Charlie Huston - A Dangerous Man

David is jerking and twisting, trying to free himself. All his thrashing batters Branko.

Branko moves his head to the side. His nose is a bloody mess. His eyes meet mine.

The gun goes off.

David tenses.

And goes limp.

The gun goes off again. I feel the bullet shiver through David’s corpse. I pull his head back and bash it again into Branko’s face.

The gun goes off again.

This bullet finds a path through David’s ribs, slicing his soft tissues, punching out his back and into my chest.

I yelp.

I heave on David’s ears, slam his head forward again.

And again.

And again.

The gun doesn’t go off anymore. But I keep pounding David’s face into Branko’s, hitting him over and over with something other than my fist.

When David’s ears are too slick with blood for me to keep my grip, I roll off of the two corpses, slide to the floor, and sit with my back to the bed. I pull up my shirt and pick the small, spent slug from the duct tape layered over my ribs. I look at it, and then look up. And see Mickey’s mother as she stares at me.

The maddog who killed her son, in all his glory.

WHEN THE PAIN in my ribs has subsided, when I can breathe again, I go to the living room/office, collect Adam’s knife, and go back to the bedroom. Mickey’s mother is still in the chair. I walk toward her. She sees the knife.

– It’s OK. I’m not. Look, it’s OK.

I kneel in front of her and cut the cords around her legs. She draws them up, away from my touch.

– Your hands.

She doesn’t move.

– Give me your hands.

She doesn’t.

I set the knife down, take hold of her hands and pull them out so I can see the bindings. She leaves them there as I pick up the knife and cut her free.

– You can do the gag.

But she just sits there, knees pulled up, hands sticking out.

– This will hurt.

She closes her eyes. I tease up a corner of the tape on her face, then yank. It rips free. She coughs once and spits the racquetball from her mouth. I look at the floor, find the water bottle, bring it over and offer it to her. She just stares at it. I look. Some blood from David’s ear is on the side. I bend and wipe it on the carpet. She takes it from me this time, fills her mouth, swishes the water around, and spits, trying to rinse out the taste of rubber. Then she drinks.

I go to the bed. I pull David off of Branko. He falls to the floor. There are wounds in his right thigh and three in the right side of his chest. I look at Branko, but not at what I’ve done to his face. I take the gun and go through his pockets. There are no more bullets, but I find his phone and some car keys.

I turn around. Mickey’s mother is watching me. She’s still clutching the half-empty water bottle. I point at it.

– Done?

She nods. I put out my hand and she gives it to me. I drink. When it’s empty I drop it on the floor.

– Let’s go.

She looks at me.

– We have to go now.

She stands up.

– Come on.

I walk to the living room. She follows. I put the lid back on the box.

– I’ll need help.

She doesn’t move.

– Anna, I’ll need your help with this.

THERE ARE HANDLES on either side. We carry the box between us, like two pallbearers carrying a child’s coffin.

THE MEN ARE still playing cards. They look up as we come out, and then look right back down at their game. I look up the street and see what I want.

I point with my chin.

– There, that one.

We walk over and set the box down. I fish the car keys from my pocket and push the trunk release and it pops open, the only rental car on the street: a Camry. We lift the box into the trunk, close it, and I lead her to the passenger side. I hold the door open. She gets in. I go around and see her through the windshield as she reaches across and unlocks my door. I get in.

– Put on your seat belt.

She does.

I start the engine and turn us around.

– I have to make a stop. A quick stop. And then we can go.

IT’S STILL A couple hours before game time. I find a spot by the player’s entrance, right next to Miguel’s Escalade. I pull in and turn off the engine.

Anna hasn’t moved. She sits up in her seat, legs together, hands flat on top of her thighs, looking straight ahead.

– I have to do something inside.

She doesn’t move.

– I’m gonna go in for a couple minutes. I want you to stay here. OK?

Nothing.

I look at the dash clock. Time is passing. I need to move.

– Anna.

She looks at me.

– Don’t go anywhere. OK?

– OK.

I open the door and get out. The sun is bright and hot. I turn my face to it. It feels good on my face, makes my bones hurt less. I take off my jacket so I can feel the sun on as much of my skin as possible. I bend over and drop the jacket on my seat. I look at Anna.

– Stay right here.

– OK.

– OK.

I close the door, go around to the trunk and pop it. I work the top off the box and start scooping money out into the trunk. I scoop what looks to be half of the money. Then I put the top back on the box, hoist it out and close the trunk.

The box is much easier to handle now. I walk around the car toward the player’s entrance. Through the windows of the Camry I can see Anna, still and quiet. Somewhere inside, her brain is churning, trying to find someplace to settle, but nothing gives her peace.

I think about helping her with that. I think about not just getting her away from David’s place and the cops who will be showing up. I think about whoever is going to come along and take over where David left off. Will they know about his crazy sister-in-law? Will they think she had a hand in his murder? Possibly. They won’t know about me. I’m David’s ghost. No one knows about me except David and Branko, and the people I’ve hurt. I’m clear now. Clear and rich. And alone.

I think about showing Anna how to run. Protecting her. It’s a silly idea, childish. But I guess it’s to be expected. I thought I’d be dead by now, and I’m having to make up the rest of my life as I go along.

THERE’S A SECURITY guard just inside the entrance. I tell him I’m Miguel Arenas’s bodyguard. He checks out my bruises and tattoos. I guess he decides I fit the bill because he picks up a phone and makes a call and then waves me on down the corridor.

There’s a buzz in the air, the slow anticipation of the game that will start in a little less than two hours. A groundskeeper passes me, bases stacked in his arms. The door to the promotions room is open. It’s packed with giveaways: mini-bats, key chains, stuffed seagulls, hats, batting gloves. There’s a guy going through a pile of what look like hot dog costumes. Around the corner, Miguel is waiting for me outside the home clubhouse.

– Hey, man.

– Hey.

He looks me over.

– You’re a mess, man. Did you look that bad last night?

– Yeah. Pretty much.

– I was loaded.

– Yeah.

– Yeah.

He kicks at the concrete floor. He’s half dressed for the game: pants and cleats, but he’s wearing a Stanford T-shirt.

– How’s Jay?

He rubs the top of his head.

– They had to wire his jaw shut. It was broken. And his nose. And his cheekbone was cracked. They said he was lucky his eye didn’t pop out.

– You talk to him?

– A little. They got him totally stoned.

– He say anything?

– No, not really. Can’t talk with the jaw shut.

– How’s he gonna deal with that?

He grins.

– Gonna drive him nuts.

– Yo.

He laughs.

I point at the bruise on his neck.

– How’re you?

– OK. It’s sore. And I got some scrapes on my hands and stuff. No biggie.