On The Run

by J. M. Parker

  Its tires screeched as the driver hit the brakes and the car skidded across the road. The fender crumpled before Bannon rolled up and over the hood. The windshield cracked beneath him as he hit the glass, and the collision launched him sideways into the road. His ears rang as he bounced against the concrete. Through the ringing he heard car doors opening and voices calling out to him. He saw leather boots approaching. He felt hands roll him over and cold steel against his wrists. A hand seized his hair and dragged him to his feet. He saw the horror-struck faces of the bystanders. He heard the distant whine of sirens.

  *

  Two officers dumped Bannon into a small holding cell, a wire mesh separating him from the adjoining cell, where a vagrant slept on a bed of rotten clothes. Bannon watched as the fabric around the beggar darkened and urine spilled out onto the floor. He slumped against a wall, his whole body aching. “Take me to a fucking hospital.”

  An officer grinned back at him. “No speaky English.”

  Hours passed and more inmates joined him. A pair of battered Thais came first, then a line of public intoxicants, most of them carrying puke-filled buckets. The officers split them and packed half into each cell. Bannon watched as an inmate farted and the seat of his trousers darkened. “For fucks sake,” said Bannon. “Is there nowhere else?”

  He slept uneasily for about an hour, waking to the strong smells of piss, shit, and vomit. The door opened and Bannon watched as an officer rushed into the room, bowing repeatedly as he did. Bannon pointed to the puddle of piss, about to speak, when a long shadow stretched across the floor and the Frenchman moved into the room. He walked slowly to the bars, Bannon’s backpack dangling from his hand. He was dressed in pristine white clothes and his teeth flashed in a smile as he looked around the holding cells. Another officer followed him, carrying a wooden chair. The Frenchman thanked him and waved the officers away, the door slamming behind them as they left. Bannon rose and the Frenchman sat and waited as he walked across the cell. “Jean,” said Bannon.

  “Mon ami.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  The Frenchman stretched his legs out in front of him and crossed his ankles, “I have come to rescue you.”

  Bannon looked from the backpack to the Frenchman. “Feels kind of like a setup to me.”

  “Setup,” said the Frenchman, pressing a hand to his heart, “no, no, no.”

  “Then what? You seem awful comfortable here.”

  The Frenchman smiled again. “Ah, so quick to point the finger.”

  “What?”

  “You told me half a story. Said you were down on your luck, but, you never said how down.”

  “What?”

  The Frenchman looked back at Bannon, the corners of his mouth still raised in a slight smile. “You are a fugitive, no?”

  “I wasn’t sure they were searching.”

  “Why would they not?”

  “I never saw any pictures posted.”

  “Of course not,” said the Frenchman, his laughter echoing around the holding cells. “It would have been a witch hunt. The public, they would have rounded up every brown-haired foreigner.” he paused and tapped a finger against his temple. “The police, however, they did not forget you. The police, they had your picture.”

  “Then there ain’t much else to be said.”

  Bannon started to turn away from the bars, but the Frenchman called him back. “Wait. Do not forget why I came. Perhaps I can still help you.”

  “How would you go about doing that?”

  “Grease the right hands, cash in the right favors.”

  “And what would be in it for you?”

  The Frenchman’s green eyes sparkled as he leaned into the light of the cell. “A favor, to be named later.”

  “Just the one.”

  “Oui.”

  “How do you know I won’t cut and run?”

  “You are a foreigner,” said the Frenchman, “and, when foreigners find themselves in trouble, they tend to—how do you say—cut and run. I would suspect your picture has been circulated along the borders.”

  “So whichever way, I’m trapped?”

  “In a sense,” said the Frenchman, “But, for now, you can choose the prison. Out there are the beaches, the weather, the girls. In here…”

  Bannon looked back into the cell. Inmates lay sleeping beside their buckets of puke. Piss still puddled around the beggar. “You got a point,” he said.

  “Besides, think on this: I am an importer, an exporter, as well you know. When the time is right, I could perhaps help you slip across the border. Until then I see no reason why we could not resume our partnership.” he reached into his pocket and pulled out Bannon’s take for the day. “You have some flair for it.”

  “Doesn’t seem like much of a choice.”

  “No it does not.”

  “One favor?”

  “To level the books,” said the Frenchman, rising and extending his hand through the iron bars of the jail cell.

  Bannon waited for a moment before he gripped the Frenchman’s hand. “Well, I’d say I’m all out of chips. You got yourself a deal.”

  “Magnifique. I will have them unlock the cell,” said the Frenchman, slapping a hand against the backpack, “and, mon ami, try to be more careful this time.”

  *

  In the street the Frenchman stood beside a pair of town cars. “Here, they will drive you home.”

  A chauffeur opened the rear door but Bannon didn’t get in. “I know I ain’t in a position to ask for favors.”

  “Ask away,” said the Frenchman.

  “You couldn’t find out what happened to the diver?”

  “You are sure you want to know?”

  Bannon nodded.

  “Okay,” said the Frenchman, “meet me tomorrow. I will have an answer.”

  “Your place?”

  “I will send for you, perhaps we will make a night of it.”

  “Alright,” said Bannon, wincing as he dipped into the car. “Something gentle maybe.”

  “Of course,” said the Frenchman, “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  *

  Bannon arrived at the stadium in the same town car that had driven him home. He wore a beige, tailored suit that was collected en route and paid for by the driver. Inside the stadium a roped ring was surrounded on all sides by steep rows of seats. A pair of fighters moved across the mat, and he climbed the stairs to his seat as the shouts of the crowd reverberated around the building.

  The Frenchman rose to greet him. A pocket square was set perfectly in the front of his pale gray suit, a glass of champagne was fizzing in his hand. Beside him sat another man, his dark green uniform adorned with military medals. The Frenchman ushered Bannon toward him. “The local police chief,” said the Frenchman. “You owe him a great debt, he has personally painted moustaches upon every one of your mug shots.”

  Bannon laughed. “So it’s taken care of?”

  “It is taken care of.”

  “Thanks.”

  Two more Thai men sat beside the police chief. “Misters Lei and Tan, local businessmen, specialists in industrial machinery, a very profitable business. We can thank them for the seats tonight.”

  “Great seats,” said Bannon, shaking hands before he sat at the end of the row. A waitress appeared quickly at his side, a champagne glass balanced on her silver tray. Beneath them another fight was underway. Two young boys circled around the ring as the crowd cheered and booed with equal enthusiasm. Bannon watched as a lithe, muscular boy darted at his chubbier opponent and landed a punch to his stomach. The chubby boy folded over, the volume rose again. “Quite the atmosphere,” said the Frenchman.

  “Yeah,” said Bannon.

  The chubby boy straightened up and Bannon saw an elbow catch him on the forehead. Blood masked him immediately. He dropped to the ground as the muscular boy stomped and punched his body. Trainers rushed into the ring and the beaten boy disappeared amongst them as his opponent was lifted into t
he air.

  “Such savagery,” said the Frenchman.

  “Shit,” said Bannon, “they start them young.”

  The Frenchman waved over a waitress and ordered a round of cocktails. “Could you imagine the Colosseum, Bannon?”

  “Imagine how?”

  “The spectacles therein. Would you watch?”

  “Watch what?”

  “The gladiators and the lion tamers. Man against man, man against beast. Battles to the death. Blood upon the sand.”

  “Probably,” said Bannon, “but I doubt I’d like it.”

  The Frenchman laughed. “True, it is hard to imagine, but countless did, and countless returned again. Perhaps we would grow to like it.”

  The crowd hushed and the Frenchman leaned closer to Bannon. “How much money do you have?” Bannon shrugged. “Hand it over,” said the Frenchman.

  Bannon passed him a wad of bills. The Frenchman reached into his wallet and added to the pile. “I will spot you, you may pay me back with the winnings.” A champagne bucket full of money sat by the feet of the police chief. The Frenchman passed across their bills and the businessmen talked excitedly as they looked at the pot. “They think they have us beat,” said the Frenchman.

  “What are we betting on?”

  “The main event.”

  A robed fighter emerged from a tunnel and the crowd erupted with noise. The police chief and the businessmen rose, joining the crowd in their standing ovation. In the ring a suited announcer waved an arm into the air as his voice rang out across the speaker system. “The unconquerable Art Sakchai.”

  “So we ain’t got the favorite?”

  “But we have good odds.”

  Another fighter emerged to the jeers of the crowd. “Time to change my bet?” said Bannon.

  “Be not afraid,” said the Frenchman.

  The fighters de-robed, the bell rang, and the fight began. Bannon studied their fighter. “Our fighter got a name?”

  “Bo Sang.”

  “He looks like Frankenstein,” said Bannon, eyeing the man below. Deep scars lined his torso and his left shoulder seemed to sag in its socket as he moved sideways across the ring.

  “A homunculus, Frankenstein. A fighter pieced of discarded parts.”

  “And poorly joined to boot,” said Bannon, grimacing as the fighters neared and the crowd rose in anticipation.

  The favorite, Sakchai, stood a head taller than his opponent, and he leaped suddenly from the mat, exploding off his back leg and driving his knee forward. It caught Bo Sang hard on the shoulder and sent him staggering to the side. The businessmen laughed and heckled the Frenchman, but his fighter regrouped, throwing a kick that landed high on the favorite’s arm and sparked howls of derision from the crowd.

  The first round ended and the Frenchman ordered another round of cocktails, the audience whistling and catcalling as the ring girls walked along the ropes.

  The second round began, Sakchai coming out hard, throwing violent elbows at the guard of the underdog. The audience gasped as another kick barely missed the mark and Bo Sang remained unscathed.

  The round wore on, the two men still trading kicks and punches. The favorite leaped up again, his knee glancing along the jawline of his opponent. Again gasps sounded out as Bo Sang wobbled backward, his feet seemingly unsure beneath him as he threw an arm across the top rope and managed to stop his fall. The police chief slapped his hands against his face as Bo Sang raised his guard again. The businessmen rose in fury, yelling curses at the ring as the Frenchman sipped his drink.

  Sakchai rushed in again, driving knees and elbows into his opponent. The two fighters clinched and grappled. Their heads locked side by side as they threw short punches into each other’s ribs. Sakchai wrestled free and the Frenchman rose onto his tiptoes, his eyes locked on the action. Bannon looked from him to the fighters and then he saw it too: Sakchai’s hands had dropped a little low and his head swung sideways as Bo Sang’s high kick whipped across the top of his guard and thumped against his cheek. Sakchai spun from the impact, his legs failing as he tumbled to the mat.

  Trash flew down at the ring as the referee called the fight. Sakchai was rolled off the mat. Bo Sang was hurried along the tunnel. The police chief stood and thrust the champagne bucket toward the Frenchman, who turned to his compatriots and grinned. “Malchance,” he said.

  The police chief and the businessmen left soon after. Bannon and the Frenchman laughed and drank as the rest of the crowd filed out. In the near silence of the arena Bannon’s smile finally faded as he turned to the Frenchman. “Any word on the other thing?”

  The Frenchman’s face also fell. “I have some news.”

  “And?”

  “They found her.”

  “Alive?”

  “Yes,” said the Frenchman, his expression remaining solemn.

  “Well, that’s great news, isn’t it?”

  “Oui.”

  “What aren’t you telling me?”

  “They found her after a couple of days, completely mad, walking naked across the beach, wearing seaweed as a crown.”

  “You’re joking?”

  “They kept it very hush-hush. Bad for tourism, bad for the family.”

  “But she’ll be alright,” said Bannon, still half expecting the Frenchman to break into a grin.

  “Je ne sais pas.”

  “What?”

  “They have sent her back to Austria,” said the Frenchman, “beyond the reach of my spies.”

  Bannon let out a long sigh. “I suppose they’ll slam the dive store.”

  The Frenchman jumped to his feet, startling Bannon with the suddenness of the movement. “Enough,” he said, his voice echoing around the deserted arena. “She is alive, that is a good thing, no?”

  Bannon looked at the Frenchman, his whole demeanor energized, a big smile plastered across his face.

  Reluctantly Bannon returned the smile. “It’s a good thing.”

  “Yes,” said the Frenchman, scooping up the champagne bucket. “Yes it is, and who is to say she will not be okay?” he turned to the aisle, beckoning Bannon with his free hand. “Come, come. I have something to show you.”

  Bannon followed as they headed into the tunnel. Security moved in their direction but veered away when they spotted the Frenchman. They continued down the tunnel, finally stopping in front of a locker room door. “Perhaps this will raise your spirits,” said the Frenchman. He swung the door open to reveal a small, bare room. Paint peeled from the stone walls. A trainers table stood in the middle of the room and on top of it lay Bo Sang. The Frenchman pointed at him. “This, Bannon, is the great Muay Thai warrior, Bo Sang.” the fighter twisted on the table in a sort of awkward bow. The Frenchman replied with a quick nod of his head.

  They stepped into the room and as Bannon entered he saw another figure, an ice pack held to his jaw and obstructing his face. Bannon stared a little harder at the bare torso packed with flat muscle, the skin red and bruised. “You didn’t,” said Bannon.

  “I am regular Meyer Wolfsheim, am I not?”

  Bannon watched as Art Sakchai lowered the ice pack, his bloody and swollen jaw twisting into a smile as he spotted the Frenchman.

  “What a performance,” said the Frenchman.

  Sakchai stood to greet him before he raised a hand to his mouth and pretended to chew. “Of course, of course,” said the Frenchman, reaching into his pocket and removing a handful of tiny, tinfoil-coated squares, each shaped and colored like candy, but each completely void of lettering. “It is imperative, is it not, to keep the workforce incentivized?”

  “Guess so,” said Bannon.

  The Frenchman smiled before he reached into another pocket and took out four fat joints. He passed them out and circled around with his lighter. Sakchai had moved to Bannon’s side and he towered above him as The Frenchman kicked the bucket and sent it skidding over to their feet.

  Bannon glanced at the money before he turned his gaze around the room. Bo Sang blew smoke rin
gs toward the ceiling as Art Sakchai swayed beside him, a contented smile showing on his bloody jaw. Bannon looked over to the Frenchman, the joint held between his lips, everything neatly ordered, his suit still perfectly pressed, the pocket square still unruffled. “How did I ever stumble across you?” said Bannon.

  The Frenchman laughed. He clapped his hands together and the embers of the joint intensified as he took another drag. “The whole world, my friend, is comprised of improbable collisions. All matter, all motes; it is all the chance meeting of separate things, separate entities, and, the more volatile, the more combustible these things, the more breathtaking the consequences.”

  5

  The Frenchman reclined on a plush sofa. On a glass table a half-drunk bottle of bourbon sat beside a colourful pile of currency. “A dive center?” said the Frenchman.

  “That was the plan.”

  “And what inspired such a thing?”

  “Well, I guess it was as much my dad’s dream as it was mine.”

  The Frenchman reached for the bourbon and refilled his glass. “Your father was a diver?”

  “Mechanic by trade. He built a pretty nice auto shop in Chicago, enough to support the two of us at least. We used to dive when he could find the time, always said when I got old enough to look after myself he’d sell it all, get a little place by the ocean. Dive out the rest of his days.”

  “But it was not to be.”

  “No,” said Bannon, pulling a joint from his pocket. “No it wasn’t.” he lit the joint and took a long drag, “Anyway, after he passed I didn’t see much of a reason to stick around Chicago. Garage had been sold off to cover the cost of all the medical bills. I came out here. Figured I’d get qualified, get some experience, one day run a shop of my own. Spent the last of what we had left on getting certified.”

  “It is a hard thing?” said the Frenchman.

  “Getting certified?”

  “Oui.”

  “It takes a lot of hours, getting the right proficiency in the water. There’s dive theory and examinations. You need safety training, rescue training…Guess it’s all for shit now.”