– Henry.
That’s me, that’s my name. Henry Thompson.
– Henry.
But no one uses it anymore.
– Henry. You must tell me.
No one uses it because Henry Thompson is a man most everyone would like to see dead.
– Henry. How does it feel to be here?
But David is using it.
– Henry? To be home?
I don’t answer. Because this is not my home. Not even close.
BRANKO PICKED ME up at the crappy apartment.
He comes in and sees the bandage on my wrist, but says nothing. He uses my bathroom and sees the broken mirror, but says nothing. He takes me out to his car and drives me to the airport. And finally he says something.
– You cleaned your apartment?
– Yeah.
– It was dirty?
– Branko, it was filthy.
– Yes, but it is always filthy.
– I got tired of it.
He points at the bandage on my wrist.
– You hurt yourself cleaning?
– Yeah.
He nods. William DeVaughn croons “Be Thankful for What You Got” on the Camry’s CD player.
– You packed no contraband?
– You watched me pack.
– The security, it is very strict.
I haven’t flown in the U.S. since 9/11 and Branko is worried that I left a toe clipper in my bag or something.
– There’s nothing.
– Good. You need money?
– No.
The song plays. We turn off at the airport and Branko takes us down the departures lane.
– If they pull you out of line, it is nothing. Go with them. They will open your bag and ask you to take off your shoes. In case there is a bomb.
He grunts laughter at the ridiculousness of a shoe-bomb, knowing better places to hide explosives.
– I know.
– You will fly coach. First class I would have booked, but people, they walk past you and stare at your face. The people in coach, they hate the people in first class.
– No problem.
He starts to say something else. Changes his mind and pulls the car to the curb at the United gate. He puts the car in park.
– You need money?
– No. You asked.
– Yes.
He looks past me, through the car window and the glass doors, into the nearly empty terminal. It’s just after midnight, Friday morning. A few people who were in town for midweek specials are taking a red-eye back east, but the real traffic will be coming into the airport around eight when the weekenders start to arrive.
– Branko.
He doesn’t say anything.
– What’s this about? Me in New York. That’s.
He shakes his head.
– You have somewhere else you would go? Yes? No. Go to New York. Do as you are told.
– Yeah. Sure.
He fishes a credit card out of his breast pocket and hands it to me.
– At the automatic kiosk, you zip this. The ticket will appear. In the name on your driver’s license. The card, you throw away.
– Right.
I open the door and climb out. Branko gets out as well and comes around the car to my side. He reaches into the backseat, grabs my bag and hands it to me.
He takes out his billfold and offers me a stack of cash.
– I have plenty left from the other day.
– Take it.
– Branko.
– Take the money.
– Sure. Thanks.
I take the money. He nods, puts his billfold away and walks back around the car. Before he gets in, he points at me.
– Do as you are told.
Then he gets in and drives off.
I walk through the automatic doors, find the ticket machine and swipe the card. I take my ticket to the security line and show it and my driver’s license to a polite woman in a blue blazer. I shuffle through the short line and my baggage is X-rayed. No one asks to look inside. I board the plane and find my window seat. A middle-aged man sits on the aisle and when the door is sealed without anyone having claimed the seat between us he gives me a tired half smile, tilts his seat back and falls asleep. I stare out the window, watch the ground fall away, and try to remember what it was like the first time I flew to New York. Try to remember being very young and starting something new. But I can’t. I look at the sleeping man. I could be sleeping. I could be chewing down a couple Ambiens and sleeping dreamless and long. Instead I grind my teeth and watch the bad movie with the other insomniacs who lost their shirts in Vegas.
THE PLANE BANKS and Manhattan appears outside the window.
Coming back here.
Coming back here makes me want a pill. But then again, so does breathing.
– How does it feel? Being back, how does it feel?
David’s Brighton Beach office is the living room of an apartment above the Winter Garden Restaurant, right on the boardwalk. It’s a strange corner turret. The exterior is corniced at the top, an old salmon pink building at the dead end of Brighton Street. El Marisol is spelled in black tiles outside the front door, harking back to some time before the Russian immigrants had taken over the neighborhood.
– It feels weird.
He comes over and stands next to me. He points out the window.
– You can see Coney Island.
I press my face close to the glass and look to my right. Far up the boardwalk, past the aquarium, I can see Deno’s Wonder Wheel, the red-and-white pillar of the observation spire, and, further on, the tower of the abandoned parachute drop. Coney was one of the last places I saw before I ran away from here.
David taps the glass.
– They have a baseball team now.
– I heard something.
He puts a hand on my shoulder and steers me away from the window.
– Baseball I know less than nothing about, but the park is nice. A baseball park on the beach. When my daughter is married and has children, I will take them there.
He places a hand over his heart. I long for this more than anything.
He points at the brown leather couch. I take a seat and he sits in the matching overstuffed chair to my left.
The office is crowded with furniture. The couch and chair, a coffee table, two end tables with identical ceramic lamps, a desk and office chair and two chairs facing it, a small sideboard with a selection of liquor decanters and soft drink bottles, three antique filing cabinets, a magazine rack, two floor lamps with shades wrapped in plastic, and an actual divan with a price tag still stuck on it.
– You like it?
– Sure.
He smiles and tilts his head to the side.
– You do not have to lie with me. It is tacky.
I start to say something but he holds up a hand, blocking my words before they can come out of my mouth.
– It is my wife. She does this to me. Buys these things and brings them here. She wants me to be comfortable. My guests to be comfortable. At first I tell her, Marya, no, it is too much. A desk, chairs, this is all a man needs in his office. She tells me my office must impress. So.
He holds out his arms, inviting me to look at the clutter. You see who wears the pants.-So this is fine. I do not care. I care only about these.
He points at the walls.
The walls are covered in family photos. Behind the desk is the centerpiece: a poster-size soft-focus image in a massive gilt frame. David with a short round woman wearing large Gucci glasses, and an almost pretty young woman who is obviously fighting a pitched battle with her mother’s stocky genes and her father’s flat features.
– These are my treasures. Everything is for them.
He lays a hand on my forearm.
– This you understand.
He pats my arm.
– Do not answer. It is not a question. This I know you understand. To do everything for one’s family. This is what it is to be a man. And you are a man, Henry. Of this can there be any doubt? The things you have done to prove it.
He takes his hand from my arm and touches his whiskers with his fingertips.
– And now there is more to do.
– Yeah. David…-Yes? There is something on your mind? You must speak it.
– David. I don’t even know what you want here. You want me to? What?
He laughs.
– What I want? No. Henry. It is what you have done.
– Yeah, but.
– Would I bring you to New York? No.
He clutches his head with his hands. The insanity.
– I still don’t.
– It is your national pastime. This game. You, you can explain to me.
He gets up and picks through the furniture to the magazine rack, comes back with a copy of today’s Daily News and drops it in my lap. The headline is something about someone blowing up something in the Middle East.
– I don’t.
– No, not this.
He picks up the paper, flips several pages and drops it back in my lap. I look at the page, trying to find what it is he wants me to see. He taps his finger on the Mets Notebook and a small item headlined in bold type.
– This.
Mets Top Pick Moving Up
Miguel Arenas, the Mets’ top pick and the first pick overall in the Major League draft, is already moving up. Having spent one day in rookie ball, the Mets will move Arenas to the single-A Brooklyn Cyclones. Arenas is expected to see playing time in this weekend’s season opening series against the Staten Island Yankees. The move was instigated by injuries that have plagued the Mets’ farm system this year, requiring the early advancement of several players, but it certainly won’t hurt Cyclones’ ticket sales to have the darling of last year’s Olympics playing at Keyspan Park.
David sits in his chair and gazes at the photo of his family while I read about baseball.
– You understand all of this?
– Yeah.
– Yes. I remember you like baseball.
– Yeah. But I still don’t…
– Henry. It is not clear?
He takes the paper from me and points at the article.
– This boy, he is coming now to New York. Now. And he asks for someone. For you. So now it makes sense, why you are here?
It makes no sense. But I get it. And it’s a bad idea.
– I can’t do it. I can’t be this guy’s bodyguard. He’s. There’s gonna be press. It’s. How can I?
David turns his head to the side and puts up both hands, palms outward. Stop! You are going too fast.
I stop. He lowers his hands and looks at me.
– I will explain.
He pauses, collects his thoughts.
– This boy, he has a disease. He has the disease that he must gamble. Yes?
I nod.
– And so. And so he gambles. He bets on everything. Cards, dice, lottery, a spinning wheel with numbers, horses, dogs. Men are ahead of him in the bathroom, he will bet which will finish pissing first and take an over and an under on how many will wash their hands. He is sick. And while he plays for his high school and his college, Stanford, a school my daughter was accepted to, he gambles. When he plays for the USA at the Olympics, he gambles. And he bets on all things. He bets on baseball. Never on his own team, but he bets. And he bets only with the same bookie. The same bookie who was his father’s bookie, I think. A man who is a friend. He can trust this man not to take advantage of him, not to sell this information to a newspaper. The Olympic hero who gambles! He is protected from such headlines. But he is not protected from himself. He gambles, and what happens to all gamblers is what happens to him. He loses more than he can pay.
David shrugs with just one shoulder. And what else can one expect?
– His friend can no longer afford to take these bets. But he is a talent, and from a young age there are many who have faith in him, faith in his talent. And faith that this talent will earn money. And where there is that kind of faith, there is also credit, and many many IOUs.
He lifts his hand slowly to show me the growing stack of IOUs.
– Baseball, I told you, baseball means nothing to me. But I employ people who know this game well. Someone must set the odds, someone must make the spread. I am told. And one of these men watches when the boy plays baseball in the Olympics. You saw this?
I didn’t. The summer of 2004 I was in my shitty apartment finding out how much Demerol I could take at once.
– Missed that one.
– I understood very little, but it was stirring. And this man, the odds-setter. He has heard of the boy’s gambling. And he asks questions. And he finds things. Among the things he finds are the many IOUs. And he suggests something to me. And I say yes. And so he starts to buy these IOUs. This is good paper. These are debts that one expects to have repaid. But a bookie will always rather have cash. Quietly he buys these IOUs. And then he has them all. Do you know how much, Henry?
– No.
– Guess.
– I have no idea.
– That is fine. You could not guess it anyway. Nearly 2 million. Nearly 2 million in paper. And I have bought all of it.
He bugs his eyes slightly at the notion. Can you believe my foolishness?
– Tell me, who is the worse gambler here, Henry, this boy or myself? Nearly 2 million. That is a great deal of money. I will tell you honestly, that is money I can not afford to lose. But life is a gamble. And sometimes even a businessman must gamble. It is how one stays on top. A risk from time to time is necessary. To prove to yourself that you do not fear the fates. But still, having bought all this paper, I am constipated for weeks.
He winces.
– And then.
He smiles.
– You know what happens, yes?
– Sort of.
– First pick. A number one. And he sets a record. Do you know what record?
I shake my head.
– He sets a record for the largest rookie signing bonus ever in baseball.
He briefly raises his fists about his head. Yes!-Over 6 million. This is a good record to have, yes? But it is maybe not so much.
He makes his right hand into a blade.
– There is to be this much for the agent.
He slices the air.
– This much for the manager.
Another slice.
– This for the government.
A very thick slice.
– And so. I call him. I explain to him who I am. And I tell him of the paper I have bought. And I have a conversation with Miguel. In person, yes, but very private. In San Diego, where his home is. We talk about…everything. We talk about family and life and being young, we talk about love and women, we talk about New York City and what it will be like for him when he comes to live here. All of this. He also talks about baseball, but this I do not understand. And then, we talk about gambling. I tell him that I could ask for my money. But what then? He will have so little left. Where will be the house for his mother, the new car for himself, the many things a young man desires? I tell him this does not interest me. I will want my money, but not now. He wants still to gamble? Good. I will help. He will place all of his bets through me. If he wants to play cards, I will find him a game. If he wants to roll dice, I will find him a table. If he wants to bet on two men pissing, I will find him a toilet.
He smiles at his joke.
– And if he wants to go to Las Vegas, I will give him an escort to be sure there is no trouble for him. And he listens and he says, we will try it.
He widens his eyes. Everything should be so simple and pleasant.
– And so this paper has led to another investment. I have invested in this boy’s future. I have kept my money on the table and will spin the wheel once more to see where this boy will land. But I am not stupid. If the wheel falters, I will pull my paper back before it can all be lost. This is making sense?
It’s a long-shot bet David is laying. Does Miguel have what it takes? Can he make the bigs? Once there, can he stick? If he lives up to a slice of the potential he’s supposed to have? Jackpot. Give him a couple years and he’ll sign a free agent contract in nine figures. And huge chunks of it will be carved away by the spread every time he places a bet. And that’s not even the big payoff. If David can get his hooks in deep enough, if Miguel compromises himself in the right way, we’re talking fixes. A dropped ball here, a strikeout there, getting picked off first on occasion. Do it right and it doesn’t have to even be about throwing a game, just making sure the right team beats the spread.
I nod.
– It’s making sense.
– Good. Now he comes the first time to play in New York. A young man with all that money. Many mistakes can be made in New York. So I call him, I tell him, this boy, I tell him he must have someone. And he says yes, that is fine, he will have you.
David mimes a phone at his ear, pulls it away, looks into it. Did I hear right?
– I say to him, Miguel, I have many good men. I will get one of them for you. You will have a magnificent time. You will be a prince and do anything you wish. But he says no. He will have only one man. He will have only you, Henry. This boy, he knows already what I know, that you are a good man. Already, this boy, he loves you. So this is good. You will escort this investment, keep him from harm, help him to have his fun.
He wags his hand loosely. And help him lay his bets. And keep other bookies from him. All of those things.
Keep him under David’s thumb.
– You can do this?
Can I do it? Can I help fuck up this guy’s life?
Of course I can.
It’s not that hard really, put your mom and dad on the other side of a scale and you’ll find the guy doesn’t weigh anything at all. Even if looking at him is like peering through the looking glass right into What Might Have Been Land.
Besides, it’s better than killing.
– Sure. Sounds good.
My left hand rests on the arm of the couch. David wraps both of his hands around it.
– Good! Good. You have done your job so well in Las Vegas, it has brought you here again. And this, this is not chance, I think. This is fate. You are meant to be here. I want for us to work together, Henry, for us to work with trust between us. It can happen.
He tilts his head at the huge family photo.
– Between two men who love their families as we love ours, there is always understanding. Where there is understanding, yes? Where there is understanding, there is always room for trust.
Still clasping my hand, he leans his face very close to mine.
– So you will look after this young man.
He lets go of my hand and stands up.
– This and one thing more.
He turns to his desk and speaks to me over his shoulder.
– You will kill my fucking sister-in-law.
THE FIRST TIME was The Kid.
I HAVEN’T FORGOTTEN any of them. Far as I know there’s no way to; forget about the people you’ve killed for hire.
I remember Branko knocked on the door and he answered. The Kid. Sixteen, maybe seventeen. He must have known Branko from business or something because we went in and he asked if we wanted something to drink. Branko said yes and followed The Kid into the kitchen. I stood there in the living room and looked around.
Just your average suburban home. The Kid’s mom must have been a neat freak because there wasn’t a speck of dust anywhere. Other than that, average. I was just standing there, wondering how we were gonna do this, wondering if The Kid was in on it, or if we’d just call it off. I mean, if the guy we were supposed to deal with was The Kid’s father, we couldn’t just do it in front of him. That’s what I was thinking. I stood there.
There was a frozen image of a baseball player on the TV screen. I thought for a second that it was real. Then I remembered that it was winter. Then I saw the big EA Sports logo on the bottom of the screen and the game controller lying on the floor and I figured it out. Then I heard a sound from the kitchen and Branko stuck his head around the corner and told me to get in there.
I nodded and walked in and The Kid was lying on the linoleum in front of the open fridge, a bunch of soda cans and a Tupper-ware container of leftover spaghetti spilled around him. Branko grabbed his arms and flipped him over onto his stomach. I looked around the kitchen and saw how well kept it was, just like the living room. I was wondering if it was a good idea to have let the kid see us. I mean, what did I know, I was a beginner. Branko took a Beretta Tomcat from his pocket, chambered a round, clicked off the safety, and handed it to me.
Branko told me to hurry and I looked at him and he shook his head and said something in Serbo-Croatian that I didn’t understand. He pointed at The Kid. Dots connected. I pointed the gun. His mom and dad were gonna come home and find him.
There were some loud noises and I stood there and looked at the pattern the spaghetti sauce had made around The Kid’s head. It looked like someone had shot him. Then I realized it wasn’t just spaghetti sauce anymore and that I had shot him. Branko took the gun out of my hand and did things to it and dropped it and led me out of the kitchen.
We walked through the living room to the front door and I looked back over my shoulder and saw the screen of the TV with the frozen baseball player and one word flashing at the bottom of the screen.
RESUME?
RESUME?
RESUME?
ANYWAY, THAT WAS the first time.
DAVID TAKES HIS seat behind the desk. The time for socializing over.
He places his hands palms down, flat on the leather blotter his wife picked out.
– Time has passsed. Many things are ready to be forgotten. People forget. Either because it is too painful to remember, or because they no longer care, or because life changes things. Between you and me, everything is ready to change. But some people do not forget, Henry. Some people cling to the past as if it were still in front of them. You, sometimes I have thought you were one of these people.
A person who lives in the past, a person who can’t get over things that happened a couple years ago; he thinks I might be that kind of person. He doesn’t realize I’m the kind who hasn’t gotten over things that happened when I was sixteen.
– With these pills you take.
– I got rid of the pills.
– I know. Branko, he looked in your apartment. He called me, told me the pills were gone and that you did not bring them with you.
He pats the desktop lightly with his right hand. Bravo.
– This tells me something. The work you did with Branko at the Happi Inn, the good impression you made on Arenas, they tell me things. But getting rid of the pills tells me more. You are no longer willing to live in the past. You want a future again.
I think about a future. I think about living another thirty-seven years. It’s not something I’ve been thinking about much lately, so it takes a little effort.
– But not everyone has grown up, Henry. Not everyone is ready as you are to move forward. Some people dwell. It is not healthy, but some people do not know what is good for them. My sister-in-law, she is such a person.
I think about thirteen thousand mornings, give or take, waking up and breathing.
– Her son. Always now, everything is about Mikhail. Her darling Mickey. This nosey little shit who got himself killed.
He drops his head and presses his fingertips to his temples for a moment. I should not think these things about the dead.
He looks up, puts his hands back on the desk.
– She cares only for one thing now. You. Your death is all she lives for.
Thirteen thousand mornings, waking up and wondering if I will have to kill anyone that day so that my parents can stay alive. And somewhere else, this woman waking up, staying alive one more day until she can find me and kill me. Irony tries, but doesn’t really cover it.
– She has pleaded with me for this revenge. Where is he? Why can you not find him? If he is dead, I need proof. Show me where is his grave so that I can spit on it. And I tell her always, You must forget, Anna. Forget and live your life. We may never find him. And if we do? His death will not give you peace. For years she pleads, but now she demands. I want him, I must have him. You do not care. You never loved my son. Your daughter, she is alive. You cannot understand. Find him, or I will have my nephews find him. Find him. I tell her, This will create havoc in my business, Anna. It is no good. And then, Henry, she tells me, my sister-in-law tells me, she says, I do not care about your business. Find him.
He makes a fist and bangs it once against the desk. Enough.
– She does not care about my business? Her husband’s business it was. The business that feeds her. And so there is no more talking to be done. She was my brother’s wife, this is true. But he is dead from cancer. She was my nephew’s mother, true, but he is dead by his own stupidity. So now, there is no blood between us. Now, she is nothing. She is not family.
He circles his finger in the air, taking in the photos.
– We understand family, Henry. We understand what one must sacrifice for family. So you will help me with this woman. And in helping me with this, Henry, you will help yourself, and you will help your family.
He stands.
– This threat, this childish threat to your mother and father that has hung over both our heads. This threat of which I am ashamed.
He comes around the desk.
– Make it go away, Henry.
He pulls me to my feet.
– Deal with this woman who is no longer my family.
He embraces me.
– And your mother and father will be at last safe.
He spreads his arms wide. Could you hope for anything more?
DAVID SHOWS ME out but does not walk me to the elevator. I stand in front of it alone and watch the numbers light up one by one as it crawls closer to me.
The elevator stops and the door slides open. A very attractive woman in black steps out and walks up the hall. I step into the elevator, but something about her curly, just-graying hair reminds me of someone, and I peek out before the door can close. She’s standing outside David’s door.
I want her to be David’s elegant and aristocratic mistress, the woman he spends his afternoons with when he is not at home with his wife, the woman he talks to the way he would never talk to the whores he and his business partners fuck on the weekends. But I suspect I am wrong. I suspect this woman passed her curly hair and almond eyes to her son. And that I met him in Mexico. And that I killed him. I suspect that this woman is David’s sister-in-law.
The elevator doors try to close, but I am blocking them and they make a noise. She turns her head and looks at me looking at her. I pull back into the elevator and the doors close.
Well, that can’t have been good.
DOWNSTAIRS A LIMO is parked out front. The driver stands next to the car, smoking. I’ve seen his type before. Young. Blond spiky hair, meaty but not fat, Ralph Lauren sportswear, oversized pop-star sunglasses on his face. I’ve seen his kind shooting at me. I’ve seen his kind bleeding in the street. I have more than a slight premonition that I’ll see both again.
We ignore each other. But not really.
AS I WALK down the boardwalk, I think about The Kid. I think about killing sons. And about killing their mothers.
Past the Winter Garden and the Moscow Cafe; past the Tatiana Restaurant with fluorescent green and orange napkins accordioned and tucked into water glasses on the tables; past all the little boardwalk places where Russians and tourists sit at umbrellaed tables, eat pierogies, and stare at the ocean. And past all the many families out in the early Friday sun.
It’s hot in my black jacket and jeans. I take the jacket off and stuff it under the strap of my shoulder bag. I’d like to roll my sleeves up, but the tattoos would show. I feel on display again, walking down the middle of the boardwalk, no cover to cling to, but no one seems to pay any attention to me. I walk past the Brighton Playground, past the handball courts, past the sculpted and textured wall of the aquarium, styled to look like a lower-depths seascape.
I’ve had only the few hours’ sleep I got after I took Miguel and Jay to the airport yesterday morning. My face aches and the hole I put in my wrist feels hot and itchy. But the sky is blue and the breeze is soft, and if David isn’t lying to me, I only have one person left to kill.
And I already killed her child, so how hard can this really be? It takes me about twenty minutes to reach Coney. The Cyclone is clanking up its track, getting ready to drop, the Wonder Wheel spins, “Celebration” booms from the bumper cars. A nice Friday crowd is building.
– Scarface! Yo!
I stop. Miguel is sitting at one of the picnic tables in front of Ruby’s, a crappy carnie-dive version of the Russian places up at Brighton, sipping from a plastic cup of beer and surrounded by shopping bags. “Crazy Train” is playing on the jukebox inside.
– Sorry we didn’t grab you at the airport.
– No problem.
Miguel stuffs half a hot dog in his mouth.
– We came up on a midnight flight after the club sent word I was moving.
Jay comes back from putting money in the jukebox.
– Moving up, yo.
He slaps hands with Miguel and starts digging through the dozens of plastic shopping bags. Bags from the NBA store, Nike-town, the Sony store, Macy’s, and more.
Miguel stuffs the other half of his dog in his mouth and talks as he chews.
– Had late dinner with my agent, got checked into the suite. All that. Then we hit the hotel bar. Had to sleep in. Then we had some shopping to do. And then I called the guy. You know.
He makes a vague gesture that means David.
– And he said you were on your way, so we waited here.
Jay sticks a bubble-wrapped gadget in my face.
– What the fuck is this, yo?
– I don’t know.
– Yo, Mike. What the fuck is this?
– I don’t know, man. You bought it.
Jay laughs.
– Shit, yeah. Man, I was still fucked up this morning.
Miguel laughs, inhales another hot dog. He chews, his face smooth-skinned, surrounded by his toys, hanging with his best friend. He is a boy.
He eats the last of his four dogs, drains his beer, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and then offers it to me. I take it and he pulls me close on the bench and puts his other arm on my shoulder.
– Good to have you here, bro. We’re gonna have fun. Gonna be cool.
– Yeah, thanks.
He lets me go. I think about how much he’s fucking up his life. I think about how that’s not my problem.
– What now?
He smiles, a blob of mustard at the corner of his mouth.
– Ballpark. Gotta get fitted. Game tonight.
Steely Dan comes on the juke. Miguel stands.
– Let’s jet.
Jay pulls his head out of a shopping bag and points into Ruby’s dark interior.
– Yo, “Kid Charlemagne.”
He points at me.
– Played this for Scarface, yo. Old skool for my old motherfucker. He’s a hood, just like The Kid.
He punches me on the shoulder.
– Don’t forget, yo, I want to get into some of that gangsta shit this time around.
IT’S A BEAUTIFUL ballpark.
I sit with Jay in the field-level seats between home plate and the home dugout. Beyond left field we can see Deno’s Wonder Wheel and the Cyclone rising above Astroland and the rest of Coney’s midway. Right field is backed by the ocean. The sun shines down and a breeze blows in off the water.
A ballpark on the beach. What’s not to love?
Jay is pulling a brand-new pair of Nikes out of a box. He dumps the box in the aisle for someone else to clean up.
– Nice place to play ball, yo.
I nod.
He kicks off his old shoes and leaves them next to the box.
– Bet there’s some Annies hangin’ round here. Some beach Annies. Love it.
I nod.
The park is empty except for us. It’s early, but the trainer and the equipment manager wouldn’t let us into the clubhouse while Mike gets fitted.
Jay tilts his face to the sun and closes his eyes.
– Won’t be here long, though. My boy’s moving up. Mean, it’s cool to hang at the beach a couple weeks, but my boy needs to get up and out. Can’t be wastin’ talent down here. These single-A guys, they put ’em up in a fuckin’ dorm. Fuckin’ dorm rooms. Mike just got done with college. Fuckin’ watch, they bring ’em here in a bus. Mike told his agent, told him, No fuckin’ way, yo! Need wheels, need a pad. Hook it up. Told him, I’ll pay the tab, just hook that shit up. Got off the plane from Tennessee, from my boy’s one day in rookie ball, there’s the Escalade waitin’ for us. Got a suite in the City, yo. One of those downtown places. Boutique hotel. My boy says he didn’t come to New York to live in Brooklyn.
A couple groundskeepers have appeared. They start peeling the tarps off the infield dirt.
– Stick it out, Scarface. Mike takes a shine to you, stick it out, yo. He takes a shine and nobody can talk him out of it. And he’s startin’ to shine on you.
He opens his eyes and looks at me.
– Got anything to say to that, yo?
– I like him, too.
Jay sits up.
– That a joke?
– No.
– Good. Cuz Mike likes you. He liked your moves in Vegas. Liked how you were smooth with the crowd at the Palms, liked how you eased us in at the Rhino, and he sure as shit liked that no-nonsense you laid on those yokels in the parking lot. Said to me on the plane back, That guy’s the kind of guy a man wants around to take care of shit. Said, yo, said he felt safe with you. Safe. You get that?
– Sure.
– Do you? Cuz that, yo, that’s some deep shit, someone says they feel safe with you.
He moves into the empty seat between us and drops his voice.
– See, I know all Mike’s shit. Right, yo?
– Right.
– We go back. Grew up in San Diego together. Little League. We go back like that. Kids together. Played on the same teams together. School together. When his dad, when he split on the family and went back to Mexico, back to some other family turned out he had goin’ down there, Mike’s moms couldn’t support him and his brothers and sisters on her own. He came to live with me. Moved into my home when he was thirteen. My mom and dad, they took him in. I know all his shit.
He shakes his head.
– People don’t know. His agent told him to get rid of me, said I was trouble. He don’t know, cuz he don’t know Mike. Mike likes trouble. Me, I like fun. That shit in Vegas, that last hurrah. That was a deal we had. I told him he’s in too deep already. Got to stop the betting. But that contract dropped and he had to spend, had to play. So I put him on a budget. Two hundred G’s. Throw it around like you don’t care. But that’s it. In pro ball now. Got to get square with the guy who has the IOUs. Can’t have shit like that hangin’ over his head now. That’s just beggin’ to be Pete Rosed. But Mike has what they call poor impulse control. That hundred grand we split Vegas with? That’s already gone. Twenty-four hours and it’s gone. That Russian set him up with his own personal bookie. Like giving a junkie a on-call dealer who delivers the best shit in town.
He pulls off his Pods visor, runs his finger around the outline of the picture of a friar swinging a bat, keeping his eyes from mine.
– And now you. The man says Mike needs someone while he’s here, to keep an eye on him, help him out. I don’t like it, but as long as the man is holding Mike’s paper, he gets his say and we can’t push too hard. Got to have someone? OK. I say to Mike, Ask for that guy from Vegas. Ask for Scarface.
He looks up from the visor.
– I asked for you. Cuz I think Mike might be right. You could be the kind of guy he needs to have around. You know how to take care of trouble and you don’t take shit. Could be, yo, you’re just what Mike needs.
He pulls the visor back on.
– Mike got himself in this shit and all I can do is help dig him out. I got one mission, that’s watch my boy’s back. He wants to bet, he’s gonna find a way. That doesn’t mean I have to help. You, yo, you have to make that call for yourself. My boy knows what’s best for him, even if he don’t always do it. He’ll see what side you’re playing. He sees you’re part of the solution, you could end up with a new team, whole new livelihood.
He holds out his arms, taking in the ballpark and the ocean.
– Spend your time watchin’ ball games, hookin’ up with Annies and hangin’ with us, yo. Instead of fightin’ with guys in parking lots or whatever the hell you’re used to. Could be sweet. Could even learn to like the game.
He lowers his arms.
– Anyway, I’m just talkin’. But this could be an opportunity, yo, to change your life. You just got to decide the right thing to do.
He holds out a fist.
– Cool?
I bang my fist against his.
– Sure.
– Alright. See, that’s the shit. Now we’re all in the open and we just get to be ourselves and everybody gets to see what everybody’s made of. Gonna be sweet, yo.
He slips his feet into the new Nikes and bends to lace them up. I look at the back of his head. I see what I usually see when I look at the back of someone’s head, I see exactly how it would look if I put some bullets in it. He straightens, and I look at the water.
Miguel comes walking up out of the home dugout. He’s wearing the white-and-red Cyclones uniform, red socks worn up and out, old skool.
– S’cool, right?
Jay jumps up, runs down the steps and vaults the wall.
– Sweet, yo. Need some help though.
He reaches up and twists Miguel’s cap to the side.
– That’s the shit.
He pulls a cell phone out of his pocket and tosses it to me.
– Scarface, snap a picture.
I flip the phone open, push a couple buttons until I figure out the camera and point it at them.
– Wait a sec, yo.
Jay jumps up and Miguel catches him in his arms.
– Snap it.
I take the picture and Jay jumps down.
– It good? Need another one?
I look at the picture on the phone’s tiny screen.
Miguel is tall and straight. The uniform fits him perfectly, like second skin. He looks born to play the game. He looks like a ballplayer, looks like just what he is. Jay is cradled in his arms, looking like a child in an adult body, looking like what maybe he wants you to think he is.
I look up from the phone.
– Yeah, it’s fine.
THE PLAYERS ARE over Miguel before they even see him. They pulled up, saw the Escalade parked next to the players’ entrance, and word got around quick who it belonged to. Not what you want to see when you’re getting bused to work and living in a dorm. They tap fists with Miguel and say yo, but no one hangs out with him. He makes it worse because he doesn’t seem to care. Just does his thing, lets the publicity guy take his photos, talks with the GM, does some jogging, meets the manager and coaches, everything smooth and professional and with the air of a guy who knows this is a pit stop. All the while Jay tags after him, whispering in his ear, blatantly pointing at other guys on the team and talking shit about them.
There’s press around, and the Staten Island players are starting to drift onto the field to stretch. First game of the season, everyone’s early. This may be single A, but add the Mets farm vs. Yankees farm matchup to that first-day vibe and throw in Miguel’s debut. It may not be a game for ESPN, but local interest is high. There are reporters from all the city papers, and TV cameras are set up to do a cable broadcast of the game. I decide it’s time to lie low.
I duck past a couple of the visitors and cut through their dugout into the tunnels. Down at one end I can see an Aramark vending truck pulling up to the loading dock. I turn in the other direction, past a stack of boxes filled with player photos; a guy walking around in a seagull suit carrying the mangy head under his arm.
THEY HAVE A little museum devoted to Brooklyn baseball. I go in. There’s a bench just inside the door. I sit down and lean my back against the window and watch a young woman as she leads a group of kids around the place, showing them relics of the Brooklyn Dodgers.
I try to relax, try to enjoy the air-conditioning and let myself be soothed by the woman’s voice as she tells the kids about the importance of Jackie Robinson. But all I end up doing is grinding my teeth and wishing I’d at least kept some Xanax.
I’m itchy and antsy and sweaty and my face hurts and I’m thinking about the thirteen thousand. All those mornings I might have if I kill Mickey’s mom.
I think about going back to Mexico, back to my beach. It wouldn’t be the same, I wouldn’t have the 4 million stashed away. But Pedro might still be there running the bar I gave him. He’d give me a job. A place to be. A home. And shit, of course he’s still there. Where else would he be? Pedro and his wife Ofelia and their kids and his brother Leo, and Bud. Bud. Yeah, Pedro will still have my cat Bud. Shit, I’d sure like to see that cat again.
I THINK ABOUT working at the bar and taking swims in the ocean, getting tan and fit again. I wonder if my bungalow is still there. Pedro probably rents it out. But he’ll get rid of whoever’s in it if I come back.
I think about the sun and the impossibly blue ocean and the jungle. I think about not worrying over my mom and dad. Thirteen thousand mornings spent waking up and not worrying that I’ll fuck up and Branko will appear on their doorstep.
Thirteen thousand mornings.
To spend however I like.
A better stash than the 4 million ever was.
Someone bangs on the glass my head is resting against. I jump and twist around to see Jay.
– Yo, Scarface, snap out of it. Batting practice is starting. You want to see this shit.
FANS ARE COMING into the park for batting practice. These are the hard core, the folks wearing authentic Cyclones jerseys and jostling around the white-board on the concourse, copying the starting lineups onto their scorecards. I follow Jay down the steps to our game seats behind home. We settle and Jay gives me a jab with his elbow.
– Yo, these people don’t know. Watch this shit, they’re gonna freak.
I don’t say anything, just push my sunglasses against my face and watch the players as they parade to the plate one by one and take their hacks. The pitching coach pours low-key fastballs down the middle and the players slap them to short or pop them up or send easy flies to the outfield. The first baseman has some power and actually puts a couple over the left field wall, just above the 315-foot mark. None of it matters much. The fielding in single A is almost as bad as the hitting; just making contact with the ball is enough to put a guy on base half the time. Then Miguel comes up.
The atmosphere changes. The feeling from his teammates is less, Now, let’s see what the star can do, than, Man, I can’t wait to watch this asshole flailing at this shit. He sets up in the right side of the batter’s box. The pitching coach puts a little extra on the first one and the ball cuts, coming in on Miguel’s hands. He’s looking middle of the plate, he swings anyway and shatters his bat. It doesn’t just break at the handle, it explodes into four or five pieces.
Jay shifts in his seat and Miguel goes for another bat.
– Oh, this is gonna be good.
Miguel sets, the pitch comes down the pipe and his bat hits it. The ball soars into center, and keeps going. It slaps into the huge black screen in dead center, just over the 412-foot mark.
– Yo, Mike. Get one over! I want to see a Green Monster shot!
Another pitch. The ball goes to the same place, only higher this time.
– Stop topping the ball, bitch, I said I want one over that shit!
Miguel glances at him, adjusts his cap with the middle finger of his right hand, making sure Jay catches the gesture, then steps back into the box.
Jay laughs.
– This is it. This one is a goner.
The coach rears back, puts everything he has into it this time. Miguel swings free and easy, getting all of the ball this time. And the ball climbs and climbs, and clears the top of the screen, cutting through the wind coming off the water.
– That my boy! Now give me another!
Another ball goes over.
– Another one!
Over.
– Give it to me.
Over.
– Again!
And again and again and again. Seven in a row go over the screen, Major League homers all, moon shots. ESPN Top Ten material, every one.
– That’s my boy! Yo! That. Is. My. Boy.
Then Miguel switches sides of the plate, sets up to hit lefty, and does more of the same.
THE COACHES AND players have a bit more enthusiasm for Miguel when he comes up during the game. Not that he seems to care. Not that he seems the least aware that he is playing in his first game of pro ball.
And it may be a silly game for children being played by grown men, but when he comes to the plate in the bottom of the ninth, having single-handedly kept the Cyclones in the game, and swats an RBI double to tie it up, I jump out of my seat and cheer.
And I almost give a shit when they lose it in the tenth.
– Yo, we tried to find a shitty Olds for you, Scarface, but the Caddy was all they had.
We’re in Mike’s Escalade, driving across the Brooklyn Bridge. Mike stares out the window at the lights of the Manhattan skyline.
Jay sticks his face between the seats.
– Sweet. You see that shit on TV, but it’s not the same, yo.
Mike nods.
– Can you fucking imagine if the Mets hadn’t grabbed me number one?
– Don’t even, yo. Playing for the Dodgers would have sucked.
I shake my head.
– Dodgers suck.
They look at me.
– Yo! Turns out Scarface knows some baseball after all.
Shit.
– Not really. My dad, he was a Giants fan. I just know enough to know the Dodgers suck.
Miguel tugs at the bill of his Cyclones cap.
– Well that’s the basics, man.
Jay laughs.
– No shit. Get that down and the rest of the game is easy. So, yo, where we gonna get our drink on?
Drink. Are any of the places I used to know still here? Shit, would they want to go to any of those dives?
Miguel adjusts the A/C.
– What about that Hogs & Heifers spot? That’s by our hotel, right?
Jay reaches between us for the stereo volume.
– Yo, Julia Roberts got topless in that place or some shit. I’m in.
He cranks the bass and “Bombs over Baghdad” shakes the car.
THEY ALMOST GET me clean.
I come out of the hotel and start toward the restaurant the concierge told me Miguel and Jay went to for breakfast. A car is parked a little ways down the street. Two men in the front seat. The passenger gets out, a young guy in expensive jeans, his black hair heavily gelled and styled back from a sharp widow’s peak. He flicks a cigarette butt into the gutter and walks briskly around the car with his hand out and a smile on his face.
– David wants you.
His accent is thick. Russian. I stop for a second, long enough for him to get a couple steps closer. Then I see the one still in the car. Another young guy. One with spiky blond hair and pop-star sunglasses.
They’ll have guns.
I don’t.
I run.
I WAKE UP on a couch, jet-lagged and groggy. I grab my bag and take it to the bathroom. I turn on the light and my hand reaches automatically for the medicine cabinet. I tug on the edge of the mirror a couple times, trying to open it, thinking about starting the day with a Percocet maybe. Then I remember where I am. Miguel’s suite at Soho House.
No one else is around. The bedroom is empty, no sign of Miguel or the bartender he brought back. The other couch looks like Jay and his girl spent the night having a rabid pillow and champagne fight. Thank God I was so wiped out. I can’t imagine having to lie there sleepless and witness that.
I shake my head and try to open the medicine cabinet again; and again go through the process of remembering my pills going down a toilet in Vegas. Right, Henry, you’re in New York and you have no pills. OK, at least that’s settled. Then I realize that this mirror isn’t shattered and covered in black tape. I close my eyes. But it’s too late, I’ve already seen myself. And I look like shit. Fine, let’s get it over with. I open my eyes. Yeah, I was right the first time: I look just like shit. Eyes bagged and bloodshot, hair sticking up on one side, my skin nearly as pale as the scar on my face. I lean closer. I hadn’t realized how much gray there was in my stubble. I knew I was getting old, but no one wants to see the evidence of it right there on his face. That just sucks.
I go to switch off the light, but stop and look at myself again. Cleaned up, I look a little better. Could I spend the rest of my life looking at this face? Strange thought. I still haven’t gotten used to the idea that I might have one of those, a rest of my life. Besides, if I want it, I still have to kill Anna Dolokhov.
I find a note next to the phone, written on thick hotel stationery.
Yo! Went for breakfast. You were laid out like a bitch so we left you alone. If we’re not back you can call my cell and come watch us drink bloodies. Mike’s worried about getting the party bus. Will you check that shit?
J
PS
Good looking out last night.
Good looking out last night. I guess so.
HOGS & HEIFERS sucks.
It’s packed with tourists hoping to catch sight of a star, not realizing that a true celebrity hasn’t stooped to dancing on top of the bar here for a good many years. It’s a sad scene until Miguel and Jay get the party started. Within an hour Jay is on the bar with his shirt off dancing to “The Devil Went Down to Georgia” and Mike is getting lessons from one of the bartenders on how to spray Bacardi 151 from his mouth and light it on fire. Miguel does get recognized, but the response is pretty temperate. I mean, most of these people came hoping to see Julia Roberts’s tits after all.
I find a corner by the pool table and try to stay out of the way. Miguel comes by on his way to the bathroom.
– Man, hey, man. This place is great, right? I love this shit.
He’s having the night of his life. Why shouldn’t he be? He’s a twenty-one-year-old millionaire who just had a monster game, and everybody loves him. I’d feel good, too.
– So, do me a favor.
He glances at Jay, dancing a two-step on the bar.
– Slip me your phone, bro.
I look at him.
He leans against the wall next to me.
– Jay has mine and I need to make a call.
Jay looks in our direction and hoots. Miguel hoots back, trying to look like we’re talking about nothing at all. He looks at his watch.
– I have to make this call.
He wants to make a bet. He wants to call his personal Russian bookie and lay a bet and get deeper into David’s hole. Fine. Jay can say what he wants to say about having an easy life, about getting in on something good, having friends and all that shit. But David’s already made me an offer. All I have to do is kill someone. That, and don’t fuck up with Miguel.
He has his hand down low, open and waiting.
– The phone, bro.
Not my fucking problem.
– No problem.
Not my problem, his problem. Just the one problem he has in his superstar life. The one huge fly in the otherwise perfect ointment. Let him ruin his life. Me, if I had had the chance he has, I would never have pissed it away.
So I put my hand in the pocket where my phone is, and I wrap my fingers around it, and I nod my head.
– Sure thing, Miguel.
Not my problem at all.
I take my hand out of my pocket. And it’s not holding the phone. And I point at Jay.
– Except the thing is, your mom over there? He says you aren’t allowed.
He looks at Jay and back at me.
– That’s harsh.
I shrug.
– Take it up with him.
So he walks to the bar, grabs Jay by the ankles, and pulls him down.
I RUN. THE Russians chase me.
If they catch me they’ll kill me. If they kill me I’ll have broken my contract with David. If I break my contract he’ll kill my mom and dad.
If they catch me David will kill my mom and dad.
I run faster.
MIGUEL AND JAY are rolling around on the beer-soaked floor. The fat, hairy bouncer who gives people shit at the door grabs the seat of Jay’s baggy jeans and yanks. The jeans pop off Jay’s hips and the bouncer falls backward over a table, crashing into a pyramid of empty PBR cans. Now Jay is topless and his pants are tangled around his ankles and one of the bartenders has started spraying him and Miguel with her soda gun.
Miguel is on top of Jay, his knees pinning Jay’s shoulders to the floor.
– What the fuck, man?
Jay tries to kick him in the back of the head.
– Yo! Yo! Yo!
Miguel has a fistful of Jay’s hair.
– I could kill you right now. I’m that mad.
– So do it, yo.
Miguel nods his head, his mind made up.
– OK, man.
He yanks Jay’s hair, forcing his head back, and starts hocking up a loogie from the back of his throat. Jay twists and thrashes.
– Don’t do it, yo.
Miguel hocks again.
– Say you’re gonna mind your own business.
– No way, yo.
Miguel positions his face right over Jay’s, lets the loogie slip from his lips, and sucks it back in.
– Gonna be eatin’ it. Say it.
– No.
– Open wide.
The bouncer is being helped up.
A couple tourists are going for their cameras.
The rope of spit is dropping toward Jay’s face.
I grab Miguel’s collar and pull him back and the spit drops on Jay’s chest.
– Gross! Yo, sick!
Miguel shrugs me off easily. Jay kicks free. I get a grip on Miguel’s arm.
– Chill. We have to go.
A flash goes off. Another.
He looks at me. Another flash. Looks at the people looking at him, and at the bouncer crossing the room. Jay stands up, pants around his ankles.
– Yo, let’s jet.
He starts to waddle toward the door. Miguel grabs him and throws him over his shoulder. The bouncer gets closer, realizes how big Miguel is, slows down. I put a hand in his chest. He looks at it, sees the C-notes and takes them. I toss a couple more on the bar and follow Miguel and Jay out the door, flashes popping around us, making our escape.
SOME THINGS CAN’T be outrun.
The Russians catch up to me a little over a block from the hotel, right out front of Hogs & Heifers as fate would have it. The car screeches around the corner and cuts me off, and the guy on foot tackles me and sends me face-first into the hood. Heat flashes in the bones of my face and a vice clamps my skull. I want to fight. I need to fight. But the pain is followed by a wave of nausea and instead of fighting I puke up a little fluid onto the hood of the car. My arms are pulled behind me and something is wrapped around my wrists and I hear a zipping sound. I’m jerked back off the hood and hauled toward the rear passenger-side door of the sedan. The one behind me has a hand on the plastic bindings he zipped around my wrists, pulling my arms up and back, and the other clamped on my neck. The driver with the spiky hair reaches into the backseat and pushes the door open. I plant my feet. The one behind me pushes my arms higher and something grates in my right shoulder as it threatens to dislocate. I lurch as the pain leaps up my neck and meets up with the agony in my face and he trips me into the back of the car. My upper body flops onto the seat. Spiky grabs the collar of my jacket and pulls while the one on the sidewalk pushes on my legs. I roll, land on my back in the footwell, pull my feet free of the one on the sidewalk and kick him in the neck. He stumbles back.
MIGUEL RUNS AROUND the block toward Soho House where we left the Cadillac, Jay still draped over his shoulder. I trail them, making sure no one follows. Halfway to the hotel Jay slips from Miguel’s shoulder, lands on his feet, and hops up the street pulling his pants back on.
– Yo, I left my shirt.
He turns and starts back toward the bar. I put out my arms and herd him in the other direction.
– Uh-uh. Bad call.
– Yo, my nippies are hard. I need my shirt.
I take off my jacket and hand it to him.
He looks at it.
– Little big.
– Roll the sleeves.
He pulls on the jacket and rolls the sleeves, but still he’s swimming in it.
– This sucks.
Miguel points at him.
– Makes you look…
He points at me.
– Like his bitch.
He starts laughing. Jay shakes his head.
– Harsh, yo.
We pass a bar on Ninth Ave.
– Yo! I need a drink.
Miguel pulls the door open.
– Let your new girl buy you one.
He goes inside and lets the door swing shut.
Jay opens the door and smiles at me.
– See, yo, how hard was that?
They get silly drunk. Miguel picks up the bartender and Jay picks up her friend. We stay after closing. I drink seltzer and try to calculate the hours since I slept. The bartender tells us about the party bus.
– It’s, like, exactly like a limo, but it’s, like, a bus.
Jay and Miguel love it.
– We have to. Yo! We need one to pick us up after tomorrow’s game.
Miguel looks at his watch.
– Today’s game.
They drink more.
On the way back to the hotel, the girls walk together whispering in each other’s ears while Jay walks right behind them, still wearing my jacket. Miguel puts his arm around my shoulder.
– You know I wasn’t really mad, right? About you not giving me the phone?
– Sure.
– You know, I know what’s right. I know Jay’s right about that shit. How I’m a little out of control. I just get a little pissed when he sticks his nose in it. Telling other people and shit. But that’s, you know, man. That’s kinda why he thought you’d be good to have around, I guess. Anyway, we’re cool. OK?
– OK.
– Cool.
He pats my shoulder once and runs up to the girls and throws his arms around them.
– What’s the big secret? Jay, what’s the big secret here?
Me, I follow behind, watching their backs, trying to figure out why the hell I didn’t give him the damn phone. But knowing the answer. It’s easy enough after all. I like the guy. Fuck me.
I HAVE TO get out of the car. If I stay in the car they can take me anywhere and kill me. I have to get out of the fucking car, Mom and Dad.
I heave myself up and scoot on my ass toward the open door. Spiky tries to grab my hair, but it’s too short. He reaches for something in his pocket. He’s going to do it. He’s going to shoot me right here in the car. The one on the sidewalk is coming back, a hand held to his neck.
I can’t get out of the car.
I have to do something.
So I scream.
AFTER I’M CLEAN, before I go down to see if I can find Miguel and Jay at the restaurant, I pull the phone book from the desk and flip to the pages for limousine services. My eyes drift over the open Yellow Pages. I see a small ad in the lower right corner. It’s black with yellow lettering in gothic script.
Mario
Personal Car Service
sweet
And a phone number.
Mario. Looks like he’s moved up in the world some. Good for him. But nothing in his ad about what I need. So I turn the page and keep looking. I find it and make the call. A woman comes on the line and asks me what I need.
– Yeah, uh, do you have a party bus available tonight?
They do.
Then I go downstairs, the concierge tells me where she sent the guys for breakfast. I walk onto the street into a beautiful day, feeling far from the worst I’ve ever felt.
And they almost get me clean.
SPIKY SWINGS SOMETHING at me. I flinch and it hits me in the shoulder that was almost dislocated. Pain jumps to my wrist and the arm goes dead.
I scream.
The one on the sidewalk is trying to get a grip on my legs as I kick and thrash. Spiky swings his sap again.
I scream.
The sap hits the top of my head.
I’m going to die. I’ve done these things and I’m going to die. Oh, God. Oh, no. Please. Save me please. Someone save me. I don’t want to die.
I scream.
The sap comes down again.
I stop screaming.
A DOOR OPENS. Closes. Footsteps. Three people, I think.
There’s pain in my right arm and shoulder, something digging into my wrists and ankles, a hard ache at the top of my head. And my face, the bones behind my face feel cracked. I open my eyes. The light makes the pain worse, but I keep them open. It takes several seconds for my vision to clear, for the living room to resolve.
I’m facedown on a couch, my arms bound behind my back and my ankles strapped together. A man, the guy with the gelled widow’s peak, is sitting on a flowered armchair across from me, smoking. The spiky blond driver is standing behind him, sunglasses on. Between us, perched on the edge of the chair’s ottoman, is a beautiful woman dressed in black. She is very small.
I remember Mickey telling me his mother was once a dancer. She must have been a ballerina.
She’s looking at me.
– You killed my son.
It seems pointless to say I’m sorry.