Plantation of Chrome

by R. J. Coulson

  “I will not let you leave this warehouse,” said Grundy.

  Messenger turned around.

  “Let me do what I want!” he screamed.

  Silence settled between the two of them, Messenger’s words still falling like specks of dust between them. Grundy stepped a bit closer, but Messenger instantly raised a pointed finger to stop him. The finger shook and quivered.

  “Don’t do it, Grundy,” he said. “Don’t do this to me.”

  “Look at you,” said Grundy. “You barely have the strength to hold your own finger at me. Your bandages are barely covering your wounds, and your leg is obviously killing you. And you want to go out there and do God knows what.”

  “I don’t know how you found out, but you need to let me go.”

  “I was there, in the locker room, remember? When you told Holden off, when he flaunted the poster in front of your face.”

  “You’re not a part of this. No one is.”

  “Are you? Or is that something you need to prove to yourself?”

  “I’m not proving anything!”

  “Messenger, I saw your fight with Holden. I was hiding, right there behind that door, and I could see that you weren’t there at all. You fled from this world… like you did that night at Bishop's mansion.”

  Messenger’s face flared up, and even though every impulse in his body screamed for action, he stood pathetically still and silent.

  “I know it has bothered you ever since, Paul,” said Grundy solemnly. “Like it has me. I step onto this stage every night and beg for forgetfulness or some divine forgiveness. And I know you do, too. Your face curls up, your eyes disappear, and the trace that’s left here is nothing but your body, just standing there, wearing gloves.”

  Messenger turned around and started walking away. Grundy followed and he soon gained up on Messenger, who turned around, pulled his fist back and flung it towards Grundy’s chest. Grundy grabbed his fist after he’d been hit, and even though Messenger wriggled to free himself, Grundy’s grip was too strong. Messenger kicked him on the shin, ungrappled himself, and tried to run away, but Grundy stepped forward and grabbed Messenger’s throat with his one hand, lifting him up into the air.

  “Let me help you!” bellowed Grundy.

  Messenger was squirming, desperately trying to pry Grundy’s locked fist open with the nails of his fingers, protruding them deep into the giant’s skin. His legs were dangling.

  “I know what you’re going to do, and I…” said Grundy, his lips starting to quiver. “I…”

  Messenger gargled for air, his face turning blue in the slight dark of the warehouse, but he managed to look at Grundy’s face. He saw how it shook and crumbled like a landslide, the heavy bulk of the brows, cheeks and nose sagging down and collapsing on top of each other in the midst of pouring tears. Grundy loosened his grip, and Messenger was slowly put down as Grundy descended down to his knees.

  Grundy sat down and covered his face with his hands, sulking into the heavy fabric of his shirt. He couldn’t well breathe from the tremors that were rustling through his body, and when he opened his eyes, he noticed that Messenger was already gone. Grundy sighed, his crying slowly diluting into the air around him. His mind caved in on the image of the struggling Messenger. He closed and opened his eyes once more, but the young man was still gone. Grundy was left alone in the Pit just like every other night, but his loneliness now seemed forced and driven upon him, as if it latched on to him like some clawed animal, not at all like the feeling of a steadily growing loneliness that he had grown accustomed to; the kind that slipped in without he himself even noticing it, the kind that could accompany a man for the rest of his life without him knowing. Grundy sighed once more, and as he stood, he heard a rustling from inside the hall that led out on the street.

  “Messenger?” he called, walking closer to the door, the sound from inside the hall stronger still. “Messenger, is that you?”

  The door opened and before Grundy had any idea of what was about to take place, the wailing of two gun shots echoed throughout the enormous room, followed by the sound of a heavy thump as Grundy crashed to the floor.

  CHAPTER 19

  The birds of the night cawed outside Julia’s shop, and the streetlights were like pearls along the street. The two figures drew closer to each other, almost embraced.

  “I hope I can finish your fedora later next week,” said Julia.

  “That’s a long time,” said Stone.

  “I'm sorry, but sometimes good things just take time.”

  They laughed, and Stone pulled her in a little closer still.

  “I’m very grateful…” said Julia, and although there was a trace of hesitation of her voice, she continued. “… For what you told me on the Ferris wheel. It’s a long time since I felt so safe.”

  “Me too,” said Stone. “It feels like I can finally imagine my life again. It’s nice.”

  “Isn’t it?” said Julia and smiled.

  Stone pulled her in even closer and kissed her. She was about to speak, but said no more than goodnight, and as they parted, their shadows gently untangled.

  When Stone chose to turn towards the Pit instead of heading home, he was driven by the feeling of the tightly bound strap across his chest. It hurt, and he desperately wanted to take it off and throw it far, far away. He hated himself for ever thinking that he would need a gun.

  When he reached the Pit, he noticed that the lights in the main warehouse were all out, and he wondered why Grundy was asleep this early at night. He walked inside, and a feeling of relief rushed over him. He continued across the room to the hatch in the far corner. The pigeons fluttered amongs the tall beams of the big hall. He opened the hatch, turned on the lantern, and slowly descended downwards. He unbuttoned the holster around his shoulder and stuffed it into one of the wooden boxes. He felt a fool for ever taking it, wishing he had listened to De Gracy instead, and for a slight moment, he even envied the man. He imagined how they must have tortured him by the beach and how he had stayed cool nonetheless, instead spouting a lie that had saved them all, saved the Pit. He climbed the ladder, snuffed the lantern, and closed the hatch.

  As Stone moved back across the main hall, he noticed a vague line of light under the door that led to the eastern wing of the Pit, towards the office. He heard the pigeons jump from beam to beam, the soft sound of cooing mingling with the flapping of wings. He walked to the door and as he came near he heard muffled voices. He opened it, and the voices grew clearer. The eastern corridor was lit, but very slightly, the only light creeping in from under Stone’s closed office door.

  “If you’re the janitor, then why are you here at night?” a voice said from inside.

  “Yeah, why aren’t you at home, fucking your wife?” said another.

  Stone placed his ear against the office door, could hear the low hum of someone sobbing. He drew in closer, kneeled down in front of the keyhole, but banged his knee into the lower frame of the door.

  “The hell was that?” said a voice from inside the office.

  Stone scurried into the deeper darkness of the corridor, but the door was instantly opened; there were three men surrounding Grundy in the office; two of them were standing right next to him, the third sitting in Stone’s chair, a machine gun resting in his lap. The two other men seized Stone, one of them kicking him across his face.

  “None of that,” said the man in the chair. “Just get him in.”

  One of the others searched Stone.

  “He’s not wearing anything.

  The sitting man gently tilted his head. The shadow of his fedora was broad, covering his entire right eye and most of the left. His lips were wide with clear lines of flaky dryness. He softened them up with his tongue while he was observing Stone. The others forced Stone to sit in a nearby chair. Grundy looked beggingly at Stone, wet stains of tears below his eyes. The man in the chair had just opened his mouth when Stone said, “I know who you are.”

  The man didn’t look surprise
d.

  “And I know who you are,” he said. “And we know who this is,” he said, nodding at Grundy. “We all know each other by now. Isn’t that nice?”

  “I know you used to work for Bishop, and I know your name is Vodeni. Don’t think you’re a shadow to me like you were to De Gracy.”

  “Oh, you heard about that?”

  “You almost killed him, you sons of bitches!”

  “Look, Stone, the fact you know my name and know that we harassed De Gracy really doesn’t mean anything to us, and it sure as hell does not impress me.”

  “Why are you here?” asked Stone.

  Vodeni hinted towards the desk where paper and files were strewn all over. Stacks of opened letters were aligned along the edge of the table next to a letter opener.

  “We’re here because you lied to us,” said Vodeni. “And there, scattered all across those files are the names and addresses of all the liars here at the Pit. Look,” he said, leaning in over the table to grab one of the files. “Your file guy even kept records of all your fighters here. Carl Richards,” he started reading. “Blaine Hawk, Clay Holden, Keith Floyd, Paul Messenger, Eliot Frisch, Br--”

  “I get it!” said Stone. “You’ve got all the names of everyone here, that’s great.”

  “Names, addresses, even short descriptions, everything tied up with this neat handwriting. Here, let me read one of them. Paul Messenger, 482 New Drive Road, South Plissbury, and here’s the description. Young man from the outskirts of Peregrine Hills. He grew up alone and he used to roam the streets as a pickpocket, stealing wallets and watches. An aggressive type, but once in a while--”

  “Enough!” called Stone. “Why are you here? This is not why you’re here!”

  Grundy started sobbing again. Stone looked at him, and he only now realized the stain of blood near the top of Grundy’s shoulder. Stone roared like a beast as he stood from the chair. He tackled the man to the left of him, grabbed the letter opener, and tried to jump the desk to get to Vodeni’s side, but the other man quickly intervened and pushed his pistol’s muzzle so hard into Stone’s temple that he was thrown down on the desk, the letter opener flying into the opposite part of the room with the hollow clank of metal. Stone cringed as his face was slid along the desk like a mop, the many files gluing to the sweat on his face, and a cold, unrecognizable chill went down his back when he realized that Vodeni was laughing.

  “You tried to attack me with a letter opener?” he said, his face curling unnaturally from the spasms of his laughter. “I could have shot you at least five times. Put him back in the chair.”

  “Why did you have to shoot him?!” roared Stone. “Get some bandages here now, some towels, anything!”

  “We couldn’t afford our chance with someone so big in the room,” said Vodeni. “Honestly, we thought we could go in without anyone being here.”

  Stone closed his eyes and tried to control his breathing. He desperately sought a place of calm, a hint of even casual rationality in the depths of his mind, anything he could use to get Grundy and himself out of this with their lives intact. He remembered how De Gracy had looked, coming into the office, dripping blood and seawater around the office like a ghost of the deeps. He remembered what they could do to another man.

  Stone opened his eyes and saw Vodeni sitting across the room, almost expectantly; caressing the top of his machine gun like it was a cat in his lap.

  “What is it you want from us?” asked Stone.

  “It’s really very simple, Noah,” he answered. “I want us to make a deal.”

  Paul Messenger was sitting on the floor of a dark room, in a puddle of rain that he had brought in from the outside. Hails of heavy rain slammed on the window above him. He looked out at the room; it wasn’t very different from his own place. Very few pieces of furniture, all scattered about to give the illusion of home. The faint smell of alcohol was smeared against the shadowy walls like tapestry. Messenger tapped the floorboard next to him. As the rain intensified, he tried to drum along to the unforeseeable rhythm of the raindrops as they banged against the glass. He was completely calm, his heart barely beating, and even as the door in the room was opened and a man stepped in, he showed no signs of anxiety. The man turned on the light, saw Messenger, and started yelling, “Who the hell are you? Get the hell out of here!” He had a heavy Irish accent. The man grabbed Messenger and dragged him towards the door. “God damn hobos.”

  “What?” said Messenger. “What did you say?”

  “Hobos,” said the man, carefully enunciating the word as if talking to someone of a lesser mind. “I have a problem with strangers in my home, no matter what part of the streets you’re from, so get the hell out.”

  The man continued to push, but Messenger blocked the doorway.

  “You think I’m a hobo?” asked Messenger. He shoved the man back into the room.

  “Look here, what the hell is the matter with you?” said the man. “I’m telling you to get the hell--”

  Messenger stepped inside and closed the door. The man stared at him, as if awaiting him to pounce.

  “P… Paulie? Paul? Is that you?”

  “Don’t call me Paulie,” said Messenger.

  “And why not? It’s the damn name I gave ya.”

  “No, you didn’t,” said Messenger.

  “What’s that?” asked the man, stepping closer to Messenger. “What did you say?”

  “You came up with John… Mom came up with Paul.”

  “You come ‘ere to talk about your mother, are you?”

  “No, I didn’t,” said Messenger. “And not about John either. Not about anything. I didn’t come here for talking, because I know you’re a man that’s impossible to talk to.”

  “I’m your father, lad. Don’t you understand that?”

  “I understand,” said Messenger, his voice dying out a little, his throat closing up. “I understand that there are two sorts of dad in the world, and you turned out to be the wrong kind.”

  “Don’t give me that, Paulie, don’t give me that! T’was you who left, not me throwing you out. I could’ve cared for you. I’m doing good now, Paul, very good indeed. The Bull!” he said and pounded his own chest. “Best fighter in all the state, ye?”

  “Best boxer!” roared Messenger. “Maybe best boxer. Not best fighter.”

  The man seemed confused for a moment, not knowing if Messenger was kidding him or not.

  “What the hell’s the difference?”

  “The difference is that a ten year old boy can’t be a boxer,” said Messenger. “You can’t… You can’t put two of them together and expect a boxing match…” Messenger’s voice grew weak and cracked, and he had to concentrate to finish most of his sentences, images from all over his mind crashing. “And over fucking bread, too, I… But they can be a… fucking brothers, too…” Messenger tried to regain himself, but he shook and trembled, his mind unable to keep up with his heart.

  “What on earth are you…?”

  “I’m saying they can’t be boxers, god damn it! They can’t be boxers, but they can be fucking fighters, and they are… we were, and you made us fight the only thing we should never fight, and you…” Messenger fell down on his knees. “You made me kill him, and…” He drilled both fists into his head and started screaming, his jaw hanging down, his mouth unhinged; barring his soul and giving it a place to vent, to escape, and he could see the grey blue sky in between the many leaves of the trees and he started hearing voices, tiny voices from the past, and he screamed to drown them all out. He felt the dirt in between his nails and the toll of bells in his ears, and…

  The pours of rain slammed into the window. Paul Messenger was sitting on the floor, not knowing how much time had passed. He had stopped screaming and he was now slowly getting up. He looked at the man. “There are plenty of fighters out there, fighting every day and everywhere, not just in some god damned ring. That is why you’re not the best fighter in the state, not in Plissbury… not even in this room. Fighters fig
ht for their own absolution...”

  “And that’s why you’re here, then?” the man said. “To fight for all that? To fight me for all that, as if that’s gonna change anything in your life.”

  Messenger didn’t speak.

  “You think you can come here, deal with what ghosts you think of, and run off, eh?” said the man. “Never to come back ‘ere again? ‘Cause that’d be wrong, son. John’s a ghost now, ain’t he? A ghost that haunts you every day, ain’t he? A ghost that keeps coming back? There’s no answer for what you got, Paul. Unhinged, that’s what you are, Paulie. Unhinged. Unhinged from--”

  Messenger jumped forward and landed a right hook straight across the man’s jaw, and he, baffled and unprepared, went straight to the floor with a crash.

  He looked up at Messenger, touching his jaw, smiling. “Good hook there, very good,” he said and got up. Messenger lifted his parades, but the man had already put in two devastating punches. Messenger staggered for a while, stepping away from the man. He looked around the room he was in; it was roughly the same size as a boxing ring, square in shape, with tapestry instead of ropes. The thought of no bell to stop the fight scared him for a moment, but then he looked into the man’s eyes as he had done with Holden’s. There he saw no signs of regretfulness, only the chasm of a deeper conflict; a conflict that Messenger desperately wanted to end. And he knew that this was his only chance to do it.

  Noah Stone and Grundy were both sitting in the office, surrounded by the armed squad of Vodeni and his men; they sat on each side of Stone, one by the bookshelf, the other by the window. The clicking from Vodeni opening and closing his lighter was the only sound for a great period of time; it snapped with the sound of a hundred little clocks, ticking away the time, and it felt like the floor was slowly being removed from underneath Stone’s feet, tile by tile slowly plucked away.