Plantation of Chrome

by R. J. Coulson

  “I see,” said Stone, a hint of disappointment in his voice.

  He continued through the archway and into the main hall, an enormous room. Beams of light wood were stretched across the tall ceiling, the windows letting in pigeons and the occasional dove that cooed and tapped at the wood with hungry beaks.

  The boxer was still sparring against his invisible foe. He was looking straight ahead, his eyes focused and sharp.

  “Good morning, Messenger,” said Stone. “You getting ready? We don’t want you to be too tired before the actual fighting.”

  Messenger let his arms fall down his sides. He took a few deep breaths.

  “I’m ready,” he said.

  “Good, we'll need you at your best. The Crab ain’t doing this for fun, you know.”

  “I know, but I ain’t either. I know these ropes as well as he does, you know that.”

  “I know, that's not what I'm saying.”

  “Then don’t doubt me, Stone. That’s Gracy’s job.”

  Stone chuckled. “De Gracy doesn’t doubt you. He never has.”

  “Well, he sure does hide it like an honest man, then.”

  “He does that about a lot of things. He can wear that coat of his because of you, have food on the table every morning.”

  “I bet he can. He's not in yet, though.”

  “I know. Grundy told me. I’ll be out back.”

  Stone was just about to leave, when he turned back towards Messenger. “Paul?”

  “Yes?”

  “Are you all right?”

  “If you're referring to yesterday, then I'd rather you ask me something else instead.”

  Stone stepped into the office. A table cut down the middle of the room, Eckleburg sitting on the left side, next to the window. The light from outside made his glasses look like two silver coins, stripping his eyes of any emotion. His pen darted across the paper in front of him.

  “You already in?” asked Stone.

  “I am,” said Eckleburg, not diverting his attention.

  “You must have hurried to get here.”

  “I went here directly from your apartment.”

  “Well, what about Gretchen?”

  “She’s looking after Isaac today.”

  Stone took off his coat and let it slip onto the back of a chair.

  “You seem a bit restless,” said Stone, and for a moment he imagined Eckleburg rip off his glasses, throw them out the window, topple the table, and break the vase of wilting flowers beside him, all the while screaming of the horrors he’d seen and would see again.

  But Eckleburg did no such thing. Instead, he quietly took off his glasses and started rubbing his eyes. “I’ve done nothing to prepare for the match today, so I have to make sure all the bets are sorted. That the books are kept.”

  “How’s it looking?” asked Stone. He pulled out a chair on the other side of the table and sat down.

  “There’s definitely more leaning towards the Crab.”

  “Good.”

  “Good? What if the kid loses?”

  “Why’d you lock the door? To the Pit? I thought I told you that nothing was different now. After last night, nothing's changed.”

  Eckleburg banged his fist slightly on the table’s surface. His lips were tight.

  “I know it annoys you,” continued Stone, “but that’s the deal from here on out, you understand? Messenger seemed to get it, he’s in getting ready. Grundy gets it, and--”

  “Oh yeah, Stone? Then why the hell did I see him crying in the hall this morning? Why the hell would that enormous man sit out and cry?”

  The door to the office opened and De Gracy stepped inside, his cold gaze scanning across the room. His coat hung off him like it was dangling from a coat rack, and his broad fedora covered his entire figure with a deep shadow. The only exception to his darkness were his grey eyes.

  “You’re in late,” said Stone.

  De Gracy joined them at the table, ignoring Eckleburg. “The word’s out that the Crab’s got it in for Messenger,” he said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Razor blades… in the gloves.”

  “Not that shit again!” said Stone, his face crumpling with an all too familiar rage.

  “They’ll do it again, and I already told you that. Several times, in fact.”

  “I’ll pull Clayborne to the side before the match and make him understand that if I ever see shit like that in my ring again that I'm gonna--”

  “Just tell him how it went with Bishop,” said De Gracy.

  Upon hearing Bishop's name, Eckleburg looked up from his papers and stared at De Gracy with a look of disbelief.

  De Gracy noticed it. “It’s just a name, Eckleburg,” he said. “Don’t fuss about it.”

  “I know, but I’d appreciate if you didn’t say it.”

  “Then what the hell am I supposed to call the guy?” said De Gracy, throwing out his hands in bewilderment. “Huh? Can’t call the bastard by his name? Then what? Huh? What do you want me to call him? Jesus--”

  “Don’t take the Lord’s name in vain,” said Eckleburg, once again letting his fist fall to the table. De Gracy looked at him with an open mouth.

  “I can’t say his name either? What’s the matter with you? Look, Stone and I are talking about who’s gonna try and hurt our boy. Do you even remember what happened to Bishop’s nephew? Holy shit, because I do! The entire fucking ring, plastered. The hell was his name? Kenny?”

  “I know, but it wasn’t necessary to mention his name. The man’s not even cold in the ground, and you--”

  “I’ll tell you what’s necessary and what’s not, Eckleburg. None of this boxing shit would be necessary if it wasn’t for that Bishop bastard, and I’m telling you that now. After what we did yesterday, we won’t need to push on much longer, you understand? Just a bit more slipstream into our bags and we’re on to be doing big. No more hidden razors and no more assholes trying to pull down the Pit. Do you realize how much big an inventory we’ve got downstairs? It’s just money, waiting to slide down into our pockets. No one to push us down now. No one.”

  Stone was observing De Gracy as he spoke. He took delight in these rare moments when De Gracy opened his mouth to express himself, because if it hadn’t been for the night before, he doubted they’d heard as much as a 'good morning' from him.

  “You agree, right Stone?”

  “What?”

  “That we’re done now, with the Pit, with the boxing. That we’re moving on.”

  “Maybe not immediately, but we’re definitely on the path now.”

  Stone was inattentive, his mind drifting off elsewhere, and De Gracy sent him a quick glance, as if to remind him of the ambition of two much younger men and a promise that seemed all too far away. Stone put out his hands and joined them on the table.

  “Right now,” he said, shaking his head. “Right now, we have to focus on Messenger and his fights, the other fighters too. We might have paved the way for something bigger, but unless it settles the way we want it to, it doesn’t make sense for us to make the first move just yet.”

  “You think it’ll seem suspicious?” asked De Gracy.

  “Yes, very. It’s not every day that a kingpin like Bishop is thrown off the scene, and the--” Stone choked for a minute. He gazed out the window and stared into the alley that ran along the back of the Pit, sucking in the chaotic nothingness of the scrap and metal that lay among the other trash. He thought of the metal shards like memories, the way some of the sharper bits protruded out a bit more than the others; the bits that cut you if you walked too closely by. “The aftermath,” he then said. “The aftermath wasn’t exactly what we expected, and I bet the cops will look into that.”

  “The cops will get off to it, that’s what I think. The journalists, too--”

  Eckleburg smashed his fist into the table for the third time. He rose from his chair, breathing in a way that shook his entire body, his glasses balancing neatly on the very edge of his nose.<
br />
  “I will…” he started to say, his mouth was too dry to continue. He then threw a glance of disgust at De Gracy and left the office.

  Stone and De Gracy let the dust settle before continuing.

  “He visited me this morning,” said Stone.

  De Gracy nodded.

  “He didn’t take it very well, and I don’t think the other two did either.”

  “We did what was necessary, Noah. You have to remember that.”

  “I know, but we have to keep in mind that what happened wasn’t… It was hard, De Gracy. No one knew the boys would see—“

  “They chose to come with us, Stone,” said De Gracy. “Eckleburg, Messenger, Grundy, all of them. They chose to come with us, and that was the only choice of innocence that evening; the only one. You can’t say yes to go into the god damned sewer, and then cry about it when you’ve got shit all over. We asked and they agreed, and that’s that. We didn’t plan it, did we? But we did as we had to do, and we did it well, and that means that we’re sitting here, talking, like any other day, and not slamming our heads into some iron bars downtown.”

  “I know about the precautions. But we met an alligator in that sewer.”

  “And we killed it, Stone. The Pit’s ready now. We’re ready. We’re finally ready to take on the world,” he said, with the voice of a much younger man.

  That same afternoon, as the boxing match that had been the main topic of gossip in every little bar and tavern in Plissbury was about to commence, the Pit was in its usual state of controlled chaos. The boxing ring was surrounded by bellowing men holding up pieces of paper, tickets and receipts, and every time Eckleburg rang the bell to signal silence and order, the crowd didn't listen, because the crowd never listened to the bell, but to the ring, the fight, and the ring was empty still.

  In the locker room next door there was a different chaos. Messenger and the Crab sat in opposite corners of the room, each one initially convinced that they had nothing to do with the discussion unfolding before them.

  “Clayborne,” said Stone, “I'm just saying that if it happens like it did three weeks ago, then I can't guarantee what will happen to you or your boy.”

  Clayborne, opposing Stone, was heavy and large, emitting a statuesque radiance, his suit trimmed and neat. Only his eyes were moving, following Stone’s rapid lip movements. “What happened last time was a misunderstanding,” he said. “It wasn’t the idea to have--”

  “There was a razor…” said Messenger from way across the room, his voice quaking at the end of its vocal range, “in the fucking glove, and it was torn all over our guy’s face.”

  “That’s enough,” said Stone.

  “No, tell me,” said Messenger and stood. The Crab instinctively did the same, mirroring Messenger’s movements. “Tell me how it's a misunderstanding,” continued Messenger, “that a young man, much like myself, gets his god damned bowels mixed up with his face at a god damned boxing match? Now tell me that for misunderstanding.”

  “It was something that happened out of context. We took it up with the lawyers, and it was clearly stated that--”

  “Don’t give me that formal tone,” said Messenger.

  “Messenger, please,” said Stone.

  “No, Stone,” said Messenger, putting his glove on Stone’s shoulder, gazing now at Clayborne with a crooked, provocative look. “Because If someone ever pulls that shit on me, I’ll kill them, right there in the fucking ring--“

  “Messenger!” said Stone.

  “You better put a leash on your boxers, Stone,” said Clayborne.

  “I just want a guarantee that I’ll still have my face when we’re done with this,” said Messenger.

  “You won’t,” said the Crab, but his attempt at seeming threatening fell flat, and ended up sounding like a juvenile remark.

  “No one asked you about a thing,” said Messenger. “But I can sorta see why you'd need a razor to rearrange anyone's face. I’ve seen your hooks; they couldn’t rearrange heated butter.”

  “There’s nothing to be worried about,” said Clayborne, lowering his voice. Beads of sweat collected at the edge of his receding hairline. “I wouldn’t want to lose face out there, not with all those spectators.”

  “I’m not questioning your morale or intention,” said Stone. “I’m just in a bit of a conflict with what happened last time.”

  “That was against another boxer,” said Clayborne, now annoyed. He turned, walked around the Crab and put his hands on his broad shoulders. “My son has carried an immense guilt after what happened. He wouldn't have done what he did if it wasn't personal.”

  “I know, but I promised everyone I’d ask. Just to be safe.”

  “And I understand. I just don’t want a meaningless discussion turning into bad blood between us. I’m here to see my son fight and that’s it. I've come to see him win.” Clayborne patted his son on the shoulders. “I’m very proud of him.”

  “Bullshit,” said Messenger, who’d sat down on one of the benches in the meantime.

  “What did you say?” asked Clayborne.

  “He didn’t say anything,” said Stone. He looked very sternly at Messenger, making sure he noticed. “Now let’s just go back to the ring and get this started.” Everyone picked up their belongings and started walking towards the exit.

  “You ain’t proud of nothing,” said Messenger.

  Everyone stopped moving, turning towards Messenger, who was still sitting down, bending his head.

  “Once I beat your boy in there,” he continued, “you won't be proud anymore, and that’s what you’ll be taking home from here.”

  “And what if he beats you?” asked Clayborne.

  “He won’t. A boxer with his own father for a trainer is like wearing a cast.”

  “A cast?”

  “He’s been broken before, at least once, and he’s still wearing his cast because of you. Some other trainer would've questioned the cast, asked if he could take it off, argued that it would interfere, but your son is still wearing his because you’re afraid of some broken bone from the past, and now I’m supposed to be fighting some broken cripple, and you’re telling me that I’m going to lose to that? I ain’t, I can tell you that.”

  “But he’s never broken a bone in his life.”

  “And you’ve obviously never read a book in yours, but that’s not what I’m saying. A man with a father’s weaker than one that never had any, that’s all I’m saying.”

  “I'm sorry to say that you aren't making an inch of sense, young man. Good luck nonetheless,” said Clayborne, planting the last word before heading out the locker room. The Crab followed.

  “What the hell was that about?” asked Stone. “Why do you have to do that? Every time.”

  “He was an idiot. Asking for what he got, too.”

  “I get that, but none of that was necessary. You’re a boxer, Paul. Stick to what you know, and save it for inside the ring.”

  “I’ll save it,” said Messenger, shaking his legs, spitting. “I’ve been saving it all day.”

  The crowd was squished up against the very edges of the ring. Hands were reaching in on the floor of it, beating down on the white canvas to the chanting rhythm, as the two fighters circled around each other, their gazes locked. The bell had just called the fifth round, the Crab’s face swollen and red, several bleeding gashes across his cheeks and chin. He was breathing as through a whistle, at this point clamoring more to the mercy of the bell than to his own ability.

  From way back in the room, behind the crowd, Stone was watching the match. He was leaning up against a window, and from where he stood he could just barely see through the crowd and into the ring. He saw De Gracy standing against the opposite wall, his cold gaze fixed onto the dynamics of the match. He'd sometimes glance at Stone, as if to reassure that he was still there, watching by the window.

  Eckleburg was the bell master. He held a pocket watch that helped him split the match into well-sequenced rounds, and Stone saw Eck
leburg’s spiffy eyes dashing back and forth between the pocket watch and the action in the ring, and while Stone knew that Eckleburg in no way condoned the actual brawling, he still imagined the thrill that Eckleburg felt when the action stopped at his behest every round. It was a little, godly intervention each time.

  Grundy, of course, was nowhere to be seen. Grundy had never seen any of the matches, but still he’d come out every night to clean up the mess, sometimes even have blood up both his sleeves.

  When Stone watched Messenger fight, he always kept his focus on Messenger’s position in the ring. Sometimes, Stone felt, it was like watching a lion dance around his own tamer, where the real fight was going on inside the lion. The animal was trying to convince itself, in the face of danger, that the tamer was its enemy, and then, when a certain flame sparked from within, driven by a recently remembered past or perhaps the sheer need for vengeance, the predator mangled its prey with only a few attacks.

  Stone drew a cigarette and put it to his lips. That’s how it is, he thought. That’s definitely how it is. That is also how Stone knew when the last round would be. Round five had just been called by Eckleburg, and Stone could see in the way Messenger moved that he was no longer tame. The sixth round would be the last.

  Messenger was skipping around the Crab, jabbing at him, slowly at first, as if to throw him off, but then, as more openings showed in the Crab’s defenses, Messenger fired a rapid succession of blows that left the Crab clinging to the empty air around him. Then, two crushing hits right under the Crab’s ribs followed by a jaw-shattering uppercut that forced his gaze straight to the ceiling. The Crab fell to the ground, and the crowd jerked into a wave of simultaneous joy and disappointment. Messenger walked away from his unconscious opponent, and as Eckleburg was about to announce him the winner, Messenger was already leaving the ring. He crossed the ropes when he noticed that Clayborne’s attention was turned away altogether. The man held his hand up against his mouth, and Messenger wondered if he’d ever even seen a real boxing match before. He jumped down between the people of the crowd and forced his way through. Some men acknowledged the boxer, giving him a quick pat on the shoulder, but most of them didn’t even notice him, as if he had become a sudden ghost to them, lingering invisibly in a realm outside the boxing ring. He reached the end of the crowd just as Stone had come to meet him.