by JJ Zep
“Good,” Kelly said. “I’m Kelly, by the way.”
“Justine,” the woman said, taking Kelly’s undamaged hand.
“Well, Justine, my savior, how about I buy you a cup of coffee by way of a thank you? My apartment’s just upstairs.”
“I’d like that very much,” Justine said.
twenty two
It was a necessary detour, one he’d have preferred not to take, but one that was required nonetheless. He’d traversed enough Z-infested cities to know that the best route through them was via the freeway system. The real danger in Brooklyn, though (at least according to Julie) wasn’t the Z’s but the Montagues.
Now, as Chris followed her up the onramp to the Belt Parkway, he wondered what had sparked the bitter feud between Julie’s people and the Montagues, wondered too about the Shakespeare themed names.
After Pete had revealed to him that he’d seen Ruby at a fight club in Coney Island, Chris had been determined to go there directly, heading straight down MacDonald or Ocean Parkway or Coney Island Avenue. Any one of those routes would be a mistake, Julie had assured him. They ran straight through Montague turf. The Montagues would have his head on a pike before he’d covered a few blocks. The better way was via the Belt she’d said, and given that he’d risked his life for her son, she was prepared to act as his guide. Chris had declined, said he’d prefer to do this alone. Julie had responded that he wasn’t going to be much use to his daughter if he got himself killed. She had a point, and Chris had reluctantly agreed and Julie had co-opted Pete and the moon-faced man (who went by the unlikely name of Daisy) to join them.
He reached the vehicle-clogged surface of the highway now, and took in the vista before him. The blue-green waters of the upper bay, shot through with shards of silver and gold from the setting sun. Jersey and Staten Island across the water, Liberty Island to the north, the skyscrapers of Manhattan beyond that.
And to the other side, the once great borough of Brooklyn, now a vast, dilapidated mess of crumbling buildings and rubble-strewn roads.
“Pretty, ain’t it?” Julie said from beside him.
Chris thought at first that she was being ironic, but from the deep and contented sigh she fetched, he realized that she was being serious.
“It is what it is,” Julie continued. “We had it coming and now we’re stuck with this broken world and all we can do is make the most of it.”
“Didn’t figure you for the philosophical type,” Chris said.
Julie snorted. “That’s me being a realist,” she said.
They stood in silence for a while, waiting while Pete made his way up the ramp.
“So what’s the whole Montague and Capulet thing,” Chris said. “Some kind of Shakespeare tribute. It’s from Romeo and Juliet, right?”
“Uh huh.”
“So what’s up with that?”
“Tell you when I get to know you better.”
Now it was Chris’ turn to snort. “I’ll be long gone before you get to know me better.”
Pete was half way up the ramp, bent over with his hands on his knees, pausing to catch his breath.
“What’s he say?” Julie called to him.
Pete held up a hand in a wait sign, started climbing the onramp again, weaving between the cars.
“Eddy Montague,” Julie said, still tracking Pete up the ramp. “That’s the name of their leader.”
“And the Capulet part?”
“Well, I’m Juliet, so they just kind of saddled us with the name Capulet and it stuck. Don’t like it myself.”
“So what’s the deal with the turf war? What’s the bad blood between you two?”
“The usual stuff, territory and resources, in this case they killed a few of ours so we hit back and killed a few of theirs. Oh, and Eddie’s my ex.”
While Chris absorbed that piece of intelligence, she turned to Pete again. “What’s he say?”
Pete had reached the top of the ramp. He half-jogged, half-stumbled towards them, bent over, struggling for breath.
“We on?” Julie said.
Pete gulped and nodded. “There’s a tournament tonight,” he wheezed.
“That’s it then,” Julie said. “If you’re a praying man, Mr. Chris Collins, start now.”
twenty three
Ruby looked through the bars at the darkening sky. She’d been locked in the cell since late afternoon, locked in and left for dead, like as not. Except, she was sure that wasn’t true. If they’d wanted her dead they could have thrown her to those monstrosities in the yard. If they’d wanted her dead they wouldn’t have given her back her clothes and boots. If they’d wanted her dead they’d have had no compunction using violence to force her into this cell.
Instead, they’d used a simple but effective ruse. They’d sent a couple of soldiers into the enclosure with a scrawny child of about five. One of the soldiers had held a pistol to the child’s head, the other had beckoned her to follow. The implication had been obvious, give us any trouble and the kid dies. Ruby hadn’t given them any trouble.
She moved from the window to the cot, moved from there to the bars at the front of the cell, strained her neck to try and get a look down the passage, saw nothing but three feet of darkness and the empty cells across the way.
A scream echoed through the corridors. Ruby had heard it before, a loon-like cry that sent gooseflesh running up her arm. It confirmed what she suspected. There were other people on the cellblock. Z’s too, she could definitely smell Z’s.
From somewhere on the block came the sound of slow, steady footfalls. Ruby tuned in to them and determined that they were headed towards her. The footsteps grew louder, then stopped. She heard a buzzer, an electronic click, the clatter of a steel door being rolled open. Now the footsteps resumed, pacing deliberately.
She moved towards the bunk, lay down, placed her hands behind her head, looked up at the ceiling. She became aware of someone standing at the bars.
“Ruby?” Scolfield’s voice. She made no reply.
“I’m afraid Juno didn’t make it, Ruby.” He sounded quite distressed.
Still Ruby said nothing.
“We laid her to rest this evening. I just want you to know that I don’t hold you responsible in any way.”
A pause.
“You hungry?”
“Not really,” Ruby replied, her stomach grumbling in protest at the lie.
“Pity,” Scolfield said. “Got some meatloaf here, mashed potatoes, peas, apple pie for afters. My chef makes a damn fine pie.”
“That meatloaf wouldn’t perhaps be made out of that poor sap you fried on the fence this afternoon, would it?” Ruby said, sitting up on the cot, swinging her feet to the ground. Scolfield was standing at the bars, a scrawny man in prison orange beside him, eyes downcast, holding a plastic mess tray.
“Ruby,” Scolfield chuckled, “You really thing me capable of such a thing, of cannibalism?”
“I thing you capable of just about anything,” Ruby said.
“Well, I’ll just slide the tray through anyway, just in case you get peckish later.”
He nodded to the man and the man pushed the tray through the hatch and then backed away and headed down the passage.
Scolfield waited until the man’s footsteps could no longer be heard before he spoke again. “I’ve been following your career for some time now, Ruby, ever since I saw you at an event in Queens. I’m really impressed with your fighting skills.”
“Gee, a fan,” Ruby said sarcastically.
Scolfield ignored the comment. “It was me that got you the fight at the Wayside. Cutie was one of mine, you see, I wanted to see how you did against him.”
“And how’d I do?”
“You did just fine,” Scolfield chuckled. “About as well as I would have expected. Cutie was one of my best.”
“That’s the best you’ve got? Not much of an advert for whatever it is you’re trying to achieve here.”
“Probably not,” Scolfield sighed. “Wh
ich is why we need to take things to the next level.”
“And that is?”
Scolfield seemed genuinely perplexed. “Come now Ruby, you’re a smart girl, I’m sure you can figure it out.”
“Why don’t you tell me anyway, just so there’s no misunderstanding?”
“As you please,” Scolfield said. “I’m putting you back in the cage tomorrow. The creatures you saw in there this afternoon? I want you to engage them in mortal combat.”
twenty four
Chris had been to Coney Island a couple of times as a kid. His memories of the place were of cotton candy and ice cream, of hotdogs and a heart stopping rollercoaster ride called the Blizzard. He remembered the smell of sea air, the screams of the thrill seekers, the swish of the ocean, the lights around the Ferris wheel at night.
The Coney Island before him now, was a nightmare rendition of the one he held in his memory, a dark and dangerous place dominated by the skeletal remains of a listing rollercoaster, rising above the weed-choked paths like the corpse of a brontosaur. The Ferris wheel, too, was long dead, tilted on its side, its days of conveying courting couples gone forever.
He traced an eye along the garbage-strewn path, between the rusted machinery and broken down rides, the collapsed booths and mangled barriers. Directly ahead, just visible beyond the rollercoaster, stood a huge and well-lit marquee, a sign above its entrance written in snake-lights, “FAT ARCHIE’S PLACE.”
Fat Archie was doing good business tonight, judging by the noise emanating from the tent, cheers and jeers and laughter. Now, a snatch of music sounded from the P.A. system, an eighties rock song that Chris recognized, popular among fighters as an entrance tune, “Eye of the Tiger.”
“That’ll be the first fight starting up,” Julie said. “Let’s wait for them to get started, then we move.”
Chris fidgeted in his position. They’d already spent a frustrating hour hiding out in the undergrowth. He didn’t want to wait any longer. Ruby might be in that marquee right now. She might be just a few hundred feet away, just a few minutes away. And even if Ruby wasn’t on the bill tonight, Fat Archie Flynn might know her whereabouts. If he did, Chris intended extracting that information from him, any which way he could.
He took the logic of Julie’s plan, though. They’d be less conspicuous if they waited for the fights to start, waited for the place to fill up, waited for the punters to get a few drinks under their belts.
The ring announcer was doing his blurb and then, through the din, came the clear chime of the bell and Chris was on his feet just as though it was he who’d been summoned to the center of the ring.
“Hang on there, big feller,” Julie said. “You’re going to have to leave the AK behind, your handgun, too. Fat Archie doesn’t allow guns inside. There’d be a nightly bloodbath if he did.”
Chris unslung the AK without hesitation, removed the 9 mil from his waistband, hid both of them in the bushes.
“One more thing,” Julie said. “I can see your blood’s up, and you’ve got good reason for that. If that was my little girl in there, I’d be ready to burst in, guns blazing. But it ain’t my little girl, so allow me to be the voice of reason. You go in there drawing attention to yourself and you’ll be leaving feet first. I’ve seen men killed in Fat Archie’s for spilling a drink on the wrong person, seen others beaten to a pulp for trying to run a fast one by the bookies. This ain’t Manhattan Chris. The rules don’t apply here. Ain’t that right fellers?”
“Damn straight,” Pete said.
“Seen those things myself,” Daisy agreed.
“What I’m saying is, you keep a low profile, snake’s belly low, lower than that if possible. You leave the talking to me, comprender?”
Chris hesitated for only a moment. Once again, Julie was right. He was worked up. Too worked up, in fact, for clear thought, for calm action. He’d seen this situation with countless fighters, pumped up on adrenalin and drawn into making stupid mistakes. He forced himself to relax, blew through his teeth, shrugged his shoulders, jazzed his fingers loose.
“You won’t even know I’m there,” he said.
“Good,” Julie said. “Then I reckon we can do business. Follow me, fellers.”
twenty five
“Four,” Julie said, handing over a crumpled pile of bills.
“I can count, bitch,” the bouncer said. He looked the four of them over, nodding to Pete and paying particular attention to Chris.
“I know you?” he said.
“Don’t think so,” Chris said, giving him an innocent grin.
“The fuck you laughing at?”
“Nothing.”
The man was built to the out-of-the-box, bouncer template, big and burly with a thrice-smashed nose and an attitude. He glared at Chris. Chris looked away.
“Pat them down,” the bouncer instructed and another couple of goons stepped forward and did the honors. The one searching Julie sent his hands to places where no weapon could ever be concealed. Julie accepted his attentions without protest.
“Clear!” the friskers declared in near unison.
“Okay,” the bouncer said. “Get in there. Any shit and you’re gonna wish one of those cage fighting Z’s was chewing on your ass.” He turned towards his next customer, face already forming his trademark sneer.
Julie led the way along a canvas-walled corridor towards a t-junction opening on either side into the main arena. Even approaching, Chris could feel the humidity of the place, the fetid reek of hundreds of unwashed bodies smashed together into the confined space. A baseline thrum of conversation provided a backdrop to louder voices, shouts and jeers and laughter. They reached the T and went right. A cheer went up, followed closely by the chime of the bell and the ring announcer’s voice booming over the P.A.
Chris stepped through and scanned the room. The tent was larger than he’d imagined, a cavernous space with two redwood-sized poles providing support. There were three cages, two of them with half-assed amateur bouts underway, a third (the largest and most central) attracting the greatest attention. In this cage the first fight had just ended and the defeated combatant was being hauled, feet first, from the ring, while the winner accepted the jeers and missiles from the crowd with his hands raised triumphantly about his head.
“Preliminary fights are always mano-a-mano,” Julie shouted in his ear. “Z action comes later.”
Chris nodded, continued surveying the room. There were a couple of bars, both currently engulfed by thirsty patrons, a troupe of lackluster dancers looking like castoffs from some second-rate Vegas extravaganza, a slew of betting stations conducting a brisk trade. There was plenty of hired muscle, easy to pick out by their “don’t-fuck-with-me” poses and the billy clubs clutched in their fists.
Another gaggle of tough guys stood in front of a screened area in one corner of the room. Chris picked out four of them, standing cross-armed and expressionless. These weren’t carrying clubs. They were sporting Uzis. A fifth guy, small and scrawny, stood off to one side, his hand cupped around a cigarette.
“For Christ’s sake quit staring,” Julie hissed. “You’ll get us made.”
“What’s back there?” Chris said.
“What do you think?”
“Let’s go talk to the man then.”
“Doesn’t work that way.”
“How does it work?”
“The way I say it does. Come on.”
Julie tugged at his sleeve, began weaving her way through the crowd. The ring announcer began calling the next fight. Music started up, “R-O-C-K in the U.S.A.” by John Mellencamp. The crowd thickened. Julie had released her grip on his arm, but he could see her auburn hair bobbing up and down among the masses. She was stopped in front of one of the betting booths. He elbowed his way towards her. The bell sounded from the ring. The crowd cheered.
“Julie?” Chris said, finally reaching her. “What’s up?”
“We need to place a bet,” Julie said.
“What the hell for?”
“Trust me.”
Chris turned away, looked towards the cordoned area at the corner of the room. The crowd around the betting booths had thinned somewhat as the punters drifted away to watch the action in the cage. He could pick out a clear path to where he wanted to be.
“Don’t even think about it,” Julie said. They were one from the front, now they were facing the bookie, a fat, sweaty guy in a Hawaiian shirt and a pork-pie hat.
“Yeah,” the bookie said in a bored monotone.
“What you offering on the kid?” Julie said. That got Chris’ attention. He understood what this was about now.
“What kid would that be?” the bookie intoned.
“The girl, the one that was in here last week.”
“You kidding me,” the bookie said, a hint of animation finally creeping into his voice. “That kid ain’t on the bill. She’d be lucky to get another fight ever in this town again.”
“How so?”
“How so? Bad for business is how so. The kid cleaned up three of Archie’s best fighters in about as much time as it takes to squirt one down the shitter. Real bonanza that was for me, first time out. Problem is, no one’s going to spit money betting against the girl. I couldn’t offer odds long enough to tempt the deadbeats.”
“So she’s not on the bill?”
“No ma’am.”
“Any idea where she might pick up a fight?”
“Not in New York City. Maybe over the water if they ain’t heard of her there yet. You gonna place a bet or not?”
“Who do you like in the next fight?” Julie said.
“Benitez is odds on.”
“Gimme a buck on the other guy.”
“Gee, a buck,” the bookie said, accepting her money.
She turned away from the booth. “Well, she ain’t here,” she said, stating the obvious.
“Which leaves?”
Julie let out a breath between her teeth. She looked fearfully towards the corner of the room. “Which leaves Fat Archie,” she said.
