by Greg Barth
“I do.”
“Choke’s a good guy. You’ll see. He’s Quechan, but he left the reservation a long time ago.”
It was a strange drive. The farther we got from the highway, the more isolated I felt. It wasn’t that we were too far from civilization—I hadn’t seen any sign of civilization after we left the dam—it was more that I was in a scary, lonely place. He was taking me out of that artificially lush dot on the map and into the harsh reality of the desert. I took a deep breath and tried to feel brave. What I was doing was necessary.
After twenty minutes of driving through the desert, we came to an old mobile home. A tiny thing tucked away in the waxy brush, the windows all covered with cardboard. A gray swamp cooler clung to one side. There was a raised water tank behind the home and a TV antenna rose high above the roof. An old model muscle car sat junked on blocks in the front, its hood missing. Dead rattlesnakes, their slender carcasses dried and crisp from the sun, were draped over a fence rail to one side of the property.
I looked around and saw a loose cluster of other mobile homes dotting the desert. They were too far away to be called a neighborhood, but close enough to each other to warrant electric service to this remote area.
“Jeez. This is creepy,” I said.
“Nah. It’s just Arizona.”
“He’s expecting us, right?”
“No. Choke doesn’t have a phone.”
“Bullshit. Everybody has a phone.”
“Well, I wouldn’t rule it out. If he does, I’ll get his number this time.”
“I hope he’s home.”
“He’s home,” Lyman said. “And don’t worry about imposing. Choke will be fine with this.”
As we got out of the car and approached the sunbaked mobile home, the front door to the trailer opened a crack.
“That you, Choke?” Lyman said.
The door opened wider. A man stood in the open doorway. He looked to be in his late thirties. His dark hair was cut short. Shirtless, his strong arms and chest glistened with sweat. He dressed in jeans and cowboy boots.
“Hello, Lyman,” the man said.
“Good to see you.”
“Been too long, old friend. Introduce me to your lady.”
“Choke, this is Amanda. I’m hoping you can help us with something.”
Choke stepped down from the stoop of the trailer. There were a couple of wooden steps in front, and he climbed down them to the dirt below. He approached us and shook my hand. He embraced Lyman.
“Anything for an old friend,” Choke said. “How can I help?”
“I need Amanda trained, and I need it done quickly. We’re on a short timetable here.”
“Give me specifics.”
“I need her to be able to kill a man much larger and stronger than her and do it quietly using only whatever she can sneak past security.”
“A knife then,” Choke said. “It has to be a knife. I can do this.” He looked me over from head to toe. “Yes. It’s a certainty. How fast do you need this?”
“No more than a week.”
Choke looked me in the eye. “Are you willing to kill a man, Little One?”
“Amanda,” I said. “And the answer is yes.”
“Very good, Amanda. And have you ever killed a man before?”
“Yes,” I said. “A few, actually.”
He turned his gaze back to Lyman. “Then go home, my friend. Get a good meal. Sleep well and give no thought to this. I can assure you it will be done as you ask.”
“Good, I’m in a hurry,” Lyman said. “But I’ll have more time later. We can catch up then.”
I cleared my throat. “Hey, Choke. You ever get a phone?”
“I have an iPhone, I use it to text message my sister.”
Lyman tapped the number into his own phone. “You get a signal out here? I can’t pick one up.”
“No. I only turn it on when I go to town.”
Thank god, there’s a town.
“I’ll be in touch,” Lyman said.
Choke nodded. “Go. We have much work to do and must begin immediately.”
“Thank you, Choke. I know time isn’t on our side here. I’ll let you get to it.” Lyman turned to me. “You’re in good hands, Amanda. I’ve trusted Choke with my life”
He got back in his car, and I stood watching the dust cloud thrown up from his tires grow smaller and smaller as he gained distance.
I followed Choke inside. The interior of the trailer was tiny. Two bedrooms, one on either end. In between was a kitchen, living room, and bathroom. The home was sparsely furnished and neat. The swamp cooler did little to keep the small home cool. As hot as it was outside, it was stifling inside. He showed me to the tiny bedroom I’d be using for the week.
I changed into a short plaid skirt with a white half top. What I’d wear the night I’d meet with Miles.
Once dressed, I went back outside. Choke stood next to a gray picnic table. He was unrolling a piece of cloth along the length of the table. Inside the red material was an array of knives.
He looked over at me.
“Hmm,” he said. “The color isn’t a good choice. It’ll show blood. And you have too much skin exposed.”
“I’m going as an escort,” I said. “I hear he likes the cheerleader type.”
Choke nodded. “Okay. It’ll be okay. You’ll have free movement.”
I loved his confidence, wished I felt it too.
He ran his hands along the knives and selected one. He bounced it in his hand. He pinched the point of it between his thumb and forefinger, flipped it into the air and caught it by the handle. He then flipped it back around and held the handle out to me. “Take it,” he said.
I took the knife and held it in my hand.
“Cut yourself with it,” he said.
“What the fuck? You serious?”
“I’m serious. Cut yourself. This is your first lesson.”
I looked down at my body. I lifted the hem of my skirt. There were neat rows of scars along my upper left thigh. I positioned the blade between two of the scars and slid it across my skin. A line of red formed. Two drops of blood ran down my leg, formed two vertical lines, one longer than the other.
“You were a cutter?” he said.
I nodded.
“That’s good,” he said. “You already know the feel of the sharp edge. It’s important to know—if you’re going to fight with knives, you’re going to get cut.” He turned his back to me.
I saw a gristled pink scar running the length of his back from shoulder to shoulder. The scar tissue was as thick as the width of my finger. Some crude stitch work had been done, but his care and healing clearly took place outside of professional care. It was the nastiest looking scar I’d ever seen, thick with bulging gristle.
“See?” he said.
“Wow. I guess you lost that fight, huh?”
“I won that fight. You fight with knives, you’re going to get cut. You must make sure you get cut in the right place. The thigh?”—he gestured with the point of his blade to where I’d cut myself—”it’s not so good. Too close to the femoral artery. The back, however? I have shoulder blades, plates of bone just under the skin and muscle. Bones are there to protect the vital organs. I win, and I live to fight another day. My opponent, he didn’t fare so well.”
“So I should try to take it in the back?”
“Trust your instincts. Your body knows how to protect itself. Protect the soft parts and arteries at any cost. Any cost.”
He held up his left forearm. I saw the scars that lined the skin.
“Looks like you’ve done a good bit of this,” I said.
“Too much. But I can teach you how to win. Show me how you hold the knife.”
I raised my hand. I had the blade pointing up to the sky, cutting edge facing him.
“Not a good method for you. You’re short and small. You can’t cut down on a man.” He picked up another knife from the array on the table and faced me. He held his knif
e low at his waist, cutting edge up. “Hold it like this. Then you take the advantage of being short, small, and quick.” He thrust forward with the blade. “No man could block that from you if done quickly. He puts his hand down; you are lower, cutting upward. You cut through him. He can’t stop this attack. You stab hard and deep into the soft parts.” He traced a circle around his belly. “You hit the organs; the man will bleed out internally. He’ll go pale. He’ll die.” He lowered his hand. “The groin is good too. The femoral artery runs through. You hit this, he’s finished. A sure thing.”
“You make it sound simple.”
He stepped back. “Now you try,” he said.
I mimicked his grip on the knife, holding it low, and cutting edge up. I stepped forward and thrust quickly. “How’s that?” I said.
“It’s good.” He reached out his hand and took my knife. “We aren’t ready to practice with these yet.” He selected two black rubber training knives from the table and handed me one. “These are best for now. We won’t mess up your pretty clothes with these.”
I took the rubber knife. Heavy and balanced like a real knife. It felt good in my hand.
“You must remember this. When you fight with knives, time is your enemy. You can’t be patient. You put your guard up and go on the offense immediately. You must be quick and savage. You have to be the aggressor. You have to be on the attack more than your enemy can possibly expect. You’re going to be cut, but the cuts you suffer will be defensive wounds. Wounds that you control and can survive and recover from. The wounds you deliver must be brutal and delivered quickly. If you hesitate, the blood will drain from you. You will tire. Fear will set in. You won’t be the aggressor. You’ll be killed. You must win the fight immediately. Understand?”
I nodded.
“Then come at me, Little One.”
I jumped forward, thrust out with my blade. He smacked my hand aside, and his rubber blade was against my throat.
“You’re dead,” he said. “You know why?”
“You pushed my hand away,” I said.
“Pushing your hand away doesn’t kill you. My blade to your throat kills you. You’re dead because you didn’t have your guard up.”
I nodded. “Okay. Let’s try again. Show me how.”
“No. It isn’t time to show you how. Try something different.”
I backed up, held the knife low, and considered my approach. I put my left arm up, fist clenched in front of my face.
“Good,” he said.
I stepped forward. Instead of thrusting with the knife, I kicked out at his groin with my foot. He scooted back and lowered his hand to block. I came in quick with the knife. He brought his hand up and blocked the thrust at the last second, but my blade raked his arm hard. I spun and whipped around and caught him on the side with the point of the knife.
“Good. This is good,” he said.
I raised the point of the knife to his throat.
“You must be savage. Don’t hesitate. Defend yourself and don’t fear the cuts you’ll take to the non-vital parts of your body,” he said. “You must be quicker than the rattlesnakes that are here between the house trailers. You must bite harder than the desert scorpion.”
And so it began. We kept training, pausing only to take in water or visit the bathroom, until it was too dark outside to see. When I went to bed that night, I fell asleep shortly after my head hit the pillow.
I dreamed that night of the desert. I hovered over the wasteland like an eagle. I flew over the barren, empty tracks. I soared over the craggy rock mountains while the sun showered my back with blazing fury.
I woke before dawn the next day. I got up, slipped on a long t-shirt. After hitting the bathroom, I walked into the small kitchen. Choke was at the table, drinking coffee in the darkness. The only light came from the microwave clock and the red power button on the coffee maker.
“Do you like breakfast, Little One?”
“Not usually. No.”
“I don’t eat it either. There’s coffee.”
I got a mug from the cupboard and filled it from the coffee maker.
We sat and drank our coffee in silence. It was a comfortable quiet. I found Choke an easy man to be around. After a second cup, I broke the silence.
“Have you lived here long?”
“Not long here. No. Maybe three years.”
I nodded. “No family?”
“No. No wife. No children.”
“You ever have anybody? Or are you just a loner?”
“I had someone once. She was very special to me. She still is. I did some things, and I got caught.”
“I understand.”
“I pulled some time. When I got out, she had married and had a family.”
“You ever see her? Ever talk to her?”
“Yes. She reached out to my sister. She’d been thinking of me and wondered what had become of me. It’s the reason I have the iPhone now. I bought it to have a conversation with her. We talk now and then, some evenings, on the phone. I use it to talk to my sister mostly.”
“Your story is kind of sad.”
“Not sad. You ever smell honeysuckle during an evening in May?”
“Well, not around here, that’s for sure, but yeah. Kind of a sickening smell if you ask me.”
He looked over the brim of his coffee cup, staring out at the one small window that wasn’t covered in cardboard. The sky was turning gray in the east. “It isn’t a bad smell.”
I sat in silence, leaving him to whatever memory it was that haunted him.
He stared out the window like that for a minute. When he turned back to me he said, “Put some clothes on. We should get started.”
We fought with the practice knives in the dusty lot under the hot sun, pausing only to drink water. He studied my technique, pointed out flaws, and showed me better ways. In the middle of the day, we took a break. Choke made cold sandwiches and got a jug of fresh water from the refrigerator. We sat and ate at the picnic table outside.
“You will kill this man, Little One. It is certain,” he said.
“I’ll kill him, and I’ll rip that long brown hair off his fucking head,” I said through a mouthful of chewed bread.
Choke studied me with his dark eyes. “I don’t believe we’re talking about the same man.”
That evening, I took a quick, cold shower—I’d save the long baths for when I got back to a part of the country that actually had water—then I went to bed.
The next day was the same. The next one too.
FIFTEEN
Selena
“YOU GOT ANYTHING to drink around here?” I said.
Choke’s short, dark hair glistened with droplets of sweat. His chest was bright with perspiration.
I wasn’t wearing the skirt. Instead, I was in cotton shorts and a sports bra. I had sunscreen slathered all over me, but nothing was going to protect me from the desert sun. My skin was baked a dark bronze.
“Tell you what, you master what I’m showing you, and I’ll take you out for a good meal tonight.”
“And drinks,” I said.
“Yes. There will be drinks too.”
The so called “technique” was quite simply me landing five killing slashes to Choke—either to the groin, sternum, throat, or kidney—without sustaining a killing blow myself.
“You know that Lyman and I have different intentions, don’t you?” he said as we fought.
“No. Explain,” I said.
“Well, first of all, he wants Miles dead.”
“Sure,” I said. “Some shit about his daughter.”
“Whatever business arrangement he has with you is only secondary.”
“No argument there. What are your intentions?”
“First, you come out alive. Second, Miles dies.”
“I would say you’re well intentioned then,” I said.
“Your arrangement with Lyman, I recommend you keep it strictly business.”
“Meaning?”
“Mean
ing he’s trustworthy, but he isn’t your friend.”
“And what does that make you?”
“Someone that doesn’t want you to die.”
Sweat popped out on my brow. The dry air sucked it up in an instant. “Lyman doesn’t care, you’re saying.”
“He cares that Miles dies.”
“I’m glad I have you, then.”
“If you want to survive, then come at me, Little One.”
I leaped forward, attacking him with my rubber knife.
I worked with the rubber blade like a savage. Every thrust and slash came from deep down inside. I gave my all with each one.
“You are a born killer, Amanda. Did you know?”
“Only of late, but yeah, I’ve had some reason to think that.”
By midday, I had scored a blow to the sternum, two to the groin, and one to the kidney.
“I want you to take my throat this round. It’ll be tricky for you, because I have the height advantage.”
“I won’t go easy on you,” I said.
He held his knife up high, both arms wide, hands above his collar. I’d never seen him use this stance before.
I stayed true, knife held low, cutting edge up. How to get to the throat?
I stepped forward. He pivoted. I ducked under his first swing. I came in low and slashed at his stomach. I made contact, but it didn’t count. He would only count contact with the throat.
He swung at me, his open palm connecting with my check. I felt the slap, but came in close. I delivered a knee to the groin, which doubled him over. He grabbed for me. He pawed at me. His fingers clutched at my sports bra. I came in closer. I kneed him in his gut while he was doubled over. My bra came up, exposing one breast. I ignored it. I brought my blade up, and I slashed viciously at his throat.
“Ahh,” he said. “You got me.”
I laughed at him. “Copped a feel, didn’t you?” I said.
“You have to be ready for anything.”
“Yeah? Right now I’m ready for a drink.”
“You’ve earned it. Get a shower.”
He took me to a steakhouse a few miles away. The restaurant dining room was built of thick logs. It was a wide open space with a stone fireplace in the center. The table we sat at was in a dark corner. The food was decent. Much better than the frozen, boxed, and canned meals that Choke had us living on daily. The meat was grilled over a wood burning fire, which gave it a smoky taste.
