If they screen all their calls I’ll never get them to pick up unless I say something first. But what if it’s not them? Worse, what if they’re not home? What if they come home and just hear my voice out of the blue on their machine and they have no idea if it’s really me or just someone fucking with them? Shit. The machine beeps.

– Uh. Hi. Hello. Is. Is anyone home? Um. This is.

Shit.

– This. Is this the Thompsons’? Because.

Because what, asshole?

– Because, if it is. If it is, I have something. I-

My phone beeps loudly in my ear. I look at it. The lone remaining power-bar is flashing. Fucking. Fucking-fucking-fucking.

– Um. I’m. My phone is gonna die here and. I’m looking for the Thompsons’. So. If.

– Hello. Hello?

Oh.

– Hello. Is? Are you there?

Oh no.

– Hello. We’re. Is that? We’re here. Is that?