Hiding Among the Dead

by Chris Bauer

  “Not sure how he’ll manage that. He has no money.”

  “What can I say. That’s the reason he gave me.”

  “He also tell you he’s quitting boxing? Told me that today.”

  A surprise to Philo. “The kid’s good, Hump, got some real skills, and he can take a punch. You should try to talk him out of it.”

  “His mind’s made up; he said he’s done. Doesn’t wanna chance any more kidney shots. You ready to go, Champ?”

  “I believe I am, Hump. I’m feeling good.”

  “Great. Not hung over or nothing? These boys here said you been getting them all liquored up lately up there in the Northeast, listening to them talk about the fight. Hope you ain’t been drinking or carousing during training.”

  “Broke up with my girlfriend. I’ve had a beer here and there, but my serious drinking money went to these guys,” he said, a thumb in their direction, jonesing for a partisan response. Heads bobbed and cheeky smiles emerged, punctuated with multiple raised beers and thank-yous and woots.

  “Truth is, Hump, the adrenaline rush from the hype—I’ve missed it. With them all talking about how their local phenom barnstormed the country years ago, laying guys out, I loved hearing about it. I loved being their champ, their kid from the neighborhood. I also got to hear the old timers talk about…” he paused, composed himself, “how proud the old man was of him, the kid getting it done back then, no gangs, no involvement with any bad actors, no crime. Like I said, a good kid back then, his dad real proud of him.”

  “Damn straight he was a good kid.”

  “Until he turned twenty-one.”

  “Philo—”

  “Women, drugs, cars. Burglaries, beat-downs, gambling, and scams. The old man kicked him out. Then the old man died. He never saw his son with his life turned around.”

  “Look, Philo—”

  “Hear me out, Hump. When I went bad, Chuckie followed. It wasn’t the other way around like everyone thought. That last fight…taking the purse was my idea, not Chuckie’s. The plan was for him to bolt with the money while I stayed local, for a while at least, no one the wiser. But like Mike Tyson said, everyone has a plan until they get punched in the face. When 9-11 hit and my old man died, nothing mattered anymore.

  “This kid”—Philo gulped in air, breathing out the sentimentality—“he still seeks absolution. He’s got a steamer trunk full of the old man’s things from dubya-dubya-two, from when his father joined the navy same age as he did.

  “I finally got past the trunk’s medals and the flag and the Pearl Harbor news clippings, and my old man’s navy officer whites. Checked the whole damn thing out. Painful as hell, because I didn’t find any forgiveness in there, only common ground: war, and hate, and violence.

  “I’m so sorry you lost Chuckie, Hump. Sorry I put him up to it. Sorry I was a shit and let him take all the blame. Sorry for all of it.”

  “You finished? Do I get to talk now?” Hump dropped a hand onto Philo’s shoulder and squeezed. “I knew all that shit, Philo. I knew it wasn’t my Chuckie’s idea. Chuckie wasn’t smart enough; it had to be you. And I was tickled pink as a pussy hearing afterward that you had enlisted. It was the only way out of that fight scam alive, me praying for you every night, hoping you’d stay that way after your deployment.

  “So now, right now, this kid needs to forgive himself. And if he wants to get this old man’s absolution, he needs to get violent and knock one more fucker out.” Hump nonchalanted a head-point. “That one, over there.”

  On the other side of the floor, Wally Lanakai and the tall, put-together dude who had Hump’s interest entered the room together, as did an attractive raven-haired woman on Wally’s arm.

  Patrick, also in jeans and a hoodie, waded through the crowd. He arrived alongside Hump and Philo, then pointed back across the room. “That’s her, sir.”

  Philo squinted at the woman with Wally, then at Patrick, not understanding.

  “The airline lady, sir. The cleaner. Over there, with those guys, sir.”

  Philo was now curious. “How about that. I best go introduce myself.”

  He threaded his way through the spectators, the room quieting, then going fully silent when he arrived.

  “Wally,” he said, “you’re late.” He looked sideways at the dude who’d entered with him. “Having trouble getting your guy to show, so you brought this guy instead?”

  “That’s funny, Trout, really. Hilarious. So finally, our day of reckoning,” Wally said after their quick handshake. He dropped a hand onto his fighter’s shoulder, had to stretch a little to do it, and said, beaming, “Mr. Trout, I want you to meet—”

  “Hello, miss.” Philo ignored Wally, instead extended a hand to the woman. “I’m Philo Trout. A pleasure to meet you. You are?”

  “None of your goddamn business is who she is, cabin boy,” Wally’s fighter said, stepping up.

  “Wasn’t talking to you, sport, I was talking to the lady here. Your name, miss?”

  Philo already knew her dark secret; what he wanted was her identity. Pissing off Wally’s fighter was simply the icing.

  She didn’t respond, didn’t flinch, didn’t even blink, instead stayed completely deadpan during their eye contact. Very smart. But her exchanged stare said yes, I’m who you think I am, the one who outed Patrick’s ethnicity.

  The reaction he wasn’t prepared for was Wally’s, so quick to show his gun in a holster tucked into his waist. “Back—the hell—off, Trout. She’s with me is all you need to know.” Wally remained all flash and no draw, but his two goblins reacted, bookending Philo; Wally waved them off.

  “It’s better if we stay on script and you meet my fighter now, before he tries to take your head off where you stand.” Wally composed himself for the greeting. “Philo Trout, this is Tonka Omanopa.”

  Philo sized Tonka up, impressed but trying not to show it. “Army, right?”

  “Rangers.”

  This, right here, was the part that had always taken the most out of Philo, faking niceties to his opponents. “A proud group deserving of respect. I thank you for your service.”

  There. Being nice wasn’t so bad. Then again, hell, maybe a little jab between Armed Services wouldn’t hurt. “Semper fi, Ranger.”

  Tonka’s eyes narrowed. “That’s the Marines, bozo.”

  “Right. Sorry,” Philo said, smiling, his patience fading. “All you SEAL wannabes look alike.”

  Tonka erupted, his chest inflating under a jacket he discarded in Wally’s face. He lurched, was stopped by a husky black man with a bouncer’s physique who inserted himself between them. “Calm down, fella, he’s just fucking with you,” the peacekeeper said, his hand on Tonka’s chest. “You’ll get your chance in a minute.”

  Wally introduced the bouncer-type as the referee for their match, a guy big enough to get the job done. He separated the two men and directed the crowd to move behind the yellow tape on the floor.

  The standing-room crowd swelled, larger than expected. The first floor of the grain elevator space was warming up, starting to rock in anticipation.

  Philo motioned to the ref. “I need a moment with Mr. Lanakai.”

  Wally nodded his okay, waved Philo forward.

  “Tell me the where and the when of our other arrangement,” Philo said.

  “Her surgery’s at a walk-in facility in Old City, fifteen minutes from here. A new place; won’t open for a few weeks.” He leaned in. “She’s already there getting prepped. No issues, Trout, she’s in good hands. Take care of your end of the deal here and it’s all good. After the first punch”—he removed his phone from his jacket and gestured with it—“surgery will begin.”

  “Fine. Who’s got the purse?”

  “You mean Tonka’s pay for the night? Heh. No worries, it’s secure. Nice little stunt, the semper fi comment. Tonka’s pissed.”

  “Yeah, well, what the hell. Some fights are lost before the bell rings. Your boy’s gotta learn the head games, too.”

 
Wally smiled. “You’re not such a bad guy, Philo. You ever want to continue this craziness after tonight, let me know. Tonka could use someone to spar with.”

  “I doubt he’ll want it to be me,” Philo said. “I’ll always be his ‘and one.’”

  “His ‘and one?’ Sorry, what’s an ‘and one’?”

  “It’s something else he’ll need to get used to after tonight, Wally. Whatever wins he racks up the rest of his bare-knuckling days, after tonight they’ll always be followed by ‘and one.’ His only loss—to me. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m heading to my corner so we can get this exhibition started.”

  Philo arrived alongside Hump, who was quick to comment. “Tell me, we the only ones in here without guns?”

  “Guess I didn’t think that one through, Hump. Mine’s in the van.”

  Philo stripped down to his camo tee shirt, jeans and sneakers. Thirty feet away Tonka stood square-shouldered in high-top boxing shoes and sweatpants, bronzed and bare from the waist up, looking young and fresh as a poi-fed baby, if babies had twenty-inch biceps and iron abs and multiple tattoos.

  “He took off his shirt,” Hump said.

  “And your point is what, Hump?”

  “Christ, look how big he is. You gotta take your shirt off too, Philo. Show him you’re not intimidated.”

  “I’m not, and I won’t. He’s only ten pounds bigger than me. You’ve seen me fight guys bigger than him before.”

  Hump shook his head, then feebly shook Philo’s hand. “That was fifteen years ago. And all ten of those pounds are in his arms. Protect yourself, Philo. Oh, and try not to suck.”

  “Appreciate the vote of confidence, Hump.”

  “Sir?”

  “What is it, Patrick?”

  “Don’t hurt him too bad, sir.”

  Philo wrapped his hand around the back of Patrick’s neck and pulled him into an embrace, the two of them forehead-to-forehead. “Thanks, Patrick. If it can be helped, bud, I won’t hurt him. But one of us might get his wits scrambled tonight. I just want to make sure it isn’t me.”

  “Gentlemen,” the referee called, “over here please. A few words, then we’ll get started.”

  Tonka went for the tough-guy stare at his shorter opponent while the ref spoke. Philo countered with his less serious and inconvenienced, smirky malcontent face. Mind games, always. Many in the crowd had their phones raised, filming the exchange, would keep them raised throughout the fight. Bare-knuckle boxing and YouTube, fast friends for years.

  “No rounds, gentlemen, therefore no bell. The rest of the Queen’s rules apply. I tell you to break your clinch, you break it. The fight goes for as long as you can both continue. Let’s get started.”

  The next instruction was something Philo had heard sixty-four times before, a bare-knuckle boxing directive as familiar to him as the pro boxing catchphrase “Let’s get ready to rum-bullll—”

  “Fellas,” the ref said, “bring your toes to the line.”

  35

  Olivier’s first call dispatched a private ambulance. His second call was to Hank.

  “Mr. Blessid? Mr. Smith. A donor’s been identified. They’ll do some tests to make sure there’s a match. Your wife needs to be ready in ten minutes.”

  Hank grabbed Grace’s portable oxygen and her suitcase. “Grace, there’s a donor, honey. Time to go to the hospital.”

  “Where?” she said, dropping her tired frame into her wheelchair.

  “Old City.”

  “What’s the donor’s name?”

  They were past discussing the arrangement’s particulars. Hank had trampled through her objections one night over a dinner Grace couldn’t eat. She was too weak physically and emotionally to argue, and yet they’d continued playing their roles, Hank the adoring subservient husband, Grace the indignant, self-righteous wife. But as the end drew near, she relaxed her stand, willing to trust her husband. She wanted the name of the donor for one reason: as a Catholic, it was so she could pray for this person’s soul.

  “Not available yet, honey, but I’ll get a name soon.”

  “Thank you, doll.”

  “Love you so much, Grace.”

  “Back at you, loverboy.”

  Once Hank and Grace were in the ambulance, an attendant started her drip.

  A nurse handed Dr. Andelmo his phone, so he could take a call. “Yes…? Thank you.” He handed the phone back and addressed his team. “It is a go.”

  The facility was the entire first floor of an Old City low-rise, its prior life a low-income dental clinic, the waiting room converted for tonight only into an operating room complete with a heart-lung machine. The team would need to work all night; the procedure could take up to twelve hours. Ka Hui had promised Dr. Andelmo that after tonight, his gambling debt would be settled in its totality. Not that they were giving him any real choice.

  The doctor hovered over his mildly sedated patient, addressing his team of four nurses, anesthesiologist, and two other surgeons, one his gambling buddy Dr. Barry Heinzman. “We now wait for her donor’s prep.” He searched the faces of the people standing inside the glassed-in reception area, then spoke to them, raising his voice. “We’ll strap her in and ready her for general anesthesia. Let me know when the donor gets here.”

  Mr. Smith tapped on the glass separating the waiting room from the medical team. “The donor’s here, Doctor,” he said, projecting his voice. “The organs will be available shortly.”

  As an onlooker, Hank listened alongside Mr. Smith, nervously observing his supine wife surrounded by this group of medical professionals who, he’d accepted, were each beholden to a group of clandestine mobsters. This didn’t make them bad doctors and nurses, just bad gamblers, maybe guilty of other victimless sins as well. Mr. Smith had a few cautionary words for Hank, delivered while Mr. Smith took repeated tobacco dust hits from his snuffbox.

  “What you are about to witness—this massive medical endeavor, and the professionals it will take to execute it, all assembled here before you—none of this can ever be divulged to anyone under any circumstance. You must agree to comply. Otherwise, Mr. Blessid, we will find you, and your wife, and render this procedure moot. Do you understand?”

  “I’m on board,” Hank said, “and I’m grateful. Just get it done.”

  A nurse closed a Velcro cuff around Grace’s left wrist. They moved to her other arm and laid it straight so they could press it into place inside the second cuff. She suddenly pulled away from their grip and clamped her hand onto the surgeon’s wrist.

  Hank stiffened, took a step toward the door to the operating room. Mr. Smith grabbed his forearm. “Sterile environment, Mr. Blessid, you can’t go in there.”

  “My wife—she needs more sedation…”

  Grace’s shaking hand moved to Dr. Andelmo’s shoulder, gripping his scrubs and pulling him down, closer to her face. She snagged his mask in her groping fingers and yanked it off.

  “An-mel-mo?” she said, slurring her syllables. “You’re that crooked doctor. Hank! HANK—”

  Hank shook loose from Mr. Smith but was quickly subdued, held against a wall by a large man while he continued to struggle. Mr. Smith spoke to him in a soothing tone: “Please, Mr. Blessid, relax. It’s okay, we’re on it, it’s under control.”

  Hank watched from behind the cajoling Mr. Smith as another doctor leaned in to listen to Grace, calming her with a gentle hand to her shoulder while the anesthesiologist tinkered with her drip. The hovering doctor straightened up and exchanged words with Dr. Andelmo. Andelmo glared, turning his bluster away from the patient to settle on Mr. Smith, behind the glass. Mr. Smith shrugged; it was not the vote of confidence the doctor wanted. Andelmo slammed his scalpel onto the tray, rattling other instruments, then stormed out of the operating room. Additional calming words from the second doctor got Grace’s attention, settling her.

  Mr. Smith wrested Hank from the men restraining him. “I will need to have a word with Dr. Andelmo, then I do need to leave. A different doctor will per
form the surgery. If you behave, you can stay in this room and watch. My colleague here will keep you company.”

  Tonka Omanopa, twenty-five, was taller, darker, and prettier than Philo, and no doubt a favorite with the ladies. But akin to Philo he was also blessed with a long reach and large, quick hands, and rumored per Wally to have a facial structure of muscle and bone tough enough to survive a gorilla swinging a two-by-four.

  They circled each other in the middle of the floor, fists raised, the crowd quiet, as keen to their movements as each fighter was to the other’s, both flatfooted and with no bounce; a precursor to a slugfest. A slugfest wasn’t Philo’s game. He relied on crippling body blows leveraging snapping punches with pinpoint accuracy to the temple or the chin.

  Tonka waded in, started loading up and releasing. Straight rights to the cheek and chin that Philo slipped, left and right hooks to his forearms and biceps, some blows glancing, others connecting. The kid could punch; Philo couldn’t let his head or chest be on the receiving end of any of it. Philo opened his hands, started blocking the shots with his palms, standard bare-knuckles defense, did some back-pedaling…

  Tonka lowered his head and bent himself at the waist, tucking his chin inside his big fists, his face now waist-high, his temples protected, the top of his head exposed while standing directly in front of Philo, an invitation for Philo to—

  Go ahead, straight-arm a few shots, right at the top of my head here, on the button, I dare you.

  It was enticing, his beautiful moussed curls right there in front of him, waiting for Philo to club him into submission, except there was nothing but skull underneath, pure bone, and skull shots in bare-knuckles boxing produced broken fingers.

  “Straighten the fuck up, asshole,” Philo said, pulling back.

  Tonka smiled from underneath, started to rise, then sprang forward with a left hook that whizzed by Philo’s chin. Philo stepped in quickly and released a fisted uppercut square on the chin that lifted Tonka off the floor. No mouth guard meant a mouthful of blood and, more often than not, an unconscious opponent.