Two years Branko’s apprentice. Two years his charge. Two years this man’s pupil, batboy, valet. He’s never called me friend.
– My friend. This is an important job for you.
He points a rock-steady finger at my finger, which is tattooing the wheel again. I stop it.
We don’t talk. Branko has commandeered the radio as usual and we listen to Billy T on KCEP 88.1. Billy T is getting his mellow on, turning back the clock, “Strawberry Letter 23” grooving us down the road.
YOU’D THINK I’D be losing weight. What with the pills, it’s not like I have much of an appetite. But the amount of time I spend zonked on the couch or Web surfing seems to have taken the upper hand. That, plus I don’t eat anything that isn’t driven to my door or doesn’t fit in a microwave. I also sleep over ten hours a day. Depression and self-medication are just bad for the waistline. But I’ll be burning some calories tonight. The x will see to that.
It’s just before six. The guy’s flight gets in at a quarter to seven. I strip to my underwear and start tearing open the shopping bags, leaving ripped paper, tabs of sticky tape, and pins from the folded shirts scattered on the living room floor along with my dirty clothes. The jeans are stiff, but I can do the buttons without having to suck my belly into my spine. The shirts are all long-sleeve white button-ups. All my shirts are long-sleeved to cover the tattoos on my arms. The tattoos are some of the identifying features that predate, and survived, my surgery. There’s also a lurid scar that bisects my left side, the remnant of a hole that one of my kidneys came out of. I fasten the buttons of the shirt with jittery fingers and then have to undo and redo them because I’ve done them crooked. I dump the shoes out of their box and that’s when I realize we didn’t buy any black socks. All my socks are white athletics. The only thing left to me that’s athletic. Fuck it. I slip the shoes over my tube socks. The jacket is in a cheap plastic garment bag. I toss the bag on the floor with the rest of the trash and pull on the jacket. It fits fine in the shoulders and sleeves, but I can’t button it without stretching the buttonholes. Whatever, I’ll wear it open. A belt. I go back to the bedroom and find my only belt; black leather with a plain silver buckle and a couple extra notches I had to cut into it with a steak knife. I thread it through the loops and buckle it at the last of those homemade notches.
I gather my money, keys, cell, wallet with fake ID; the latest in a chain of fake identities that string back to New York, and I look at the gun. No. I slip the gun under one of the couch cushions and go to the bathroom.
I pull out the Ziploc full of ups, find the bottle of x and shake one into my hand. Then another. For later. In case it’s a late night. Late night? Shit, a kid with money, this is gonna be an all-nighter. I shake two more into my hand. That leaves two in the bottle. Hell with it. I dump all but one back in the bottle, pop that one in my mouth, and drop the bottle in my left jacket pocket. For emergencies.
I look at the shattered mirror.
I wonder how I look.
I pick at a corner of the tape. Think about jagged glass reflecting blood as it cuts the skin. I smooth the tape into place, turn off the light and walk into the kitchenette. I turn on the overhead light and look at myself in the microwave door; a smeary, warped reflection in dark glass. I touch my face. Shave? No. Branko said I should look tough. Stubble is tough. I guess.
AT THE AIRPORT I stand with the livery drivers near the exits from the baggage claim area. I watch the crowds of weekenders jostling around the huge silver carousels, getting bombarded by the advertising throbbing from the massive digital screens hanging from the ceiling. I feel edgy and exposed. Standing here in my brand-new clothes, the package creases still in my unironed shirt, I feel like I’m posed on a pedestal, like every eye is gawking at me. They’re not. To the rubes I’m just another driver in black, wearing his sunglasses inside and holding a sign with the name of some lucky stiff written on it. But I feel naked. Just like anyone wanted by the FBI and several police agencies for multiple homicides should feel.
Fuck, maybe there’s too much speed in this x. Maybe that second hit was a bad idea.
– Arenas?
Or maybe I should do another one.
– Arenas?
Maybe I could cope better if I was just a little higher.
– Yo, man, Arenas?
– What?
I look at the guy in front of me. He’s very young, my height, maybe a touch taller, with wide shoulders; built under the black DKNY suit and Ratpack-style open-collar shirt.
– Arenas?
– What?
He points at the sign in my hand, the name I wrote with a Sharpie on the back of one of the shirt cardboards.
– You here for Arenas?
– Yeah.
He points at himself.
– That’s me. Miguel Arenas.
– Oh. Sorry, Mr. Arenas.
He puts out his hand.
– Mike. Call me Mike.
I take his hand. It’s even bigger than mine, his wrists are thick with muscle.
I take my hand back, fold the sign in half and point at the doors.
– Right out here.
– Hang on a sec. There’s some baggage.
I take a step toward the carousels.
– Would you like me to?
He puts up a hand.
– No, s’cool, it’s coming along.
– Yo! Dude! Checking bags sucks!
He has a friend. His friend is maybe five-six on a good day, but also built under his black DKNY suit. He’s passed on the Sinatra look and gone with a Hawaiian shirt, throwback Air Jordans, and a San Diego Padres sun- visor on top of his head. He’s dragging a massive Nike athletic bag stuffed to bursting, the zipper popping teeth. He walks up to us and drops the bag.
He looks at me.
– This the bodyguard?
Miguel nods.
– Yeah.
– Sweet.
Miguel points at his friend.
– This is Jay.
Jay spreads the index and middle fingers of his right hand.
– Peace, yo.
Neither of them is twenty-five. Neither of them is twenty-three, for God sake. I point at the door.
– The car.
Jay bounces.
– Shee-at! The car!
He heads for the door. I pick up his bag and gesture for Miguel to go ahead of me. Out on the curb Jay is leaning against a white limo. He spreads his hands in Miguel’s direction.
– I don’t know, yo. It’s classic, but on the tritish side don’t ya think?
I walk past him to the Olds, pop the trunk and dump his bag inside. He spreads his hands wider.
– No. Way. Oh. Man. That. Car. Sucks.
He pumps a fist.
– Sweet.
