"A Dangerous Man" - читать интересную книгу автора (Huston Charlie)
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Charlie Huston A Dangerous Man
sweet Virginia at last
PART ONE MONDAY, JUNE 20, 2005 PRESEASON
I FIND THE GUY in the Laughing Jackalope just like they said I would.
I take a seat at the bar, order a seltzer and ask for a roll of quarters. I let the seltzer sit and start slowly dribbling the quarters into the video poker game built into the surface of the bar. I stare at the cards as they blip across the screen. I play a quarter a hand, flying in the face of the most basic rule of video poker that says you always bet the max. Quarter bets pay a bare fraction of the max bets. Hit a big hand on a quarter bet and you’re gonna feel like an asshole.
I hit a straight flush with a quarter once, paid 1,200 to 1. Sure enough, I felt like an asshole. Well that’s happened before and it’ll happen again.
The machine blips me a pair of jacks along with a nine, a ten, and a king. I pass on the even money the pair promises, throw one of the jacks and go for the inside straight. Deuce. I drop another quarter in the slot.
There’s only a handful of people in here. The guy; the bartender; a couple sitting on stools, feeding nickels to one of the slots; an old-timer nodding a bit at the bar; and the evening cocktail waitress straightening the tables and getting things set for the crowd that will come in when the shifts change across the street.
I keep my face in the game, sneaking peeks at the guy, keeping my hand next to my face, hoping no one notices the palm-size patch of white scar tissue around my right eye. I’d just as soon no one remembers that scar if the cops come around later. But really, I only have to worry about that if a body turns up.
I’M ON MY third roll of quarters and little has changed. The couple’s shifted from the slot machine to the jukebox, so now “Crazy on You” complements the blips of the poker games and the recorded come-on of the slots. The guy still hasn’t moved.
He’s been sitting at the far end of the bar, sliding C-notes into his own video poker game and going through them about as fast as I’ve been going through my quarters. Every fifteen minutes or so he throws back another shot of chilled Jager and bangs the glass on the bar, indicating the bartender should get his ass over there and give him a refill.
Back in the day, when I had to do that job, when my biggest worry was getting the drunks out the door before the sun came up, I’d never have put up with that shit. Someone banged a glass on my bar or snapped their fingers or something like that and they’d be sitting dry a long fucking time before I remembered they were there. This bartender is different, he’s working the day shift at the Laughing Jakalope for Christ sake, glasses banged on the bar are the last fucking thing he’s gonna raise a sweat over.
The bartender pulls the frosted green bottle of Jagermeister out of the cooler, fills the guy’s shot glass and puts the bottle back. The guy doesn’t even look at him, just keeps peering into the game screen, his credits rolling up and down as he scores on two pair here, three of a kind there; searching for a full house or a straight flush or even a royal.
There’s a blast of sunshine as someone opens the tinted front door and two drunk couples come stumbling in. They’re college kids, the boys in shorts and tank tops, their faces sunburnt except where their eyes have been raccooned white by their sunglasses, the girls in shorts and tube tops, skin tanned cancer brown, harsh bikini lines climbing up out of their stretchy tops and creeping around their necks. All of them are double-fisting plastic cups full of something bright blue and frozen.
The bartender looks down from the TV hanging above the bar. He’s been watching one of those behind-the-scenes shows; this one cracking the lid open on a reality show that teamed up stars from older shows that have already been behind-the-scened. He sees the cups the kids are carrying and shakes his head.
– Uh-uh, not in here, can’t bring outside booze in here.
One of the guys, his tank says DON’T DRUNK WITH ME, I’M FUCK!, looks at the drinks in his hands and back at the bartender, trying to connect the dots.
– What the fuck, man? We been carrying drinksh in and out of cashinosh all fucking day.
The other guy, his shirt says I’M WITH ASSHOLE and has an arrow pointing up at his own face, hoots.
– Been drinking all fuckin’ day! All fuckin’ day! Gonna drink all fuckin’ night! All fuckin’ night!
The bartender nods.
– Sure, just not those drinks in here.
Everyone’s watching now; the guy, the old-timer, the slot couple, the cocktail waitress. Asshole takes a couple quick sloppy steps toward the bar.
– The fuck, dude? Gonna drink!
Drunk Fuck grabs the tail of his shirt and yanks him back.
– Dude, no, sheck it out.
He drapes an arm over his buddy’s shoulder, spilling a little blue slush down Asshole’s arm, and whispers in his ear. Asshole listens for a second and then busts up.
– Yeah, yeah, dude, tha’sh it!
He straightens up and bows to the bartender.
– Yesh, shir, we will be pleashed to do ash you wish. Fuckin’ A.
He gestures toward the door and Drunk Fuck leads the way. Asshole pushes the door open and they turn into dark silhouettes against the fierce late afternoon sun. Asshole points out the door.
– After yoush.
Drunk Fuck bows.
– Shank yoush.
He takes one step outside and chugs the contents of his cups and throws both empties into the parking lot. He steps back in and holds the door as Asshole steps out and repeats the performance. The girls are laughing and snorting, hanging on to each other to keep from falling down and struggling to keep their tits from popping out of their tops. Asshole steps back in. He wags a finger at them.
– Ladiesh! No fucking drinksh from outshide! Pleash!
He points at the door. One of the girls straightens up, tries to curtsy, almost falls, and weaves out to the sidewalk. She upends one of her cups and gets half of it in her mouth while the other half slops down her chin and neck and into her cleavage. She explodes laughing and the slush that went in her mouth sprays onto the ground. She stuffs a hand inside her top and tries to dig out the blue daiquiri. Asshole wiggles his fingers.
– Allow me.
He tries to jam his fingers between her tits and she slaps his hand, still coughing and choking. Drunk Fuck tries to get into the act and they jostle the girl around, plucking at her top. The other girl steps outside.
– Hey! Hey, assholes! Check this out!
She tilts her head back, holds both cups over her face, opens her mouth wide, and starts to pour. Frozen blueberry daiquiri fills her mouth and overflows down her face. The guys watch, one with his arms wrapped around the waist of the choking girl and one with his hand halfway down her top. The two-cup girl lets about half of each daiquiri pour over her face, then just dumps the remainder over her chest and belly. Asshole and Drunk Fuck abandon Choking Girl and pounce on Two Cups. Asshole kneels in front of her and sucks blue ice from her pierced navel while Drunk Fuck picks up a straw from the pavement, sticks it between her tits and starts to suck on it. Two Cups giggles and screams.
By now the door has swung shut and we are all watching the action as a shadow play taking place beyond the tinted glass front of the Jackalope. Still, we hear it pretty clearly when Choking Girl coughs, gags and begins to vomit blue onto the sidewalk and her friends’ sandaled feet. By then the bartender has come out from behind the bar, crossed to the door and locked it. He walks to the kitchen door and sticks his head inside.
– Jesus!
A Mexican kid in greasy dishwasher whites comes out. The bartender points at the scene outside.
– Clean that shit up.
Jesus stares at the carnage taking place beyond the window and nods.
–
The bartender walks back to the bar, picks up the remote and turns up the volume on his show; the slot couple punches in another song and “Saturday in the Park” starts playing; the old-timer shakes his head and mutters something about
Then the guy gets up and goes to the bathroom.
Jesus is standing by the glass with a mop bucket, waiting for the kids to leave so he can do his shitty job. I follow the guy into the bathroom so I can do mine.
HE’S PISSING LOUDLY into one of the urinals. I edge past him into a stall, close the door and pull the handful of tiny coke-filled glassine bags out of my pocket. The urinal flushes and I pinch one of the bags open and drop it along with several others onto the floor, most of them scattering out under the stall partition.
– Shit! Oh, shit!
I slam my shoulder loudly against the stall as I get down on my knees and start scrabbling under the partition for the dropped bags. I peek out and see that the guy has moved to the sink and is washing his hands and ignoring me. I scoop up the bags and flick the open one with my middle finger. It skitters across the tiles, leaving a thin trail of white powder, and comes to rest at his feet.
– Fuck! Oh, fuck!
I stand up, jerk on the locked stall door a couple times, bang it open and stumble out. The guy is just straightening, the open, now almost empty, bag pinched between his thumb and forefinger. I shuffle toward him, the rest of the bags peeking from my fist.
– Um, that’s mine.
He stands there, a couple inches shorter than me, balding, flashy tasteless clothes, pinkie ring, a bulky upper body that’s settling into his midsection but still powerful around the shoulders. The same build my body is starting to develop. He looks from the bag to me.
– Yours?
– Yeah. So, you know.
I put out my hand.
He points at the bag.
– This?
He points at me.
– Is yours?
I shrug.
– Yeah.
He shakes his head.
– Well.
He reaches for his back pocket.
– Looks like this might be your lucky day.
He pulls out a wallet, shows it to me, and lets it fall open, revealing the LVMPD badge within.
– Except it ain’t.
– You actually staying here?
I squint up at the sign for the Happi Inn Motel as we cross the parking lot it shares with the Jackalope.
– Yeah.
– Place sucks.
I don’t say anything as it kind of goes without saying that a place called the Happi Inn Motel sucks. Besides, I’m busy. I’m wondering if this is it. Did they finally get sick of me fucking up? Have they set me up?
Is this the guy who’s going to kill me?
I get out my room key and the guy puts a hand on my shoulder.
– Wait up, hoss. You got anyone in there? A partner, maybe?
I look at the pavement and shake my head.
– Naw, just me.
– Uh-huh. Well, you go ahead and unlock that door, but don’t open it.
I turn the key, the lock clicks open and I step back from the door. He puts one hand on the knob, tucks the other one up under the tail of his silvery jacket and rests it on the butt of his piece. He looks at me again.
– Last chance. Anyone in there, now’s the time to tell me. I see someone I’m gonna go bang bang.
I shake my head again.
He nods.
– OK.
He pushes the door open, makes sure it lies flat against the wall so he knows there’s no one behind it, then nods me in. I step in and he follows me, closing and locking the door behind us. He goes to fasten the chain, but it’s broken, so he puts his hand on his gun again and looks the room over, peeking under the bed, looking in the closet, and sticking his head in the bathroom. Then he claps his hands and points at me.
– OK, hoss, let’s see it. On the table there.
I stick my hand in my pocket, dig out the twenty or so gram bags of coke and dump them on the table. He presses his lips together and shakes his head.
– Not good, hoss, not good. That’s a very felony-looking pile there.
He fingers the bags.
– You got enough weight here to cause you some problems right out the chute. But all packaged up like that? Shit, that looks like intent to distribute to me. What do you think?
I look at the floor and shrug.
– Uh-huh. You got any more? Better tell me now. I gotta take this room apart I’m gonna be irritated.
I nod.
– Yeah.
– You got more?
– Yeah.
– How much?
– A half.
– Half ounce?
– Kilo.
He blows Jager-scented air out his nostrils, pulls a Kool from his breast pocket and lights it.
– That is some serious weight. You got it here?
– Yeah.
– In this room?
– Yeah.
– Uh-huh.
He blows a cloud of smoke.
– Where?
I tilt my head at the bathroom.
– Toilet tank.
He smiles.
– I tell ya what. You got a half kilo in the shitter there, and this might turn out to be your lucky day after all.
He puts a finger under my chin and tilts my head up so he can look into my eyes.
– You get me, hoss?
Great. Better and better. A dirty cop. And I have such a good track record with dirty cops.
– Yeah. I get you.
He drops his finger from my chin.
– But you fuck with me, hoss?
He slaps me lightly on the cheek.
– And I’m gonna school you. Get me?
– Yeah. I get you.
He gestures for me to lead the way to the bathroom.
– So why the sad face? Let’s get happy.
I slouch past him to the open door of the bathroom. He stands close behind me, blowing smoke over my shoulder.
– You go ahead and take the lid off, but don’t you go reaching in there or anything. Just take that lid off and step to the side.
I nod, lift the lid from the tank and step to the side. He points at the lid.
– Set that on the floor there.
I set the heavy lid on the floor.
– There ya go. Ain’t no one wants to get whacked with one of those mothers. Now step on back.
I take a step back toward the shower. He shakes a finger at me, winks and looks into the tank. He glances at me, looks in the tank again, and crooks a finger.
– Come here for a sec, hoss. Got something to show you.
I step over for a sec, knowing what I’m gonna see, and look into the tank that’s empty except for the standard hardware. I start to open my mouth and he grabs me by the back of the neck and slams my face into the mirror. I’m lucky today, it doesn’t break.
– What the fuck, hoss? You messin’ with me? You fuckin’ with the law?
He presses my face harder into the mirror. My luck may be wearing out.
– This a setup?
He sticks his cigarette in his mouth and uses his free hand to pat me down.
– You wearin’ a wire? You fuckin’ IAD or somethin’?
My mouth is smashed against the speckled mirror.
– Nu-hugh.
He plucks the cigarette from his lips and thrusts it at my right eye. The scar is dead and feels nothing, but there’s a sudden flash of heat on my eyelid as I close it. He holds the cigarette close to my closed right eye, and from my still open left eye, pressed to the mirror, I see a dark blur reflected behind him. He touches the cigarette to my eyebrow and I smell burnt hair.
– So where’s the fuckin’ half key, shithead? You tell me the deal or I’m gonna burn a hole right through your fuckin’ eyelid.
There’s a ringing ceramic clunk as the toilet tank lid comes down on his head and he’s driven to his knees. I pull away from the mirror.
– He has a gun.
But Branko is already pulling the cop’s gun from its holster and stuffing it into the back pocket of his dark blue Dickies. The cop is still on his knees, eyes glazed and one hand holding the back of his head, blood oozing from between his fingers. Branko points at me.
– Water.
I grab one of the plastic cups from the sink, not bothering to tear away its wrapper, and fill it. I hand Branko the cup.
– He’s a cop.
Branko takes the cup.
– Yes. He is a cop.
He throws the water in the cop’s face, drops the cup, and slaps his cheeks a few times.
– Wake up. You are awake, yes? I did not hit you so hard. Wake up.
The cop pulls back, but Branko grabs a fistful of hair and slaps him harder. The cop winces.
– You guys are fucked. You have any idea? You know who? So fuckin’ fucked.
Branko yanks the cop’s hair, pulling his head up.
– Hey! You know who I am, yes? You see me now? You recognize me, yes? You know who I am in here for? Yes?
The cop’s face goes a shade paler. Branko nods.
– Yes, you know. So now, you tell me, who is the fucked one in this toilet?
Branko lets go of the cop and reaches into the pocket of his Windbreaker.
The cop looks at me.
– Hey, wait now. I. Hoss, this is a mistake. Tell your friend here.
Branko’s hand comes out of his pocket holding a racquetball. He grabs the cop’s face, forces his mouth open and shoves the ball inside.
– You shut up now and take it like a man.
He pulls a roll of duct tape from his other pocket, tears off a strip and seals it over the ball. He stands up and looks at me.
– You are OK?
I finger my singed eyebrow.
– Yeah, I’m fine.
– Where is the coke?
– It’s on the table in there.
He glances over his shoulder into the room.
– Good. OK.
He points at the big man kneeling on the bathroom floor.
– His fingers.
I open my mouth. Branko shakes his head, cutting me off.
– His fingers. I will get the coke.
He steps out of the bathroom, but calls back through the open door.
– And do not forget his thumbs.
I look at the cop, his hands held out in front of him, his face red and tear-streaked as he pleads through the rubber ball. I try to grab his wrists, but he wrenches them away, so I kick him in the stomach. Air explodes out his nose and he folds.
There are reasons why people do the things they do. You have to have a reason, otherwise you couldn’t do them.
I have a reason.
A good one.
And at times like these I remind myself of what it is.
I kick him in the stomach one more time and grab his wrists and lay his fingers across the lip of the open toilet seat and slam the lid so hard the seat cracks and I have to get the blood-splotched tank lid off the floor to finish the job.
And the whole time I say the same thing to myself over and over.
This is for you Mom and Dad. This is for you.
Then Branko comes in, nods once at my handiwork and tells me to go wait in the car while he cleans up.
THIS IS HOW you lose your life.
You’re a kid, you play baseball. You are better at baseball than a human being has a right to be at anything. You’re going to the pros, everybody knows it. But before it can become a reality, you hurt yourself, bad.
Things happen.
You wallow in your own misery and start hanging with the crowd of kids you would have nothing to do with before you shattered your leg. You do some drugs, break into some houses, get caught.
Things happen.
You trade baseball and petty crime for hot rods. You’re a big fucking show-off. You crash your Mustang and your best friend is in the car and he sails through the windshield and you get to see what it looks like when a teenager’s head explodes against a tree.
Things happen.
You go to college. You learn things, lots of things. You learn how things work, you learn some first aid, you learn some history and some books and some politics. All the things you didn’t have time for when there was baseball. You meet a girl and move to New York City to be with her. She dumps you.
Things happen.
You learn to drink. You tend bar, you develop a drinking problem that’s like the rest of your life: nothing special. Years pass. Blah, blah, blah. Boo, hoo, hoo.
Nothing happens.
Then everything happens at once.
A friend leaves something in your care, a cat. That is, you think it’s a cat he leaves with you, but it’s not. It’s a key, a key at the bottom of the cat’s cage. The key opens a door and behind the door is a prize, and lots of people want the prize. Who wouldn’t want the prize when it’s over 4 million clean, untraceable dollars? People come for the key. People threaten you and push you around and hurt you bad and try to kill you, and finally, they kill people you care about. Someone you love. And you kill back.
Things happen.
You stop drinking. You hide. You are severed from your life, huddled on a beach in Mexico, trying to pretend it’s OK being a fugitive, cool being on the lam and living on a beach. The mysterious Americano. But it’s not OK. It’s not cool. And then you meet someone, someone who knows who you are. Someone who wants the money. Threats are exchanged. He threatens you, you threaten him, he threatens your parents. He dies. You run. Back home, to your parents, back to protect them. Bad call.
Things happen.
You lose the money. Lose it like an idiot. Lose over 4 million dollars. Lose the only thing that can save your parents’ lives. You make moves. You play both ends against the middle, you make it up as you go along. You fail. Guns. Vicious dogs. Dead friends. Carnage, bloody and awful. You decide to die.
Something happens.
A man saves you. A man saves your life and offers you a new one. The money was his and you have lost it, but he has a use for you. He sees your talents. He sees the things you have done. He knows that you are better at violence than a human being has a right to be at anything. He has uses for a man like you.
Things happen.
But you don’t want to think about them.
And that is how you lose your life. Because this is not your life. It is the life that has been allowed you. You live it, but it is not your life.
And then things start to happen again.
MY HANDS SHAKE.
They shake so bad I have to stab at the release button on the glove compartment three times before I hit it and the little door drops open. They shake so bad they turn the bottle of pills into a maraca. I fumble with it until Branko climbs into the car, takes the bottle from my hands, twists the cap off and looks at the pills inside.
– What are these?
– Vicodin.
He looks at me. I hold out my hand.
– My face hurts.
– It is hurting again?
– It hurts all the time.
He grunts, taps two of the pills into his hand and drops them in my waiting palm. I keep my hand out. He shakes his head, drops two more in my hand. I toss the pills in my mouth and dry-swallow them.
He seals the bottle and puts it back in the glove box.
– David wants to speak to you.
I flex my fingers, curling and uncurling them.
– He’s in town?
– David is a man who likes to speak on the phone?
I shake my head.
– So where is he?
Branko jerks his thumb over his shoulder.
I look behind us at the reflective gold tower of the Mandalay Bay.
– Across the street?
– Yes.
He points at my hands.
– You can drive?
They’ve stopped shaking. Sometimes it’s like that, just swallowing the pills makes me feel better.
– Yeah.
I stick the key in the ignition, turn it, and the Olds pops to life. I pull us out of the parking space and Branko starts fiddling with the radio. I stop at the exit, waiting for a break in the traffic. Branko hits Lauryn Hill singing “Ex-Factor” and stops spinning the dial. He taps his finger on his knee, slightly out of time.
– I miss Hal Jackson.
His Serbian accent makes it sound like Hell Jycksin.
– What?
– Hal Jackson. Sunday mornings. WBLS. I miss him from New York.
I had a girl back in New York once. She liked Hal Jackson. Sunday mornings reading the paper, coffee and bagels.
I pull us onto The Strip. Branko is looking at me.
– Sunday Morning Classics?
She’s dead now.
I drive to the end of the block and stop at the light and wait for a green arrow that will let me turn left. Branko wants me to remember. He sings.
–
I get my arrow and turn.
– Yeah. OK. I remember.
He nods.
– Yes. Everybody knows Hal Jackson.
I have to wait again to make the left into the Mandalay’s drive. A siren sounds from somewhere up The Strip. I glance into the mirror and see an ambulance pulling into the Happi Inn Motel lot. I look at Branko. He shrugs.
– I call the 911.
He holds up his hands.
– He would have to dial with his nose.
He taps the tip of his own nose.
I turn into the drive and join the long line of cars and cabs waiting to pull up to the entrance of the hotel. I glance once more back at the Happi.
– Guy was a cop.
Branko nods. I rub my right eyebrow, grinding away the last of the singed hairs.
– No one told me he was a cop.
Branko shrugs.
I watch the taillights of the car in front of us, flashing pale in the shaded drive.
– I’d like to’ve known he was a cop.
Branko nods.
– Next time.
Next time. Next time I’m supposed to bait a guy into a motel room with coke, they’ll let me know if the guy’s a cop. Color me reassured. We pull up to the valet stand and climb out. I take the ticket from the valet and follow Branko into the lobby where we get slammed by a wall of cocoa butter-scented freezing air and the screams of caged parrots and macaws. Branko points toward the elevator banks.
– Twenty-seven-twenty.
– You coming up?
– No.
– Where should I meet you?
– Nowhere. I will stay here.
– OK.
He sticks out his hand and I take it.
– Good today. Better.
I look at his hand holding mine.
– Thanks.
He lets go of my hand, slaps my shoulder and walks off toward the sports book. He’ll sit there until David calls for him, watching the ponies and placing the occasional two-dollar bet. He disappears around a bar just off the lobby. Squat, balding and potbellied. He looks like any number of tourists in here. The cheap blue pants, the sneakers, the short-sleeve collared shirt and the Wal-Mart Windbreaker. He could be any Slavic American on vacation.
I step into an elevator and see myself reflected as the shining metal doors close. I don’t look like anybody. I don’t even look like myself.
THE DOORS OPEN on the twenty-seventh floor and I wander until I find the right room. I knock and wait and David opens the door. He smiles.
– Come in, come in.
He looks the same as ever. Buzzed gray hair, trimmed beard, silver-rimmed glasses, the slight belly and the hairy hands. I step past him and he pats my back as I walk ahead of him into the room. The gold tinting on the outside of the windows tinges the air green.
No one else is in the room. This is how I always meet with David, alone, in private. I am his ghost. The weapon no one knows he owns. No one but Branko.
He points at the honor bar.
– Something to drink?
– No, thanks.
– No. Something. You must have something.
He squats down in front of the bar.
– I am having Black Label. I know you will not join me. But a juice? Water?
I shrug.
– You will have juice, then. It is good for your blood sugar. My daughter tells me.
He looks heavenward.
He takes a bottle of orange juice from the bar, shakes it and hands it to me.
– A glass?
– No.
He points at a chair and I sit. He plops onto the bed and scoots his back against a small pile of pillows he’s arranged. His jacket and shoes are off, and he sits there in slacks and socks, the knot in his designer tie loose at the collar of his designer shirt. He picks up the remote and points it at the TV, muting the hotel station that has been telling him how to play roulette. He drops the remote on the bedspread, picks up his glass of Scotch from the nightstand and takes a sip.
– When I was a younger man, the first time I was in a hotel with one of these.
He points at the honor bar.
– I drank everything clear. Vodka, gin, white wine, and filled the bottles with water from the bathroom and put them back just as they had been.
He smiles, closes his eyes, and shrugs.
He opens his eyes.
– It embarrasses me now because there was no need. It was not long after I had left the Soviet Union, but still, I could have afforded these things even then. But, we have all done things of which we are embarrassed. Things we regret.
I take a sip of my juice. He looks at the TV, at the silent figures of smiling people now rolling dice.
– Branko tells me you are still taking the pills.
I shift in my seat.
– My face hurts.
He looks from the TV screen to my face.
– Still it hurts?
My hand goes to the scar.
– Some days are worse.
He looks into his glass.
– I am sorry for that. If there had not been a need…But.
He looks back up at me, raises his eyebrows and tilts his head to the side.
I take my fingers away from the scar.
– It doesn’t matter. I can live with it.
– That, I have never doubted.
He points at the window.
– And today? It went well?
I look out the window. Across The Strip I can see the purple-and-green sign of the Laughing Jackalope and, next to it, the tarpaper roof of the Happi. The ambulance is pulling away, but two LVMPD cars are parked in front of the room.
– The guy’s a cop.
David swings his legs over the side of the bed, stands and walks to the window. He looks down at the police cars.
– This matters?
– What if he hadn’t bit on the coke? What if he busted me instead?
He glances at me, looks back out the window.
– You would let that happen?
– It might have happened.
He faces me.
– And this is what it is that bothers you about this job? That you might have been arrested?
I look back out the window. I can see a blue uniform walking across the parking lot toward the Jackalope.
– You broke his hands?
I swallow.
– Yeah.
– You did it? Not Branko?
– Yeah, I did it.
– And yet you try to tell me you are bothered now because this man is a cop.
He hoists his glass slightly, sighting his eyes at mine over the rim.
He sips his drink.
– This man, this cop. Do you know what he has done to make me so angry? So angry that I would have his hands broken?
– No.
– He is a cop that I pay. Every month he is paid money. It is a good arrangement. It is especially good for this cop because he is a man who knows that I can do him more harm than he can do to me. But still, still he abuses this arrangement. He takes more than is his fair share. He takes drugs from my dealers. He takes extra protection from my whores. He is especially greedy with the whores. Two nights past, the same evening after he has been paid what he is due for this month, that very night he shows up at the apartment of one of my whores. He wants money, yes, but he wants also to fuck. Well.
He lifts his shoulders.
– But he is not a normal man. Fucking is not enough for this man. He likes also to beat my whores when he fucks them. This he has done before. And this night, two days past, he does it again. And he does this girl great harm.
His lips tighten. He sips his drink, exhales, and his lips relax.
– My family is from Armenia. This whore’s family is from Armenia. She is from a family that I know from when I was born. Am I close to this family? No. If I were close to these people I would not let their daughter be a whore. But I knew her father and he was not a bastard. And she is, this whore, she is my daughter’s age. Her hair. The same color.
He swallows the rest of his drink and places the empty glass on the windowsill.
– One whore beaten more or less. What is that? Nothing. But this cop has done it many times, and now he does it with a girl I have met. A girl who could be my daughter.
He rubs tears from his eyes, looks at his fingers, and then shows them to me.
– So I tell Branko what will be done. And I tell him you are to do it. Why? Because these are the things you are meant to do for me. You are meant to do difficult things. Things that would make most men throw up their dinners and crap like babies in their pants. This is how you are meant to pay your debt to me.
David reaches out, puts his hand on the side of my face, the tip of his index finger touching the scar, and gently turns my head to face him.
– But you do not do these things anymore. You fail again and again, and Branko must do your work for you. We have talked about this?
I can feel his fingers on my face, but not the one that rests on the patch of wrinkled, white skin.
– Yes.
– Yes, we have. And you try. I know this. I know you take these pills not just for the pain in your face. So today, this job? It was a gift for you. A man to hurt that truly deserved to be hurt.
He smiles at me, crinkles the corners of his eyes.
– But you must do better. You must get back the taste for this work.
His hand drops from my face.
– Soon.
He walks to the bed, sits.
– You understand this?
– Yes.
– That is why I ask to talk to you. So you understand this. I am being unreasonable?
– No.
– Good. That is good. Then.
He settles back into his nest of pillows, crosses his legs at the ankles and picks up the remote.
– The flight was long and I will take a nap now.
– Sure.
I get up and stand there looking for a place to put my nearly full bottle of juice.
– Take it with you. For your blood sugar.
He smiles. I nod and walk toward the door. I have it open when his voice floats up the hall.
– There will be more work for you this week. You are free?
I stand there with the doorknob in my hand.
– Yeah.
– Of course you are. Go home and rest. You are tired.
I nod back down the hall toward the room, where all I can see of him are his stocking feet.
– Yeah. Thanks.
I step out into the hotel corridor, and before the door is closed I hear the sound of the TV click back on, chattering about the artificial beach behind the hotel. I walk to the elevators and push the button and stand there wondering how long I have left before David Dolokhov sends Branko to kill me, and whether he’ll send him to kill my parents before or after I am dead.
MY APARTMENT IS shit. But that kind of goes with the territory. The territory being my shitty life.
I shouldn’t be doing this. But I can’t help myself. I type in the address and wait while my shitty dial-up connects and loads the home page for www.sandycandy.com. It takes forever because the main feature of the page is a huge glamour shot of Sandy in one of her stripper outfits. Once the entire image of her embracing a chrome pole has resolved, I run the cursor down the menu. I start with public appearances. Not much. She’s doing another Howard Stern, but things have certainly slowed up for her in the last six months. No more afternoon talk shows or Court TV interviews, and just the same entry that tells her fans to keep looking for her E! special, but still no date. That one was probably bull anyway. Like the
Kansas City. That’s as far west as she’s come since she moved to Pennsylvania. How far is it to Kansas City? I almost go looking for a map, but really, what’s the point? After all, I’m the kidnapper she’s talking about. Anyway, it’s not like we were friends or anything. She was just a stripper with some connections, someone in Vegas who T thought could help us. So what if she ended up setting us up instead. She didn’t know how bad that was gonna turn out. Besides, what do I think I’m gonna do? Drive out to KC, find her in a club and say,
I log off and head for the bathroom and my medicine cabinet.
The mirror on the front of the cabinet is broken. I broke it six months back when I mixed up my meds a bit too much. The Xanax I’d been taking was starting to bring me too far down so I’d started cutting it with some straight Dexedrine. I looked in the mirror one night and saw the face that isn’t mine and got pissed at it and tried to punch it out. Proving yet again, thinking is bad for me.
So the mirror’s still busted and I never got around to pulling the shards of glass out of the frame, just taped over them with black gaff tape. It worked out fine, now I don’t have to look at myself when I go to the bathroom.
I open the cabinet and take out the two Ziploc bags full of pill bottles. I was right about going on Sandy’s site, it was bad for me. Now bad thoughts are creeping into my head. Thoughts like, maybe I
I have no business thinking that I could just cut and run. If I ever tried that, David would send Branko to my parents’ home. That’s the deal. So maybe the trick is to get rid of David and Branko. Except I don’t think I could kill David and Branko. They would smell it on me the second I walked in the room. I could go find Mom and Dad and we could all run away together. I could make their lives worse than they already are. I could go to New York, find the money that started it all, the 4 million dollars. Except I have no idea where that money is. Tim hid that money. Hid it for safekeeping, to keep it safe for me. That was right before I killed him. I thought he’d taken the money for himself. How could I have known what a friend I had.
I could die. I could peel off a strip of this gaff tape, pry a shard of glass from the bent frame of the medicine cabinet door and start slashing my wrists. Just fall to the floor in here and bleed. But David has closed that door as well. He closed it the day we met when he spelled out our contract. My parents live, and I work for him for life. And I don’t get to decide when that life is over.
And so here I am again.
Thinking.
Well, I know how to stop that.
I peel open the Ziploc that has the downs in it. I fumble through the bottles looking for something I haven’t taken too much of lately, something that will work. The Vics took the edge off the pain in my face back at the motel and helped deal with the shakes I had, but I need something for my head now. I pop the cap on a bottle of Demerol, toss one in my mouth and swallow.
I put the bags back in the cabinet and close the door. I look at the mess of black tape, the occasional glimmer of fractured mirror peeking out. I pick at a loose end of tape and start to tease it away. It comes off, a few slivers of broken glass stuck to the back. I see my right eye and the patch of scar reflected back at me in mosaic. My face pulses once, twice, and I press the tape back down.
THE APARTMENT IS shitty, but it’s still a step up from the Budget Suites of America.
It’s not like I look like Frankenstein’s monster or anything. He changed the shape of my forehead, moved my hairline back, broke my cheekbones and pushed them up, filed the point of my jaw down, flattened my nose and thinned my lips. It’s not even that the face looks bad. Probably would have been a good job all the way around if I hadn’t had those burns when he operated.
Turns out that performing impromptu plastic surgery on a man with a severly scalded face is a bad call. Things never quite healed as they should have. If I cover the outer half of my right eye with the palm of my hand it just about perfectly eclipses the scar. A patch of dead, white, wrinkled skin, its circumference cutting across my eyebrow, temple and cheekbone. The scar is a problem, not because it makes it hard to pick up chicks, but because it makes me easy to remember. The scar means David can’t use me on many jobs. Only the kind that involve people you don’t have to worry about identifying you later. Hard guys who fight back but know to keep their mouths shut when they come out on the losing side. Or people who just aren’t ever going to talk to anyone again. I’ve met some of those people.
The scar is also why David stuck me in the Budget Suites. The Suites was perfect. Nobody looks at anyone at the Suites. Head down, mind your own business, that’s the rules. Besides, there are so many scarred and gimped losers crawling in and out of that place, no one notices one more hacked-up face.
Anyway, the scar’s not the issue. The issue is the nerve damage, it’s the job the surgeon did when he reset the bones after he broke up my face. He didn’t do a good job. Something in there is fucked up. Most of the time it hurts like a bad headache, but in your face. Sometimes it’s worse. Like when a big guy crams my face into a mirror or something. So I take pills. I take them for the pain in my face. But I also take them to keep me from picking at the tape on that medicine cabinet mirror.
I sat on my shelf at the Suites and ate the pills I scored off one of the dealers who lived there. Some of the pills took care of the pain, some of the pills erased the nightmares from my sleep, and some of the pills got me in the car with Branko when he’d come by to pick me up.
We’d drive someplace where someone who was used to being the scariest dude around needed to be scared. And Branko would send me through the door first. And it was fine. The pills made it fine. I didn’t hurt, I didn’t care. And that was fine. Then the pills stopped working so good. Now I have to take so many of the goddamn things that I’m usually a zombie by the time I go in. Branko tries to sic me on some guy and there I am, leaning against the wall with little ropes of drool hanging out the corner of my mouth.
David doesn’t like that.
David thought I had all-star potential. I was gonna be his ghost, the guy no one knows about. The secret weapon in his organization. And no one does know. Just him and Branko. I’m the gun he can pull and wave around, the gun that nobody knows he has. He thought I’d serve my apprenticeship with Branko and then I’d be able to go it alone. When he found out that I’d moved from Xanax and Vics to Demerol and OxyContin, he had me moved from the Suites and into this shithole in North LV. I just keep dropping by the Suites to score. I’d like to think David and Branko don’t know I’m still popping the heavy stuff, but they aren’t stupid. I’m the only stupid one around here.
And now I’ve started getting sent on the shitty jobs, jobs that are a little more visible. The kind of jobs Branko usually arranges with some guy they fly in from out of town. It’s starting to feel like maybe David is less and less concerned about having me around for the long term. Like maybe he just wants to get some value back on his investment before he cuts me.
I try to care about that. I try to care whether I live or die. Because that has an awful lot to do with whether my folks live or die. But the Demerol’s kicking in now and I’m starting to stop caring about anything at all. Just the way I like it.
I go back into the living room. I flop on the couch and the Demerol makes it a slow-motion tumble from a rooftop into one of those huge air bags stuntmen use. I watch my hand pick up the stereo remote. I flick through the CDs in the changer until I find some Elvis Costello, and then song-hop, listening to the opening notes of each track until I find one that suits my mood: semi-suicidal, but chemically numbed. “Shipbuilding” seems to have it covered.
This is good. This is just fine. More to the point, this is as good as it gets for me anymore. Demerol, some tunes, and the hope of dreamless sleep. That’s the mountaintop for me. How the mighty have fallen.
Used to be the mountain was swinging a bat, smacking a ball, watching it fly away, knowing it was a sure hit, and sprinting around the bases. That was a long time ago. That was another world. Baseball. I haven’t played baseball since I was a kid. Shit, I can’t even watch baseball. A bottle of Demerol wouldn’t get me high enough to handle a ball game. I try to watch a baseball game anymore and I just end up rocking back and forth on the couch, arms wrapped around myself, whining.
The Demerol rushes.
I melt into the couch.
I SIT ON the couch with the little rule booklet, trying to figure out how it works. The Kid comes back into the room. There are strands of spaghetti in his hair and a mess of sauce on his face and neck. He’s carrying a couple Buds. I look at the beers.
– Where’d you get those?
– My dad’s.
– Won’t he get pissed?
– He won’t notice.
He hands one to me. I open it and take a sip. It’s good. Only after the first sip do I remember how long it’s been since I last had a drink. Shit. Fucked that up. Oh well. Gonna have to start from scratch anyway, may as well finish it. I take another sip.
The Kid sits down next to me and points at the booklet.
– You ready?
I toss the rules to the floor.
– No way. There is no way I can play this. I’m terrible at this shit.
– I thought baseball was your thing.
– Yeah, baseball, the real game, that was my thing. But this is different.
– But you were good?
– Yeah. Yeah, I was good.
– So this’ll be easy.
– Look, can’t we just go out back and have a little catch or something. I mean, if we’re gonna play let’s
He pushes open the curtain to show me the heavy rain outside.
– C’mon, just try it.
I groan, but I pick up my controller and he turns on the game.
He pushes some buttons and team logos start appearing on the TV.
– Who you want to be?
– Giants of course.
He pushes more buttons.
– Guess I’ll have to be the Dodgers.
I groan again.
– Don’t do that, man. You know you’re gonna beat me. Don’t do it with the Dodgers.
He laughs.
– Can’t take it? Here, you can play a Giants All Star club. Ott, Mays, McCovey, Mathewson.
– No. No. Just give me the team.
– You want the last World Series team?
– No, I never got to see them play. Give me, give me that team that almost made the Wild Card. The one that had the one-game playoff with the Mets.
He pushes buttons.
– OK, you’re up.
We play. I suck. By the third inning he’s ahead 15-0.
He hits another homer and I throw my controller at the floor.
– This sucks!
He’s laughing.
– OK. OK. Come on. We’ll play something else. I got something that’s more your style.
– Fine. Whatever.
He gets up from the couch. I pick up the rule booklet and try to figure out what he did to make his guy slide into my second baseman and take him out.
– Here we go.
I look up. He’s over by the TV. He has a plastic gun in each hand.
– First person shooter. That’s more your style, right?
I run my fingers over the glossy pages of the booklet.
– I don’t know, man. Let’s just keep playing ball.
– No, you were right. You suck. C’mon, you’ll be good at this.
He lifts one of the guns and points it at his head.
– C’mon, you’re a natural. Bang! Bang!
He pulls the plastic trigger, and smiling, turns around and shows me the huge hole where the back of his head used to be.
WHEN THE PHONE rings I’m sprawled on the couch in my underwear, one foot on the floor, resting on a cold, half-eaten pizza, a half dozen half-empty one-liter water bottles jumbled around me. I’ve been zonked on the couch for over forty-eight hours. The first Dem I took didn’t keep the dreams away, so I took two more. Those were so sweet I decided to keep going.
The phone is still ringing. It rings and rings and rings until I figure out it’s not an effect Moby mixed into “One of These Mornings.” I come to, my nostrils clogged with snot, a huge gob of mucus at the back of my throat. I try to stand, my foot smearing the cold pizza onto the carpet, and get hit with a head rush that sends me dizzy to my knees. I hawk and spit the yellow wad of mucus onto the pizza box and crawl to the cell lying in the middle of the dirty shag carpet. The number of the incoming call is blocked, but only two people have this number and they both have blocks. The phone keeps ringing as I fumble the top off one of the water bottles and chug it down, easing the dryness of my lips and tongue and washing away the foul taste of my own phlegm.
Still the phone rings. I answer it.
– Yeah, I’m here. Branko?
– No.
It’s David. David, who detests talking on the phone.
– Yeah. Hey. What’s up?
– The phone was ringing a very long time.
I can see the look on his face as he says it, eyebrows pinched together.
– You sound hoarse. Are you unwell?
– No, fine. Just I was in the bathroom. Sorry.
– No. No. I am sorry to disturb you. My wife would not like me to mention this, but I turn the phone off when I am in the bathroom. So I will not be distracted. Irregularity is one of the curses of growing older.
The only thing I have to add to this conversation would be to tell him that the Demerol I’ve been popping will keep me from crapping for the next several days. But I don’t think he wants to hear that so I just grunt instead.
He gives an embarrassed chuckle.
– You do not want to hear this. No one wants to hear the digestive problems of an older man except for another older man. I can tell you only this, roughage. Every day. Your later years will be so much more enjoyable.
– Sure. Thanks.
– But.
– Yeah?
– But this is not why I am calling you.
He’s not calling me to talk about his constipation. Somehow I had a feeling.
– I am calling to talk about the work I mentioned to you. When we were talking earlier this week, I mentioned work to you?
– I remember.
– Yes. Good. This work then, this work begins tonight. Is your car clean?
– My car?
– You have. It is a Cutlass?
– Yeah.
– This is a nice car?
– It’s, it’s not fancy, but it’s in good shape. I keep it clean. Clean enough.
– It will need to be very clean. Waxed. The windows will need to be washed. Vacuumed. Detailed, yes?
– Sure. Detailed.
– Good. And then you will drive it to the airport and pick someone up.
My head is still packed with Demerol-flavored cotton. I don’t know if he means pick up, or
– I. David. Should we be talking about this on the phone?
He laughs. Once again I can picture him, shaking his head, a hand waving misunderstanding from the air.
– No. Just to pick up. And to drive. You will pick up this young man and he will spend the evening in Las Vegas and you will drive him around and see that he gets in no trouble. That is all. A good job, yes?
– I don’t.
– Yes?
I look at my right foot. Cheese and tomato sauce cling to my heel and a piece of pepperoni is wedged between my toes.
– I don’t know if I’m up to this kind of thing.
– This kind of thing?
– People. Dealing with people.
He makes a little
– Dealing with people.
The sound again.
– We are on the phone, yes?
– Yeah.
– Yes, we are on the phone. And you know this is something I do not care for. To be on the phone. This job, I want you to have it. And I want you to know how important this job is. So I want to give you this job from my own mouth. But I am in New York again. So how to give you this job but on the phone? There is no other way. Do you understand?
– I guess. I mean.
– No. No, you do not understand.
He is scolding me now. Scolding me gently as a parent scolds a child, or a pet.
– I am in New York with my family. My whole family, we are on Long Island. My sister-in-law, she is here.
Oh.
– Yes? She is here and she is talking to me from the second she arrives. Asking me questions.
Oh. Shit.
– She is. The woman is a pain in my ass. Worse than constipation the woman is. Since her son was killed.
He doesn’t say it. He doesn’t have to say it. He doesn’t have to say,
– She asks me again and again, when will I find you? When will she have revenge for her son? I tell her, I say,
There’s a sharp smack over the phone as he claps his hands in frustration.
– You see what it is I am putting up with? Two years I must have this from this woman. This woman I would not be in the same room with if she had not been married to my brother. Some days, I tell you this, some days I wish I could kill my brother for dying and leaving me this woman to deal with.
We are both silent a moment. I think about David’s nephew. Mickey. The boy I killed in Mexico. Who knows what David thinks about?
He coughs, clearing his throat, signaling a change of tone.
– This is dangerous, this threat of hers to involve her nephews. They are here from Russia. They are here for their own protection. They are young and troubled and I do not want them involved in my business. There is a risk if she does this. A risk in my protecting you. And a risk can only be taken if there is something of value to be gained.
I tilt my head back and stare up at the cracks in the ceiling.
– This young man you will look after, he is an investment of mine. And he must be protected.
– Branko.
– No.
The cracks in the ceiling remind me of the fractured surface of the mirror. I look away from them.
– It must be
– I don’t know.
– Yes you do. It must be you because now is the time that I must know what is your value. Can Branko protect this young man? Of course he can. Better than any. But Branko is not, he is not…he impresses only those who know him. That is part of his great value. You. You will make an impression on this young man. You are a large man. And you have your face. You will pick him up not in a limo, but in your own car, you will look to him dangerous. This will be interesting for him. Fun. And you will have this chance to show me your value. To impress this man with yourself and keep him safe.
His voice drops.
– If I am to deal with my sister-in-law, this threat of hers, if I am to take that risk, I must see your value. Now. Show me your value. Do not let these trials be for nothing.
– Yes.
– Good. Good. Branko will come to you soon with money and details. Then you will do this job and this will be all behind us, this unpleasantness. Yes?
– Yes. David?
– What?
I force the words from my mouth.
– My mom and dad.
– No.
– I. I need to.
– No. This we do not talk about. Not now.
I can picture his finger pointed at me.
– But if.
– No. You want to talk about this? I am a businessman and will talk always about an arrangement. But first this job. Do this job and we will talk. Show me there is work you are still good for, and then we will talk. When we are face-to-face in a room, we can talk about this. Not now. Not now.
– OK. OK. Sorry.
– Do not be sorry. Be. Be the man I know you to be. This is a wonderful opportunity. Seize it and we may talk of many things. I have learned in my life that anything may be changed. Anything may be fixed. But now. Now I will go. My family is on the beach and I will join them. I am wearing shorts. I have white cream on my nose. You would laugh at me. You would laugh.
He says goodbye and I say goodbye and we hang up.
But I’m not laughing.
I pick up one of the water bottles, open it and pour it over my head. The water splashes off my face and I catch some in my mouth and I have a sudden flash of memory: the girls out front of the Jackalope dumping frozen blueberry daiquiris over themselves. The image is somehow crushing and I am hit with a childish depression, the kind you get when you see a kid who’s just lost the scoop of ice cream from his cone. I sit, all but naked on the floor, my ever-growing gut rolling over the waistband of my dirty BVDs, pizza on the bottom of my foot, the dripping water bottle held over my head.
This would be a good time for it, but I don’t get up and walk into the bathroom and peel the tape from the broken mirror.
BY THE TIME Branko shows up I’ve managed to get myself in the shower to hose off the two days of pill-sweat I’ve been wallowing in and pick the pepperoni out from between my toes. The Demerol crash is coming on strong and my eyes want to slide shut so I’ve popped a tab of x and that tilts me back the other way. It’s dirty x. The euphoria of the MDMA is cut heavily with speed, which is what I really need right now to keep me on my feet. I’ll drop another one right before I pick up this guy tonight and it might make me slightly more social than a corpse.
I still have the towel wrapped around my waist when there’s a knock on the door. I know who it is, but I observe all the precautions out of habit. First, I peek out the back window to see if there are any guys with
Branko looks at me in my towel, the revolver dangling from my hand, and taps a fingernail against the door.
– Not locked?
I shrug.
– I remembered to look out back.
He steps in, closes and locks the door.
– Small miracles.
I drop the gun on the couch and head for the bedroom to finish dressing.
– The only kind there are.
He makes the little grunting noise that passes for his laugh.
In the bedroom I wiggle into a pair of size forty jeans that I bought a month ago and that are already getting tight on me. That’s another reason not to have mirrors. Most of my life I wore thirty-fours. Not anymore. No gym memberships for wanted criminals. Not that I can fool myself into thinking that I’d go anywhere near a gym if one were available to me. There are people at gyms, and I don’t really know what to do with people anymore. Except hurt them. I suck in my gut and button the jeans.
In the living room Branko has turned off the Cannonball Adderley I was listening to, swapping “Somethin’ Else” for Cameo and “Rigor Mortis.” He’s bent over, adjusting the equalizer on the stereo he gave me when I moved into this place. It had fallen off a truck along with a couple dozen others just like it and he’d scooped up one for me because he hated the sound of the little boom box I used to have.
When I come in he looks over his shoulder at me.
– Your levels are wrong.
I sit on the couch and lace my sneakers.
– Thanks for taking care of that.
He frowns and turns back to the stereo.
– And your gun needs to be cleaned.
I don’t know where the gun came from, but Branko gave me that, too. I was supposed to kill someone with it.
BRANKO SHOWED UP one night and we drove into Paradise, to one of the New Mexico-style housing tracts over there that look just like all the other New Mexico-style housing tracts in Paradise. He parked the car outside a house. We went in and I beat the hell out of a guy who had welshed on one too many bets, or stopped paying his vig, or cheated at cards, or didn’t give a job to somebody’s cousin, or something. Then Branko handed me this little revolver with the numbers filed off. I hadn’t realized it was that. I thought it was a beating: beat the guy, make your point, get out. But it wasn’t. It was a job with a gun.
Branko flipped the guy onto his stomach. I stood over the guy and pointed the gun at the back of his head.
The way you do it, you empty the gun, you wipe the gun, you drop the gun. The gun is a big fuck you. First it says fuck you to the guy who’s getting it. Then it says fuck you to the cops. And finally, it says fuck you to all the guys out there who know why this guy got his head shot to pieces. The gun sitting next to the corpse says fuck this guy, fuck the cops who aren’t going to catch me and fuck all you assholes out there that are thinking about fucking with David Dolokhov.
I’ve delivered that particular litany of fuck you’s three times.
So I stand there with the .22 in my hand. It holds seven rounds. All I have to do is put them all in the back of this guy’s head and drop the big fuck you.
But I don’t. Instead I just stand there. Stand there and flex my trigger finger. But it never moves.
Branko gave it a minute, then he shot the guy with his own gun. Back in the car I tried to give him the little revolver, but he told me to keep it for the next time. But the next time I still couldn’t do it. And then David stopped sending me on jobs like that, and I started feeling more and more that I had let him down, and that sooner or later, I’d have to pay for it.
But they let me keep the gun. A kind of promise to me that even if I have given up on myself, they haven’t.
They know I still have it in me.
Killing still inside me.
I LOOK AT the gun. It’s a Smith amp; Wesson .22 Magnum. A perfect gun for killing people. It’s very small and very lightweight, but those Magnum loads still pack plenty of punch. I pull the cuff of my shirtsleeve down and use it to brush off the rest of the Comet. Branko straightens from the stereo and looks at me.
– This is what you will wear?
I look at my jeans, sneakers, and long-sleeve T-shirt.
– Is it wrong?
– For later. When you pick this man up. You must look better.
– A suit?
He thinks about it.
– Black jeans. A clean shirt. A jacket. And nice shoes. You have these things?
– No.
He nods.
– We will go detail the car now, and then we will shop.
WE STAND IN the air-conditioned waiting room and watch through the window as the Mexican kids detail my ’91 Cutlass Calais. Branko takes a sip from the cup of coffee he got at the mini-mart next door.
– Such an ugly car.
– You said I should get something unassuming.
– Yes, but this?
He angles his cup at the Olds.
– This is a piece of crap.
– It’s a fast piece of crap.
He nods, giving my piece of crap its due.
They let me have a car when I was moved out of the Suites. Branko said it should be unassuming, reliable and fast. I clicked online and came up with a few options and we drove around to look at them. The Olds was a steal; a midsize, 2.3 four-banger with the Quad 442 performance package that cranks the horsepower over two hundred. The guy who owned it got it as part of his parents’ estate and had no idea what he had. Fifty thousand original miles and we got it for under three thousand dollars.
The guy I’m picking up is a kid, a kid with a lot of money. Branko is concerned the kid won’t think the car is cool enough. It’s an ugly car, boxy and generic, aggressively uncool.
– You want to lend me your car?
Knowing he never lets anyone drive his car.
He drains his coffee.
– No. No one may drive my car.
Branko is a Toyota fanatic. Every year he pants over the new Camry, and every year he’s behind the wheel of the new model by Christmas.
– Fine. Wouldn’t want to drive that crap-box anyway.
He crumples his coffee cup and tosses it in the trash.
– Not a crap-box. Most reliable car on the road. My Camry will never break down. Safer than Volvo, and half the price. And
Branko used to have a Volvo. It broke down while he was on the way to a job. He got there late. In the meantime someone had tipped the guy off. The guy was waiting for Branko when Branko came in the door. Things turned out OK, for Branko. But after that he swore off Volvos and pledged fidelity to Toyota.
The Mexican kids are waving their chamois over the red paint of the Olds. Branko and I slip on our sunglasses and push out the door into 100 degrees. If there was the slightest humidity in the air I’d sweat my clothes through by the time we reach the car. Instead, all the moisture is sucked from my body and into the atmosphere. Branko makes a show of looking the car over for any fingerprints or flecks of dry wax caught in the edges of the trim. I take a twenty from my pocket and hand it to the crew-boss and stir my finger in a little circle, letting him know to share the tip with his boys. Then I climb in the car, start the engine and blast the A/C.
THE GUY COMING to town likes to gamble. And he has money. That’s why David has taken an interest. All I’m supposed to do is pick him up, drive him wherever he wants to go, keep him out of trouble, and act tough.
Branko takes a black jacket from the rack and hands it to me. I take the jacket off its hanger.
– Act tough?
– To make an impression.
– So?
– Tough. Say little. Look at everyone. Wear your sunglasses inside.
I shrug into the jacket and Branko looks me over.
– This will do.
We’ve only been in the mall for thirty minutes, but already I have three new shirts, some black Levi’s that actually fit, a pair of black shoes, and now the jacket. We head for the register and I pull a roll of bills from my pocket. Branko pushes my hand down.
– Business expense.
He takes out a billfold, I pile the clothes on the counter, and he lays plastic next to them. The name on the card is Fred Durben. I don’t know who Fred is. Could be he’s a guy who handed his cards over in lieu of cash. Now he spends his sleeping hours having nightmares about the waste being laid to his credit rating; his waking hours a worse nightmare of watching the red-marked bills pile up. Could be he’s a guy who never existed, just a name with a credit history and this one account. Could be he’s in a hole in the desert, could be he’s in several holes in the desert. All I know for certain is that the card isn’t hot. If it belongs to a dead body, it’s a body that’s never been found and will never be missed. Branko would never trade in hot plastic. As it is, he’ll probably clip the thing into a hundred pieces when he gets home, and drop each piece into a separate storm drain.
The cashier slides Branko the receipt and he signs it with a scrawl that might say Fred Durben, but that most certainly looks nothing like the signature he uses when he signs his real name. If he has a real name anymore. I pick up the bags and we head for the parking lot.
WE BUZZ UP the parkway into North Las Vegas.
– You have money?
– Some.
– How much?
– About eight hundred.
Branko pulls out the billfold again and produces a thick slab of cash. He thumbs through the bills, careful to count each one, peeling apart the new ones that have stuck together. It’s a nice lump of cash, but not ostentatious, not for Vegas anyway. Having counted the money, he evenly divides it and hands half to me. I fold mine and tuck it into my back pocket.
– Pay for everything that is not gambling. Do not offer, do not ask. Just pay.
– Everything?
– You pay for food, drinks, strippers and whores.
Because what else is there to buy in Vegas?
– What if he hits the shops and wants a Rolex or something?
– He will not want to shop. He will want to gamble.
– OK. Where’s his room?
– No room. He is here to party like a rock star and be on a flight in the morning.
He looks back out the window. I tap the rim of the steering wheel in x-time. Branko looks at the finger and then at me. I make an effort to stop tapping. I succeed, but it isn’t easy. He points at the finger that I have to force to be still.
– David talked to you about this job?
– Yeah.
– He told you it is important?
– Yeah.
– He told you how important?
– Yeah, Branko, I get it. The kid is worth a lot of money and David wants his cut. He wants the kid not to be fucked with and he wants him impressed so that he’ll use David’s bookies. Got it.
– He told you how important this job is for you?
The finger taps a couple times. I stop it. Branko doesn’t talk business with me. He talks detail. Where, when, who and how much to hurt them. But he doesn’t talk business.
– He said some things.
– My friend.
I flinch.
Two years Branko’s apprentice. Two years his charge. Two years this man’s pupil, batboy, valet. He’s never called me friend.
– My friend. This is an important job for you.
He points a rock-steady finger at my finger, which is tattooing the wheel again. I stop it.
We don’t talk. Branko has commandeered the radio as usual and we listen to Billy T on KCEP 88.1. Billy T is getting his mellow on, turning back the clock, “Strawberry Letter 23” grooving us down the road.
YOU’D THINK I’D be losing weight. What with the pills, it’s not like I have much of an appetite. But the amount of time I spend zonked on the couch or Web surfing seems to have taken the upper hand. That, plus I don’t eat anything that isn’t driven to my door or doesn’t fit in a microwave. I also sleep over ten hours a day. Depression and self-medication are just bad for the waistline. But I’ll be burning some calories tonight. The x will see to that.
It’s just before six. The guy’s flight gets in at a quarter to seven. I strip to my underwear and start tearing open the shopping bags, leaving ripped paper, tabs of sticky tape, and pins from the folded shirts scattered on the living room floor along with my dirty clothes. The jeans are stiff, but I can do the buttons without having to suck my belly into my spine. The shirts are all long-sleeve white button-ups. All my shirts are long-sleeved to cover the tattoos on my arms. The tattoos are some of the identifying features that predate, and survived, my surgery. There’s also a lurid scar that bisects my left side, the remnant of a hole that one of my kidneys came out of. I fasten the buttons of the shirt with jittery fingers and then have to undo and redo them because I’ve done them crooked. I dump the shoes out of their box and that’s when I realize we didn’t buy any black socks. All my socks are white athletics. The only thing left to me that’s athletic. Fuck it. I slip the shoes over my tube socks. The jacket is in a cheap plastic garment bag. I toss the bag on the floor with the rest of the trash and pull on the jacket. It fits fine in the shoulders and sleeves, but I can’t button it without stretching the buttonholes. Whatever, I’ll wear it open. A belt. I go back to the bedroom and find my only belt; black leather with a plain silver buckle and a couple extra notches I had to cut into it with a steak knife. I thread it through the loops and buckle it at the last of those homemade notches.
I gather my money, keys, cell, wallet with fake ID; the latest in a chain of fake identities that string back to New York, and I look at the gun. No. I slip the gun under one of the couch cushions and go to the bathroom.
I pull out the Ziploc full of ups, find the bottle of x and shake one into my hand. Then another. For later. In case it’s a late night. Late night? Shit, a kid with money, this is gonna be an all-nighter. I shake two more into my hand. That leaves two in the bottle. Hell with it. I dump all but one back in the bottle, pop that one in my mouth, and drop the bottle in my left jacket pocket. For emergencies.
I look at the shattered mirror.
I wonder how I look.
I pick at a corner of the tape. Think about jagged glass reflecting blood as it cuts the skin. I smooth the tape into place, turn off the light and walk into the kitchenette. I turn on the overhead light and look at myself in the microwave door; a smeary, warped reflection in dark glass. I touch my face. Shave? No. Branko said I should look tough. Stubble is tough. I guess.
AT THE AIRPORT I stand with the livery drivers near the exits from the baggage claim area. I watch the crowds of weekenders jostling around the huge silver carousels, getting bombarded by the advertising throbbing from the massive digital screens hanging from the ceiling. I feel edgy and exposed. Standing here in my brand-new clothes, the package creases still in my unironed shirt, I feel like I’m posed on a pedestal, like every eye is gawking at me. They’re not. To the rubes I’m just another driver in black, wearing his sunglasses inside and holding a sign with the name of some lucky stiff written on it. But I feel naked. Just like anyone wanted by the FBI and several police agencies for multiple homicides should feel.
Fuck, maybe there’s too much speed in this x. Maybe that second hit was a bad idea.
– Arenas?
Or maybe I should do another one.
– Arenas?
Maybe I could cope better if I was just a little higher.
– Yo, man, Arenas?
– What?
I look at the guy in front of me. He’s very young, my height, maybe a touch taller, with wide shoulders; built under the black DKNY suit and Ratpack-style open-collar shirt.
– Arenas?
– What?
He points at the sign in my hand, the name I wrote with a Sharpie on the back of one of the shirt cardboards.
– You here for Arenas?
– Yeah.
He points at himself.
– That’s me. Miguel Arenas.
– Oh. Sorry, Mr. Arenas.
He puts out his hand.
– Mike. Call me Mike.
I take his hand. It’s even bigger than mine, his wrists are thick with muscle.
I take my hand back, fold the sign in half and point at the doors.
– Right out here.
– Hang on a sec. There’s some baggage.
I take a step toward the carousels.
– Would you like me to?
He puts up a hand.
– No, s’cool, it’s coming along.
– Yo! Dude! Checking bags sucks!
He has a friend. His friend is maybe five-six on a good day, but also built under his black DKNY suit. He’s passed on the Sinatra look and gone with a Hawaiian shirt, throwback Air Jordans, and a San Diego Padres sun-visor on top of his head. He’s dragging a massive Nike athletic bag stuffed to bursting, the zipper popping teeth. He walks up to us and drops the bag.
He looks at me.
– This the bodyguard?
Miguel nods.
– Yeah.
– Sweet.
Miguel points at his friend.
– This is Jay.
Jay spreads the index and middle fingers of his right hand.
– Peace, yo.
Neither of them is twenty-five. Neither of them is twenty-three, for God sake. I point at the door.
– The car.
Jay bounces.
– Shee-at! The car!
He heads for the door. I pick up his bag and gesture for Miguel to go ahead of me. Out on the curb Jay is leaning against a white limo. He spreads his hands in Miguel’s direction.
– I don’t know, yo. It’s classic, but on the tritish side don’t ya think?
I walk past him to the Olds, pop the trunk and dump his bag inside. He spreads his hands wider.
– No. Way. Oh. Man. That. Car. Sucks.
He pumps a fist.
– Sweet.
I close the trunk. Jay runs his hand along the hood.
– Oh, man. This is some shit.
I open the passenger door and fold the seat back. Jay laughs.
– Dude. It’s not even a sedan. This is hot.
Jay piles in. Miguel smoothly bends himself in beside him.
Miguel looks familiar. Not his face so much. His build. The way he moves. Something.
I walk around the car, climb in and start the engine.
– Where to, gentlemen?
Miguel puts a hand on my shoulder. I flinch. He takes his hand away.
– Let’s hit Caesar’s sports book first.
It’s getting a little dark. I slip my shades off and turn my head to check my blind spot before pulling from the curb. Jay points at my face.
– Dude! Scarface! I mean total fucking Scarface.
FINGER FUCKER THROWS a haymaker at me. I lean back out of the way. Behind me, Uncle Fester is still taunting Miguel, trying to get him to take a swing. In the gutter, Jay is rolling around with Prince Valiant. Our only audience is the three guys doing blow by the back door of the Rhino, but that’ll change if this isn’t over soon.
The job is to keep the kid out of trouble.
Screwed that up.
Finger Fucker squares up to take another poke at me.
AT CAESAR’S SPORTS book, Miguel looks over the late West Coast games and starts to head for the windows. Jay grabs his arm.
– Yo.
Miguel taps his own forehead.
– Yeah, yo. Sorry.
He goes in his pocket, comes out with a rubber-banded roll of hundreds, and hands it to Jay.
– Uh, get me five on Oakland. A G on St. Louis and the over. And…-That’s plenty, yo.
– No, no. And, you’ll like this, and five on the Pods, money line.
– That’s a weak bet.
Miguel flicks Jay’s Padres visor.
– Yeah, but you like it.
– Fuck you.
Jay walks to the window with Miguel’s money and lays the bets. He comes back, hands Miguel the cash, but keeps the slips.
– What now, yo?
– Craps.
– OK, yo, I’ll meet you there. Gonna see about some refreshments. Scarface, keep an eye on him.
MIGUEL LIKES CRAPS. A lot.
He fans twenty hundreds on the green felt and the croupier counts it and slides him his chips. He starts tossing them out and calling his bets. Jay comes back from his detour carrying a couple Cuba Libres. Miguel takes one.
– What took you so long?
– Yo. I was sweating this chick. She’s gonna be at Cleopatra’s Barge later with some friends. We should check that shit out.
Miguel takes a sip of his drink and nods.
– S’cool. Later.
Jay notices me.
– Scarface, yo, sorry, man. I didn’t bring you a beverage. You want something?
I’m standing a couple feet behind them, trying to look inconspicuous and tough at the same time.
– No, thanks.
– No sweat, man, you want something, it’s cool by us.
He nudges Miguel.
– Right, yo?
Miguel looks from the table to me.
– Sure, man, s’cool, whatever’s good for you is fine.
I try to look like I’m calculating threat vectors or something badass and shake my head.
– No, thank you.
Jay clinks his glass against Miguel’s.
– Scarface on the job, yo. Scarface lookin’ out.
Miguel smiles.
– Quit fuckin’ with him, man.
Jay spreads the fingers of one hand over his chest.
– Fuckin’ with him? Yo, I got nothing but respect. ’Sides, Scar-face don’t mind me callin’ him Scarface. Do ya, Scarface?
The x has settled down some and I’m feeling loose in my spine, perfectly balanced and relaxed. I could stand here all night just like this and be utterly comfortable. Do I mind him calling me Scarface? Hell, he could cut a couple new ones in my face and I wouldn’t care just now.
– No, I don’t care.
– See, he’s cool. Scarface’s mellow.
Miguel points at Jay.
– S’cool, man, you can tell him he’s an asshole if you want.
Jay’s jaw drops.
– Cold, man, that’s cold.
I shake my head.
– It’s OK, I’m fine.
– OK, but you don’t have to take his shit.
– Harsh, yo.
Miguel smiles and turns back to the action on the table. Jay winks at me and gives me a thumbs up.
– Don’t let no one fuck with my boy, yo.
– No problem.
Miguel cuts some chips from his stack and offers them to Jay.
– You gonna play, or you gonna fuck around?
Jay looks at the chips, takes them.
– Yo, I’m gonna play. Last hurrah. Got to play.
I look at the clock on my cell: 8:33 p.m.
By 10:00 p.m., they’ve maxed out the cash draw on Miguel’s bank card.
He tosses his last black chip to the croupier.
– For the table, man.
The croupier tilts his head at him and drops the chip in the tip box. Jay sucks down the last of his fifth Cuba Libre and sets the glass on a passing cocktail waitress’s tray. The tray tilts off balance and she has to do a sudden shuffle step to keep from dumping the whole thing. She gives Jay a nasty look and keeps walking.
– Baby, yo, I didn’t mean it. Don’t be that way. Don’t be cruel. I love you.
She doesn’t look back, but he watches the ass she has just barely hidden beneath a minidress-toga as it twitches away. He looks at Miguel.
– Cleopatra’s Barge, yo.
Miguel drains the last of
– Palms.
THE ATM CARD was the tip of the iceberg.
At the Palms Miguel passes a black AmEx to the girl in the cage and says he’d like to open a line of credit. Before the vibrations of his words have left the air, a manager materializes from a trapdoor somewhere. He supplies Miguel and Jay with a bottle of Cristal, offers a comp room, passes to Rain a thick stack of meal tickets, and processes Miguel’s two-hundred-thousand-dollar line of credit.
– You may, of course, extend it if you wish.
Miguel shakes the manager’s hand.
– No, man, s’cool.
– Well, let me just say how happy we are to have you here. And congratulations, of course.
Miguel bobs his head; humble as all hell.
– Yeah, thanks, man.
I follow him and Jay into the casino, wondering what the fuck the manager was congratulating him for.
FINGER FUCKER SWINGS and I lean out of the way. I almost fall down because I’m so buzzed on x, and so fat and slow. But I keep my feet and watch as the momentum of his punch spins him around. I shove the back of his right shoulder as he rotates past me and use my right foot to scoop his off the ground and he goes down face-first and I hear a little crunch that might be his front teeth biting into the tarmac. I turn around and there’s Uncle Fester, still in Miguel’s face, wagging his head back and forth and bugging his eyes.
– What ya gonna do ’bout it? Gonna show me somethin’, big man? I’m right here. I’m right here.
JAY WANTS TO go to Rain.
The line for the place snakes around the casino, circling the wall. A purgatorial conga line of twenty and thirty-somethings dressed in every possible interpretation of hip and cool, desperate to get inside the hottest club in Vegas. Miguel eyes the line and shakes his head.
– Uh-uh. Veto.
Jay protests.
– Yo, we got passes. All we got to do is cruise to the VIP entrance. Come on, yo.
He points at the line, singling out the girls sporting the most conspicuous absences of clothing.
– Bang! Bang! Bang! Can you imagine the talent that’s inside? The shit they don’t make wait in line?
Miguel takes the rate card the manager gave him from his pocket.
– Two hundred G’s. Tonight’s the night. Tonight we play big.
He holds out his glass of Cristal.
– Last hurrah.
Jay taps Miguel’s glass with his own.
– My bad, yo. Let’s gamble.
Miguel snaps a corner of the card.
– Let’s get our drink on and let’s gamble.
– It’s on. It is on!
They drain their glasses and make for the tables. I trail behind, starting to get the idea that Miguel might be a new-money kind of guy.
MIGUEL STANDS AT least a half foot taller than Uncle Fester and is obviously in much better shape, but he keeps his open hands up at shoulder level and takes another step back, trying to create space between them.
– Just take it easy, man. S’cool. Nobody wants any trouble here.
Fester takes another step toward Miguel and gives him another chest bump.
– Looks like trouble’s here, big man. What ya gonna do ’bout it? Gonna puss out on it, big man? Fucking showboat. Gonna puss?
I put my foot in his asshole. He squeals, lurches forward, and Miguel skips back out of the way.
I’VE NEVER SEEN two guys happier about being down a hundred grand. I watch Miguel lay two thousand on a hard six.
Jay snaps his fingers.
– Yo. That’s a bet. That bet is coming in.
The dice come up craps and Miguel and Jay laugh and high-five.
– That was a for real bet, yo. Right, baby?
Jay’s talking to the girl wearing the silver lame bikini top and short red sarong, the girl glued to his left hip. He culled her from the Rain line a little while ago.
I saw him walking the line, flashing his club pass and asking who wanted to get in right now. Lots of hands went up and he drew a little crowd of spectators as he got the guys waiting in line to applause-o-meter each girl and pick the winners. He got three girls out of line and brought them over and dangled them baitwise in front of Miguel.
– Yo, let’s lay off and go dance.
Miguel waved him off and kept rolling. At first the girls were pissed about losing their places in line and not being taken to the club, but then they saw the money flying and got friendly. Miguel’s been friendly with the girls, throwing his arms around whichever one is near when he hits on a big bet, but they’re clearly a sidebar to the dice.
Jay shoves one of them my way. She tries to chat with me, tells me she’s an elementary schoolteacher from Flagstaff and
I look over the little crowd that’s gathered at the tables. A few are playing, but most have been drawn by the big-spender show Miguel and Jay are putting on. A couple of beefy guys in baggy business suits are standing by the head of the table, Coors Lights in their hands, whispering to each other, pointing at Miguel, pointing at me. Sweat beads between my shoulder blades.
Are they planning to follow us out and rob Miguel? Are they sizing him up for a fight because they think he’s a show-off? Or are they talking about him at all? Maybe they’re talking about me. Maybe they’re big true crime fans and they never miss an
They start walking around the table toward us.
If they confront me, if they try to finger me, I’ll just laugh it off:
They’re around the table. Miguel has the dice now, holding them above his head, one in each hand, showing them to the crowd. The croupier is asking him to please lower the dice, but he’s smiling. He’s smiling, the pit boss is smiling, somewhere the manager is smiling. Miguel has dumped a hundred G’s on this one table and no one who works this place is gonna stop smiling at him until they wring out whatever he has left in him.
The business suits are coming toward me. One is holding his beer bottle down at his side. It’ll be easy for him to flip it and bring it up at my face. They’re both rumpled and have their collars open and ties tugged down. They look exactly like a pair of early twenties business guys. Pals who knocked off early from their cubicle brokerage gig in L.A. and hopped the flight to Vegas for an overnighter. They look as inconspicuous as Branko.
They stop right in front of me. The one holding his bottle starts to bring it up. His buddy turns his head, looking at the crowd around us. All eyes are on Miguel, who has just rolled a four. The beer bottle moves higher. I take a step back and get ready to kick the guy in the balls. Why did I leave the gun at home?
The beer bottle is up. It goes to the guy’s lips and he takes a drink.
– Uh, hey, man?
His buddy is still looking at Miguel, who has just made the point.
– Um, we don’t want to bother anybody, but we were wondering.
The girls squeal as Miguel hits another point. The other guy is still watching.
– Would it be cool if we said hi to him?
The other one turns his face to me.
– Maybe get an autograph?
Uh.
The guy with the bottle holds up his hands.
– Like, we know you have a job to do and he’s just hanging out. But? After he’s done rolling?
I look past them to Miguel. He craps out. I look back at the guy.
– I guess I’d.
– Great, man. Thanks. We won’t be a pain.
They don’t wait for me to finish saying that I guess I’d have to ask, they just walk up behind Miguel and tap him shyly on the shoulder.
– Hey, hey. Sorry to bother you, Mike. We just.
– You’re not bothering me, man. S’cool. And thanks.
– Yeah, yeah. Hey, any chance we could get a couple autographs?
– Sure. S’cool.
Miguel grabs a couple cocktail napkins from the waitress who’s been standing by to take his and Jay’s orders, pulls a pen from inside his jacket and scribbles his name.
– Man, thanks. You’re the coolest, man. Good luck this year.
Miguel shakes both their hands.
– Thanks, guys.
And the floodgates open. The crowd flows, its center point shifting from the table to Miguel. And I suddenly realize that all the whispering and pointing at the table hasn’t been about Miguel’s money or Jay’s antics, it’s been about Miguel.
I start moving into the crowd and I hear voices. I hear
Jay’s face pops up in front of me. He’s got the three girls from the Rain line.
– Scarface, yo. Grab my boy. We’re moving this party to the Spearmint Rhino.
And he’s plowing his way out, towing the girls.
I put a hand on Miguel’s shoulder. He turns from signing another autograph.
– Jay said I should get you out.
He nods.
– Yeah. S’cool, let’s blow before it gets uncool.
Someone produces a disposable camera and I turn my head at the last second to avoid having my face photographed alongside Miguel’s. I put my left arm over his shoulder, start making room with my right, and lead him out of the crowd. We dodge a couple people coming over to see what’s up and Miguel picks up his pace, striding toward the exit. Behind us I hear a few people chanting
I don’t have a TV, but I do pick up a paper sometimes. Miguel Arenas. Star of Stanford’s 2003 College World Series-winning baseball team. Miguel Arenas. Star of the USA’s 2004 Olympic gold medal-winning baseball team. Miguel Arenas. Out of school at the end of his junior year, the New York Mets’ first round pick in this year’s Major League draft. First pick overall. Number one.
I watch Miguel’s back as he weaves smoothly through the packed casino. And now I know what’s familiar about him. It’s not his face or his accomplishments that I know him from. It’s his walk, his grace. He moves like me. The way I was meant to move. The way I still move in my dreams. The good ones anyway.
I FOLLOW UNCLE Fester as he stumbles away and kick him in the asshole again. He screams and reaches back, but my next kick is already on the way. It lands on his fingers and his pinkie pops out of joint. He’s reeling around now, reaching down between his legs with one hand, grabbing at his anus, and waving the other hand in the air, his pinkie sticking out at a right angle to the rest of his fingers. I grab the tail of his T-shirt and yank it up, dragging his arms up over his head. I push him to his knees and kick him three more times on the asshole and he flops forward, crying, blood starting to seep through the seat of his pants.
WE’RE ROLLING IN the Olds, cruising from the Palms to the Rhino. From the frying pan to the fire, Vegas style.
Miguel is up front with me. One of the girls, I think it’s the schoolteacher, in his lap. Her legs are getting tangled in the stick shift and I keep having to push them to the side. It happens again and she takes her tongue out of Miguel’s mouth.
– Sorry. Am I in your way? Sorry. Here.
She wiggles around until she’s straddling Miguel’s lap. He takes advantage of having his mouth free for a second and has a word with Jay.
– Screw the Rhino, let’s hit some more tables.
Jay is in the backseat with the other two girls. He’s been making out with both and talked them into kissing each other, but he was disappointed by the little peck on the lips they shared.
– No, yo. Like, kiss. Let’s see it, get some tongue in there.
The girls start frenching.
Miguel slaps Jay’s knee.
– Hear me, man?
Jay keeps his eyes on the girls as their tongues slide in and out of each other’s mouths.
– I hear you, yo, but I’m a little distracted.
The schoolteacher is chewing on Miguel’s ear as he talks to Jay.
– Get undistracted. I want to roll some more.
Jay takes his eyes from the show and puts his face close to Miguel’s.
– Yo, that was a hundred G’s and change back there. Let’s take a break.
– Fuck the hundred G’s. Last hurrah, man. Got another hundred to get even with. I want to roll.
Jay puts a finger in his face.
– No. We’re taking a break. Yo.
He points at the necking girls.
– Check this shit out. Get into this shit. Get your head in
Miguel nods.
– Yeah, yeah, man. S’cool. You’re right.
– Yo.
Jay claps his hands.
– I know what this party needs. This party needs some x. You ladies know where we can score some x?
The schoolteacher in Miguel’s lap detaches her mouth from his ear.
– I’m from Flagstaff. But if you can get some that would be great.
Jay separates the girls in the back.
– Ladies?
They whisper in each other’s ears, then the one in the silver top gives him their verdict.
– No, but we’ll totally take it if you can get it. But don’t think you’re going to get us in a three-way.
– Yo. A three-way? What’s that?
She laughs.
Jay’s eyes go wide with innocence.
– No, seriously. What’s a three-way?
He puts his face close to hers.
–
She laughs.
–
– Come on, baby. Here.
He taps his earlobe.
– Whisper it in my ear.
She puts her mouth close to his ear and starts to whisper. Jay puts his hand over his mouth.
– Oh my. You girls are naughty. Yo, Mike, these girls are naughty. We
He leans forward.
– So, yo, Scarface. Know where we could score a little sumthin’ sumthin’?
Do I know where they could score?
I reach into my jacket pocket and touch the unmarked brown pill bottle that contains exactly five white tablets imprinted with tiny smiling monkey faces. I wonder, will this qualify for keeping them out of trouble or getting them into trouble?
Fuck it. It’ll be better than having them running around the Rhino trying to score off the strippers. I pull out the pill bottle and hand it to Jay.
There is a moment of utter silence. Then Jay grabs my neck, leans over my shoulder and kisses my cheek.
– Yo, Scarface!
And he leads the chant that fills the car.
– Scar-face! Scar-face! Scar-face!
JAY AND VALIANT are still at it. I walk toward them, looking at the ground for a weapon so I don’t have to punch the guy and risk breaking my hand. I see a magazine. I pick it up and roll it into a tight cylinder and stand over the two writhing bodies. I take aim and slam the magazine across the back of Valiant’s head. He goes cross-eyed and I grab him by the collar and drag him off of Jay. I hit him a few more times, the magazine cracking his cheekbone before I drop him.
WEDNESDAY NIGHT AT the Spearmint Rhino and the place is a zoo.
Jumping the line is easy, just a matter of a couple C-notes for the guys at the door, but it makes me even more of a hero to Miguel, Jay and the Rain girls. Once inside, the trick becomes moving. The only open space is around the huge rectangular bar. I make a stop there and get a thousand dollars in dance tokens and hand them to the guys. Miguel starts shaking his head, but I force them into his hand.
– It’s part of the service.
Jay is doling out tokens to the girls.
– Yeah, yo, it’s part of the service.
I order Cuba Libres for the boys and Stoli cranberries for the girls. There are booths along the wall where strippers are giving lap dances. The real action is in the other direction, but the crowd around the stages and tables is so thick that the only way you can see the dancers is by looking at the video monitors above the bar. Jay points at the crowd.
– Yo, Scarface. We want in.
So I get them in. It costs another couple hundred, but one of the bouncers plows into the crowd and comes back a couple minutes later and waves us to a table. The group he just kicked off of it stands to the side and gives us dirty looks.
The atmosphere is a touch less formal here than at the Palms. In less than half an hour I notice people starting to notice Miguel. Soon after they start coming by the table to shake his hand. He takes it in stride, and I try to look intimidating to anyone who might want to cause trouble. In the normal course of events, an MLB draft pick, even the first pick, would only be recognized by the most rabid seamheads. But Miguel is different. His achievements during last year’s Olympics gave him unprecedented visibility for an amateur player. He’s not superstar recognizable, and mostly it’s the men who know who he is, but he still draws traffic. I keep my sunglasses on.
At first Miguel keeps pestering Jay about heading for another casino.
– There aren’t even slots in here, man!
But eventually Jay pours enough booze down Miguel’s throat, and he sees enough tits, that he gets into the spirit of the place.
Jay gets lap dances. Miguel gets lap dances. The Rain girls get lap dances. Jay pays the dancers to lap dance each other. Glasses pile on the table.
Hours pass like that.
Then Jay says something.
– Is that guy fingering that chick?
It’s one of the guys who got kicked off our table. It’s very, very late and he and his buddies have gotten a new table right next to ours. Jay is pointing at the guy.
– Seriously, yo. Is he finger-fucking that chick?
What the guy is doing is definitely spending a lot of time trying to get his fingers inside the dancer’s g-string. The current song is almost over, his special moment drawing to a close, so she just keeps pulling his hand away. But then the song ends and she goes to get up and he grabs her wrist and holds out a fifty.
– Uh-uh, baby. One more dance. Come on, baby.
She cranes her head, looking for a bouncer, but the only one nearby is chatting up another dancer and not paying attention, not enforcing the no-touching-the-dancers-ever rule. She points a long fingernail at Finger Fucker.
– OK, one more, honey. But be nice. No touching.
– Yeah, yeah. No touching.
She starts writhing on his lap and he winks at his buddies over her shoulder and stuffs his finger into her G-string, yanking it to the side and almost ripping it off. She jumps back.
– That’s it, asshole.
She makes a move toward the bouncer and Finger Fucker grabs her again.
– No way, baby. I still got some song left.
His buddies are laughing. One of them looks like Uncle Fester’s long-lost son. The other has a perfect Prince Valiant haircut.
The dancer is still trying to get away, calling for the bouncer, who looks like he might finally have noticed a customer getting out of hand.
– Hey, mister.
It’s Miguel.
– Lay off.
Finger Fucker looks over.
– Wha’d you say?
– Said lay off the talent, guy. Let the lady go.
Jay stands up.
– And stop trying to stick your fingers up her action.
– Say what?
Finger Fucker lets go of the dancer’s wrist and stands up and the bouncer and three of his cohorts pile into him and his buddies and wrap them up and drag them toward the front door. They go out, shouting back at us, Uncle Fester pointing at Miguel.
– Fucking asshole. Fucking big shot. Fucking take our table. You ain’t shit. Mets suck!
They get stuffed out the front door.
Everybody still in the place is looking at us now. Talking about what happened.
The bouncer who got us the table is coming over.
– You guys cool?
I nod.
– Yeah, but we need to split. Can we use the back door?
He points toward the bathrooms. Miguel and Jay are already up and moving. The girls are gathering their things to follow us. I pull out a C and hand it to the schoolteacher.
– Party’s over ladies. You can get a cab out front.
The girls don’t like it, but they take the cab fare.
The bouncer leads us past the bathrooms, out to the rear parking lot. The Olds is about thirty yards away. Three guys are standing in a circle, taking turns dipping their keys into a little bag of coke. They ignore us as we walk past.
– Hey, big man.
Fuck.
– Hey, Mr. Baseball.
Fuck me running.
They’re coming around the side of the club, on a path to cut us off. I put a hand to Miguel’s back, then Jay’s.
– Just walk to the car. Don’t say anything.
– Big shot. Fucking table stealer.
Uncle Fester is doing the talking, but Finger Fucker is the first one to arrive. I stop and turn to face him and he puts his hands up.
– Oh, the bodyguard. I’m scared.
Valiant starts sprinting and moves to cut in front of us. I see him put a hand on Miguel. Jay jumps, lands on Valiant’s back and takes him to the ground. They start rolling around, grappling. Fester plants himself in front of Miguel. Finger Fucker starts hopping around, his fists up just like he was taught in his boxing class at his gym.
I hate the Spearmint Rhino.
JAY SPRINGS UP from the gutter, a rip in the right knee of his suit pants and a scrape on his chin. He points at me.
– Yo, Scarface fucked ’em
Miguel is looking at the three men on the ground.
– Should we call someone?
I shake my head.
– The doormen at the club will call someone. Let’s get out of here.
Jay grabs Miguel and starts dragging him toward the car.
– Hell yeah, yo. You don’t need this kind of shit on you now.
I lead them to the car, looking back over my shoulder to make sure no one is coming after us. The guys who were standing out back doing blow are starting to walk toward the three assholes on the ground, asking if they’re alright. None of them are answering.
MIGUEL WANTS TO go back to the Palms and hit the tables again, but Jay shows him his watch. It’s almost 6:00 a.m.
– Flight’s in a couple hours, yo. Time to chill.
– Man, we still got a hundred Gs credit at the Palms.
– So, that’s like going home up. Put that shit on your hip, yo.
Miguel shakes his head like a little boy being told it’s time to come in and get ready for bed.
– Yeah, OK, man. But this sucks.
He rolls down his window and leans his head into the hot breeze.
– You’re right, but it sucks.
Jay points at the screen.
– Yo, here it is again.
Miguel and I look up and watch Sean Watson make a sliding, run-saving catch. Miguel goes back to his keno slips. Jay shakes his head.
– Fucking Watson.
Miguel sips his Cuba Libre.
– He’s a stud.
– Yo, he’s a stud. Fucker’s looking to build permanent housing in center field.
– S’cool. I ain’t in a hurry.
They have the same conversation every time the highlight comes on, and it’s been on a lot. I didn’t even know who the guy was, but it turns out Sean Watson is the Mets’ Gold Glove center fielder. The same position Miguel plays.
– Long as he’s there they can keep you down, yo.
– S’cool. I’m just starting. There’s shit to learn. Gotta hit that big league curve.
Jay looks down from the screen and at his friend.
– Bullshit, you can hit the curve. You
In the last hour I’ve seen more baseball than in the last five years. It’s strange, kind of like the dreams I sometimes have about people I’ve killed. Seeing the dead walk again. But this is different. For the first time I can remember, I’m watching baseball and it doesn’t make me want to curl up in a ball and feel sorry for myself. Must be the x. Whatever it is, I like it.
– Yo, Scarface, my boy ready for the bigs or what?
Is Miguel big league ready? No one is big league ready straight out of college. No one. Everyone spends a few years in the minors. Rookie ball, single A, double A, triple A. Even a top pick like Miguel? It’ll be a major achievement if he ends the season in double A. Hell,
– Scarface?
I come back to earth. Big league? I was never even bush league. Just a hotshot high school jock.
– Scarface?
– Sorry. What?
– My boy ready or what?
– Sorry, man, I don’t really know anything about baseball.
Jay slumps back in his seat.
– Oh damn, just when I was thinking you might be the man. Mike, Scarface doesn’t like baseball.
Miguel fills out another keno slip.
– S’cool. He’s got other virtues.
He looks up from his slip, smiles at me.
– Like keepin’ my ass out of trouble. That was good lookin’ out back at the club. I don’t like to see no one get hurt, but that was good lookin’ out. Man can feel safe with a dude like you watchin’ his back. No lie.
– Thanks.
– When I get up there, when they move me to The Show, gonna be lookin’ for you. I’ll give a call. You can be my man maybe.
– Sure. Maybe.
I point at the screen.
– Shouldn’t you be playing now?
Miguel shakes his head.
– Had the College World Series. We just got knocked out last weekend.
Jay snorts.
– Yo, that was bogus. Texas sucks. And the ump was fucking blind.
– S’cool.
– Yeah. Anyway, yo, that shit’s behind you now. Now’s the real deal.
Jay winks at me.
– Anyway, that ain’t the real reason why Mike hasn’t reported yet. Real reason’s business. Gettin’ paid business.
Miguel smiles. His teeth are perfect.
– Man’s got to get paid.
He clinks glasses with Jay.
– Anyway, contract took a little while to sort out. But it’s on now. Kingsport tomorrow. Pro ball.
Jay shakes his head.
– Fuckin’ rookie ball.
– S’cool. Everyone starts in rookie. I’ll get up there.
He watches the players on the screen; spectacularly gifted young men making their bodies do things that no one else can do.
I look at him. His plane takes off at eight. He’ll touch down on the East Coast around three in the afternoon and report for his first day of professional baseball. Young and fit, relaxed and smooth, just the slightest of rings under his eyes to say that he’s done anything but get a good night’s rest.
The cocktail waitress comes by with another round and picks up another stack of keno tickets. The drink in front of Jay is still all but full. He slides the new cocktail over to me.
– So can you have a drink now, yo?
I look at the glass.
– I don’t drink.
He shakes his head sadly.
– Damn. Doesn’t like baseball. Doesn’t drink. That is some sad shit. Wasn’t for that car and the way you were all MacGyver with the x, I don’t know what I’d do with you.
Miguel leans back in his chair and yawns.
– And that ass-kicking he delivered.
– Oh, yo, that was intense. You laid some hurt on those assholes. Check it. What’s the most fucked-up thing you’ve ever done to someone?
A short film starring all the fucked-up things I’ve done screens inside my head.
Miguel puts a hand on Jay’s arm.
– Lay off. Man’s a professional.
– But I want to know.
I shrug.
– Nothing too bad.
Jay squints one eye at me.
– See, yo, I expect that to be your answer, but I bet you’ve done some seriously fucked-up shit. Like, where’d you get the scar?
Miguel gives him a little shove.
– Cool it, bro.
I touch the scar, remember a guy no older than Jay, remember sitting on top of him while scalding water pounded down on both of us, remember pushing the barrel of his own gun into his mouth, and pulling the trigger.
– It was in an accident. No big deal.
Jay holds up his hands in surrender.
– That’s cool. I’ll back off. You got your secrets. I won’t push. But next time we come to town I want some stories, yo. I want to hear the gangsta shit.
He lays out his hand. I slap it lightly. He nods.
– That’s what I’m talking ’bout, yo.
A half hour later I drive them to the airport. I offer to stick with them until they board, but Miguel says it’s cool. Jay grabs a baggage cart, drops his enormous bag in it, climbs on top of it and curls up.
– Yo, Mike, I’m finished. You’re gonna have to push me.
Miguel flips him off and turns to me.
– So we cool? We owe you anything, or what?
I shake my head.
– All taken care of.
He nods.
– Cool. So.
He puts his hand out. I take it and we shake.
– On the real though, you took care of business tonight. I want to thank you. That shit had blown up? That would have been bad news. Last thing I needed would have been cops and reporters. So thanks.
He offers me his fist.
– Respect.
I bump my fist against his.
– Sure.
He flashes me a peace sign, and I watch him push the luggage cart, loaded with his friend and his friend’s baggage, through the automatic doors.
At home I pop four ludes. And still I dream.
I dream about baseball.
And wake a few hours later, wanting things and people that are long dead.
mantracker45: sandy, there’s a rumor that he’s been in touch with you.
scandy: where you hear that mt???
bigdangle: sandy, i think ur hot.
scandy: TY big!!! you buy the calendar yet?
mantracker45: it was on danny lester’s site.
bigdangle: my favorite shot in the clandar is the one with you kneeling on the chair and looking back over your shoulder. its HOT:)
scandy: I don’t know what danny lester has on his site and I cant really talk about him because of my lawsuit but i have not been in touch with him and ty again big, I like that shot 2.
mantracker45: you worry about him coming for you?
bigdangle: what u wearing sandy?
scandy: I used to worry, but i cant live mny life like that. I cant live in fear. thats what my therapist says
bigdangle: what ru wearing sandy??
scandy: sweats and a tanktop, big. but come see me dance some time and i’ll be wearing the stuff I feel most comfortable in. n othing;)
manwhogotaway29: hello sandy
bigdangle: im not wearing anything. i’m alone with my big cock and your calendar and I’m thinking about fucking you in the ass. do you like it in the ass?
USER BIGDANGLE HAS BEEN BOUNCED FROM THE SITE
mantracker45: what a dick.
scandy: hi manwho
scandy: yeah, mt, what girl wants a big “dangle” anyway.
mantracker45: lol.
manwhogotaway29: it’s me sandy.
scandy: who do you mean manwho?
mantracker45: just bounce him, sandy.
manwhogotaway29: remember the el cortez, snady? remember your house on jewel and what I did? remember what the dog did to your boyfriend’s dick? I know where you are sandy.
USER MANWHOGOTAWAY29 HAS BEEN BOUNCED FROM THE SITE
mantracker45: another dick. you ok sandy?
scandy: i’m fine.
mantracker45: is it the same guy?
scandy: I think so. I bounce him and a couple weeks later he reregisters as manwhogotaway67 or something.
mantracker45: he scare you?
scandy: not any more.
mantracker45: i could take care of you sandy.
scandy: ty mt. that’s sweet.
mantracker45: i could strap you to a fence and cut your nipples off and saw your head open and put your brain in a bag. I could take care of you good WHORE!!!
USER MANTRACKER45 HAS BEEN BOUNCED FROM THE SITE
USER SCANDY HAS SIGNED OFF
Pretty standard stuff for one of Sandy’s chat sessions.
I watch the empty screen for a couple minutes to see if she’ll come back on, but she doesn’t. I click the sign-off button and billybob44 disappears from the list of signed-on users. My screen name hung up there all through the chat along with a couple others, never popping up in the main window with a message for Sandy. Just another heavy-breathing scroller, eavesdropping on the chat, but never participating.
It’s the middle of the afternoon and I still haven’t been able to get back to sleep. I think about going to Danny Lester’s site and checking on this rumor that I’ve been in touch with Sandy, but I just turn off the computer instead. Why bother? It will be like every other lie on Lester’s site, just juicy enough to bump up his hits for awhile and keep his advertisers happy. Besides, I have to take about five Xanax to be able to look at Lester’s site. The home page centered on my FBI wanted poster; his account of how he “flushed me from cover”; his bullshit memorials page to my victims. Thinking about it gives me hives.
Of course. Thinking about Lester makes me want to climb on a plane, fly to his home, and wrap my hands around his throat. No reason why I should feel that way; other than the fact that he’s the one who let the world know I had come back to the States in the first place, the one who stalked me from San Diego to my hometown, the one who forced me to run from my parents, the one who plowed his truck into my childhood friend. No reason at all I should want to kill the asshole who has made it his mission in life to find me and “bring me to justice.”
In any case, I’d never be stupid enough to actually join a chat.
But I think about it.
I’ve typed a couple messages before and placed my cursor over the private message button, but I’ve never clicked it. I’ve typed stuff only I could know.
billybob44: sandy, it’s me. remember “Place to Be” on the radio at the El Cortez?
billybob44: sandy, where is T?
Where is the last friend I had in the world?
She would know. She would at least know where she left him before she found a lawyer and turned herself in. If she told me that, maybe I could find him. I could find him and maybe he would help me again and I would have a friend and someone I could trust.
I’m staring at the blank computer screen. Something is on my face. I touch it and my finger comes away wet. I’m crying. Fuck, when was the last time I cried? No, I’m not crying, I’m sobbing. I’m choking and gasping and moaning. I roll off the chair and start crawling down the hall, snot pouring out of my nose and drizzling on the carpet. I make it to the bathroom, get to my knees and reach over the sink and open the medicine cabinet. I clutch at the two Ziplocs and pull them out and one of them isn’t sealed and plastic bottles and loose pills scatter across the scummy floor. I fumble around, still jerking and wailing, sobs like an epileptic fit, trying to collect the pills. I curl up on the floor, still wearing my new jeans and clean white shirt, and I dump pills into my hand. What are these? I don’t even know. I shove a handful in my mouth, but they get caught at the back of my throat and the next sob chokes them back out and they spray the room and rattle off the shower stall door.
Fuck this.
I can’t do this anymore.
I grab the towel bar and use it to pull myself to my feet. I stumble to the other side of the bathroom and clutch the edge of the sink with one hand while I rip black tape from the mirror with the other. Tiny flecks of glass rain down into the sink, but the larger pieces, the ones I need, remain lodged in the frame. My fractured reflection stutters across the face of the mirror. I pick at a scythe-curved shard, slicing the tips of my fingers. The blade of glass comes free and the entire mirror rains down into the basin. I let go of the sink and the sobs drop me to my knees. I fall back on my butt, one leg folded beneath me, the other splayed across a dingy bath mat. I bite the buttons from the left cuff of my shirt and tug the sleeve up with my teeth. On my forearm is a tattoo: six black slashes. Once an accurate accounting of the lives I had taken, but now hopelessly out of date. Blood from my fingers is already dripping from the tip of my mirror knife. I dig the point into my skin, blood wells around it. It’s as if the little scrap of glass were made for this: A single hard yank and it will open my forearm from wrist to elbow. Then I can do the other one.
I yank.
But nothing happens.
I yank again. And still my hand doesn’t move.
The sobs subside. I sit on the bathroom floor, staring at the blood reflected in the shard of mirror, just as I always pictured it, and I don’t kill myself.
Who knew there was anything left I couldn’t do.
I WAKE UP on the bathroom floor. The sun has gone down. Blood is clotted around the hole in my wrist. I stand up. I run water in the sink and splash my face. The pieces of broken mirror rest at the bottom of the sink, reflecting pieces of me. I walk out of the bathroom, pause in the hall to brush away pills that have stuck to the bottoms of my feet, and go into the kitchen. I find a package of Eggos and throw them in the microwave. A minute later the microwave dings. I take out the Eggos, the steam burning my cut fingertips when I open the plastic pouch, and dump them on the one plate I own. I get an old packet of McDonald’s syrup from the fridge, pour it on the Eggos and eat them with my one fork. They’d be better toasted, but I don’t have a toaster. When I’m done I wash my plate and fork. I go into the living room and turn on the stereo. “Boots of Spanish Leather” plays and I listen to it.
I look at the hole I poked in my wrist.
That was close. I was stupid and I got very close. It was the baseball. It was being around Miguel and Jay and their friendship. It was checking on Sandy and thinking about T. It was cramming too many different pills into my system at the same time.
I have to start doing my job again. No more choking in the clutch. David wants me to drop the big fuck you, I need to drop it. No more getting sent out on gigs like last night. Jobs like that make me think. I have to do my job and I have to do it clean. I have to remember. I have to remember I quit drinking because I couldn’t control it. I can’t use the pills to get by, I don’t have the discipline. I have to start from scratch.
I have my own people to worry about. I have my mom and dad. I keep fucking around and I may as well go find them and put the bullets in them myself.
The bullets myself.
I SPEND THE rest of the evening cleaning. I clean myself and I clean the shitty apartment. I clean the broken mirror out of the sink and I bandage my wrist. I go through the pills. I flush the Demerol and the OxyContin and the Quaaludes and the Lithium and the Xanax and the Percocet and the Darvocet and the Morphine and the Klonopin and the Librium and the Adderall and the Dexedrine and the Desoxyn. It’s not the first time I’ve flushed an addiction down the toilet, but it needs to be the last.
By eleven the place looks half decent and I’m thinking about going to the twenty-four-hour supermarket to buy some real food for a change.
Then David calls and tells me that he wants me in New York.
– Branko is on his way to pick you up. It will be good for you. Almost a homecoming, yes?
After I hang up I go in the bathroom and stare at the toilet. I get as far as taking a wrench from my tool kit and turning off the water pressure, but I stop myself before I can unbolt the toilet from the floor and check the bends in the pipe for any pills that might have gotten stuck.
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