Six Bad Things

  —I don’t know.

  Oh, fuck. I close my eyes.

  —Mickey.

  —Yes. I am Mickey’s uncle. His father’s brother.

  DYLAN IS a liar.

  —Dylan Lane is a liar, Henry. He is a debtor and a welsher and a liar and he does not do the things he promises he will do for his partners.

  I’m sitting on one of the barstools in front of the kitchen counter. David Dolokhov is making coffee and toast.

  —When Dylan needed money for his start-up, he went to the usual places. He went to California, to Sand Hill Road where the venture capitalists are, and asked them for money. But they did not give it to him. So he went to the banks. But he had problems with the SEC and his credit was bad. So he went to his family and friends. But they had given him money before and he had lost all of it. So he came to us. And we gave him the money. And with our money, he was able to attract more money, because money loves money. And at first, we were very happy. His company had an IPO. Very exciting. The stock. The stock, it topped at one sixty-four and one half! We were very happy. But Dylan? He is a greedy man. He is bound by laws of the SEC that prevent him from selling his shares just then, and he is greedy. Rather than using his new leverage to finance a loan to pay us back, what does he do? He uses the leverage to invest in commodities. A long story short, he trades on margin and the market craters and his margins are called and his personal fortune is destroyed. And his company’s own stock becomes valueless. And when we encourage him to sell off the company’s assets to repay our money? There are no assets. The company has been a shell game all along. So now, Dylan Lane is in the shit.

  The coffeemaker beeps and he picks up the pot. He pours two cups and hands one to me. I lift it with my unburned left hand and bring it to my lips and sip, feeling the heat radiate into the burns on the right side of my face.

  —So now Dylan hustles. He hustles this and he hustles that and he makes just enough as a hustler of this and that to make his interest payments. But he has dreams of being a big man again, and he is always looking for an opportunity to make enough money to pay us back. And then he hears the story of Henry Thompson and the four-and-a-half million dollars. And he comes to me with a proposal. He will, as he says, Buy the debt. But with what I ask? He still has no money. He will buy it, he says, on credit, and pay it off along with his own debt when he has the money.

  The toast pops up. He butters it and cuts the slices diagonally and puts them on a plate in front of me.

  —Eat.

  I take a small bite and chew. It hurts.

  —I ask Dylan his plan to get the money and he tells me that he has a man who will watch your parents and tell him if you appear. Well, this is bullshit. This is a bullshit plan. And I tell him no. And he leaves. And then nothing. Until a year passes. And my nephew is killed in Mexico.

  He wipes the kitchen counter clean, tops off his own coffee, then comes around the counter to my side and sits on the other stool.

  —My nephew, Henry. My nephew was an asshole. But his mother, the woman I swore to my brother I would care for, she loved him very much. And so I personally go to Mexico to discover what has happened. I arrive in Mexico last week, on Thursday. I go to Chichén Itzá and see where my nephew died, and find out that when he fell, a man was with him on the pyramid. I go to the police and talk to the two men who have investigated the death, and they show me a photograph they have taken of you.

  He widens his eyes and spreads his hands open. Shock.

  —A coincidence! But not so much perhaps. I suspect my asshole nephew was in some way seeking to extort the money from you. I whisper in the ears of the policemen. I tell them a tale of treasure, and I promise them a share if they will arrest you and bring you to me. And they try. And you disappear.

  He hangs his head and shakes it. Such sadness.

  —But all is not lost. Because, Henry, because I know you have a friend. I know, we know, that someone helped you in New York, and we believe it is this same man who has recently moved to Las Vegas. I make phone calls. I call people we know from business and find out where this man is, and I make arrangements to meet him. You are running, Henry. Where will you run to, but to a friend? Or to family? I remember Dylan’s man who lives on your parents’ street. I look in my memory and I find the man’s name and I call him and offer him money to “keep his eyes peeled.” And I learn something. He tells me that Dylan has already paid him to watch. For a year Dylan has paid him. Dylan had asked for permission to pursue the money, and he had been denied, but he has paid the man anyway. Greedy. Liar. So I pay the man more money, and he does not tell Dylan that I know of this betrayal. And now, I fly to Las Vegas myself. And two things happen. Your friend in Las Vegas disappears, and the man in California calls me. He has seen you.

  He holds his coffee cup up in a toast.

  —And I tell him to call Dylan. Because, Henry, because you are a dangerous man. You have killed other dangerous men. There will be risks in dealing with you. I will let Dylan take those risks, and if he gets the money, I will take it from him. Because he is not a dangerous man.

  —He has men.

  —No. He does not.

  I tear a corner off of a piece of toast.

  —He is a liar, Henry. He will have told you that he has dangerous men, but he neither has the money to hire such men, nor the knowledge of where to find such specialists to do the things he will have threatened. To kill your mother and father at a whim. It is hard to kill people, Henry. The men who do it well are rare and prized. You should know that.

  I push the plate of toast away. David Dolokhov pushes it back in front of me.

  —Eat.

  I take another painful bite.

  —And now there is a great deal of farce, a great deal of following and losing and trailing. And new crazy men arriving to kill. And confusion. But when you run from California, I stay in Las Vegas to be near the home of your friend, where I think you may run to. And you do. I was here, Henry, watching when you came with your new friend and the large hound. I watched, and I realized something. You were searching.

  He points an index finger at the ceiling. Eureka!

  —You do not have the money. It is your friend all along. He has had the money, and now that you have come for it, he has run away so to keep it. And now I will watch what you do and you will find him for me. But that is not altogether correct, is it?

  —No.

  I tell him about sending Tim the money. He shakes his head again.

  —And he took it to hide it from us?

  —Yeah.

  —And he came back for you, into the teeth of danger.

  —Yeah.

  —And you killed him.

  —Yeah.

  He nods. This is the way these things happen.

  —He was a good friend.

  —Yeah.

  —But he did not tell you where the money is? Do not answer. Why else would you kill yourself? Or try. And what luck! I had lost you, Henry. I lost you almost as soon as I had found you. I fell asleep in my car outside of the Sam’s Town casino. And when I awoke? You were gone. I did not know where to look. But I still had Dylan. If you found the money, you would take it to him, and, so, good enough. And then a phone call from a man named Terry, an unreliable man. But I go to him anyway. And what do I find? Mayhem. Bloodshed. Grotesque.

  He closes his eyes. That such things should be.

  He opens his eyes.

  —And so what now am I to do? Nothing. I can only wait and hope that you will contact Dylan and he will lead me to you. But! If I must wait, I will wait here, outside this building, and see perhaps if your friend makes a return. And last night. You come. With a woman and your friend with the hound, and you are hurt. And there is news on the radio of violence, and I know you have been in it. And I wait until you are alone. But still you are a dangerous man, and so I call for help. And while I wait, I see your friend appear! And he goes inside. And I wait, thinking that this will be it, the money is near
and you will lead me to it, but no one comes out. A man arrives. My dangerous man. We come in here.

  He turns on the stool and looks at Tim’s body. And we find this.

  —My dangerous man takes your guns and goes outside. And I?

  He leans toward me.

  —I save your life, Henry. To find out where the money is. And you do not know where the money is. But I tell you this story. Why, Henry? Why are you still alive if you do not know where the money is?

  I look at Tim’s corpse. Blood has soaked through the blanket that I used to cover him. Why am I still alive? Why has God not come out of his heaven to destroy me?

  —I don’t know.

  He smiles. His teeth are perfect.

  —You are alive because you are a dangerous man. And I have uses for dangerous men.

  DYLAN SHOWS a little later.

  He knocks on the door and I tell him to come in and he comes in and he looks like shit. He’s wearing the same outfit as when I first saw him, but it’s rumpled and he’s unshaven and has dark rings under his eyes. But he’s excited too. He’s been living on stress and fear, hoping that this gamble will pay off. And now it’s payoff time.

  It’s dark outside. I’ve left only one light on and moved the coffee table over the bloodstain where Tim’s body was. Dylan stands in the open doorway, looking at me. He licks his lips and points back outside.

  —I have someone with me, Hank.

  Liar.

  I nod.

  He takes a step into the apartment.

  —Anyway, I know it’s not necessary to tell you that, I’m just making a point.

  He closes the door. I wave him into the living room. He’s nervous about coming farther inside. But he’s greedy, so he does.

  —Well, Hank. You look a little worse for wear.

  I nod. He nods back.

  —So. Shall we?

  I point at the cardboard box next to Tim’s stereo. He walks over to the box and opens it and sees the big chunks of Styrofoam inside. I pull the Anaconda from between the sofa cushions and point it at him.

  Dylan raises a finger as if to make a final point.

  —Your parents, Hank, think of your parents.

  I do.

  I love you, Mom and Dad.

  And I prove it.

  DAVID DOLOKHOV’S dangerous man comes out of the bathroom and takes the gun from me and tosses it on Dylan’s body. He takes my arm and leads me to the door and down the stairs and up the block to a silver Lexus. I get in the front passenger seat. The dangerous man nods at David Dolokhov, who sits in the driver’s seat, and then walks away. Dolokhov starts the car and drives down the street.

  —My daughter wants a nose job. She is sixteen and she wants a nose job. Why? There is nothing wrong with her nose. She has my nose. Is there anything wrong with my nose?

  I look at his flat and crooked nose, and shake my head. He smiles.

  —Of course there is not. For me, this is a perfect nose. But for my daughter? She has a point. And I love her. So for Christmas, I will get her the best nose money can buy.

  He stops at an intersection, looks both ways, and turns left.

  —I tell you this to warn you, Henry. Because the truth is, the man who will work on you? The man who will change your face? I would not let this man near my daughter’s nose.

  THE NEXT day Miami gets pummeled by Oakland. The final score is too embarrassing to believe. But in the late game, I get to watch Detroit run back the first kickoff of sudden-death overtime for a game-winning TD over the Jets. And that’s fun. So next week the Dolphins and the Jets will square off in a winner-takes-all game for the division.

  The motel is in Henderson, I think. The room is big. It has to be for the pieces of rented hospital equipment to fit. The doctor comes and looks at my face and says we should wait until the burns heal, but Dolokhov says we need to hurry. So the doctor gives me something to make me sleep.

  I sleep.

  EPILOGUE

  DECEMBER 25, 2003

  Final Day of the

  Regular Season

  It’s Christmas Sunday.

  I am not home.

  The doctor stops by to look at my bandaged face. He nods a few times and makes a joke about not being able to unwrap me yet, and then he leaves.

  My face feels swollen and hot, but I have a button in one hand that I can push when the pain is too much. I push it quite a bit. In my other hand, I have the remote control for the TV. I use it to see things. I have been seeing things all week.

  I see a computer graphic, a map with the faces of dead people, and a series of lines tracing their deaths to me.

  I see my friends in Mexico. Pedro on his front porch, shaking his head and denying that he ever knew me. He looks OK and I’m happy to see that, but it also makes me sad because it reminds me that I will never swim again in the Caribbean and have to sit on my porch afterward with cigarettes in my ears. And, behind Pedro, I think I see one of his children in the background playing with a cat. And that makes me smile. It hurts to smile, so I stop.

  I see Leslie and Cassidy being interviewed, and someone asking Cassidy if she was scared of me, and her saying that I seemed nice. I liked you too, Cassidy.

  I see Danny explaining how he felt it was his duty to pursue me when he realized who I was. Telling the story of how he trailed me north on the I-5 and lost me and went home and found my parents’ address online. He starts to talk about how he had “patrolled” their neighborhood and saw me with Wade and attempted to “apprehend” me. His lawyer shuts him up before he can say any more.

  I see the funeral of Sheriff’s Deputy T.T. Fischer.

  I see Wade’s widow, Stacy, with her kids. They are all crying, the kids. Stacy is cursing me and saying that if she had known what a monster I would turn out to be, she would have killed me when we were in school together. Her kids are beautiful. You have beautiful kids, Wade.

  I see Rolf’s body being removed from the El Cortez.

  Sid’s body at the trailer.

  Dylan’s body taken from Tim’s apartment.

  Timmy.

  So many bodies.

  I see the APB they put out on T’s car, and the California booking photo of him that they put up on the screen. I see the discovery of the “Death House,” aka Sandy’s house. But I don’t see T or Sandy. Stay low, guys. Stay low.

  And I see Mom and Dad on their porch, begging me to please come home and turn myself in. And the TV shows them over and over, and every time I see them, I push the painkilling button and everything goes away.

  I also see David Dolokhov’s dangerous man. He stays with me in an adjoining room, and I watch him all the time. I watch him to see what a dangerous man is like.

  This one is medium tall and has a potbelly and very little hair. He’s a bit over forty and wears those cheap reading glasses you get at drugstores. When he talks, which is never very often, he has a Slavic accent, but it’s very different from Dolokhov’s. He also drinks a lot of beer without seeming to ever get drunk and, based on the tunes I hear coming out of his room, he’s a big R&B fan. He did me a favor and picked up a copy of East of Eden for me. I lost the one I had in Mexico and never got to finish it. Of course, I’m too doped-up to read, but it was a nice thing for him to do.

  He comes into my room now and hooks up a new bag to the IV needle stuck in my arm. Sucking on a straw hurts and I can’t chew at all, so I’m getting fed through a tube for now. I’m also not allowed to smoke, but as long as I have the button in my right hand, that doesn’t bother me much. Maybe I’ll quit.

  When the dangerous man is done, he gestures, asking silently if I’m OK. I give him a little thumbs-up and he nods. I can’t tell if he’s quiet by nature or if he’s simply gotten into the spirit of my own silence. He goes back to his room, leaving the connecting door open, and turns on the radio.

  I watch him because I want to know what a dangerous man is like. Because that is what I am becoming. That is what I will be. That is my deal with David Dol
okhov.

  I will be his new dangerous man. And for my services, I will be paid. David Dolokhov will pay me with the lives of my mother and father.

  So, as it turns out, I will not buy their lives with dollars.

  I will buy them with violence.

  “Purple Rain” starts to play in the next room. I flip away from the news. Tired of it. A week without a new dead body and they’re running out of things to say.

  The Dolphins-Jets game is on. But I don’t watch it. I’m not a hunted man anymore. I’m a found man. I don’t have to hide myself any longer. So screw football. Pitchers and catchers report in eight weeks.

  I turn off the TV, and hit the pain button.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  My gratitude to Simon Lipskar, Mark Tavani, and Maura Teitelbaum for professional support and friendship.

  Thanks to Dr. Cybele Fishman, who generously gave her time to discuss the dos and don’ts of impromptu plastic surgery.

  Virginia Smith continues as my first reader, trusted critic, and wife. I have no words to thank her.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  CHARLIE HUSTON’s previous novel, Caught Stealing, was the first in a trilogy about Hank Thompson. He lives in Manhattan with his wife, the actress Virginia Louise Smith.

  BY CHARLIE HUSTON

  Caught Stealing

  Six Bad Things is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  A Ballantine Book

  Published by The Random House Publishing Group

  Copyright © 2005 by Charlie Huston

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.