by Graham Smith
He backs away, fighting to regain some air in his lungs. I follow him and wait for the moment when he recovers. As soon as his back starts to straighten, I throw a couple of combinations at his face.
He goes down but tries to get back up. I stand a pace away, then step forward when he makes it to one knee. My fists are ready but my heart isn’t in it. ‘Do you really want to get up just so I can put you down again?’
The fight goes out of his eyes as my words settle in his brain. His head shakes and he sits on his ass.
Nobody brought any water, so I pick a couple of ice cubes from a cooler and suck on them as I watch the next fight. The first cube hasn’t melted before the dancing gymnast pulls off another feat of acrobatics and lays out his opponent with an elbow to the jaw.
Old Man Jones and the guy with the battered face are watching as I roll my winnings over a second time. I’m now betting eighteen grand at two-to-one. There’s also the original bet of five hundred bucks at ten-to-one. If I win this next fight, I’ll clear fifty-nine thousand five hundred bucks.
Winning may be something of an issue though. The dancing gymnast is fast and deadly. While my fights weren’t long knock-down drag-out affairs, I still caught a hefty kick from Crusher which has made my ribs tender. As soon as I settle into one position, stiffness will arrive with a side order of pain.
During the fifteen minute lay off before the final, I walk around keeping muscles loose and eyes open. The real purpose of my being here isn’t to fight, it’s to investigate. The fighting nothing more than a key I’m using to enter a locked room.
As I make a circuit I notice another two white panel vans have arrived since I checked earlier. One has no scratches or anything remarkable about it. The other has a slight jacking to its suspension, off road tyres and a fresh scratch on the driver’s side.
What I wouldn’t give to have my cell in my hand right now so I could call in the police, FBI and any other government agency who wanted to come along. Out here it wouldn’t pick up a signal and would amount to nothing more than a collection of useless microchips and plastic.
I memorise the licence plate and keep moving in case the van’s owner notices the attention I’m giving his vehicle.
‘Hey, Boulder. How you planning to not get your ass kicked in the final?’
It’s a good question Jim-Bob has thrown at me. I’m not sure of the answer so I give him a flippant one. ‘I’m going to pretend he’s as slow and dumb as you are.’
I walk away leaving Butch laughing at his brother’s consternation.
Freddie and another young lad are cavorting around trying to emulate the dancing gymnast’s moves when Old Man Jones throws a handful of pebbles at them. ‘Quit yer foolin’, boy.’
They stop their antics and the stranger gives a shameful excuse for an apology. As they wander off, I hear Freddie call his buddy Dave. His name doesn’t matter to me – other than it being a way to connect some more dots.
Like everyone else here, I disappear behind a parked vehicle to take a leak. When I return, I’m called forward for the final.
Old Man Jones gives the kind of introduction Liberace would consider over the top.
As I square off against the dancing gymnast, I realise I still haven’t worked out a way to combat his athletic prowess. The mismatch in our sizes is similar to my first fight with Crusher, only this time I’m the bigger slower fighter.
He comes at me, bouncing on his toes. There’s no way to predict how or where he’ll attack. I feint left then step right hoping an opportunity will present itself.
It doesn’t.
I don’t want to go on the attack too much as he’ll pick me off, but I’ve always rated attack as the best form of defence and so far his defence remains untested.
He shifts back as I push forward. I’d like to pressure him a little but don’t want to make the mistake he’s waiting for. I see a change in his eyes a millisecond before he drops into a crouch and tries a leg sweep.
I lift my right leg up, just enough for his leg to pass underneath, then flick my foot towards his head.
He’s seen me counter a similar move and mimics me by grabbing my foot. Not being as reliant on brute strength as Crusher, I release the weight from my standing leg and drop my knee into his gut.
A grunt is all I get for my efforts, so I drive an elbow into his face. His lips split, but his exceptional agility comes into play as he wriggles himself around me.
Through some kind of wrestling move or other, he manages to roll us over so he’s on top of me. My left arm is pinned beneath my back leaving only my right for defence.
I deflect some of his punches but most find their target. One breaks my nose and I feel at least two teeth loosen.
His weight on my chest prevents me from wriggling free so I grab a fistful of his collar and pull his head towards mine.
With my head on the ground I can’t get any purchase on the headbutt, but I can direct him so his nose strikes my forehead. The buck from my hips adds to his momentum.
Instinct makes him rear backwards. As he does so, I hook a hand under his knee and help him on his way.
He gets to his feet before I do, but he wastes a second wiping blood off his face. I don’t care whose blood it is, the action gives me time to brace for his next attack.
Now when we face off, I see fear and uncertainty in his eyes. I hope he sees triumph and confidence in mine.
He feints left then right before pulling one of his gymnastic moves. Instead of doing the expected, and trying to dodge or defend the coming blow, I ignore it and step forward throwing off his aim. Instead of his foot crashing into my head, his knee bounces off my shoulder.
I press home my advantage and nail him with a left right combination as he tries to recover his balance after the failed attack. He goes down but doesn’t look as if he’s staying there so I follow him.
His arms are covering his face, but his legs are free. I feel one snake its way around my neck and press me backwards. His other foot appears, but rather than join the first in an effort to push me back, the dancing gymnast throws his heel at my face.
I roll away before it connects and this time he’s the slowest to regain his feet.
Next time when he throws a punch it’s not a feint. His knuckles slam into my jaw, but it’s not the hardest I’ve been hit.
With his high impact moves causing him more problems than successes, he’s switching to more orthodox tactics. His greater hand speed will wear me down unless I manage to land enough decent punches of my own.
We trade punches like a couple of twelfth-round boxers, convinced we’ll get the judges’ decision.
I can see I’m wearing him down, but I can feel myself slowing too. Rather than wait to see who tires first, I decide to take a chance.
When his next punch comes at me, I deflect it and take a quick step forward, arching my back as I go. My headbutt slams into his nose and sends him reeling backwards. I follow him and throw several combinations until his knees give way.
I stagger away to a large rock and sit down to catch my breath. When I collect my winnings I want to be in the best possible shape – in case Connor or anyone else has any silly ideas about me not getting the money.
71
Butch is the first person to come across to me. His face is beaming as he shakes my hand and claps me on the back.
Others follow him, and a bottle of beer is pressed into my hand. I want to drink it, but know I shouldn’t. One beer has never been enough for me and I need my wits about me for whatever may come.
The dancing gymnast is picked up by his friends. He steadies himself and comes across to me. I clench my fists ready, but I’ve misread his intentions. He proffers a hand and gives me a bloody smile. ‘Well done.’
I hand him the beer and head off to where Connor is handing out money to the few who’d betted on me.
He greets me with a smile. ‘Hey, Boulder. That was a good show you put on. Anytime you want to come back, we’ll be h
appy to see you.’ As he speaks he pulls out a sheaf of notes and starts flicking through them.
Two minutes later I have my winnings and appearance fee in my pocket and no idea what to do with the money. The only thing I know is that I won’t be keeping it. However the money has gotten into the hands of the Jones family, I’m positive it’s not got there legally.
So far as I’m concerned, other than my initial stake money, every cent I’m carrying is tainted by a victim’s misery. The sooner I can pass it on to a charity or two the better.
Butch comes back with some beers and frowns when I refuse one. I want to get back to civilisation, to call Alfonse and Chief Watson, tell them about the white van with the fresh scratch, but there’s no way Butch is ready to move.
A group of shady looking characters come my way. The leader of the group stands in front of me. ‘We lost a lot of money betting against you tonight. We’d like the chance to make some of it back.’
I don’t say anything. I want to hear what they have to say before I tell them no.
‘Y’see we know you earned big betting on yo’self. We can double or treble that money.’
‘How?’ My interest is now piqued. I’ve no intention of doing anything with the guy, but Chief Watson may be interested in hearing about his business proposition.
‘You come and fight for me. Depending on the purse, you make up to a hundred grand a night. Plus you c’n bet on yourself. You interested?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Good.’ He passes me a card with nothing but a cell number written on it. ‘When you’re ready to fight again, call me.’
I’m more likely to juggle rattlesnakes than call him, but I stuff the card into a pocket.
A foghorn blares and is followed by Old Man Jones’s voice.
‘Gentlemen, we got one more fight for you and it’s gonna be a good un. We’ve seen some fine battles tonight, but what we’re offering you now is gonna be somethin’ real special.’ My stomach flips as I wonder if he’s about to drag my name into things. All of a sudden, my plan to challenge them by winning their money doesn’t seem anything like as smart as I’d first thought.
‘We got us two men, two knives, but we only gonna have us one survivor. I give you a fight to the death. In a moment you’ll meet our fighters, but first I’d like you all to follow Connor and Kevin.’ He points to a cleft in the rocky wall of the small valley we’re in.
Unsure of what’s about to happen, I hang back until I’m the last to pass through the cleft. We’re in a kind of hollowed out basin whose walls are ten feet high.
Connor climbs a ladder at the far end and everyone clambers up after him. Being last doesn’t seem such a good idea anymore, so I push my way past one or two guys who look at me in amusement.
Try as I might, I can’t work out why anyone would agree to take part in a fight to the death. I’m interested in seeing the two modern-day gladiators on an anthropological level.
What I’m not wanting to witness is their fight. As much as I enjoy a punch-up myself, I get little pleasure from watching others do it.
72
When the last person climbs the ladder out of the basin, Connor and Kevin climb back down and take the ladder back to the cleft.
A white panel van reverses into the opening. Connor opens the back door and hauls a black man into the centre of the basin. Kevin does the same.
They use the ladder to climb onto the van’s roof. I check the licence plate. It’s the jacked van with the scratch on the left side.
The driver is dressed in the same jeans and shirt as everyone else, but his look is better quality. He’s a handsome man who is treated with respect and deference by the Jones brothers. I don’t recall seeing his face, but there are others who’re also unfamiliar. What is familiar, is the description given by Will Pederson’s neighbour of the man calling himself Brian.
Everything I see leads me to think I’ve stumbled on the killers through dumb luck. Where the luck has run out, is the fact I’m in the middle of nowhere with no way of contacting the authorities, and no transport of my own.
I look at the two black men who are standing in the centre of the basin. There’s fear on both their faces and their close proximity to each other speaks of comradeship rather than enmity. Their clothes are soiled with the detritus of rough living.
I figure that Brian has picked up a couple of street bums and plans to use them for sport. The colour of their skin the deciding factor in their selection.
A feeling of helplessness washes over me as Brian exits the back of the van, and walks towards the two fearful men with a pump action shotgun in his hands and a cigar in his mouth.
They shrink back from him, but he waves them forward. I see his lips move as he gives quiet instructions to his two latest victims.
They shake their heads at him. As he retreats, they try to follow him, their protests snatched away from my ears by the breeze. Brian answers their protests by aiming the shotgun at them as he backs away.
When he gets to the van he clambers up the ladder. Connor hands him two hunting knives, which he tosses to opposite sides of the basin, while Kevin pulls up the ladder.
The black men stay where they are so Brian lifts the shotgun to his shoulder. ‘Begin.’
I pity the two men. They’re in a situation neither has chosen. There is no escape for them. Brian’s shotgun and the van block the cleft, while the rock walls of the basin form a natural arena for their bout. Even if they could climb out, without being stabbed by the other, the spectators at the top wouldn’t let them leave. Their only hope is winning.
The two men split and run to the knife nearest them. As soon as they turn with the knives in their hands I know who the victor will be. The taller of the two waves his knife as if it’s a sword, while the shorter man with the greying hair holds his blade steady in a backhand grip.
Neither advances too close to the other. The taller one is slashing a lot of air without ever threatening Grey Hair. A lunge from him sees an attempted stab miss by at least two feet.
I want to intervene, put a halt to the horror unfolding before me, but there’s nothing I can do. Any attempted intervention will be ended by Brian’s shotgun.
Grey Hair dances away from a slashing lunge. His counter splits open the taller guy’s left bicep. The crowd roars in delight while Freddie and Dave do a happy jig.
The taller guy’s left arm hangs loose by his side as he continues his wild slashes. A second counter-attack gashes his knife arm causing him to drop his weapon.
Grey Hair steps forward, preventing the taller guy from retrieving his knife. Without his given weapon, the taller guy shrinks to the back of the basin and lifts a fist sized rock. The way his arm is held, it’s clear he plans to use it as a missile. He advances towards Grey Hair, who stands his ground.
When they’re five feet apart, the rock is launched at Grey Hair. It smacks into the middle of his chest a split-second before the taller guy throws himself after it.
The two men land in a heap, each wrestling for control of Grey Hair’s knife. The taller guy is on top of Grey Hair when a violent thrust sees him spasm in panic as the blade slices his throat.
Grey Hair rolls the dying man off his chest and crawls away. When he’s three yards away he wipes the blood off his face, then hurls his guts up.
I know how he feels. I’ve only been watching and I feel sick. At least when I killed a man, I didn’t end up covered in his blood.
Brian approaches Grey Hair and gestures for him to return to the van. Grey Hair seems to refuse. A lifting of the shotgun changes his mind.
The van moves away and Connor brings back the ladder. As we walk back towards the various trucks I touch Butch’s elbow. ‘You ready to get out of here?’
‘Hell yeah. That ain’t what I call entertainment.’ His words are no more than a whisper but I catch the disdain in his voice.
He rounds up his family and tells Freddie to get in the back seat of his truck.
As we�
�re climbing into the truck, a single blast of a shotgun rings out. I can only hope Grey Hair didn’t see it coming.
Butch drives back with little regard for the punishment his truck is taking from the rough tracks. The main focus of his anger is young Freddie, who he berates with a constant stream of abuse and vilification for his actions and conduct.
He uses his superior intelligence to ask the idiotic boy a series of questions which cannot be answered without dropping himself deeper into trouble.
73
The chief is waiting for me when I pass through the media scrummage and enter the station. My call on the way back from Butch’s had been passed straight to Gaertner.
There’s not a trace of the FBI anywhere in the station. Even Gaertner has scrambled to the Jones’s place.
When he sees the cuts and bruises on my face, the chief hollers for Darla to bring the first aid kit.
As I give him a fuller account of my evening, Darla fusses round me wiping away blood and dirt from my face.
Resisting Darla is a waste of time. She just agrees with you and carries on doing what you’ve asked her not to. Her personality is louder than the Hawaiian blouses she wears and her rich booming tones are only ever one syllable away from calling people sugar or honey.
‘The licence plate you gave us for that van is registered to an address in Salt Lake City. It’s also registered to a twenty-twelve Chevrolet Spark. The owner of the Chevvy is in her eighties.’
‘You got someone going to see her?’
‘FBI have.’
We share a grimace. The licence plate on the van is so obviously false, it’s not worth discussing. The little old lady will have to be interviewed, but as a formality rather than a serious line of enquiry.
‘I presume you’re on the lookout for it?’
‘It’s just as well you mentioned it. I never thought of that.’ His scornful tone is powerful enough to shrivel rock. ‘You’re the amateur here, not me.’
