Donnybrook

by Frank Bill

  * * *

  The kids’ teeth dug into Whalen’s left side like ants hollowing into soil. Toxins boiled from the stove, engulfed the trailer, made it hard for Whalen to breathe. He held tight to his gun with both hands. The man pulled at his grip, his heart pounding against Whalen’s chest, pumping the warm of his insides onto Whalen’s pant leg.

  The female pushed her Glock-swelled forehead into Whalen’s face. Bared her burnt-grease teeth, ran her wide tongue over his cheek, into his ear, and grabbed for his crotch.

  Whalen shuddered. Focused all his strength into his grip, pushed the gun into someone. Pulled the trigger. The loud pop deafened him. A muffled voice shouted, “Shit!” The man quit fighting for the gun. Whalen pulled the trigger again. Felt the woman’s lips purse in his ear, her hand let go of his crotch. She rolled away from him. He released the gun with his left hand. Held on with his right. Slid his left hand down his side, felt a mouth clamp down onto his wrist. Ignored the pain. Pulled his mace free. Jerked his hand from the small mouth. Started spraying the mace down into the gnawing.

  The kids fell back screaming with miniature coils of fist cranking into their eye sockets. Moisture fell from their eyes like condensate dripping from steamed glass.

  Whalen pushed backward, away from the man and woman.

  The man sat on the floor, leaned back against the stove. Chest fast expanding. Palm of one hand pressed into his leg. Forearm of his other holding the stomach of his T-shirt. Red pooled into a giant splotch.

  The female lay on her back, both hands pressed into her chest, coughing violently. Mucus and blood erupting fountainlike from her mouth. The kids crawled and pushed up against her still rubbing their eyes, crying, “Mommy, Mommy!”

  Whalen sat up next to the open trailer door, inhaling fresh air. He released the mace. His insides huffed on adrenaline. Everything attached to his left side pounded with hurt. He held his Glock in the air, ready to shoot anyone who shadowed in his direction.

  Whalen heard tires stop outside the open door. A door slam. Bark of radio-static voices. Officer Meadows stepped through the trailer door, bent down to Whalen, mouthed, “Shit!”

  Whalen gasped, “Took you long enough.” Lowered his gun.

  The toxic smell from the kitchen stove flamed Meadows’s sight. He told Whalen, “Don’t fucking move.” Keyed the mic clipped to his shoulder. Said, “Tanner, this is four. Got us a situation out here at the Farnsley place. Deputy Sheriff Whalen has been stabbed.” Meadows glanced at the man and woman with the crying kids and back at Whalen. “Appears two suspects have been shot, still breathing, kids sprayed by mace, gonna need a ambulance and—”

  Whalen saw a hint of movement. The man had made it to his feet. Picked up the clear glass bowl from the stove without gloves. Whalen could smell the bare flesh of the man’s hands burning as the man tossed the heated liquid onto Meadows. Whalen rolled to his right. Unloaded his firearm on the man. Who dropped the glass bowl. Fell against the stove. Meadows’s screams ruptured the trailer’s interior.

  13

  Radio static crackled through the kitchen door. Down the hallway from the kitchen, Tig handed a .30-30 with a scope to Alonzo along with a box of ammunition. Alonzo told Mag Pie, “Get your beaver tail down in the basement with the others.” She gimped to a door down the hall. Opened it and disappeared with a clicking sound behind her.

  Outside the kitchen door, a shadowed county officer got tired of waiting. Decided, Fuck procedure. Turned the doorknob. Alonzo stepped fast up the hallway. Daylight breathed through the kitchen door. Alonzo pressed the side of his right shoulder against the hallway wall where it opened up into the unlit kitchen. Shouldered the rifle. Raised the barrel.

  Back down the hallway, Tig handed a black-plated .45 Tauras to Jarhead. He hefted its weight. “What the shit you want me to do with this?”

  Tig held out a box of shells. “Best use it you wanna live.”

  Jarhead tucked the pistol down into his waistband. Took the shells. Placed them in the Walmart sack. “You’s crazy.”

  In the kitchen, the officer stood in the doorway. One hand rested on his side, touching his holstered handgun. Hollered, “Alonzo Conway, Meade County Police Department!” as he took in the kitchen. Lights off. Wooden table. Chairs pushed beneath. Rusted pearl fridge. Water-damaged wood floor. Counter filled with empty cans of Miller High Life, half gallon of Old Crow. Then the dark hallway. He stepped forward, squinted his eyes. Saw the barrel pointed at him too late. Alonzo said, “Nosy piece of bacon.”

  A deafening blast erupted from the .30-30’s barrel. Half the officer’s face opened. He stutter-stepped backward, fell out the doorway. His body spread out like a puppy-soiled rug on the porch, wet and spotted.

  The gunshot buckled Jarhead, who watched Tig step toward the kitchen. Said, “The shit! Came too far to get caught. This ain’t my quarrel.” Raced down the hallway in the opposite direction, opening doors to other rooms in the old house, searching for a back door.

  Tig limped into the kitchen with a high-powered rifle, a box of shells. Alonzo pushed the kitchen door closed. Gunshots started to rattle the wood siding of the farmhouse. Glass busted from windows. Alonzo stuck the rifle out the broken glass of the door. Through the rifle’s scope, he eyed the cops hunkered over the tops of their vehicles like pond turtles on a log, shotguns and pistols flashing rounds off at his house.

  None of the windows in the house had a screen. Just wood framed around glass. Tig had done lifted the window above the kitchen sink. Shouldered his rifle. Yelled over the gunfire to Alonzo, “How many you count?”

  Alonzo yelled, “Looks to be nine. Ten is littered on our porch with his final thoughts. The shit’s Jarhead?”

  The walls of the kitchen snapped drywall dust and Tig yelled, “Thought he’s behind me.”

  Alonzo looked as though he’d chewed and swallowed a piece of spoiled meat, and he yelled, “Gutless swine, probably took to the woods! He’ll get his! Just like these pork holsters gonna get theirs!”

  Down the hallway Jarhead entered a back bedroom. Closed the door behind him. Stared at bedsheets wadded upon a bare mattress. Boxers, jeans, and T-shirts obscuring the hardwood floor’s surface. Empty cigarette boxes strewn and stubbed-out butts ashed across the top of a scuffed dresser and nightstand. Jarhead said to himself, “What a fucking shit box.”

  He stepped across the clothes through a wood-framed screen door on the far side of the room and out onto a small concrete porch. Looked out into a graveyard of rusted engines and rubber tires scattered atop patches of grass, dirt, and rock that bordered acres and acres of woods.

  Then he smelt stale-coffee words behind the pistol that pressed into his temple, telling him, “Don’t fucking move!”

  Outside, the gunfire ceased. In the driveway, a police officer stood cinnamon-faced between his cruiser and his open door, held up his hand, mouthed, “Hold your damn fire!”

  Officers reloaded their weapons. The one who held up his hand lowered it, pulled a radio mic from inside his cruiser. Keyed it. His words blasted through the megaphone speaker attached to the top of his car. “Alonzo Conway, this is Deputy Sheriff Burnham. Got a warrant for you and your cousin for trafficking in underage prostitution, selling siphoned fuel, and—”

  Alonzo didn’t let Burnham finish. Tugged the trigger. Watched Burnham’s shoulder segment through the high-powered rifle’s scope.

  Tig eyed the carnage, hollered, “Damn, that piece of pork’s been pulled.”

  Police officers started pumping rounds of lead back at the farmhouse.

  Tig pulled the bolt action back. Dropped an empty brass to the floor. Levered a fresh round into the chamber. Looked through the rifle’s scope. Repeated with fresh rounds. Worked his way to the left, cutting through glass, steel, and skin.

  Alonzo’s right thigh blew out red. He fell back. Screamed, “Fuck!” Held the .30-30 in his left hand. Pressed his right hand into his thigh. Red poured through his fingers. He dropped the .30-30, twisted, reached a
bove his head, patted the counter. Feeling for a rag or towel. Something to dam the flow.

  Tig turned, his ears ringing, and looked at the blood running from Alonzo’s leg. The soiled hand patting the counter. While the repetitive rounds of gunfire sounded like a car backfiring, boring out the kitchen.

  He dropped to the floor. Pushed his back into the cabinets. Pulled the small clip from his rifle. Fingered shells from the box of ammunition into the rifle’s clip. Tasted the drywall- and wood-splintered air. Looked to Alonzo. “What now?”

  Alonzo’s face was condensate on a cold faucet. He mouthed, “Gas tanks. Aim for the cruisers’ gas tanks.”

  Out back of the house, the county cop told Jarhead, “Get your hands up where I can see them.” Jarhead started to raise his hands. Turned his right hand palm up, popped the underside of the county cop’s right forearm, knocked the gun from his grip. The gun bounced out into the yard. Jarhead came full circle with the Walmart sack of money, clothes, and box of ammunition in his left fist leading the turn, hammering into the county cop’s face. He palmed the cop with his free hand, pushing him backward off the concrete porch. The cop’s back hit the ground. Knocked the air from his lungs.

  Jarhead leaped from the concrete slab, over the cop, ran through the maze of engines and tires and into the woods with the sound of firecrackers lighting up the air behind him. His heart pumped in his ears; moisture seeded his body. Tree limbs whipped and scratched at his face and arms. Twigs cracked beneath him till he jumped a rotted tree, didn’t land on his feet but spiraled down a steep decline of tree, rock, and loose earth.

  * * *

  When Pete entered Elbow and Dodge’s house like they’d agreed, to split the crank and watch the brothers have their way with Ned and Liz, the butt of Elbow’s .38 cracked the rear of his skull. Made his eyes wilt and his knees buckle.

  From the carpet, Pete rubbed his head, looked to Ned, and insulted him with “Three-teeth fuck. You owe me and—”

  Ned grinned. “Owe you shit.”

  Ned motioned Pete to his feet to sit on the lumpy couch next to Elbow, who still sat holding his crotch, whimpering and slurping mucus.

  Pete said, “Robbed us at the bar when everyone was gone few months back. We know’d it was you come in with a wad cutter, wearing that silly-ass Power Rangers mask.”

  Ned hollered, “Shut your hole! You all fixing to get what you deserve. Try and take my dope, fuck my woman.”

  Ned had double-crossed Pete. Liz understood what he was saying. Who the shit would wear a Power Ranger’s mask to rob a bar? He wouldn’t get a chance to double her. She’d be sure of that when they got to the Donnybrook. Plenty of others be doing favors for a piece of what she had. Liz looked at Ned. “Ain’t just your dope.”

  Ned exhaled from his nose, said, “You know what I mean.” He motioned with the gun. “Go see if you can find some molasses up in them cabinets they got in the kitchen.”

  Pete glanced to Liz, told her, “Don’t be trusting this crooked piece of tin. He’ll steal your crank, leave you like a two-dollar whore.”

  Ned hollered, “Told you, shut your hole!”

  Pretending to ignore Pete, Liz held confusion on her face. “Molasses?”

  Ned’s face pressed wrinkles of hate from his forehead down onto his eyes, and he said, “Bitch, don’t question me. Go look.”

  The shit he think he is? Liz thought. Done brought his hand to the back of her head when they met Pete. Liz had Angus’s piece. Ned kept throwing his words around, she’d augment his mouth to a discomforting width.

  In the kitchen, Liz didn’t find molasses. But reached for something else.

  “Honey bear work?”

  From beside the couch, Dodge hollered, “Don’t be fucking with my sweets.”

  “Goddammit, done told you all to shut up,” Ned said as he raised the revolver. He squeezed the trigger, opened Dodge’s right shin. Dodge just sat there. Hollered, “Dumbass, I’s cripple. Can’t feel my fucking legs.”

  Ned shook his head, held the gun on Elbow and Pete, told them, “You two shit-sacks take off your clothes.”

  Each spoke with confusion. “The hell for?”

  Ned told them, “’Cause I got the gun. Undress.”

  Both men stood up. Elbow twitched, nearly fell over pulling his Lucky Charms T-shirt over his head. Then he dropped his stretchy gym shorts. Saggy lemon-colored nut huggers that should’ve been white. Pete pulled off his boots. Stood up, unbuckled his belt, said, “You’s about the queerest son of a bitch I ever did see. Gonna steal her shit. Know you will. Probably done skimmed a pinch here and there already.”

  Ned got flush-faced, screamed, “Shut up!”

  Liz held the bottle of honey, wondered if he had been skimming. How much.

  Undressed, each man was talcum-fleshed. Bruised and scabbed. Pete was wiry and knotted. Elbow was Ethiopian-thin, his bones riding tight under his flesh from tweaking, from not eating and sleeping. He’d cuts up and down his inner thigh like stretch marks. Ned motioned them over next to Dodge. Elbow asked, “Why ain’t he got to get naked?”

  Ned couldn’t believe this shit. Told Elbow, “’Cause he don’t, that’s why.”

  Pete stood ass-and-balls bare beside Elbow and said, “’Cause this crank-filching queer don’t go for the handicapped.”

  Ned yelled at Liz, “Give me that honey. Go to the truck, get that roll of duct tape from the glove box.”

  Liz sized up the men and their fleshiness, winked at Pete and the girth of his third leg, and asked Ned, “Why?”

  Ned balled the fist of his free hand. Cool Whip–white spittle formed in the corners of his mouth as he screamed, “Bitch, don’t question me! Just do as I say and quit staring at their pricks.”

  Pete smiled and said, “Still carry that shit case like you gonna rob a bar, need to bind up a few fellas’ wrists and ankles afterward? Like that couple we did a few back before you stole all Lang and me’s shit?”

  Ned pointed the pistol at Pete, said, “Don’t know what you’s talking about.” Told Liz, “Go get the fucking tape.”

  Liz got the tape from the glove box. Began circling Elbow and Pete. Taping them to Dodge, who sat between them in his wheelchair. Liz striped them each from shoulder to waist, trying to decide when she’d ditch this backstabbing son of a bitch.

  Ned squirted the honey all down their heads. Faces. Over the tape. Threw the empty bottle to the carpet. Laughed, told them, “Gonna leave the door open when we leave. This is what I like to call a redneck flytrap.”

  Liz and Ned grabbed the bagged meth and coffee can of money, went out the door. Heard Pete hollering, “Gonna get yours fuckhead, gonna get yours!”

  * * *

  Jarhead reached for small trees. They uprooted and he kept sliding. The decline was two or three hundred yards straight down. He rolled and tumbled but held on to the Walmart sack. He hit bottom and lay on his back, cut and bruised, catching his wind. Dried leaves down his shirt and pants. Soil about his hands and knees.

  From back up the hill, he could hear the faint crack and pop of gunfire echoing.

  Making it to his feet, wiping away the debris of nature, he heard water splashing in front of him. He inhaled, followed the scent and sound. His boots sank into the marshmallowed earth. Vegetation had been drowned out. Trees were all that remained, their bare roots above land.

  As he stepped out of the woods, there it was—the warm fish-stink of the Ohio River, its brown water beating the shoreline of mud and silt. Then like the wind a man’s voice asked, “Shit happen to you, son? Get into a scrape with a sticker bush or was it Alonzo Conway?”

  Back up the hill in the farmhouse, Alonzo aimed for the rear end of a police cruiser while Tig aimed for another. Kept pulling the trigger. Replacing a spent shell with a live one in succession. Till the plan took.

  One ball of flame created another ball of flame. Bodies behind the cruisers disintegrated. The orange ball mushroomed wide and into the tin-sided barn, where flame found more fuel
. Building into a large combustion. Shaking land and homes for miles.

  Down on the Ohio, Jarhead and the man felt the tremor in their wobbling legs. Each glanced up the hill. “Sam hell was that?” the man asked.

  Jarhead held a straight face of nicks and cuts. Tiny rips lined the weighted-down Walmart sack in his left hand. The .45 was tucked tight into his waistband. The man held a Quantum fishing rod in his right hand. Wore a brown T-shirt. Had a curved skinning knife attached to a pair of tan Carhartt carpenter pants tucked into black rubber wading boots. He was clean-shaven, his hair overcast-gray and long, banded into a ragged ponytail. Each ear was pierced. He’d eagles inked about his wadded-paper-sack arms. His eyes were bright green. Jarhead asked him, “You get me to the other side of the river?”

  The man smiled, said, “Thought you’d never ask. Been waiting down here all morning.”

  Jarhead said, “Waiting all morning? Look, old-timer, cut the shit. Can you get me across the river and to Orange County or not? I gotta—”

  “I know.”

  Sweat coated the ache that began to form on Jarhead’s body. He was losing patience, started to pull the pistol from his waist and asked, “Whaddaya you mean you know? You in hock with them two diaper-raping motherfuckers up over the hill?”

  The man’s hand pressed against Jarhead’s, stopped him from pulling the gun, and the man told Jarhead, “None of the above, son. I’s strictly of the spirit. Now, put your ego back up. My boat’s down behind you a few.” He turned his hand into a handshake. “Name’s Purcell.”

  Jarhead gripped Purcell’s hand. “People call me Jar—”

  “Jarhead Johnny Earl.” Purcell squeezed his hand, said, “I know all about you. People call me Purcell, Purcell the Prophet sometimes. Let’s get going ’fore it gets dark.”

  14

  Cigarette smoke thick as the smoke from blazing tires wrapped around Angus at the door. Behind him, a rusted-exhaust-pipe voice laced with bourbon demanded, “Where you think you’re going?”