A Dangerous Man

– I was, yo, I was the shit. Little League. High school. I was the shit.

The gang from the bus is drifting around. A few of the players and their girls flag down a couple cabs on State and take off. Some others are wandering away toward the bar at American Park. Looks like the party is breaking up.

– Shortstop, yo. Started freshman ball, JV and varsity. Had all the school records, and a bunch of the district’s, too. Stolen bases. Hits. Runs. Fielding percentage. Average. Big numbers. Mad numbers. ’Course there was a problem. I’m five-fucking-six in cleats. That’s a fucking problem. Plus, you know, I’m playing with that guy.

He points at Miguel. The bartender is perched on the railing by the water, Miguel snugged between her knees as they make out.

– My man Mike was part of the problem. I was setting records, but he was, too. And he had the power. All- time single-season home run champ, California high school baseball. And he pitched. Led the state in strikeouts. And, yo, he had the body. Scouts come around to watch us both play, but once they get a look at him, I’d just drop right off the fucking scout-radar. Word got around I was even smaller in person than I was on paper and they stopped even pretending they were interested. Like a bunch of chicks, yo. All over Mike. All about the body.

He drops into a hick accent.

– Seen the body on that A-ray-nuz kid? Six-four, two hundred, and growing. Not a ounce a fat on that boy. Ripped like a NBAer. Kid’s got the pro body an he ain’t even eighteen. Kid’s gonna be a star.

He spits between his feet.

– Shit, yo. All about the fucking body. Mike got picked in the first round. The Brewers. That was a no-brainer. Said no thanks and took the Stanford scholarship. Me? Didn’t get picked by no one. Got a couple semipro teams called. Got a partial ship at UCSD. But, yo, my boy was headed up north. He says, Come upstate. Can’t break us up. Hang out. Take some classes. Get you on the team next year. Scouts see what you do in a big-time program, they’ll be all over you. Blew off SD. Went up there. But my grades weren’t good enough for that place. And they didn’t care I was Mike’s boy. Spent all my time hangin’ with him, working on his swing. See that flat swing he’s got, yo? That shit’s mine. Way he plays the field? Always getting the right jump on the ball? My shit. That ain’t no college coaching. That’s me and him. That’s what I did. I worked his ass, yo. He wants to fuck around with chicks, booze. Wants to find a poker game, head up to Reno. I kept his ass working. Junior year he goes back in the draft. First pick. Mets. Big time. My boy is big time.

He takes his elbows from his knees, leans back and looks over at Miguel.

– But I was the shit, yo. I was most definitely the shit.

Cooler air is starting to drift in off the water. I pull on my jacket.

– So, Jay.

– Yo?

I point at the papers in his hands.

– What were you doing in my jacket?

He smiles.

– Shit, yo, thought you might have some more of that x in there.

He holds up the papers.

– Imagine my surprise I find this shit.

– Uh-huh. You got any plans for those?

He dangles the pieces of paper, one in each hand pinched between his thumb and forefinger.

– These? I got a plan for these? Yeah, I got a plan. My plan is to get your ass away from Mike as quickly as fucking possible.

– Seems wise.

– Yo, it does.

I put out my hand.

– So let me have ’em and I’ll be on my way.

He pulls the papers back and shakes his head.

– Uh-uh. First there’s something you’re gonna need to do.

I look at him. Sitting there. Leaning back. I could put my elbow in his throat and grab the papers. But I don’t.

– Jay. Can I say something?

– Sure.

– Don’t fuck with me.

– Yo?

– Seriously. Don’t fuck with me. I’m. You really have no idea how at the end of my rope I am right now.

He sits up straight.

– I’m not fucking with you, yo. I’m not looking for. Shit. I’m not looking for…I don’t know what. Like money? I don’t. Yo. Fucking with you?

He pulls out his cell phone.

– See this? I could have called the cops. Found this shit, I could have dialed 911 right away and had them here. Think I want to fuck with you? I want something from you. I need. Yo. I need your help. This?

He starts folding the papers into a little square.

– Fuck this. Yo.

He points at Miguel.

– I need help with my boy. He’s starting to listen to reason. He’s here. He’s playing pro ball. He likes it. And he’s starting to think for a change. He’s thinking how shit can get off track. He’s looking around at the guys he’s playing with and how bad they want the bigs, and how none of them, yo, not one, is gonna make it. But him? All he has to do is keep his eyes on the ball and he’s in. He’s starting to think about that shit. But he’s sick of hearing from me. I can’t open my mouth about the gambling or the debt without him tuning me out. Not what he wants, to be lectured. So you. You have a talk with him. You sit his ass down, yo, spell it out. Tell him this ain’t shit to be messing with. Tell him to pay off now. He can get his moms that house later. He can dump the Escalade and drive a fucking Olds like you. All that will come later. Tell him about this Russian. An, yo, any doubts I had about that guy not being bad news have been put to rest by the fact he has someone like you working for him. That guy can take a stone-famous psycho off the map and cut his face up and turn him into a driver? That’s some fucked up, top-ten- box-office-summer-blockbuster-movie shit. And we don’t need any of that, yo. So you tell him that he’s dealing with some bad motherfuckers and it’s time to get out while he can. You help him out. You back him. This.

He holds up the square of folded paper.

– This shit, yo?

He tears the square into tiny pieces, tosses them in the air, and they fall to the ground where they are stirred and scattered by the breeze coming off the bay.

– Fuck that. You do this, yo. Help my boy. Do it ’cause it’s the right thing to do. How’s that for some shit, yo?

THE THIRD TIME was The Bank Manager.

She was a compulsive gambler. Ponies. She had run her losses to over a quarter-million. She’d already taken the second mortgage on the house and refinanced the car. Already taken all that money and blown it on long shots, trying to get even. Messages had been sent. I imagine her showing up at the bank after the first message, explaining away a black eye and a limp as the result of a fall. After the second message things probably got tricky. Maybe one of her friends sitting her down at lunch to ask if there were problems at home. That kind of thing.

Someone doesn’t find a way to generate more income after the second message, they get offered suggestions. She’s a bank manager? Maybe she can approve some loans.

She declined.

We got her after work. She stopped at a bar on the way home, had the three drinks she’d been having every