by Frank Bill
Liz paused. Asked herself, This toothless fuck was about to call her a bitch? The dope was hers. He’d be bone on pavement he didn’t watch it. She asked, “Where you say we’s going?”
“The sticks down in Orange County. Guy I know named Pete, he and his brother Lang run a tavern down there. Pete’s supposed to have set us up a deal ’fore we hit the ’Brook.”
Liz questioned, “Brook?”
Ned said, “Donnybrook.”
“Who the shit’s he?”
“Not a he, a fight. Bare-knuckle free-for-all. Us fighters love our rush in any form ’fore we meet in the ring.”
“Fighters? We selling crank to buncha’ scrappers?”
“Pretty much the idea. There’s a big crowd. Lot of betting goes on. Food. Booze. Good place to swonder your crank. It’s like a Dead concert with fists.”
Liz’s eyes blew up like large pelts of hail. “How much we gonna make?”
“Handful of cash. Enough crank left over to drop out for a week or better after. That was the deal. Take out your old man. Help you sell this dope for half the split, samplings of your sours and the crank.”
Liz shook her head, said, “He wasn’t my old man. He was my goddamn crazy-as-shit brother. Used to be a fighter.”
“No shit, well, he’s home to fly larvae now. What was his name?”
“Angus, Chainsaw Angus.”
Ned swelled up, offered his jack-o’-lantern smile. “Son of a bitch, I took out a legend.”
* * *
Gravel had dragged Angus to the room where he and Liz had slept. Where walls of pasted vinyl curled and peeled. Wooden windowsills were weathered and musted, and with its rings of syrupy stains, the ceiling looked as if someone’d held a tobacco spitting contest. Twice a day Gravel brought a tin bucket of water, scrubbed the frayed mess of unstitched brawn with lye soap. Patted the moisture and rusty fluid from it. Dressed the wound with patches of linen cut from his sister’s and mother’s dresses that hung from a closet in the upstairs. When Angus had come around, the beast of a young man bared a palm into his chest. Stuttered his words of, “Y-you st-stay.”
To wield the pain, Angus told the malignant shape of man to find the clear orange prescription bottle that lay in his ruck of clothing. And he had. Removing the lid, Angus had chased Vicodin with water, keeping the pain at bay.
Gravel had collected rabbits from his traps and sling-shot squirrel from trees for food. Gutted the insides, skinned them of fur and cleaned the meat, then fired the game along with potatoes for nourishment, fed Angus and himself along with roots he’d collected and dried during the previous spring, placed in a kettle of water, heated over embers and boiled the yellow to release its healing elements. He’d brought Angus back to a world where time was simple. Not many words were exchanged as food was chewed and eyes wandered about and the two men felt each other out. Angus would say, “Ain’t half bad.”
And as days passed Gravel felt some form of symbolism take shape. As though he’d lived with the purpose of the land and the land alone, but now that he had the land and another form to care for other than himself, he’d a much larger role in his daily existence.
Now, Angus sat shirtless in the disheveled kitchen, staring out the screen door. His strength was where it needed to be. The Vicodin keeping his pain at bay. One thought lingered, like the names engraved in roman script on his pallid body. GOTHIC IRIS, RAZORED CLINT, and ALI SQUIRES lined his forty-year-old pecs. MARVIN, ISRAEL, and JUNIS inked into his right shoulder. Names of fallen men. That thought was, Liz would go down.
A cigarette dangled from his lip. Smoke waved up into his nose, irritated his eyes. Problem was, Angus had no idea where Liz was.
He watched evening daylight burn through the mesh. A figure came from the distance up by the barn. This Gravel was some kind of ugly with his dress, boots, and split-tongue speech, but he’d nursed Angus’s old roadkill ass back to the living.
Angus thought about blood being specked. Blotted onto a faded and curled surface. Thought about sharp edges. Flat knuckles. Openings 9 mm in size exhausting a person’s insides.
He pulled on the Pall Mall. Exhaled. Asked himself, where would that nappy-headed bitch go with this sour-mouthed Ned? Man who had pulled the trigger. Had a piss-poor aim.
Gravel’s shape was coming nearer and nearer, he looked to have supper in his one hand and something pointed in the other.
Angus closed his eyes. Leaned his head back. Anger jackhammered his thoughts. Creating a pain so deep his face went numb. He’d survived their murder plot. Had to get his dope back. Implement what Liz and Ned had failed to achieve—kill him.
The Vicodin churned his stomach. He needed solid food. Took a final pull on the smoke. Pushed himself to his feet. Needed some fresh air. His eyes steadied on the table, focused on the hard pack of red Pall Malls that lay open next to his car keys. A break of light ignited from within, seeded his mind with where Liz’d gone several nights back before his murder. He said, “Leavenworth Tavern.”
Going into the back room where he’d slept, he pulled a shirt over his body, his wound dressed and scabbing beneath the ragged cotton. Grabbing his ruck, he listened to the door unbar, then the spring slam it into the jamb. He’d need to find some 9-mm shells. Then go talk to someone about a bitch in heat running with a mutt named Ned. Find them. Get his shit back. Leave them worse than they had left him. Place ’em deep into the earth.
In the kitchen, Gravel stood over the sink, turned with a mess of blood and a skinner in his hand. He’d a look of horrified surprise. “Wh-wh-what are y-you … do-do-doin’?”
“Movin’ on.”
Angus kneeled down, reached beneath the slab of kitchen table with his right. Grabbed for the 9-mm Taruas he’d duct-taped beneath it for an emergency. He ripped it from the table. Next thing he heard was the clank of steel hitting the sink and a shriek, “N-no!” Felt a hand grip and tug at his shoulder. “Y-you c-can’t leave.”
Angus eyed Gravel, whose retinas swelled and shrank with confused hurt, and told him, “Fuck I can’t.” He backed away from him.
Gravel thought of his father, thought of the bond he’d destroyed, something Gravel was building again after all of these years, nursing and caring for this soul so similar to him, his damaged appearance, then he stared at the pistol and said, “No … g-guns. H-hate … guns.” And he came at Angus, reached for the 9 mm in his hand, the big wad of a human squeezed Angus’s hand and the two men struggled for control of the gun. Angus’s finger fell into place, he locked his jaws, strained and pressed the barrel into Gravel’s gut, and without a second thought he tugged the trigger more than once.
Brass bounced hot. Blood pounded even hotter from Gravel’s gut. He fell backward into the counter. Glancing down at the scatter of pulp and back at the pearl-eyed man, shocked and betrayed by this person he’d catered for like his own kin. A piercing whine of confusion belched from his mouth. Head twisting unorthodox from side to side, he slid down the cabinet, onto the exact spot he’d found Angus. Where Gravel’s father had stood that day his family attained to no more.
Angus pushed the hot gun down into his waistband. Grabbed his keys and pack of smokes off the table. Turned to Gravel, who patted at the heat flooding from his stomach, a lost look in his eyes. But Angus did not concede his actions of betrayal. He only said, “There’s a gamble to everything one does in this life. Always a winner and a loser. Not sure of my role, but I know yours.”
Out the screen door and into the oncoming evening Angus went. Down the creek-rock steps to his Pinto. The engine fired. He put it into reverse. Backed up. Put it into drive. Took off down the road like a vampire anticipating nightfall, muttering, “Coming to get you, bitch.”
* * *
Pete waited with long arms vining from a faded, military-green Buckmasters T-shirt. Rested them on the nicked hardwood of Cur’s Watering Hole, a tavern he and his brother owned. Sold some beer and some whiskey. Dealt meth and marijuana to customers. Hosted bare-knuckle fights
in a dirt pit out back. Ran side bets and a cover charge. And every August, along with their cousin Poe, directed new onlookers and fighters through Harrison and Orange County to Bellmont McGill’s Donnybrook.
All around Pete, men and women sat at tables made from large wooden spools that once held electric wire. Canning jars of golden brew and single shots of brown in front of them. Mouths spewing delinquent clatter. Pete’s bartending older brother, Lang, watched the male and female enter Cur’s, leaned on the other side of the bar in front of Pete, whispered, “You called them yet?”
“They’re waiting like turkey hunters in a blind.”
Lang warned Pete, “Watch your ass. Know that son of a bitch is spiny.”
Pete nodded. Mouthed back, “I got it.”
Lang walked to the other end of the bar. A hand met Pete’s shoulder. He turned his peach-fuzzed chin into Ned’s face and said, “Look what the Orange County sewage department shit out.”
Ned offered, “If you ain’t the stain on a raped heifer’s bedsheet, don’t know who is.”
Pete skipped Liz’s head of hair, worked his way down over her chest, then went back to her face. Complimented her with, “By God if you ain’t the sweetest thing since strawberries dipped in sugar.” Wiped his palm over ragged jeans, offered a hand. Told Liz, “Name’s Peter, but everyone calls me Pete.”
Liz met his hand with her own, returned a shithouse grin, said, “Hear you take more peter than you give.”
Pete’s pitted face burned like a candy apple and he mock-laughed. This was the best piece of ass he’d seen Ned run with, easy.
Ned popped the back of Liz’s head with his hand, said, “Enough eye-fucking him.” Looking around the room, he asked Pete, “Who’s the people we selling some crank to?”
Pete pulled a crumpled piece of paper from his front pocket. His index and middle finger offered it. “Here’s the directions. They’s waiting down the road a spell.”
Ned wrinkled his scar-tissue brows, asked, “You ain’t going?”
Pete grabbed his Miller High Life from the bar, took a swig, swallowed, said, “Naw, gotta give Lang a hand. But go ’head. They know you’s coming.”
* * *
Elbow heard the knock at the door. Hollered, “Don’t be shy, get your ass on in here.” The door opened and in walked Liz and Ned. The dank waft of the house’s interior pricked the inside of their noses. Made them want to spit pieces of the burgers they’d washed down earlier.
Across from them, Elbow stood barefoot on a shag carpet that’d lost its vanilla tint to spots of his and his brother Dodge’s spilt beers. A black-and-white floor-model TV sat over against a wall. Dodge sat in an electric wheelchair off behind Elbow, one hand wrapped about his Pabst Blue Ribbon, his other pinching his crotch. His eyes were two bored-out barrels aiming at Liz’s chest.
Ned wanted to get this deal done quick. Wanted out of a home that stank of more rot than his own. Told the two, “The price is a hundred dollars per gram. So how much you wanna procure?”
Elbow rubbed the chest of his Lucky Charms T-shirt. Puckered a pair of tobacco worm lips covered in white donut powder. Then pushed a hand down the front of his green nylon gym shorts, let the thumb wiggle over the hem. His fingertips tickled the bulge that pressed beneath the fabric like a large spider under a dryer sheet. He twisted his neck over his right shoulder to the disabled war veteran, his mousy voice asking, “How much you wanna spend, brother Dodge?”
Dodge lifted the can of PBR to his lips. Made a slurping sound that his thorny Adam’s apple moved with. Lowered the can and belched. Moved his eyes from Liz to Ned, asked, “How much you got?”
Ned’s nerves were rattled by the dead pierce in Dodge’s eyes, and in a sarcastic tone he said, “Plenty more than you can likely afford, crip.”
Dodge returned a smirk and said, “Why don’t you go get us a thousand dollars’ worth, pyorrhea-mouth.”
Ned kept his eyes on the two brothers, clenched his fist, said, “Liz, go out to the truck, get these dingleberries they crank.”
“No!” Dodge spit. “The girl can stay. You go get the fucking crank!”
Ned hesitated, then turned around, twisted the doorknob. Went out the door. Liz took in the desert camouflage pattern of Dodge’s legs that sat useless, his feet covered by a pair of black Velcroed tennis shoes. He had on a gray T-shirt with stains across wide letters that spelled ARMY. His face was sharp-boned, jaundice-tanned, cactus-stubbled, topped with a head of mahogany hair, the ends of which looked singed by flame.
Liz broke the uncomfortable silence, asked, “Guess you’s in the army?”
Elbow’s entire hand disappeared down his gym shorts.
Dodge told Liz, “Two fucking years in Iraq. Draw a pension now till our pagan lord lets me rot in a box forged by Chink hands that’ll read MADE IN THE USA.”
Elbow’s wormy knees began to bend while he pushed his lower back forward, thrusting his crotch up like he was humping the air. His hand still lost down his shorts, gripping the bulge.
Liz asked, “That what happened to your legs?”
Elbow began opening and closing his mouth in a stiff yawn, lip-syncing a Slayer tune, “Reign in Blood,” that only he heard. His other hand balled into a fist and punched at the ceiling while he dry-humped the air.
Cake-batter-thick spittle flew from the corners of Dodge’s mouth as he hollered, “You think happen to my legs, you stupid cunt? Goddamned fucking Hummer hit a IED!”
Liz got red-faced, skipped the lighting of the fuse and ignited with, “You inbred paraplegic fuck! I didn’t tell you to go over there. Same as I didn’t name you after a goddamned truck maker.”
Dodge had started to growl when Ned stepped back into the small house, several clear baggies of ghost-white crystal in hand.
“Quit the fucking hollering,” said Ned. “I got your shit right here. Now cough up the grand of spare change.”
Elbow lowered his left hand from the air, pulled his right hand from his gym shorts, bringing that big hard bulge with it. Aimed it at Liz and Ned. It was an onyx .38 handgun, and he told them, “Had to be sure you had the shit. Now we take the whole mess of what you got out yonder for free. After your nappy-headed bitch gets on her knees, takes that shirt of hers off. Lets me service them fun sacks while she tastes my ugly stick.”
11
Purcell pulled two fishing rods from the rusty nails he’d driven into the studs years ago. Grabbed his tackle box from a dust-deviled shelf, stepped from the wilted shed that was the color of pus, and started down the path to his johnboat. He kept it beached next to the Ohio River. He’d no idea how long he’d wait. How any of it would happen. He just knew that Jarhead would come from the wooded hillside. Stray from Alonzo’s place. For reasons he could only imagine. Those that corralled at Alonzo’s place were any and all manner of lowdown, without morals. Seeking sickness and carnage. Some said he’d tried to bring young girls from foreign lands, to sell their skin. Entertain those that were into the puerility.
He lay his gear in the chipped boat and the sooty water splashed. Busted tree limbs, beer, and oil cans lay scattered along mushy earth. Purcell pushed the boat into the water, waded in until the wet lined the top of his rubber boots, and with the sun beating down on him he hopped in the boat. Pulled the cord on the small motor, glanced down the flanks of the river, checking for barges so he could cross to the other side, knowing the heat he felt wetting his skin beneath his clothing was nothing compared to what was soon to come.
* * *
Cans of gasoline surrounded Jarhead. He ran one hand through his sweaty locks. Thought about those lights from a few nights back. The truck’s gas pedal to the floor. The red-and-blue flashes that had opened the night. He took the back-road curves not knowing his way. But outrunning them.
Now, Jarhead stood in a rusted tin garage, a grease-smudged rotary phone held to his ear, thumbing a creased and worn picture of Tammy and the boys. He hadn’t spoken to them in days, missed the boys watching him skip r
ope in the dirt yard and work the heavy bag in the late evenings. They’d clap their tiny hands in amusement. After training he bathed them and tucked them into bed for sleep. Showered, then went into his bedroom, wrapped his arms around Tammy’s warm innocence.
He’d needed to let Tammy know he was okay. Make sure she and the boys were the same. Into the phone he asked, “Anyone hassle you?”
The female voice was feather-pillow-soft with worry. “Marshal Pike just wanted to know if I’d seen or heard from you. Wondered why you’d go and rob a gun shop for one grand. Not take a penny more and leave the shotgun.”
“What’d you tell him?” Jarhead asked.
Tammy said, “Last I seen you the sun was rising. The kids was crying with shitty diapers.”
Jarhead was restless and a bit worried. He hadn’t beat on a bag nor run for conditioning since the robbery. He needed to expand his lungs. Feel some flesh give. Bring some hurt. He needed to make some tracks toward Orange County. And he wasn’t real comfortable with what had happened a few nights back. Worried about the county officer he’d beat, the man he’d choked out, the cops he’d outrun. What if they’d gotten the plate number of the truck he’d fled the scene in with Tig? He told Tammy, “It’ll be over soon.”
Tammy asked, “Promise?”
“Promise. After this coming weekend I be the winner of the Donnybrook. I’ll send someone for you and the babies.”
Tig and his cousin had given him a place to rest his head, a spare room with a cot and soured sheets. In the night Jarhead heard a lot of men coming and going from the basement. But he ignored whatever it was they did besides siphoning fuel. They were his transportation to Orange County this evening.
“Why not you?” Tammy asked.
Jarhead told her, “Can’t risk being seen in or near Hazard after what I done did. I win, none of that’ll matter no way. Be more money than either of us ever did see in our lives.”
Tammy got quiet. A child sneezed in the background. She asked, “What if you don’t win? What if they’s someone meaner and tougher than you? Then what we gonna do?”
