Mercer's lower lip quivered and his one eye filled with tears that ran down his face and mixed with the dark blood around his mouth. He tried to speak but again, nothing came out.
Truman raised the pick and brought it down hard into his friend's temple. He wrestled the pick out of Mercer's head and went back to digging with the bloody tool dripping specks of brain.
Finally finished, he dragged the lifeless body to the grave's edge and pushed it into the hole with the heel of his foot. He was filling it in when he remembered the glass eye was still on the green.
Truman plucked the prosthetic orb from the grass and tossed it in the grave. It hit Mercer's upper lip and rolled onto his partially opened mouth and stayed there. An idea struck Truman as the eye looked up at him, unblinking. He jumped in, landed on the dead man's shoulder, but lost his footing. Knees buckling, he dropped onto the body, jarring it enough so that the eye fell into Mercer's mouth. Truman cursed and reached his dirty fingers in to scoop it out. He placed it in his shirt pocket, crawled out, and continued with the burial.
* * *
The ground was packed firmly and neatly before Truman carried the tools to the golf cart. Going back to the green, he pulled out the cup and buried the glass eye several inches underneath. Replacing the cup, he drove away. He planned to return the following day to cover the exposed ground with a fresh bed of flowers.
At the clubhouse, he went straight for the bar and poured himself a drink to unwind before going home. It had been a month to the day that he discovered the love letter. He'd spent weeks in preparation and now, he smiled to himself at a job well done. He drained his martini, smacked his lips, and left.
* * *
That night, Truman positioned his wife on all fours and enjoyed himself. Yanking her hair back, he sneered as she scrambled to her fingertips to ease the pain. He slapped her on the side of the head and held her face down into the pillow until her muffled cries grew tiresome. Hours later, he threw her aside.
She lit a cigarette, inhaled deeply, and looked away toward the window. She was tired of this life but, with the prenup, she was trapped.
"Good fuck?" Truman asked.
"Oh, yeah," she lied. "A beautiful fuck."
"How was your game with Jackson Mercer today?" she asked running her free hand through her blond mane and unapologetically tapping cigarette ash onto the Persian rug. She was leaning over the edge of the bed and he admired her perfect form as he lit his own stogie.
"Ah, it was fine but he developed a splitting headache and cut out early."
* * *
Over the next several weeks, Truman reveled in dissecting her mannerisms whenever she dug for information, often bringing up Jackson Lee as if it was an afterthought. Her mood grew somber as her lover failed to respond. She stayed at the Mercer's house for several days consoling Mercer's wife, Johanna. Truman found the friendship with her lover's spouse unusual but chalked it up to Catholic schoolgirl guilt or an effort to glean some insight into where he may have gone.
The police investigated, of course, and then lost interest in Jackson Lee Mercer. The golf course was renovated—except the 18th hole. Truman explained it was his father's favorite part of the course and wanted it to remain as it was when he was still alive. The developers attributed it to typical rich eccentricity.
First day of the grand re-opening, Truman, his wife, and several other couples gathered to celebrate. A local news crew filmed the event as he cut the ribbon and was the first to tee off. He watched his wife in a dainty yellow sundress take a swing and curl her upper lip as the ball ended in the rough. There would be other lovers that would need to be taken care of, but for today, it was a wonderful afternoon and there were no signs of anything amiss. She played the part of the ever-loving wife and he the doting husband. Mercer's wife, Johanna, showed up as well. He wondered if she knew the truth of her husband's infidelity, would she thank him? Probably not. She seemed lonely and distant.
Truman Krup was in the lead as the group approached the 18th. He putted the hole for par and won the game. Reaching into the cup for the ball, he felt deep satisfaction knowing Mercer's decomposing body fertilized the beautiful flowers growing nearby while the glass eye buried under the cup was watching him win.
Smiling at the photographers, he saw, but could not comprehend, the look that passed between his wife and Johanna. A look and feeling that Truman and his wife would never share. A look that expressed unconditional love and sympathy. His wife softly kissed Johanna's cheek and took her hand. Their eyes met with a shared expression of regret. A whisper passed between them that no onlookers could hear...
"I am so sorry."
"Me too. We should have run off together when we had the chance."
David Cranmer is editor and publisher of the BEAT to a PULP webzine and is a member of the Western Fictioneers. Born and raised near Ithaca, New York, he now calls Maine his home with his wife and daughter. He can be found online at www.davidcranmer.com.
Second Round Dive
Benoît Lelièvre
Every boxer receives the offer at least one time. Taking a dive for money. When you're undefeated, it doesn't make sense. But when you have lost a few bouts and your body is broken down with injuries, the real world is catching up to you. You're not a contender anymore. Chances are, you will never be one again. The sport is too big, too full of young bucks, built like bulls, who dream about the same things you were dreaming of five years ago. Suddenly, money makes an awful lot of sense.
It's never much. One grand is the market price for the soul of a local boxer. I've seen it go as far as four grand for a regional championship fight. And there's a good chance you will use some of that money to pay your hospital bill if you have done a credible performance. The first time I dropped a fight, I didn't want to. The promoter is Joe Piscano, a fuckin' wop with long, white shark teeth, orange spray tan and a stupid bolo tie. He looked like...I don't know. I've never met someone that silly looking. Not even Don King.
He tried to convince me by suggesting he could offer me exposure in my next fight. Maybe he could find me a place on a card in Vegas. He said he had good connections there and that he would not forget that I did him a favor. Truth is, I accepted because of my kid, Andre Jr. I was two months late in child support and my ex refused to let me see him if I didn't pay. When you have children, it's the beginning of the end of your boxing career. All the guys I fought and trained with that became something lived with their folks until they started tapping into serious money. They don't encumber themselves with a wife and kid and they have sex with many beautiful women instead. Boxing is that kind of sport. It's a cruel mistress. It will only accept the best, not the nicest.
My record was sixteen victories and six defeats, what did I have do lose? The name of Andre Wallace wasn't worth what it once was. Not that I was ever a golden goose.
So I went down in the fifth and got eight hundred dollars after the fight. Piscano fucked me over, but Elise was happy enough. By the next weekend, I could see Junior again. But once you go there, you're done. You're tagged as a has-been, a check collector. Everybody starts asking you to take dives, all the time. I must have had eight offers the following month, from San Diego to Tacoma. Apparently, I was a good diver, but not good enough to make it seem natural to other promoters. That or Joe had a big mouth. I turned them all down anyway. Once you start dropping fights for money, things get cozy for you quite fast. Until one morning where you wake up and you have thirty, maybe forty, defeats on your record. I know some guys who racked a hundred. Nobody wants to spar with you at the gym, no promoter wants to hire you anymore because you give them a bad name, and you're too punch drunk to do anything else.
One hot and steamy August morning, Piscano called at the gym. He says he wants me to fight Sergio Pauligno, his nephew. A mulatto his sister had with a Brazilian guy who ran away as soon as he knew she was pregnant. That made Old Joey pretty much his father. The kid was a natural talent. He qualified for the Olympic team thr
ee years before, but he tested positive for THC. It was a major scandal back then. It didn't surprise me. The kid was scum, a wisecracking wannabe mobster who watched too many movies. He turned pro right after that, got a few wins under his belt. Maybe seven or eight, then disappeared for over two years. I would be his comeback fight. Piscano wanted him to fight a southpaw. He said he had big plans for him. I should've known something was off. Sergio Pauligno fought at welterweight back then. I fought at middleweight all my life.
I don't know why I accepted, but I did. Sergio Pauligno vs. Andre Wallace was set up for the end of September, at the local casino.
My record was decent, twenty-two victories, nine defeats and one draw, with eight K.O.'s. I was getting back on track. I could have gone a few years as a journeyman, take some evening classes and try to make something with myself. But I chose the money. I guess I was tired of offering Junior nothing but weekly escapades at the burger joint and stupid dollar store gifts. He was still too young to understand what it was to throw a fight, but he was old enough to understand the importance of money. I wanted to buy him a bed. It broke my heart when he came over for a night and had to sleep on my couch. So I accepted. I said I would go down in the second. I could almost hear Joe's beaming smile over the phone.
There was no press conference, nothing before the fight. Pauligno wasn't the main event, so if he did some press, it was without me. He wasn't on the posters either. His name was, but not his face. It was at the weigh-in that I understood. Sergio weighed-in at fat one fifty-seven as I had to cut nine pounds to do one sixty. He smiled at me like he knew how this was going to be played out. He bumped his chest into me and told me something, but I was too fucking pissed to hear. I get like that sometimes. I black out.
Most of the boxers were humble before a fight and appreciated humble opponents. This kid wasn't, he was rubbing me the wrong fucking way.
Boxing is a weird sport. Training takes a lot out of you, sure. But fighting, stepping inside the ring, is another ball game. There's an old saying that training is ninety percent physical and ten percent mental, but fighting is the opposite. It's true. When the bell rings, you have to make peace with one very simple fact: no one gives a shit.
No one gives a shit if you're a good Christian, if you're a family man or a faithful husband. It's irrelevant. If you're injured, if your brother died or if your dog is sick, nobody in the crowd cares. If you lose and open your mouth about it, you're going to get boo'ed like a pro-wrestling villain. The spectators paid good money to see you destroy your opponent or to see you get destroyed. Who you are doesn't count. That's what I love most about boxing. It's a sport that is so pure, so ruthless. I was a gamer, I always performed average in training, but on fight night I would give you your money's worth.
Round one started. Obviously, Sergio was a lot quicker than I was. He danced around me like Ray goddamn Robinson and peppered me with his jab. I was getting tagged, but the kid couldn't break an egg and I knew it. He was still fighting like an amateur. He didn't put his hips into his punches. He was happy to score and look good. To him, it was a game. He didn't want to hurt anybody or get into serious exchanges. He had a good five inches on me, so he kept doing this for most of the round. I stalked him and tried to time a power punch, but I had a hard time with his timing. Dancing and jabbing in his silly Italian flag trunks, the crowd was happy to see him again, yelling "Pauly, Pauly, Pauly". I connected with a straight left to the solar plexus right before the bell. He winced, but blew me a kiss. Fucker.
I came back to my corner angry as hell. Everything around me started fading out, except for little Sergio at the other end of the ring. I couldn't hear what my coach Duane was telling me. Maybe he didn't say anything, I don't know. He knew better than to talk to me when I'm like in that state. Fucking Sergio. I was about to throw the rest of my dreams away for that little shit and he was having fun. He never needed this. To him, boxing was fun, glamour, and girls. He was showing off in front of his little faggot greaseball buddies. I snapped. I entered a long black corridor and Pauligno was blocking the exit. I barely heard the bell ring.
I don't remember for how long we stood in the middle studying, pawing at each other, but I dove on him and ducked his first jab. I placed a right hook over it and caught him flush on the mug. He didn't fall, his knees didn't even buckle, but his eyes changed. His body could take a punch, but his mind quit on him. He did not expect that. Some guys are like that. They can't keep their cool under fire. He tried to back me up with an uppercut-hook combo. Wrong punch buddy. I stepped outside his foot and cracked him with an overhand left. Then with a hook to the body. His knees buckled, but he stayed up, the tough little fuck. I hit him at the same exact place again and threw a right uppercut to his chin that sent him reeling in the ropes.
If I remember well, I bounced up and threw a leaping right hook to finish the job. I could feel his jaw break against my hand. He bent backward over the ropes, out cold and fell out of the ring. That was the biggest win of my career and the most silent crowd I've ever witnessed to a gnarly knock out. The only two people screaming were the local television announcers. It was the kind of Mike Tyson moment I daydreamed about since I was a kid.
Then I realized.
What a fucking idiot I had just been. I didn't win anything. Fucking with Joe Piscano was a really dumb decision. For me, for Junior, and for everything I ever loved in this life. There was no "winning" in this. I had my little moment on the ring, but Piscano's gorillas were waiting for me in the locker room. They dragged my sorry ass out in the street behind the casino and worked a number on my spine with base-ball bats. That was the end of Andre Wallace.
I lost my legs, my son, the roof over my head and the only thing that made me feel that I belonged. Boxing. I saw the police records. There's a bullshit story about a car accident and a getaway driver. It was so bad, it looked like Piscano filled it himself. Somebody was filming that night. I've been told the highlight reel has been picked up by ESPN. I don't know if it's true because I haven't watched cable TV in so long. People around here remember me. Wallace, the neighborhood kid who knocked out an Olympian. They remember, but they don't see.
They don't see Wallace the cripple.
They don't see his now teenage son, locked in a juvenile hall.
They don't see the void I created for myself.
No, they don' see any of that.
Benoît Lelièvre lives in Montreal, Canada. He is very active online and in the writing community, but it's only because he's a real life hermit that lives in his living room. He's currently working on a novel and on stories for his character Lowell Sweeney. Easiest way to reach him is through his web site, Dead End Follies, where he discusses reading, writing, movie watching and pop culture in general.
The Second Coming of Hashbrown
Kieran Shea
In some cardboard box under the accumulated crap in my one bedroom apartment I have a black and white photograph of Hashbrown taken from the stage. Even now I can picture the eight by ten image without even looking at it—Hashbrown's naked torso caterwauling out over a crowd of frenzied upturned hands and faces, his sweat-soaked jeans pasted to his scrawny legs, the telltale patterns of his Vans sharp as the skids on a waffle iron. The picture was taken at that show back in Virginia Beach where we opened for those one-hit-wonder jag offs who fucked with our levels. Probably one of the last decent gigs we ever played together as a band, about five or six months before Donnie found out about his mother's tumors and not too long before I got anxious about my future, sold my guitars, and joined the Navy.
Of course through the grapevine I'd heard about Hashbrown's problems. The high drama of his two pokes at rehab and his final relapse where his folks threw him out, literally, for the last time. Honestly, I never thought I'd hear from him again after that botched nail salon robbery just over the Carolina line that landed him in Bayboro. When he called me a few days before New Year's Eve it really was more than a bit of a sandbag. Hashbrown? I mean, how
the hell did he even get my number? I didn't even know he'd been released from prison, but the more he talked the more I knew it had to be him. We agreed to meet up at a bar in Kill Devil Hills the following evening.
When Hashbrown showed at the bar he looked nothing like how I remembered him. Gone was the hundred and sixty-five pound surf rat I grew up with and gone was the slinking stoner stride too. Hashbrown had transformed himself into a brick bulldozer clocking in at a formidable two-twenty-five with a full beard and exposed skin darkened with Aryan allegiance ink. I never saw Hashbrown as any type of a hardcore racist, but my guess was he teamed up inside to survive a nightmare I couldn't possibly imagine.
Hashbrown snaked his way through the evening crowds. Two carpenter dudes engrossed in a joke blocked his final steps to me and I watched Hashbrown's face broil over with irritation. Once the two carpenter dudes got a good look at him they parted like a pair of ash-faced swimmers letting a fourteen foot hammerhead cruise on through.
Hashbrown's voice was smashed shale. He pounded my shoulders.
"Goddamn! Fuckin' Roberto! Rob the King, Robbie-Bobbie, Mr. Rob-tastic...."
I laughed, "Hey, Hash? S'up, bro? Jesus, when I saw you come through the door back there I hardly recognized you. Holy shit, you're looking kind of—wow. You're looking kind of—"
"I'm looking kind of what?"
I finally found the right words.
"Kind of robust."
Hashbrown roared with laughter. He threw a sharp, singular glance back at the two carpenters and then turned back to me.
"Now there's a thing I've not been called before."
I'd saved him a seat at the bar so I moved over to accommodate his new size, "What can I get you?" I asked, "You want a cold pint of beer or something?"
BEAT to a PULP: Hardboiled Page 9
