Fighting Iron

by Jake Bible

  “Put that hog leg down before you blow your darned head off, Amelie,” a woman said from the top of a set of stairs at the end of the garage.

  The woman was dressed in nice, but worn, riding pants. Her shirt was silk and tucked into the waist of her pants, pulling the top tight against her chest with enough buttons undone to make things interesting. A revolver was holstered on each hip, but with the butts pointed out, cross draw style. She wore shiny black boots with silver threading and what looked like diamond studs. Her hair was bright red and pulled up into a bun on top.

  “Mrs. Ventura,” Nasta said as she got out of the roller. She motioned for Clay to follow and he did. Hank stayed right where he was. “This is the pilot I was talking about, Haggie. Are they here yet?”

  “Inside,” Mrs. Ventura said, giving Clay a full scan, her eyes tracing every feature of him, up and down. “You can leave the roller, but you’ll need to enter from the front. Can’t look like I’m favoring anyone around here, can I?”

  The woman was in her mid-to-late forties and looked healthy as anyone Clay had ever seen. Her skin was pale, as most redheads’ skin was, but she didn’t have a single freckle anywhere he could see. Smooth and silky as her shirt.

  She caught Clay studying her and her right hand crossed her waist to pat the pistol on her left hip.

  “I ain’t for sale, pilot,” Mrs. Ventura said. “Neither is my baby girl there. But you head inside and get yourself a drink and I’ll send one of my working girls over to your table. I think I know what you like.”

  “You probably don’t,” Clay said.

  “I probably do,” Mrs. Ventura replied. “I been in the skin game all my life, mister. I could tell you what you like down to the size of a woman’s nipples and how deep her cooch goes.”

  “Peekachu’s ghost,” the girl, Amelie, cursed. “Why you gotta say stuff like that, Ma?”

  Mrs. Ventura held out a hand and Nasta hurried over. She dumped half the emeralds into the woman’s waiting palm and closed the bag fast, tucking it back into her pocket before Mrs. Ventura could guess how many rocks were left inside.

  “Nice and raw,” Mrs. Ventura said as she bounced the emeralds in her hand. She tucked them away inside her silk shirt and gave Clay a wink. “Best hurry up. Tables are filling up fast inside. All these folks here for the tournament.”

  “That’s not for a couple of weeks,” Clay said.

  “If you consider next week a couple of weeks,” Mrs. Ventura laughed. “You sure you’re a mech pilot? Doesn’t seem like your math is all that good. Takes math to be a pilot, if I ain’t mistaken.”

  “He’s been injured and out of it for a spell,” Nasta said.

  “Shoulder and guts, I see,” Mrs. Ventura said. “You be careful, pilot. You grunt too hard and you’ll hurt that belly of yours. Those abdominals still need some mending.”

  Clay started to respond, but just nodded instead. The woman knew how to read a body. Maybe she did know his type of gal.

  “What do they look like?” Nasta asked.

  Mrs. Ventura shrugged. “Like you’d expect. Huge sombreros and bandoliers. They might as well put an advertisement in the paper letting everyone know who they are.”

  “Hold on…sombreros and bandoliers?” Clay asked, his gaze shifting to Nasta. “Bandanas? Red ones tied around their necks?”

  “That would be them,” Mrs. Ventura said.

  There were some gunshots from far out in the street and Mrs. Ventura started making a shooing motion.

  “Go on now,” she said. “I want this garage locked tight. Your roller will be safe here and I’ll keep Amelie, or one of my girls, on lookout for you. Any of you get in a scrape, you high tail it back around here. Don’t even think about coming through this back door. That’s for me only. But, you make it here and we’ll keep you hidden until it blows over. Then you are on your way. You didn’t pay for no long term stay.”

  “Thank you,” Nasta said. “We’ll be in and out before nightfall, I hope. If not I’ll let you know and we’ll pick the roller up first thing in the morning.”

  “Not gonna stay in my establishment?” Mrs. Ventura asked.

  “Too conspicuous,” Nasta said.

  “You’re way past that, I’d say, but whatever,” Mrs. Ventura said. “Now go.”

  Nasta gripped Clay’s arm and led him from the garage and into the alley. Firoa and Hank followed behind once Hank had filled a large duffel bag with weapons and strapped it to his back. Clay kept giving Nasta a hard look, but she ignored him until they were out of the alley and out onto the street.

  “Sombreros and bandoliers with red bandanas around their necks,” Clay hissed, pulling his arm free from Nasta’s grasp. “Are you kidding me?”

  “They have strategic value and know all the routes up and down the both lands,” Nasta said. “From the Empire up through the Republics.”

  “You stupid, stupid woman,” Clay said.

  Firoa had a pistol up under Clay’s jaw in a flash.

  “You say that again and I empty that already less than full head of yours,” Firoa snarled.

  Hank disarmed Firoa with a flick of his wrist and had the pistol in his hand before the woman could even blink. He gave Firoa a stern look and shook his head.

  “There a problem here, folks?” the man on horseback with a badge asked. “Did I just see a six-shooter pressing into the soft parts of that man’s skull?”

  “No, sir,” Nasta said. “Just some friends goofing around.”

  “Goofing around,” Clay said. “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name, sir?”

  The man glared at Clay then gave him a thin smile. “Sheriff Trang. And you are?”

  “What are you doing?” Nasta whispered out of the side of her mouth.

  “What was that?” Sheriff Trang asked.

  “I’m Horatio Longfellow,” Clay said. “Out of San Decisco. You may have heard of my father, Gertrude Longfellow? Big man in the rubber band business.”

  “No, Mr. Longfellow, can’t say as I has heard of him,” Sheriff Trang replied. “That would be a hard name to forget. His first name is Gertrude?”

  “Yes, sir,” Clay replied, a huge shit-eating grin on his face. “It was his grandmother’s name. We’re a tight knit family.”

  “Sounds like it,” Sheriff Trang said and scrunched up his face. He tapped his fingers on the pommel of his saddle as his horse snorted a few times. “Well, you folks have a good time here in Del Rado. Stay out of trouble and we’ll get along just fine.”

  “That’s our aim, Sheriff,” Clay said. “Longfellows aren’t known for trouble. We’re a delicate people.”

  That made the sheriff snort a harsh laugh. He tipped his hat and turned his horse around, intentionally against the traffic that clogged the street.

  “Y’all have a good day,” the sheriff said, his eyes already locked onto a group of kids on putter boards harassing an old man and his wife a couple blocks away.

  They waited until the sheriff was gone before turning and stepping onto the raised sidewalk that fronted each row of buildings up and down the street.

  “What the hell was that?” Firoa asked. “Horatio Longfellow?”

  “With a father named Gertrude,” Clay said. “Throws off a curious lawman every time. No one wants to get involved with someone whose father is named Gertrude. Makes them feel tainted and dirty.”

  “I feel tainted and dirty and I know it’s all bull,” Firoa said.

  Hank laughed and patted Clay on the shoulder. Clay’s bad shoulder. Clay winced, but gave Hank a smile. The man must have been reading lips the whole time.

  “Inside,” Nasta said as she pushed open one of the double doors that led into the saloon. “I do the talking. These people are skittish as it is and I don’t want—”

  “What you don’t want is anything to do with them,” Clay said as he grabbed Nasta by the arm as soon as they were inside the saloon. “This is a big mistake. You have to trust me on that.”

  “I don’t
trust you on that,” Nasta said. She plucked Clay’s hand from her arm. “I barely know you, pilot boy. I don’t really trust you on anything. But you have the last piece of a puzzle I have been working on most of my life. This works out and we all get what we want and you can be on your way by the end of next week.”

  She pushed through the crowd, leaving Clay with his mouth hanging open.

  “End of next week?” Clay called out. “What the hell does that mean? What’s the end of next week?”

  “The tournament, stranger!” a wild-haired drunk shouted in his face.

  Hunks of dried beef and spit flecked Clay’s cheeks and Clay gave the man a shove away which sent his shoulder into a painful spasm. He worked his way through the crowd until he came to where Nasta, Firoa, and Hank stood. They faced a group of men and women seated at a table only a hand grab’s distance from the small stage set against the saloon’s back wall. The men and women were dressed in miscellaneous trousers and shirts, but they all had three things in common: wide sombreros on their heads, bandoliers of bullets across their chests, and red bandanas tied around their necks.

  “Goddammit,” Clay muttered as he stepped up next to Nasta. “Anonymous, my ass.”

  “This is him?” a large woman asked. She regarded Clay with complete contempt. “Don’t look like he could stand up to a three-year-old’s tantrum let alone pilot a mech.”

  The woman had exactly three teeth, two of which were capped in gold. Clay rolled his eyes.

  “Goddammit,” Clay muttered again. He looked at Nasta, but the woman wouldn’t meet his glare. “Comunistas? You’re involved with goddamn comunistas?”

  “She sure is!” the large woman cackled. “And now you is too! Viva la revolucion!”

  The others at the table lifted their tankards of beer and shouted, “Viva la revolucion!”

  “Goddammit,” Clay said for a third time. “Fucking comunistas.”

  Eighteen

  Clay wanted to make a grand exit, shove his way through the crowd, and bolt out onto the Del Rado main drag. He wanted Nasta to know he intended to have no part of anything where comunistas were involved. But the saloon was so crowded, and his guts were hurting bad enough, that he only made it about two meters before she caught up to him.

  “Clay!” she yelled from behind him. “Clay! Stop!”

  No one in the saloon cared that she was yelling, they didn’t even care as the comunistas continued their chant of “Viva la revolucion!” another six times before yelling at a waitress to bring them more pitchers, many more pitchers. The crowd only cared about the drinks in their hands and the barely clad women and men that had stepped out onto the stage.

  Clay ignored Nasta’s shouts, although the fact she used his name and didn’t call him pilot boy was not lost on him. He tried to aim for the saloon’s doors, but the crush of the crowd drove him in the opposite direction and he found himself shoved up against the end of the bar.

  He caught the bartender’s eye and held up three fingers. The man nodded and poured three fingers of brown liquor into a dirty glass and slid it down the bar to Clay. Everyone at the bar lifted their glass to let the drink pass as if they’d choreographed and rehearsed the move for days. Clay knew Haggie Ventura wasn’t going to go broke anytime soon with solid regulars like that.

  “Clay!” Nasta shouted from his side.

  “Hey there, little lady,” a fat drunk said. “You looking for some companionship?”

  Nasta nut punched him and he went down hard.

  “Damn,” he gasped. “No need to be rude.”

  “She can’t help it,” Clay said and fished around in his pockets for coins or scrip. But, of course, he didn’t have any. He noticed the bartender giving him the stink eye and returned the look with a wide, disingenuous smile.

  “They hang folks that can’t pay their bar tabs around here,” Nasta said as she slapped down a pile of scrip on the bar and pointed at the bartender.

  The man smiled and slid a full bottle down the bar. More well-rehearsed choreography from the locals and the bottle came to a stop right by Clay’s drink, a second glass following right behind. The scrip was grabbed up and passed from hand to hand down to the bartender without a single slip being pocketed. Solid regulars indeed.

  “They hang folks that can’t pay their bar tab everywhere,” Clay said. He picked up his drink and downed it in one gulp. His belly turned to pure fire instantly, but he refused to let the pain show on his face. He wouldn’t give Nasta the satisfaction. “That’s a universal offense, I’m fairly sure.”

  Nasta filled her glass and downed it, drinking twice as much as Clay in one swallow.

  “What’s your beef with comunistas?” Nasta asked.

  “Beef? I got some beef right here,” the fat drunk said as he got back to his feet, obviously having forgotten the previous few seconds of pain.

  He went down even faster with the second nut punch.

  “Don’t like them,” Clay said and filled his glass with more liquor than Nasta had.

  He took a breath, downed the booze, coughed hard, put the back of his hand to his mouth, then tried to casually set his glass down on the bar. He missed and it fell to the sawdust covered floor. A new glass appeared almost as fast as the first one broke. Clay gave a thankful nod to the bartender.

  “You can’t ever trust comunistas,” Clay said. “They will double cross you in a second all in the name of their revolucion.”

  “Viva la revolucion!” the comunistas called out from their table by the stage and the entire bar echoed the cheer.

  “Goddammit,” Clay said and filled his and Nasta’s glasses. “They are fighting some revolution against who? Who are they fighting? The powers that be? The bourgeoisie? Whatever that is. The landowners? The Empire and the Republics? They don’t even know, Nasta!”

  “They know,” Nasta said. “They are fighting for the people.”

  “The people? What people? You? Me? Who?” Clay asked as he pointed his glass at her. “They don’t fight for me or for you, trust me. They just like wearing those stupid costumes and shouting viva la revolucion.”

  “VIVA LA REVOLUCION!”

  “Goddammit! Shut up!” Clay yelled.

  “Stop it,” Nasta snarled. She downed her drink at the same time Clay downed his. “You are going to get us shot or knifed or hanged. Calm down and come back to the table. Listen to what they are offering then make up your mind. You only have to deal with them long enough to get your mech back. I’ll be dealing with them long term, so what do you care?”

  “I don’t,” Clay said. “Except to keep my skin attached to my body.”

  He filled and drank, filled Nasta’s glass and she drank. The two of them stared at each other over their empty glasses. The world was a little softer in Clay’s eyes and he felt the liquor start to whisper in his ear.

  It said, “Go with it. Screw the comunistas. You need to find your mech and Gibbons. And you need to be nice to Nasta. She’s a good person and damn if she doesn’t look hot in those trousers.”

  “Shut up,” Clay said.

  “What?” Nasta replied.

  “Nothing,” he said.

  Nasta grabbed the bottle by its neck and pushed it into Clay’s chest. “What’s it going to be, pilot boy?”

  “Okay,” Clay said, taking the bottle. “I listen. That’s it. But only about the business at hand. If any of those morons start in about the proletariat and the collective needs of the people, I’ll put a bullet between their eyes.”

  “Will you now? With what? Hank is holding your pistol in his bag, pilot boy,” Nasta said and smiled. “And I’m not giving you mine.”

  “You call me Clay or no deal,” Clay said.

  “Fine,Clay,” she replied. “You cool enough to come talk? Or should we get another bottle?”

  “Both,” Clay said.

  He snapped his fingers and pointed over at the table where the sombreros were hard to miss. The bartender wrinkled his nose and nodded then tossed a bottle at
a passing waitress and shouted instructions to her. Clay gave the man a thankful nod and followed Nasta back through the crowd to the table.

  Extra chairs had been pulled up to the table, which wasn’t hard since most everyone in the saloon were on their feet, clapping and stomping as the half-naked women and men on stage danced some half-assed choreography that was less rehearsed than the regulars at the bar. But that wasn’t really the point. The point was for the crowd to see some soft and hard bits as the dancers gyrated and bent over.

  No one cared that their chairs had been absconded with and set around the table where a bunch of sombreroed fools kept toasting their revolucion. No one except Clay. Nasta had to force him to sit down with a firm grip on his bad shoulder.

  “Comrade!” the large woman said as Clay took a seat. “You do not approve of our movement? Why is that? We are here to free the people from the shackles of the oligarchy! You are one of the peoples so that means you will be freed as well! Viva la revolucion!”

  The cheer went up, but was confined to the table as the crowd had moved on, their attention on the now fully naked dancers that were busy waggling their bits and pieces around the stage.

  The waitress arrived with the bottle and waited as Nasta handed her more scrip. The waitress stared at it then stared at Nasta until the woman fished out more for the tip.

  “See that? That right there is why we fight, comrade,” the large woman said to Clay. “A woman like that should not have to parade around in her underwear so she can earn tips for doing a day’s work. We fight so the workers of the world can make a fair wage and be free of the chains of capitalism.”

  “The workers of the world, eh?” Clay laughed. “Have you even been out of this territory? What do you know of the workers of the world?”

  “I know what my brothers and sisters tell me,” the large woman said, shaking off Clay’s accusatory and argumentative tone. “They tell me of limbs being lost, of lives destroyed by illness from horrible working conditions. They tell me of women and children kicked into the cold as husbands and fathers are conscripted into manual labor and lost from their lives. They tell me about human trafficking and open slavery that has become the norm across the globe. They tell me of slaves being butchered and left for the vultures to feast upon because their owners tire of them. That is what I know of the workers of the world.”