Charlie Huston - A Dangerous Man

He takes his elbows from his knees, leans back and looks over at Miguel.

– But I was the shit, yo. I was most definitely the shit.

Cooler air is starting to drift in off the water. I pull on my jacket.

– So, Jay.

– Yo?

I point at the papers in his hands.

– What were you doing in my jacket?

He smiles.

– Shit, yo, thought you might have some more of that x in there.

He holds up the papers.

– Imagine my surprise I find this shit.

– Uh-huh. You got any plans for those?

He dangles the pieces of paper, one in each hand pinched between his thumb and forefinger.

– These? I got a plan for these? Yeah, I got a plan. My plan is to get your ass away from Mike as quickly as fucking possible.

– Seems wise.

– Yo, it does.

I put out my hand.

– So let me have ’em and I’ll be on my way.

He pulls the papers back and shakes his head.

– Uh-uh. First there’s something you’re gonna need to do.

I look at him. Sitting there. Leaning back. I could put my elbow in his throat and grab the papers. But I don’t.

– Jay. Can I say something?

– Sure.

– Don’t fuck with me.

– Yo?

– Seriously. Don’t fuck with me. I’m. You really have no idea how at the end of my rope I am right now.

He sits up straight.

– I’m not fucking with you, yo. I’m not looking for. Shit. I’m not looking for…I don’t know what. Like money? I don’t. Yo. Fucking with you?

He pulls out his cell phone.

– See this? I could have called the cops. Found this shit, I could have dialed 911 right away and had them here. Think I want to fuck with you? I want something from you. I need. Yo. I need your help. This?

He starts folding the papers into a little square.

– Fuck this. Yo.

He points at Miguel.

– I need help with my boy. He’s starting to listen to reason. He’s here. He’s playing pro ball. He likes it. And he’s starting to think for a change. He’s thinking how shit can get off track. He’s looking around at the guys he’s playing with and how bad they want the bigs, and how none of them, yo, not one, is gonna make it. But him? All he has to do is keep his eyes on the ball and he’s in. He’s starting to think about that shit. But he’s sick of hearing from me. I can’t open my mouth about the gambling or the debt without him tuning me out. Not what he wants, to be lectured. So you. You have a talk with him. You sit his ass down, yo, spell it out. Tell him this ain’t shit to be messing with. Tell him to pay off now. He can get his moms that house later. He can dump the Escalade and drive a fucking Olds like you. All that will come later. Tell him about this Russian. An, yo, any doubts I had about that guy not being bad news have been put to rest by the fact he has someone like you working for him. That guy can take a stone-famous psycho off the map and cut his face up and turn him into a driver? That’s some fucked up, top-ten-box-office-summer-blockbuster-movie shit. And we don’t need any of that, yo. So you tell him that he’s dealing with some bad motherfuckers and it’s time to get out while he can. You help him out. You back him. This .

He holds up the square of folded paper.

– This shit, yo?

He tears the square into tiny pieces, tosses them in the air, and they fall to the ground where they are stirred and scattered by the breeze coming off the bay.

– Fuck that. You do this, yo. Help my boy. Do it ’cause it’s the right thing to do. How’s that for some shit, yo?

THE THIRD TIME was The Bank Manager.

She was a compulsive gambler. Ponies. She had run her losses to over a quarter-million. She’d already taken the second mortgage on the house and refinanced the car. Already taken all that money and blown it on long shots, trying to get even. Messages had been sent. I imagine her showing up at the bank after the first message, explaining away a black eye and a limp as the result of a fall. After the second message things probably got tricky. Maybe one of her friends sitting her down at lunch to ask if there were problems at home. That kind of thing.

Someone doesn’t find a way to generate more income after the second message, they get offered suggestions. She’s a bank manager? Maybe she can approve some loans.

She declined.

We got her after work. She stopped at a bar on the way home, had the three drinks she’d been having every night since things started getting bad, put a couple dollars in the progressive slot machine, hoping for a jackpot. All the usual things losers do. She came out, just a little drunk, walked to her car. As she was putting her hand on the door I came walking up and called her name. She looked up, squinted against the darkness, and Branko appeared behind her and hit her on the back of the head. She fell down. I walked over.

I was working the pills pretty hard by then. Hard. I was stoned out of my gourd. I reached in my pocket for whatever kind of gun I was carrying, but couldn’t find it. Branko had to show me that it was already in my hand. The safety was off, a round was chambered. The woman moved and Branko bent and hit her again with his sap.

She was wearing bank clothes; a conservative skirt suit in a dark color, flesh-tone hose, low heels. She was nearly fifty, plump, and had fat ankles. I emptied the gun into the back of her head and kept pulling the trigger until Branko took it from me, wiped it, and dropped it. Then he towed me to the car he’d bought for the job and drove us away.

He came by the Suites the next day and found me with the newspaper, looking at the photo of the dead woman when she was still alive: a family portrait with her husband and two daughters. He crumpled the paper and stuffed it in the trash. These things, he said, are better forgotten.

Good tip. Wish someone’d told me sooner.

I LOOK AT the scraps of paper being spread across the pavement. One of them flips over and I see a tiny photocopied image of my face from my old driver’s license.

I think about The Bank Manager. I think about killing mothers. I think about killing Mickey’s mother. I don’t want to do that.

I think about doing the right thing.

Jay is watching me.

I find my phone in one of my jacket pockets. I remember the battery is dead. I look at Jay.

– Can I borrow yours?

He tilts his head.

– Yo.

He pulls his out and passes it to me.

I stand up.

– Give me just a minute here.

He shakes his head and laughs.

– Sure. Whatever.

I walk a little ways away in the direction of the war monuments. I dial a number. I get an answering machine like I knew I would.

– Hey, it’s me. Call me back at this number.

I say the number and hang up. Less than a minute later Jay’s phone rings. I answer it.

– Hello, Henry.

– Hey, David.

– Have you decided to come in?

– Well, yeah.

He sighs deeply, letting the air slowly drain away like tension. It is sad, but it will be for the best.

– Good.

– Yeah. The thing is.

– Yes?

– The thing is, and this is kind of funny, the thing is I found something. And I think you’re gonna want it.

IT’S NOT EASY. You don’t just tell someone, Hey, remember all that money we thought was lost forever. Well you won’t believe this, but it just walked up to me and turned itself in. But he listens. And he asks questions. And in the end, he believes.

We work out a deal. It’s pretty much the kind of deal I’ve come to expect in these circumstances. David gets the money. I get my mom and dad. I get protection for Mom and Dad.

I’ll go to David’s office in the morning. He’ll be alone. I’ll show him the money. He’ll shake my hand and embrace me and congratulate me on fulfilling my contract. And then he’ll turn me around.