Hiding Among the Dead

by Chris Bauer

  She kneaded the ex-husband’s lower back, his bare buttocks covered by a towel.

  Her mind wandered, to Tonka. What did he look like under that tight suit? No doubt spectacular, top, middle, bottom…

  “Ah, miss?”

  The voice startled her. It was her client, sprawled on his stomach beneath her open-legged straddle as she worked his lower back. “Yes? What is it?”

  He lifted himself to an elbow, raising his head from the face cushion. “You seem to be, how do I put it, grinding a bit against my butt. I’m flattered, but like we agreed, let’s keep this professional, shall we?”

  “Oh. Sorry. My mind is, er, elsewhere, sir. So sorry.”

  “No problem,” he said, smiling. He tucked his face back into the cushion. “Whoever he is, he’s a lucky guy.”

  Her interests in seeing the Saturday night fight, when being honest with herself, were, in order of importance: One, Tonka. She hadn’t been with a man that way in some time, would like to get to know him better. He’d awakened an appetite, had gotten her motor going.

  Two, the Blessid Trauma owner Philo Trout, now truly a curiosity. Crime scene cleaner by day, pseudo–Fight Club participant by night. Another man with a secret. Maybe they could talk shop.

  Three, the Hawaiian kid Patrick Stakes. No idea if young Mr. Stakes would be in attendance at the fight, but her intuition said he might. Someone on the outside, an innocent bystander who was a witness to her true avocation. Not a healthy situation, for Kaipo or for him.

  Dead last was Wally Lanakai. Poor, heart-struck Wally, a middle-aged mobster who remained patient with Kaipo’s coyness. The man held her financial wellbeing in his hands; her connection to well-to-do clients like Mr. Insurance Executive here. Adding to this was his organization’s continued interest in her sobriety, except to date they’d had a too protective, too over-the-top way of showing it.

  While she packed up, she addressed her massage client. “You were a perfect gentleman today, sir, and I apologize again for where my mind was earlier.”

  “No apologies needed. You did a fantastic job. I’ll pass that along, nothing more, to people I know. And to people who know you.”

  Meaning star-crossed Wally, still not much more than an afterthought romantically, yet more dangerous than the other three fight-night interests combined.

  33

  Friday morning at sun up the Blessid Trauma step van arrived at the foot of the grain elevator, the building appearing older and closer to death to Philo today, almost pleading with him to please put it out of its misery. Its demise would happen soon enough. Next week at this time, it would be gone.

  Patrick and Miñoso pushed open the van’s rear doors and climbed out, hazmated in blue from the neck down, their masks and head gear in their hands. The two crime scene astronauts moved slowly, deliberately, readying themselves for their trek into the belly of the beast, this time for more than recon. Philo got out of the van and climbed into his blue bio-suit while he spoke. His guys started unloading their equipment.

  “We have one job, and one job only today, gentlemen, with overflow into tomorrow morning if we need it. After we finish cleaning out the hole, this job is done, fini, adios, this eyesore all set for its sendoff next week. Let’s finish early enough today so we can crack open some cold ones this afternoon and celebrate.”

  The “hole” was the pit below the first floor. The Blessid team needed to scrub the pit’s walls, vacuum up the remaining moisture and grain, then shovel out the few inches of silt-laden sediment the internal mini-ecosystem had survived on for decades.

  Patrick, his mask off, his crime-scene game face on, lifted an institutional-size shop vac onto a wheeled cart, then returned to the van for additional supplies. Miñoso picked up a second shop vac and put it on the cart, next to the first. Miñoso addressed Philo.

  “Boss?”

  “’Sup, Miñoso?”

  “You still have work for me tomorrow night here too, yes?”

  The fight. Miñoso was playing coy around Patrick. As far as Philo knew, Miñoso had kept his word, with no mention of any such event to anyone. “Sure do. There a problem?”

  “Si, señor, yes. I cannot make it.”

  “Why? What’s going on?”

  “My uncle, Tío Diego, his cuerpo—body—tomorrow night I must make the final payment so I can send him and his things home to Mexico. I am sorry, Señor Philo, but I cannot help you tomorrow. Please forgive me.”

  “You can’t get your uncle and his stuff squared away some other night?”

  “No, Señor Philo. Is necessary tomorrow night.”

  Well, this was a fine kettle of fish. “Sorry to hear that, Miñoso. I was counting on you.”

  But in reality, no one could be of help to him tomorrow night. In bare-knuckles boxing there were no corner men, no cut men. No ring corners, period, where stools could be slapped down onto the canvas for a fighter to rest between rounds, because there was no canvas and there were no rounds. Once the fight started, it would go until one man was unable to continue, over with one punch or with a flurry of them. No gate, all side bets, and one promoter who collected bets via the underground, same as running numbers. Word of mouth, email, twitter, even wire transfers to overseas accounts. The fighters themselves didn’t care how the money was made, only that there was a winner-take-all purse that was worth the effort.

  Patrick spoke up. “Sir, I can do it.”

  Something, a knowing glance, passed between Patrick and Miñoso. “You have a fight tomorrow night, sir,” Patrick said. “I can be here for it.”

  So much for secrecy. Philo scowled. “Miñoso, damn it, I told you—”

  “Not his fault, sir,” Patrick said. “You and Miñoso been training at Joe Frazier’s Gym after work. I seen you both there a coupla nights, from the bus. I forget stuff, but I’m not stupid. I asked him about it. He didn’t want you to be at the fight without friends, so he told me.”

  The one friend Philo wanted to attend more than anyone was Hump Fargas, but he was in a bad way. His ALS had limited his participation during Philo and Miñoso’s time at the gym, his appearance at the fight out of the question; Miñoso would have been a good surrogate. Such had been the plan.

  Damn it; Philo would still try to control what he could. “You do not tell Grace about the fight, Patrick. Do we have a deal?”

  “Not telling nobody, sir. Deal.”

  Cold and crude and dungeon-like, the forty-by-forty footprint inside the grain elevator below ground level smelled as ripe as the fish stands and seafood restaurants at the South Philly Italian market in August. Patrick stood at the bottom of an aluminum extension ladder in heavy-duty work boots. He switched on a twelve-volt lantern, one of six Philo had tossed him.

  “Sir?’

  “Yes, Patrick?”

  “It’s beautiful, sir.”

  “How’s that, Patrick?”

  “The wood in the ceiling, sir. It’s like, really cool.”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  Reclaimed grain silo wood, forty square feet of it, layered most of the ceiling, a mosaic of inlaid planks and timbers salvaged from the Tidewater Company’s ill-fated other local grain elevator and screwed into place here. A nostalgia thing for the company, plus it was valuable. When doing the bid Philo thought the ceiling was a morbid way to commemorate the grain company’s black eye of sixty years past, then he learned it was worth some coin when his cleaning contract was adjusted to reflect that no harm come to it. A Philly architect won the bid for the wood. It would be removed next week, after they made the pit more inhabitable.

  “Kind of looks like jellyfish got caught up in it while it cured, huh, Patrick?”

  “Yeah.”

  The wear patterns stretching across the grayed planks were captivating, smooth and naturally polished by the grain with subtle, swirling indentations and slight discolorations in the worn wood, the patterns spreading in all directions like wheat waving in the wind. After Philo learned of the contract change,
it took less imagination to see the wood’s charm.

  “We stay away from the ceiling, fellas, got that? Do not clean the ceiling.”

  Patrick left the lantern near the ladder, headed into a corner where he’d place another lantern on the moldy floor, then did likewise with the others. He called up the ladder to Philo.

  “Need another lantern, sir.” Lantern number six hadn’t cooperated, would not switch on, was either defective or the battery was toast. Philo tossed him a replacement, then a few extras.

  “It’s not too bad down here, sir,” Patrick hollered from another corner. “’Bout the same as before. Soon as the lanterns went on, everything on the floor scattered. Except the dead stuff. Don’t know where the live ones went, sir.”

  Philo got into a crouch and returned the holler. “Be careful, Patrick. Survival of the fittest, son. Stomp first, ask questions later.”

  Miñoso and Philo lowered one shop vac on a flat piece of plywood with ropes, then the second. Next came shovels, push brooms, scrubbing brushes, bottles of detergent, a box of red hazmat bags and a pair of snake-grabber tongs, plus a tensioned-top wooden box to contain any live prey they’d need to capture. Miñoso climbed down into the pit to join Patrick.

  This was heavy, sweaty, arm-weary work, their power-washing and scrubbing removing decades of dust that, once disturbed, formed a mist head-high around them that also floated into the shafts of sunlight the opening to the floor above provided, their filtering masks earning their keep against it. After hours of tedious, sloppy work, with more than a hundred buckets of dirt and dust destined for the trash truck, and a rat bite that ripped Patrick’s Tyvek suit above his ankle, the space was soon scrubbed raw top to bottom, the ceiling off-limits. No moisture, no debris, no leftover grain.

  “No more food source for that rat, Patrick,” Philo said once they were topside, “other than you guys. Did the bite break the skin?”

  “A mouthful of Tyvek and sock only, sir.”

  The three men were exhausted. They reloaded the van, Philo checking off each item and tool as they returned it. “Shop vac one, shop vac two. Broom one, broom two. Lantern, lantern…how many lanterns, Patrick?”

  “Seven. No, eight, sir. Eight.”

  “You sure?”

  “…six, seven, eight. Eight, sir. We have eight.”

  “Eight’s a good number then. Get back up here so we can drink some beer. I’m giving us the rest of the afternoon off.”

  They sipped their beers outside on beach chairs. Miñoso, teary-eyed, clinked a bottle with Philo. “Señor Philo, it has been an honor helping you train for your fight. Please, señor, to take care of yourself.”

  It wasn’t only what he said, it was how he said it, with a hint of don’t ever forget me.

  “Miñoso, this better not be the last I see of you. There’s more work if you want it.”

  “Si, Philo. If I survive what I must do to get Uncle Diego home and return to the US, we shall see. Gracias, for everything.”

  34

  At ten thirty p.m. on fight night, the view from the third floor of the grain elevator showed nothing moving on the buckled wasteland that stretched a half mile in three directions. Adjacent to and south of the building, the fourth direction, it was all Delaware River. A single length of jobsite lighting shone dull against the ceiling, enough light to find one’s way to and from the stairs. Two metal rods drilled into the cinder-blocked window frame separated Philo from a thirty-foot drop into the river. He stood shadowboxing in front of the empty window, the alcove deeply inset. His hooded sweatshirt covered half his face and hung loosely over his upper torso. Underneath, a snug camouflage tee was tucked into worn jeans—“the clothes that brought him here”—the jeans too long for his six-two frame, their pant legs bunched up against his black Nikes.

  He sucked in the crisp night air, exhaled it with each thrown combination. The temperature was in the mid-forties and forecasted to stay there overnight.

  Feel the punch. Start it in your heels, let the energy gather as it travels up through your calves, your thighs, your chest…

  This was the calm before the storm, and Philo used it to work up a sweat. Patrick exited the spiral stairs and crossed the room. Philo continued throwing his fists with bad intentions.

  “The two generators outside are on now, sir.”

  “Thanks, Patrick.”

  “You look good, sir. Glad I’m here for this, sir.”

  Obliging cops had decided to fight crime elsewhere in this district tonight, except for the few who Wally said would be in attendance. Outside of Patrick, the only people Philo expected to see from his side of the fight equation were drunks he knew from the local Northeast Philly bars. If they showed, they’d be surprised to learn the guy who’d been buying them shots for weeks so they could drink to the fight that would showcase a favorite son—someone none of them knew personally—was actually one of the combatants. Philo expected four or five of these barflies to attend, maybe a few Center City drinkers as well. The rest of the spectators would be cheering for the other side.

  A pair of headlights entered the serpentine trail, bobbing in and out of sight behind the junk piles before the vehicle, a taxi, circled in close to the front of the condemned building. The rear door opened and someone stumbled out, hitting the dirt hard but landing on his hands and knees. A cab driver with a turban hustled to the guy’s side, helped him stand, and brushed him off while the man paid his fare. This was something you didn’t see every day, Philo thought: a cabbie helping a drunk to his feet.

  Hold on. It wasn’t a drunk.

  Philo flew down the stairs, was at ground level and outside the building in seconds, loping up to the taxi. He tucked a twenty into the cabbie’s hand, something that took the hack by surprise.

  “Already collected the fare,” the Sikh cabbie said.

  “I know. Just wait a minute. He’s not staying.”

  Philo draped his arm around the taxi passenger. “Hump. You’re sick, dude. I appreciate your enthusiasm, I really do, but you need to get right the hell back into this cab.”

  “Ain’t gonna happen, Philo. No way I’m gonna miss this. Just get me inside and I’ll be fine.”

  “Hump—”

  “Find me a chair and a beer, not necessarily in that order.” Hump looked skyward, at the clear, cloudless cosmos packed with black and white magnificence in what appeared to be almost equal portions. A starry, starry night. “A night this beautiful, watching a sport I love—I’ve died and gone to heaven. I ain’t leaving unless it’s on a stretcher. Now, if you’ll excuse me, beer and a chair.”

  Philo turned to speak to the cabbie, his arm still around Hump. “You can go, he’s going to stay awhile. Keep the money.”

  Philo introduced Patrick to Hump, then directed Patrick to grab the cooler from the unmarked Blessid Trauma Econoline and follow them inside. “No chairs in here, Hump, you should know that, but Patrick’s got a cooler full of beer you can sit on. Covers you on both counts.”

  The two of them navigated the uneven terrain into the building, Patrick following. Philo peeked past Patrick at headlights in the distance twisting their way across the landscape. Other fight spectators were starting to arrive.

  “Rough out here, boss,” the driver said. It was a little past eleven p.m. “Your suspension’s taking a beating.”

  “The biggest illegal bare-knuckle fight ever arranged,” Wally said from the back seat, “and you’re worried about my SUV. It’s a fucking Range Rover. They’ll be using these things when we get to Mars. Shut up and try to miss one or two of the potholes. Excuse my profanity, Kaipo.”

  The man murdered people for a living and here he was worried about her virgin ears; comical, Kaipo thought. Wally, Kaipo, and Tonka, belted in across the SUV’s rear bench seat, gripped their armrests as the all-terrain tires crested and fell. Fanning out from the building were thirty-plus parked cars and motorcycles plus a few airport limos. Wally beamed, thrilled at the turnout.

  At the b
uilding entrance the shotgun passenger, the other half of Wally’s bodyguard muscle, hustled out to remove a traffic cone for their reserved parking directly in front; they were arriving fashionably late. Kaipo accepted Wally’s extended hand as she climbed out, looking smart and curvy in tight jeans and wearing flats. Tonka exited the other rear door.

  “What’s on the other side of the building, boss?” Tonka said, stretching.

  “The Delaware River.”

  “Cool. You know if he swims?”

  “Who?”

  “Trout.”

  “He was in the navy, Tonka, so I imagine yes. Why?”

  “Probably doesn’t matter. If he ends up in the water, he’ll already be unconscious.” He eyed Kaipo, puffed out his chest a little. “Don’t worry, Kaipo, I’ll rescue him.”

  Kaipo’s attraction to him was waning; cocky guys didn’t usually do it for her. Still, the man was a gorgeous physical specimen, and that counted for something. Regardless—

  “If you don’t pull him out,” she said, “I will. No one needs to die here tonight, right, Wally?”

  “Philo’s got a mouth on him but sure, why not, no one needs to die. Tonka, remember, this is boxing, not UFC, and certainly not an execution. It’ll be the Queen’s rules for the most part. Just knock him out so we can all relax and go home early. Let’s get inside.”

  The gas generators thrummed outside the hollowed shell of a building that was once a grain elevator. Inside, Hump had his ass planted on his beer cooler seat while he held court with a semicircle of new friends in what Philo considered his corner of the floor, just inside the breezy tarp. These new friends were serious drinkers who had left their bar haunts earlier than usual tonight, to see the fight. Philo gestured for them to make him a path; the small group parted. He sat next to Hump on the cooler.

  “Miñoso here yet?” Hump asked.

  “Miñoso bailed,” Philo said, pushing his hood off his head. He ran his hand through his sweaty rooster-comb hair. “Something about shipping his uncle’s body.”