Donnybrook

by Frank Bill

  There was always a what if?. Like the first time Jarhead threw a punch. What if that man hadn’t seen him do it? Knock that other boy silly for bullying another. What if he’d not seen something in Jarhead? Taken him under his wing. Learned him how to fight. Throw a punch. An elbow. A knee. How to work his hips. Rotate and turn a fist. Where to hit and how to hit. The kidneys. The liver. Heart. How to take care of his body. Be confident, not cocky, like the man he’d never known. His real father. A marine who’d served in the Vietnam war and boxed in Puerto Rico. The man that his mother had nicknamed him after. She told him she’d left Miles before Johnny was born. That his real father, Miles Knox, spoke with the dead. Had a violent streak and a hankering for the bourbon. His mother had given him her maiden name, not his father’s.

  Johnny often wondered if Miles was alive or had passed away. He’d never tried to make contact. His mother had confessed all of this to him just days before the dark cloud hit and she’d committed suicide after his stepdaddy had passed from black lung.

  “Honey,” he said, “they is always someone meaner. But the smart fighter is the better fighter. I’ll win. I’ve no other choice. Then I’ll send someone for you.”

  Tammy questioned once more, “You promise?”

  “I done told that I did.”

  “Wanna hear you say it again.”

  The gloom in Tammy’s tone was killing him. He had to stay focused on their future, not her uncertain sadness.

  “Promise.” Jarhead changed the subject. “How our babies doing?”

  Tammy’s voice cheered up. “Little Caleb is getting the sneezes. Zeek is sleeping.”

  “How about you, got enough Oxycontin for your pains?”

  Tammy had lower-back spasms from an uncle who’d raised her with knuckles, knees, and slats of busted pine to her body after her parents disappeared with the traveling fairs. From her childhood to adulthood, all she knew was pain. Till she met Jarhead. Who took her away. Paid the uncle a late-night visit. Made sure he’d never touch anything breathing again.

  She said, “Yeah, but not enough to drown my worry for you.”

  She was so sweet it made her love tart, and that made Jarhead love her that much more.

  A man’s voice hollered, “Jarhead?”

  He turned. Tig’s cousin, Alonzo Conway, came into the dirt-floored, tin-sided garage carrying two red five-gallon gas containers. “Sorry, son, didn’t know you’s on the wire.”

  Jarhead told Tammy, “I gotta get. I’ll call Sunday evening.”

  Tammy asked, “Who’s that?”

  “Alonzo. One of the guys helping me get to the Donnybrook. Love you.”

  “Love you.”

  Jarhead hung up the phone.

  Alonzo owned a fifty-acre plot with a monstrous rundown farmhouse out in the sticks, along the Ohio River. He placed the gasoline-filled containers on the floor. Offered a hand to Jarhead. A cigarette hung from his lip. Ash fell as he spoke. “Wanna thank you again for helping Cousin Tig. Seeing as you won’t take no cash, left something on your bunk in the house.” Alonzo’s fudge-tinted hair was wild and fatty in all directions. His skin was fiery red. Glowed with sweat beneath his T-shirt and jeans. He pulled the cigarette from his lip. Flipped it out the sliding tin doors behind him, onto the red clay. Winked an eye to Jarhead. Picked up the gas containers. Said, “Best hurry up yonder ’fore it gets cold.” Walked to the rear of the garage.

  In the house, floorboards gave and screeched under Jarhead’s boots. He pushed the bedroom door open. A girl who appeared no older than a freshman in high school sat on his cot. Hands behind a head of hair the shade of pond mud, thick-bristled and shoulder-length. Her complexion was steam white. She had metallic hazel eyes outlined by Mötley Crüe mascara. She was Twizzler-lipped. Two bra-less mounds lumped beneath a V-neck Hanes cut low. Her flat belly with a thick-gauged piercing poked out above a pair of cutoff sweats. Her right leg bent at the knee. Left leg wrapped in a leather brace. Piece of steel attached to it ran down to a thick-heeled shoe. A matching shoe attired her right foot. She smiled, her teeth vanilla-tinted. “Where you get all this money?”

  The Walmart sack of cash with Jarhead’s clothing sat beside her.

  Jarhead approached her. Said, “None of your worry.” And grabbed the sack. Asked, “Who the shit are you?”

  The girl smiled, said, “Mag Pie.”

  “The hell you want?”

  “Whatever you want. I’m here for you saving Cousin Tig.”

  Jarhead started to laugh. “Girl, you’re all of what—fifteen? I ain’t into jail-bait snatch.”

  She lowered her hands to her knees. Pouted her lips. Batted her eyes. Then cupped both of the mounds under her shirt. Thumbs brushed back and forth, hardened her nipples. “I’s seventeen. Can’t you tell by the way I filled out? My sister Key Hole is fifteen. But she got a nicer set than I got.”

  Jarhead swallowed hard, told her, “Look, I’ve got me a proper female. Two kids. Mouths to feed. No interest in defying my woman’s trust.”

  Mag Pie bent forward. Balanced herself. Stood up. Kick-stand limped toward Jarhead. Reached for his crotch. He slapped her hand away. She blushed. “Tig says you’re a fighter. I like it rough.”

  Jarhead shook his head, told her, “Ain’t interested.”

  She touched the leather brace on her leg. Fingered the metal. “Is it ’cause of my noodle leg? No worry, I can take you some places that girl of yours never has.”

  Jarhead raised his voice. “I got no interest in fucking a kid. You need go on and get.”

  “The shit’s going on in here?” Alonzo came into the room. Sweaty and fuel-scented.

  “Your new friend don’t wanna rub openings with me, Uncle. Says I too young.”

  Alonzo stared at Jarhead. “Is that so? Shit far, just tryin’ to thank you for your services. Be awful rude you didn’t give her a test ride.”

  Jarhead wanted to be even ruder, beat Alonzo’s complexion into every shade of Life Savers candy. “I done told her, ain’t interested in fucking no kid. Or any female other than my girl for that matter.”

  Alonzo said, “Girl like Mag’s a hundred dollar a squirt. You can take the day with her for nothing.”

  Mag interrupted. “The day?”

  Alonzo told her, “Figured you’d like a young buck instead of them wrinkled mule-dick farmers.”

  Jarhead grabbed Alonzo’s arm, said, “She’s seventeen, you sick fuck.”

  Alonzo jerked his arm away. Eye-fucked Jarhead, told him, “No man wants a wore-out section of puss. Younger the better. And no man touches and disrespects me in my own home.”

  Jarhead held his sack of cash tighter, said smoothly, “I best be going, make my way to the Donnybrook. I’m a fighter, gotta fight.”

  Alonzo stepped into Jarhead’s face. “That’s what you keep telling, so maybe we ought’s find out if it’s true.”

  Mag Pie chimed, “Should see all the cash he got in that there sack.”

  Alonzo glanced down to the blue plastic sack that hung weighted from Jarhead’s left hand, asked, “You rob a bank or something? Tig tells that you’s a helluva wheelman.”

  Jarhead’s right hand clenched into a fist. Pressed the knuckles bone-white. His hips were already positioned to give Alonzo a quick beating, and he said, “Told you I’s going to fight in the Donnybrook, and it cost a grand to fight.”

  Alonzo reached for the sack. Jarhead pulled it away. Came down hard with his head. Butted Alonzo’s. Shifted his left hip back, came forward with a right uppercut. Alonzo fell backward, bumped into Mag Pie. His hands triangled around his face, and he shouted, “Watch out, little bitch!”

  “You watch out, clown-footed fuck.”

  Jarhead stepped to the bedroom’s doorway. Tig blocked it. Bare-chested, pale, and bandaged. Announced, “Got a mess of trouble. They’s four county cruisers out in the drive.”

  Down the hall a cop’s fist pounded on the kitchen door.

  Alonzo told Tig, “Go get the guns.”


  12

  Something scorched from the tarnished trailer lingered, littered the country air. Muddled voices rebounded from inside.

  Whalen had searched ten abandoned houses in two days on various county back roads. Houses once white, weathered to gray. Roofs rotted. Busted windows and doors opening to yellowed and peeled wallpaper. Gutted trucks and tractors in yards of knee-high ragweed. But no trace of meth cooks, only disregarded memories.

  He’d followed the mudded path once graveled. No mailbox at the end of the drive. Seen two four-wheelers parked up by a woodshed. Miniature wooden wagon attached to one of them. White bags of trash piled on the back. Someone was living inside the trailer. Whalen had watched several swells of gray rat run to and from it.

  He now sat in his cruiser, engine off, window down, surrounded by briars and ivy. Watched the trailer. Being this deep into the seclusion of the backwoods made Whalen think about his secret and the girls who were no more. The boy he’d not visited in quite a while. Wouldn’t be visiting him today, he thought, grabbing his radio.

  Keying it, he said, “Tanner, this is two.”

  “Go ’head, two.”

  “I’m down past Blue Hole at the old Farnsley place. Gonna investigate a suspicious smell coming from the trailer. Possible meth lab. Send Officer Meadows down here ASAP just in case. Get a state boy on standby.”

  “Copy.”

  Whalen stepped from the cruiser slow. Kept his eyes on the cardboard that replaced the broken windows. Searched for peepholes with guarding eyes. Focused on the front door that he approached with his gun removed from its holster. Safety off. Stopping within earshot of the front door, he smelled rot, piss, objects soured, and burning chemical. The muddled voices from inside became clear.

  A female hollered, “Son of a bitch, I kill you!”

  “Bitch, get your mask on!” Sounded as though a man was yelling through a foam Dixie cup.

  The female said, “Let me have a whiff.”

  The male threatened, “I done telling you.” Followed by a sound that echoed like a cleaver slamming through thick cuts of meat. Then a thud that shook the trailer.

  Kneeling down, Whalen positioned his Glock in his right hand. He reached up, wrapped his left hand around the doorknob, turned it slow, made sure it wasn’t locked. Swallowed. Counted to three. Pushed the door open, stepped into the trailer.

  His heart double-jabbed and right-crossed his chest. Burnt ammonia gagged his inhale. Moistened his eyes. Mixed with the sour waft of three kids on a red vinyl front seat pulled from a ’77 Monte Carlo. Their unwashed hair clumped and matted. Shirts that matched their soiled bodies and mud-bogged underwear. Their mouths and cheeks textured the shade of liver.

  Whalen aimed his Glock down at a female in a rayon nightgown trying to stand up from the floor of wadded paper. Empty plastic baggies. Coleman canisters. Everything flung in disarray.

  She’d a twisted nest of hair the shade of water-contaminated engine oil. Her complexion was the hue of cottage cheese. Her braless sags pressed against her gown as she stood up. Scratches and buckeye bruises stretched about her ginseng-veined arms and legs. She screamed at Whalen, “The fuck you staring at, swine?”

  Whalen demanded, “Show your hands!”

  To Whalen’s right, empty boxes of Sudafed and jugs of distilled water lined a kitchen counter where a man hovered over a stove, holding a wooden spoon. An orange flame heated liquid into bubbles within a clear glass bowl. The man’s belly, chitlin-white and covered in mossy curled hair, peeked from beneath a T-shirt two sizes too small and rested over his red plaid pants. Black elastic straps ran over his bald head, securing a gas mask. Cylinders connected on each side of his mouth for Darth Vader–style breathing.

  The man looked at Whalen, his eyes fogged behind two circles of Plexiglas. His muffled voice yelled, “Go ’head and shoot, watch us all flame up, porky.”

  Whalen told him, “Step away from the stove.”

  The woman hollered, “He don’t have to do shit! Can’t you see we’s cooking?”

  Whalen had a cockfight in his chest and told her, “Lady, shut your mouth! Sir, step away from the fucking stove!”

  In his Darth Vader tone, the man said, “Don’t talk that way to my wife. Got kids in the house.”

  Losing his patience, Whalen said, “Sir—”

  Before Whalen could react, the female grabbed at the kitchen counter. Turned. Lunged Lizzy Borden–style at him. Whalen raised his left arm to block the oncoming blur. Took a gash from the blade of a butcher knife. Yelled, “Shit!”

  He hooked his left hand around the woman’s wrist. Kept the knife controlled. Pounded the butt of his Glock down onto her forehead. She dropped to her knees along with the knife. Whalen released her wrist. The woman screamed, “You fuck!”

  Quivering like the adrenaline cooking on the stove, the man rushed Whalen. Whalen fired a round into the man’s right thigh. The female hollered, “No!” The man fell forward onto Whalen. From the car seat in the living room the kids started barking like hounds on a coon trail. Then Whalen felt pain stab into his left thigh. Gritted out, “Dammit!” The man pushed his weight against Whalen, grabbed for his gun. Whalen glanced down. The woman was on her knees. She grabbed the butcher knife again, drove it into Whalen’s leg. While Whalen wrestled the man for control of the gun, the lady hollered for the kids. “You little bastards get in here, help your mother and father!”

  Whalen held tight to the Glock. The man had both hands wrapped on top of Whalen’s, prying and pulling at his grip. Then the woman stood up. Bear-hugged and pushed at Whalen and her husband. Whalen backpedaled, lost his footing. His back hit the floor. The weight of the man and woman slammed down on top of him. Took his wind. Fatigue set in. Whalen huffed for air, didn’t know how much longer he could keep control of the gun, fight the man and woman. Then he felt three sets of teeth dig into his shin and thigh, gnawing like rabid hounds.

  * * *

  Liz’s knees mashed into pasty fibers. Elbow balled his right hand into her budded cords of hair. His left hand pressed the .38 into Ned. Who stood with his hands raised and back turned to the menace he’d dealt them into.

  Elbow’s tongue circled his lips, and he told Liz, “Don’t act as though you never had rug burn on them knees.”

  Liz’s eyes had no other view aside from what was before her, the mound hidden behind the green fabric of Elbow’s gym shorts.

  To her left, Dodge sat in his wheelchair inhaling crank chased with gulps of PBR, screaming, “Go on, pull it out! Pull it out!”

  Elbow forced Liz’s face into his crotch. Liz dug her fingers into the backs of Elbow’s shaggy thighs. Opened her mouth. Took all that she could fit: the tainted fabric of his shorts, the hard lump hidden behind it, and the taste of soured dairy.

  Elbow slurped, “Oh yeah, baby, you know you want all of me.”

  Liz bit down onto as much as she could chew and pulled away.

  Elbow’s scream was electric. He released Liz’s hair. Lowered the gun pointed at Ned’s head.

  Ned turned, hooked his left hand around Elbow’s wrist. Grabbed the .38. Pulled it free. Stepped behind Elbow, swung a right hook into Elbow’s head. Brought the butt of the .38 in his left hand down onto the opposite side of Elbow’s skull. Elbow hit the floor.

  Dodge sat in his wheelchair screaming, “Yeah! Get it! Get it! Beat his shit! Beat it!”

  Liz wiped her mouth. Looked down at Elbow on the carpet. Both of his hands between his legs, his outline rounded into a ball of salivating wailing that rocked back and forth. Ned stepped past Liz to Dodge, pressed the gun to his head. “Where’s the cash, you worm?”

  Dodge’s eyes were two cat claws tearing into Ned’s, and he growled, “Eat shit.”

  Ned raised the gun, dented Dodge’s face like an aluminum can. Dodge spat, “You sumbitch.”

  Ned turned to Liz. “We ain’t leaving till we get paid. Go down the hall, see if you can find any cash in they bedroom. I got them.”

  Fed
up, in her mind Liz called Ned everything from a piece of maggot shit to a living, breathing miscarriage as she followed the hallway to the first opening. A bathroom. Took in the porcelain toilet with a tangerine ringworm stain, matching sink, and mystery mold resurfacing the tub. Towels wadded on the floor. Empty toilet paper roll. Busted mirror. Said to herself, “This place is worse than Ned’s.”

  Out of the bathroom, back down the hall, she entered the only bedroom. Wood-framed bunk beds were pushed into a corner against the wall. Identical Raggedy Ann and Andy covers on top and bottom. Looked as though Dodge slept on the bottom, his name engraved in the bottom rail. Elbow’s engraved in the top. Liz shook her head. “What the shit?”

  Clothing mildewed in piles. Superhero action figures lined a bookshelf. Comic books were stacked with Soldier of Fortune mags on top of a dresser. Porn mags with big-breasted females sat bedside. Porn movie boxes lay scattered across the floor. Liz kicked through the array of filth, searched through a closet. Found an AR-15 assault rifle. A metal container of ammunition. A gun cleaning kit.

  Looked between the mattresses. Then the dresser. Found some crusted condoms. A tub of Vaseline decorated with cock hairs. Boxes of latex gloves. Handcuffs. A .22 revolver. But no cash.

  Back in the living room Ned asked, “Nothing?”

  Liz shook her head. “Nothing of use. I’ll check the freezer.”

  Ned looked dumbfounded. “Freezer?”

  Liz said, “Folks I always knew either kept they money in a coffee can in the fridge or buried out in the yard.”

  The fridge was dirt brown, lined with superhero magnets and Scotch-taped Polaroids of nude women. Her hand wrapped around the handle. Dodge started driveling. “Stay out of there, you cunt!”

  Inside the freezer, clear baggies held frosted shapes. Behind them sat a blue oxidized Maxwell House can. Liz pulled it out, knocked a few baggies to the linoleum. Removed the lid. Glanced inside. Her eyes lit up, and she told Ned, “They’s a wad in here big enough to gag a horse.”

  Ned grimaced, stepped over to Elbow. Kneeled down, laced his fingers into Elbow’s Crisco locks. Pulled his head back, pressed the revolver into his dribbling eye, and asked, “Where’s you supposed to meet Pete?”