A Dangerous Man

But it’s not. How could it be?

– How do you kill?

She speaks English beautifully, just the trace of an accent to let you know it is not her native tongue, so I know there is no misunderstanding. I know it’s not what she means, but still, I think of all the many ways I have killed.

– How?

And she is not speaking to me in any case.

– How can you kill another human being?

She is speaking to the wall-to-wall carpet.

– And a boy?

She gestures to the carpet, trying to eke an answer from it.

– How do you kill a boy?

She shakes her head.

– A simple boy. A beautiful boy.

She looks at the ceiling now.

– You. You have killed so many people. A boy, more or less, what was he to you?

She puts her hand to her chest.

– But he was everything to me.

She clutches a handful of material at her breast.

– Everything.

Her eyes fall back to the carpet.

– You have killed so many.

Her hand goes to her forehead.

– And I cannot kill even one.

And now she looks at me.

– Not even if that one is you.

She spits on my face.

– A murderer. A killer of boys.

She stands, gets up from the floor where she has been sitting right next to me.

– I cannot kill you.

She is straightening her dress, her hands scuttling over her body, tugging at wrinkles.

– But I know who you are.

She steps to the ottoman and picks up the small black handbag sitting next to it.

– I know who you are.

She opens the bag, takes out two pieces of paper and unfolds them.

– I know who you are.

The papers have been handled much, and she smooths them against her thigh.

– See, I know who you are.

She separates the papers, holds them one in each hand, and sticks them in my face.

– This is who you are.

The paper in her left hand is a photocopy of various pieces of ID: my driver’s license, a library card, a credit card, a gym card. They are mine, really mine. They say Henry Thompson. These are the pieces of identification I left with a forger named Billy.

The paper in her right hand was torn from today’s Post. It’s a fragment of Page Six, a photo of Miguel, half-naked Jay tossed over his shoulder. But that’s not the best part, the best part is me, right behind them, pushing them out the door of Hogs & Heifers.

She drops the papers on the floor and wipes her hands on her thighs, cleaning away any trace of me that might have clung to them.

– They told me.

She points at the two young men.

– They told me you were alive. And that David knew. They told me, Go to David, go see your brother-in-law. Ask him. But I did not believe them. It was too much. Too much.

She brings her hands to her forehead and turns her back to me. She stands like that, hands pressed to her forehead, holding something terrible inside. The blond walks to her, starts to whisper in Russian, but she takes one of the hands from her head and holds it out, silencing him. He shrugs, bends, picks up the gun she dropped next to the couch, puts it in his pocket and goes to stand behind the chair.

The guy with the widow’s peak just sits there watching, chaining cigarette after cigarette.

Mickey’s mother drops her hands to her sides. She is still now, only her eyes move, skipping around the room, occasionally touching on me, but never looking into my own.

– I went to see him yesterday. To apologize to my brother-in-law. To my son’s godfather. To tell him that things had gone too far. I wasn’t thinking clearly. Since my son died, since he was murdered, I have not been able to think clearly. I.

She’s starting to lose it again. She stops for a moment, gets it back.

– And I walked past a man in the hall. Then I looked. And, you were looking at me. And I. Something. But. How could I think? Impossible. I talked to David, but I told him nothing. Nothing. And when I came home, I looked at this again.

She’s pointing at the photocopy.

– And I looked and I looked. But I couldn’t see it. And I can’t sleep. I can never sleep. I want to. When Mickey…I would dream about him. And it was. He was with me. I could feel him. It was the only time he was with me anymore. But I can’t sleep now. I have to take pills and they won’t let me sleep. And I take other pills and I sleep, but they don’t let me dream. And I want to sleep. I want to dream about my son. I. I. I.

Tears again. She is furious at them. She presses the heels of her palms into her eyes and whisks the tears away.

– But last night. I slept. And I dreamt. But it was about you. You son of a bitch. I can’t dream about my son, but I dream about you. You. And this morning. I see that.

She points at the page of torn newsprint.

– I sit with my tea and I flip the pages of the newspaper. I see nothing. Flip, flip, flip. Nothing. Until I see this. And I looked. I looked at that picture. And I looked at the other pictures of you. And I.

She presses her hands flat together and holds them in front of her chest.

– I knew.

She squeezes her eyes shut. Muscles on her forearms flex as she pushes her hands one against the other.

– I knew.

She opens her eyes and drops her hands. Air sighs from her mouth.

– I knew.

She bites her lower lip.

– But I can’t kill you. I can’t. I can’t. I can’t. And I want to. So badly I want to. I. But I can’t. But you.

She points at me.

– You can kill David.

– She’s our aunt.

She left without saying another word. Picked up her bag, went to the door, waited while Spiky opened it, and went out with him following. She never looked at me again, and I never had a chance to tell her what me trying to kill David would mean to my parents.

Then Widow’s Peak gets up and starts pacing back and forth in front of the couch. A pair of legs in very blue jeans, bleached nearly white down the fronts of the thighs, scissoring past me. As he paces and talks, he smokes, flicking ashes, letting them drift onto the carpet.

– Tetka Anna. Our mother’s sister. A beautiful woman. Even now.