Dangerous Men Read online

“I realize that, and I feel badly about it. If I’d had your number, I would have called.”

  Victor didn’t mention that for the past two months, as a part of an economizing measure, they’d been doing without a phone. He thought again of the lizard. “You were where?”

  “At a dinner. That’s what we do at these conventions. We drive our cars to some central location, then hang around eating and drinking. It’s pretty boring, really, but it gets me out of the office. Buy you an ice cream?”

  Victor accepted, and the two of them took their cones to a bench.

  Money took off his glasses. “Have you decided what you want to play for?”

  Victor met his eyes, which seemed to him like cold, blue stones. He thought of the devil movies he’d seen. It seemed a peculiar question. “Do I have a choice?”

  “There’s always a choice. Only remember, never get into a bet you’re not prepared to lose.”

  “I’m not going to lose. And you’re going to help my mother.”

  “What are you suggesting, Victor?”

  “She can’t sleep, and she’s got trouble with her breathing.”

  “Then she ought to see a doctor.”

  “Give her back her health,” said Victor. “If I win, that’s what I want.”

  He took out a set of black driving gloves and swatted a fly that had landed on his knee. “And if I win?”

  “You can have my soul.”

  Money arched an eyebrow. “Your soul?”

  Victor nodded. “You heard me.”

  “Big stakes.”

  “Yes.”

  Money thought this over for a moment. He bit into the cone part of his ice cream and chewed noisily, then swallowed. “I think you may have mistaken me for someone else. I’m only a businessman who likes to play a little ball. But all right, you’re on.”

  Just then, a man with a bullhorn made an announcement.

  “That’s my category,” said Money. “Let’s go see if I won anything.”

  Victor followed him to where a man in a plaid jacket stood next to a blonde lady in a white jumpsuit, carrying a clipboard. She took the bullhorn and announced the winner’s name, and a fat man in a brown cowboy hat jumped up to accept the plaque.

  Victor watched Money’s reaction, expecting to see anger, possibly rage. The potential seemed there—behind Money’s cool, sculpted face, there was a hint of something smoldering, competitive and mean. But he just shook his head.

  “These things are all fixed,” he said. “I don’t even know why I bother.”

  ———

  The evening was a hot one, with only the vaguest hint of a breeze from the southwest. Victor was out on the court early, dribbling around, working on his bank shot. True to his word, Money appeared a little after seven, his black car still shiny as glass in spite of the dust its tires kicked up. The engine roared and was silent.

  He was dressed in worn blue gym shorts and a red tank top, and his sneakers were red canvas high-tops from another era. He was muscled and trim, but he looked very human, and for a minute, Victor wondered if he might be wrong about him. Maybe he really was what he claimed, just a rich guy who liked to play basketball. But the devil could be a trickster—he knew that from Rodriguez’s woman, Opal, whose entire life seemed to be made up of encounters with him. The Evil One took a special interest, she said, in tormenting her. Just last week, a mysterious wind had taken a sheet off her clothesline and hung it from the branches of a nearby cottonwood, where it flapped like a sail for two days because Opal refused to have anything to do with it. She’d finally given Victor fifty cents to climb up and get it.

  Money tossed a basketball to Victor, who caught it and examined its material and make. Leather, with no visible trademark—good grain, easy to grip. He bounced it and took a set shot which fell two feet short of the basket. He adjusted and proceeded to put the next five into the net. “I’m ready,” he said.

  “We’ll play Death,” said Money. “A game of accuracy. Shoot to go first.”

  “Don’t you want to warm up?”

  “I’m always warm. Go ahead.”

  Victor took a foul shot and sank it. Then Money went to the line, crouched with the ball under his chin, eyed the basket and shot. The ball bounced off the rim.

  Victor grinned. “Maybe you should have warmed up.”

  “Your shot,” said Money.

  Victor figured he’d go for it, right from the start. He walked off the court, over to where the Ferrari was parked, and from there put up a long, high, arching shot. It looped three times around the rim and flew out.

  “Don’t be too cocky,” said Money. “Rule number one.” He collected the ball, dribbled out to a crack in the pavement where the top of the key would have been and executed a turnaround jumper that fell perfectly through the hole.

  Victor took the ball and repeated the shot. Still, he was furious with himself for giving up the advantage. Now, he was on the defensive, forced to wait for his opponent to miss.

  Shot for shot, they were both perfect. Money did a backward lay-up, but Victor easily made one too. Fall-away jumpers, hook shots, they each sank everything they put up. Finally, after nearly five minutes, a sloppy jump shot gave the advantage back to Victor. He put in a twenty-foot banker. Money whistled, walked to the spot and did the same. Rather than try something else, Victor took the shot again—he had a sense that he’d make it, and he figured he’d keep going from the same place until Money missed. He didn’t have to wait. Money’s attempt went off the backboard, missing the rim entirely.

  “You’ve got D,” said Victor, a little louder than he’d intended.

  “Just shoot the ball,” said Money.

  It went on, a slow game, a game of nerves and of strategy. Money kept trying to distract him.

  “Are you worried? I know I would be. You’ve got a lot at stake here.”

  “I’m not scared,” said Victor. In fact, he was getting a little nervous. He’d never thought the contest would last this long.

  “But your soul. That’s a big wager. Maybe you’re betting over your head.”

  “You don’t scare me.”

  “I’m not trying to scare you. I’m trying to let you know that I appreciate the seriousness of your convictions. For me, basketball has always just been a game. I don’t let it obsess me the way you do. That’s why I’m going to win, because I have less at stake. I’m more relaxed.”

  “If it was just a game to you, how come you came out here to find me?” Victor went to the foul line, stood with his back to the basket, and put the ball in backward, over his head.

  “Well,” said Money, “isn’t that special?” He tried the shot and missed.

  “D-E for you,” said Victor.

  Within a few minutes, Victor started missing shots, ones he should have been making. Money played with an icy calm, calculating his shots like geometry problems. It was as if, Victor thought, unseen forces were acting upon him, making him miss. To make matters worse, each time he did, Money smiled at him and said “thunk.” Pretty soon, Victor was behind, with three letters. Glancing over at the Ferrari, he saw that Alabaster was curled up on the hood, sunning herself. It was, he thought, a very bad sign.

  “We can quit now,” said Money. “I don’t mind.”

  “No way.”

  “Don’t kid yourself, Victor. You’re going to lose, in spite of that name of yours. But it doesn’t matter. There’s nothing magical about being a good basketball player. It won’t do anything for you down the road, other than make you wish you spent your time on something more useful. You’ll never be a great—you’ve got no killer instinct. And you’re too short.”

  “Stop talking,” said Victor.

  “Just trying to get you to be realistic.”

  Just then, one of Rodriguez’s dogs got loose, ran across the street, and began barking at the stranger. Money froze in the middle of the court as the black-and-white mongrel bared her teeth and snarled, tail flat down as if she expected at any moment to
be kicked. Rodriguez himself appeared after about a minute, a beer in his hand, to grab the dog by the collar.

  “Who’s winning?” he asked.

  “That’s one fierce hound,” said Money, nervously keeping his distance. “Hunter?”

  “No hunter,” said Rodriguez. “She’s a lover. Just had her third litter this year.” He pursed his lips, eyeing this stranger with the nice car. “You want some puppies?”

  “No, thanks,” said Money.

  “Ten bucks,” said Rodriguez. He was a squat, muscular man, with a hank of hair that dangled loosely over his forehead.

  “I don’t much like dogs.”

  “No, man. Ten bucks the kid beats you.”

  “Well. Ten bucks it is,” said Money. “Where were we?”

  “My shot,” said Victor. Think no bad thoughts, he told himself. Keep your heart pure. He put in a running hook.

  Money made his hook, picked up his own rebound, and bounced the ball back to Victor.

  “I need another beer,” announced Rodriguez, and dragged the dog back across the street. He returned moments later with a six-pack and settled in the dirt by the side of the court to watch. After a little while, he was joined by Opal, her heavyset, Navajo features almost making it seem as if she were wearing a mask. She broke open one of the beers and tipped her head back to receive the contents.

  Over by the trailers, the competition across the road was attracting attention. Many of the residents began to emerge to see what was going on. The two long-hair drunks whom everyone called Manny and Moe, and who worked as part-time construction workers when they weren’t sleeping off the booze, walked slow circles around Money’s car, nodding their heads and making approving comments. Distracted by them, or maybe just growing tired, Money bounced one off the rim.

  “That’s D-E-A,” said Rodriguez, who had appointed himself referee.

  “I know what it is,” said Money. “Please, don’t touch the car.”

  There was now a small crowd gathered—nearly fifteen people. Somebody brought out potato chips and passed them around. Victor felt as if he were in a spotlight. These were people who generally ignored each other, except for a nod in passing, but there was a real sense of community as they watched the contest. Last to come out was Victor’s mother. Shielding her eyes against the slanted light, she looked pale and ghostlike. The wind, which was beginning to pick up as it always did at this time of day, tossed her housedress around her knees.

  Victor did a reverse lay-up. There was a smattering of applause.

  The sweat stood out on Money’s face as he bounced the ball in preparation. Then he moved under the basket and flipped the ball backward over his head. As he did so, one ankle buckled and he went tumbling forward onto the pavement.

  “Damn,” he said, holding the ankle in front of him like a foreign object. He kneaded it for a few moments, then hobbled to his feet.

  “D-E-A-T,” sang Rodriguez. “Uh-oh.”

  Victor considered. Repeating the lay-up would finish Money off easily—with his twisted ankle, he wouldn’t have a chance. But it seemed like a cheap ending, and Victor had an audience. He wanted to do something spectacular.

  “Everything on this shot,” he heard himself say.

  “Everything?” Money said, cautiously. “Are you sure?”

  “Everything.”

  “Done,” said Money.

  “What are you guys playing for, anyway?” asked Rodriguez. When there was no answer, he shrugged and opened another beer.

  Victor walked the ball right off the court, out into the dirt lot beyond it, a few feet from a particularly nasty-looking cholla. The crowd let out a cheerful noise, encouraging, but with laughter mixed in—no one believed for a moment that the wiry, sad-faced twelve year old could possibly hurl a ball that far, let alone make it go through a hoop. Money hobbled around in obvious pain, but the look of amusement on his face was unmistakable.

  Victor knew the moment he looked at the basket and saw how far he was away, that this was impossible. He’d overdone it—he was way beyond his range. But he couldn’t see any way out now without losing face. In his hands the ball seemed to gain weight, as if it were filling internally with liquid. Money was still smiling at him. His neighbors watched in anticipation. His mother stood among them, her hands clenched in fists at her sides. He’d blown it, he told himself. He’d failed to stay pure. Pride was one of the seven deadly sins (he was pretty sure about this), and his own had brought him to the brink of the abyss.

  Holding the ball to his chest, he gauged the distance to the net and prayed for a miracle. He did not want to die. He tried to imagine what it would be like to spend eternity soulless, in a box, no air, no light, the rough wood pressed up against his face. For a moment, he felt as if his feet had grown roots and that his bones extended deep down into the earth, into places damp, fungal, and cool. Then he put the ball as high into the air as he could possibly throw it.

  Moving in what seemed like slow motion, the ball described an orange-brown arc, at the very top of which it hung for a moment, certain to fall short. Then, out of the south, a powerful wind kicked up, and for a moment, the whole world seemed to shake. Tumbleweed rolled around the court, and the rim of Rodriguez’s beer can was coated with red-brown dust. Descending on the shoulders of the wind, the ball actually cleared the basket, arriving first at the backboard, then glancing smoothly down through the net.

  Victor screamed at the top of his lungs, and his voice was joined by a chorus of others from across the road.

  “Never happen again in a million years,” said Rodriguez, walking onto the court.

  “Lucky,” said Money, shaking his head.

  “Hey, man,” said Rodriguez. “He beat you square and fair. Pay up.”

  Money hobbled over to his car and brought back a wallet. He took out a ten and gave it to Rodriguez.

  “You don’t owe the kid no cash?” asked Rodriguez.

  “No,” said Money. “I don’t.”

  “So, what then?”

  Money shrugged and shook Victor’s hand, then went back to his car and got in.

  “What about our deal?” said Victor. He felt suddenly anxious, more so than he had during the game.

  Money leaned his head out the window and looked at him long and hard. “I never expected to lose,” he said at last. His tinted window hummed and closed, leaving Victor staring at his own reflection. Then the Ferrari’s engine fired, coughing dust out around the back tires. Spewing gravel behind him, Money pulled out onto the street and headed in the direction of the county road.

  “Fucking Texans,” said Rodriguez. “Think they own the world.” He spat into the dirt. “You shoot pretty good basketball, my friend. But you don’t know the first thing about gambling.” He turned and headed back, Opal following at his heels. Across the street, most of the onlookers had already returned to their trailers.

  Victor’s mother put a hand on his head. “Did you bet with that man?” she asked.

  Victor said nothing.

  “What did you bet?”

  He didn’t answer. The wind that had come and carried his shot home was gone, and in its place, the evening crept in, cool and still.

  She shook her head in frustration. “I don’t know what it is with you these days,” she said. “I don’t know what you’re thinking.” She put her forehead up against his and stared directly into his eyes, but he was silent. “Don’t stay out too long,” she told him finally. She walked back across the street.

  Alone now on the court, Victor saw that Money had left his ball. It sat in the dirt, near where his car had been parked. He picked it up and bounced it a few times, the smack it made against the concrete seeming to echo off the surrounding hills, a lonely, casual sound. He felt cheated. Still, something had happened—he knew that. He would not allow himself the easy luxury of disappointment. For a brief moment, the powers of the universe had convened in his fingertips. He watched the lights come on in the different trailers, listened to the sou
nds of Opal and Rodriguez starting up one of their nightly arguments. He bounced the ball a few more times in the dimming light, watching his shadow move against the pavement, taller than any man’s and growing longer with each passing minute.

  TAXES

  Pretzel and Ronnie stand on the corner in front of the deserted Shabazz Steak and Take, huddled back a little to take advantage of a slight overhang of the roof and stay out of the rain. Ronnie, lean and muscular, his hair cut into a flattop, hunkers down, cups his hands, and lights another Newport. Pretzel is smaller, skinnier, and does not smoke. It isn’t his health that concerns him, just the waste of money.

  “You set up, man,” says Ronnie.

  “Forget it,” says Pretzel. “Just forget it.” Across the street, behind stained plate-glass windows, a shadowy figure moves slowly back and forth. The cracked plastic sign overhead reads simply “Tax.”

  “Chump change. Nickels and dimes. That’s all you ever going to get out of him.” Ronnie puts the toe of his sneaker into a puddle, testing its depth.

  “Bought me this coat.” A cheap blue parka with a fake fur-lined hood hangs on Pretzel’s narrow frame, the nylon material shining off and on in the reflected light from passing cars.

  “Ugly,” says Ronnie, breathing smoke. “I wouldn’t never wear no coat like that.” Ronnie’s coat is silver colored sheepskin, but Pretzel knows how he got it.

  “How much you carry last night?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Come on, man.”

  “Eleven hundred.”

  Ronnie whistles. “Damn.”

  Pretzel watches the cigarette ember grow brighter as Ronnie sucks on it. “Forget it.” He checks his watch. “I got to go over now. Where you staying?”

  “With my lady.” He throws the butt into a puddle where it hisses and dies. “Think it over. He don’t care about you.” He pulls his collar up around his neck, shoves his hands deep into his pockets, and steps out into the rain.

  Fishman does not look up when Pretzel comes in, just tells him to lock the door. The tax man’s feet ache—they seem to have swollen two sizes inside his battered loafers—and he wishes he were home where he could take them out, put them up on the table, read the paper. Out of the corner of his eye he watches the boy perch on one of the torn chairs, shake a few drops of rain off his head. Fishman inscribes numbers in his ledger book, adds daily totals, compares those figures to last year’s, estimates what percentage of his total business has already pushed its way through the heavy glass doors. Every year Fishman raises his prices 10 percent, and every year business drops off by not quite that number. He feels a detached, almost scientific curiosity about the trend.