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.
SPORTSCENTER PLAYS ON the main screen in the empty Caesar’s sports book. Miguel and Jay watch the highlights while they fill out dozens of keno tickets. They’ve commandeered one of the few cocktail waitresses on the shift. She shuttles back and forth between them and the keno lounge, dropping their slips off and bringing them fresh drinks.
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 are big league, yo. You are ready.
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, I would have had to spend a few years in the minors. Of course, I was going to go in straight from high school. If I had played in college, I might have been ready to hit big league stuff. Sure I would have. I was practicing with a wood bat every day. I was born big league.
—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.
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—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.