by Jack Tunney
He saddles up on the stool and rests his elbows on the bar. People aren’t jumping and jiving like they were the last time he was here, but there has been a noticeable swell in the size of the crowd. A semi-circle of them hovers around Henry, the same way Neck pictured gatherings from the thirties and forties. Probably the way Henry pictures them too.
Maybe if they’re lucky, and word keeps spreading, Junior will throw in a couple extra bucks so Henry can get himself some new shoes, maybe some pants without holes in the knees. Though maybe, Neck thinks, that’s back in style again.
The bartender sets the drinks before Neck and pauses a minute. Neck throws back the first then sucks in air and squints away the burn, taps his hand for another. He swallows the second and slides the glasses back toward the bartender, who returns a minute later with another drink, this one conspicuously smaller. He nods at Neck then tends to another local.
Neck sips at this one, taking his time and savoring the burn. Henry really does have a way with those keys. The images aren’t as tactile as they had been when he sat with Ally, but something in the music still tills at his chest, unearthing a truth long-hidden and uncomfortable when exposed to fresh air.
Beigler wasn’t the kind of man you would choose to go up against, whether with your fists taped in a ring or tie Windsor-knotted in a courtroom. It wasn’t that he was lowdown, like someone Neck might battle in a Highlandtown basement, but more that he possessed the kind of predatory prowess and mental agility he expected velociraptors had to have. He seemed honorable, or as honorable as could be expected in this crowd, all of which made him the polar opposite of Stokes, and that was what frightened him most, that there was no ulterior motive for Beigler, that this was all sporting for him.
Stokes could have chosen anyone in the city to fight Neck. There was a SEAL who’d gone AWOL, who was the best fighter, hands down. Then Dwaine, who made up for what he lacked in skill with a complete lack of tactile sensitivity. Neck had seen Dwaine telegraph a devastating right cross the other fighter blocked by simply ducking his head and letting his skull take the impact. The snap of Dwaine’s fingers was audible over the drunken ramblings, but Dwaine still went another three rounds before finally crushing the other man’s cheekbones with his broken-fingered fist. There were one or two other pugs who could have pummeled Neck for less money than Stokes would get from this fight, but he knew exactly what he was doing when he picked the fighter.
Neck held his and Henry’s futures in taped and scarred hands that would have to batter his closest friend. Stokes would simply carry on as he had been, only now not having to watch over his shoulder, and Beigler would forget the fight by the following weekend.
Neckbone holds up his hand for one more drink.
The music flames out in a glowing crescendo, the crowd around Henry clapping in appreciation. Neck looks over his shoulder and sees him stand on the bench, bowing a few times. Kid has the personality to go with the talent, he’ll give him that. At least it isn’t going to waste, for the time being.
Henry stands beaming, and glances over, catching Neck’s eyes. He gives a wave, then bows again to his adoring public and makes his way over to the bar.
“Whiskey on the rocks,” he tells the bartender, who nods.
“The hell you think you’re doing?” Neck says.
The bartender slides a Coke across the bar, Henry catching it with his palm like he’s in a Western.
“Sounds cooler than just asking for a pop.” He shrugs and sucks half the soda through the straw. His pants still have holes, but they’re small and on the thigh, the fashionably placed ones kids wear today instead of the threadbare knees he had been sporting. His shoes have an actual logo on them now, as well. He doesn’t carry the air of dust and grime he did last week.
“Haven’t seen you around, the past few days.” Neck sips at his own drink. The whiskey no longer bites, and he has to hold it in his mouth for a few seconds to taste it. “I was starting to worry.”
“Yeah.” Henry speaks more to the bar-top than to Neck. “Dad came home.”
“I was wondering,” Neck says. “Everything okay?”
“He’s trying to get me to box.” Henry’s voice is hopeful, his eyes bright. Neck grits his teeth. “Kind of hard with his hand in a cast, but he showed me a couple things.”
“That so?”
“He says I’ve got a natural shuffle to my step that lets me throw from the hip. Says it must be from all the jazz and piano music.” His enthusiasm dries up as he finishes his sentence, head dropping down toward the bar as if the weight of Neck’s expression is just too heavy.
Neck takes a sip and nods a couple times, letting the whiskey soak in, daring it to burn him. “Good to see someone else finally sees potential in you.”
“He tries,” Henry says. “He’s not good at doing, but he tries.”
“He does,” Neck says. “He does.”
“He came to watch tonight, at least.” Henry stirs his Coke with his finger, plugging the straw hole with his thumb then pulling it out and letting the soda dribble back into the glass. “I’m glad he’s here. It’s nice.”
Neck looks past Henry and down the bar of drunks. He leans forward and catches a glimpse of Jeff talking to a man with his back to them. Jeff gives a bright wave and smiles. At least the guy is still missing his tooth. His bandages are grey and look home-wrapped.
The man with Jeff turns around and, of course, it’s Stokes. He lifts his beer to Neck, curves his lips into a half-smile, then turns away.
Neck slings back the rest of the Turkey, digs into his pocket and pulls out a fist, dumps crumpled bills and change on the bar. “Good luck, kid. Don’t forget where I live.”
He kicks his stool back under the bar and marches toward the door. Henry’s voice rings out over the crowd, calling his name. Neck pauses, hand on the door. He inhales, exhales, waits for Henry to say something more. When the boy doesn’t, Neck takes a long inhale, pushes the door open and steps into the night.
ROUND THIRTEEN
Standing in the hallway of his apartment, Neckbone stands with his hand on the doorknob for a few long breaths. Shadows flicker on the walls, partially from a moth tinking against the exposed glass bulb, partially from the faulty wiring that sizzles just before the rain. He can’t hear any sobbing inside and, these walls being as thin as they are, he counts that as a good thing. He can’t discount the possibility of a rack of pillows suffocating Ally’s misery, though, and that might very well be the final weight that causes him to implode like a neutron star.
Neckbone exhales hard and turns the knob. A single candle flickers on their coffee table. A glass of wine sits on one of the coasters that keeps their table level. Beside it is a box of Chardonnay, a few drips beneath the spout.
Ally lies on the couch, her feet up on the arm. Neckbone tickles the toe poking from her sock. She wiggles it twice.
“Is Niall dead?”
She snorts a quick laugh, shakes her head.
“Everything okay, love?”
She takes a deep breath and exhales like she’s Blanche DuBois. “Everything is.”
Neckbone tosses his keys on the table. “Is that an existential statement or an answer?”
“Yes.” She reaches over for her wine, takes a sip and balances it on her chest, watching Neck.
“You going to actually talk to me or should I go find my I-Ching? Just so I know.”
Ally lifts her legs up, indicating for Neck to sit beside her. He sits, careful to not spill her wine. Not that they’d be able to find a new stain on this couch, but.
“Jermaine gave me the play,” she says.
Neck doesn’t know how to respond to this, so he just stares, trying to convey cautious optimism. “How do you mean?”
She lets out another of those exhales and wipes the tears from her eyes. Neck’s relieved to see the hint of a smile, thinking maybe those are happy tears.
“He took me out for coffee this morning. Niall’s going to be in the hos
pital for a while and he said he won’t be able to give the play the attention it needs with Niall banged up like he is. He said we’ve all been working so hard and it wouldn’t be fair to the cast to just piss it away because he’s preoccupied. And since I’m the other main, and I know the script as well as he does, I should direct it.” Her tone barely changes the whole time she speaks, as if she’s reading from note cards.
Neck takes a drink from her glass. It’s warm and has a hint of nail polish, like she’d been drinking vodka before. “Isn’t that a good thing?”
“Yeah,” she says. “It’s very thoughtful of him. And flattering. I mean, me? A director?”
“Shouldn’t you be drinking champagne or something? Or at least have ice cubes so it’s cold?”
“We don’t have any money.”
“Al, it’s frozen water.”
“The play, Christopher.” She takes her glass back. Wine sloshes over the rim. “We don’t have any money to keep the play going.”
He watches the flame jump and dance on the candle’s wick. He remembers, growing up, the nuns telling him a hundred million angels could fit on the head of a pin. He wondered how many would burn if they were on a candle instead.
“Was Niall the financer?”
Ally flicks her glass. The sound is more clank than ding, but the point is made.
“How much do you need?”
A weak shrug, maybe noncommittal, maybe beaten-down, maybe just unsure. “He said something about five thousand, though I don’t know what that’s for. Probably a week. That would make sense, wouldn’t it?”
“I don’t know, Al. I’ve never done theatre.”
“You told me you did a play in fifth grade. Weren’t you a tree? Or was it a horse. I can’t remember.” She swirls her wine then drains it.
He pats her feet, puts them aside then stands. “I need to wash off.”
She calls out that there’s no hot water, but he’s far enough down the hall to pretend he can’t hear.
The water pours out brown. He stands beneath it anyway. The cold forces him to breathe deeper, focus on not hyperventilating.
Five thousand dollars. What Jeff owed last week. One fight against Rollo.
Neck tips his face into the water, lets the cold beat against it until he can’t feel his skin.
ROUND FOURTEEN
Neckbone sets his gym bag beside the empty kegs and plops on one of the buckets filled with drained grease. The air in this basement is filled with moldy sawdust and spilled blood. In the room next door, knuckles smack against cheeks, tenderizing faces.
Drunken shouting fills the lulls. The basement’s packed tonight, and The Garnet Hearts, the rockabilly playing the Paradise City bar upstairs, will have to turn their amps up to Spinal Tap-level to cover the sound of men destroying each other down beneath Paradise City. But the sound of broken bonds, of hearts calving and falling into the frozen sea? Neck isn’t sure anything can cover up that sound.
He pulls out his athletic tape and starts to wrap his hands, stuffing two sponges into palms. He starts at a wrist, wraps it three times around, then works up the outer edge of the palm four times, around the knuckles with his fingers spread wide, then shores up his thumb and works his way back down the hand all the way to the wrist again. He flexes his fingers, watching the tendons differentiate beneath his skin, pulling away from each other like quarrelling brothers.
The whole time he prepares, he doesn’t look up. Won’t look up. Can’t look up.
Rollo sits on a pallet on the opposite side, performing the same ritual as Neck, only on a larger scale. Shouting and booing and calling for more blood are the soundtrack to their preparation.
After five minutes, Rollo’s laugh breaks the silence.
“So,” he says. “Two fish are in a tank.”
Neck stops wrapping, looks up and cocks his head.
“One looks over to the other one,” he says, his work cut with laughter, “and says, How the hell you drive this thing?”
Neck doesn’t know whether to laugh or scream.
“Is that funny yet?” Rollo flexes his fingers then works his shoulders in slow circles.
“Of all the books you read inside, you couldn’t have found Bill Hicks or Steve Martin or Mitch Hedberg?” Neck finally stands and feels all the life drain out through his feet.
“Prisons aren’t known for their library diversity. At least not in Baltimore.”
Neck takes a swig of water from his bottle. “I’ll bring one in for you.”
“Wait until next week. Might need some money for postage.”
Neck tips his head back. “What’s that mean?”
“A kayo is a probation violation.” Rollo laughs, then, seeing Neckbone isn’t sharing, stops. “If I lose, I’m going back.”
“You’re what?” Neck fights to keep the shrillness from his voice. “But you didn’t do anything.”
“That’s the deal, Neck. You’re fighting for Henry, I’m fighting for Jeff.”
Neck holds his hands up, tries to argue, but the words slam against each other, unable to find their way to his mouth.
“Who you think commuted my sentence?” Rollo says.
“Beigler was your lawyer?”
“Hell, Neck.” Rollo plops back down on the pallet. “I’d be older than Gus when I got out if I had a public defender. And there ain’t no way I could afford him outright.”
“Come on, Rollo.” The petulant child tone that got him licks from his father creeps in, but Neck doesn’t much care at the moment. “Why were you fighting behind his back if he could hang this over you?”
The big man shrugs. His tattoos twist and turn on his skin. “Wanted to get Marnie something nice for our anniversary. The big two-oh. She deserves it, getting my boy into college when I was away and everything else she put up with.”
“You idiot!” Neck steps forward then stops, keeps himself reined in. “Why didn’t you ask for money? I would’ve given it to you, you lummox.”
Rollo looks like he isn’t sure whether to be offended or amused. Doesn’t take long for his face to assume its normal stone visage. “I’m the man of my house, Chris. I can take care of my own.”
“I know, but still.” He flaps his hands like flightless birds, then exhales.
The door cracks open, only Gus’ eye visible. That’s all he needs to show, though. All he wants to show. He lets the door whisper closed, leaving Neckbone and Rollo to stare at each other for a minute that stretches to the point of snapping, then contracts only to stretch even farther.
“Well, hell,” Neck finally says. He kicks at the keg. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.”
Rollo pushes himself up and crosses the space between them. His paws hang at his waist, and Neck tracks them the whole way over then feels immediately guilty for it. Rollo extends his hand and Neck flinches, then sticks out his own. Rollo grabs it, holds on for precious few seconds, then pulls Neckbone to standing.
“What you do,” Rollo says, “is you go out and you fight.”
ROUND FIFTEEN
The crowd screams and throws cups at Neck and Rollo as they enter the space marked off for a ring. There are enough people in the crowd that they form more of a wall than the usual flexible rope used to bounce fighters back into the ring. A can ricochets off Rollo’s skull. He snatches it off the cement floor and wings it in the general direction from where it came. This does nothing to subdue the crowd, instead feeds into their bloodlust. When they get to the edge of the space marked as a ring, they split to either side, Neckbone going to where Gus is standing in one corner, and Rollo going to another man Neck can never remember.
Red Fabian stands in the center again, and Neck feels some strange kind of symmetry at the sight. Red is not his normal laconic, swaggering drunk self, though, instead standing pole-upright, flicking the filter of a cigarette as ash snows down to the floor.
Gus kneads Neck’s shoulder, but it’s more annoying than relaxing. He shrugs the old man’s hands away.
He just wants to sit and stare at a wall in a quiet room, not be surrounded by drunks screaming for them to get their fists moving and start killing each other already.
“Look, kid,” Gus says. “We didn’t do too well last time, but that don’t mean I don’t care.”
“I appreciate that, Gus.” He’s trying his best to sound involved, but just sounds like the pre-recorded voice on the answering machine he had growing up.
“He already knows you let your wing flap when you come around, so keep watch on that.” Gus slaps his palms on Neck’s knuckles, pretending to inspect them though he’s really just wasting time. “Just go out and do what you all do.”
Neck claps his hand on the back of Gus’ skull to say thank you, then stands and makes his way to the middle of the ring to meet Rollo.
Red makes a show of telling them the rules and looking at their hands, but Neck can’t hear any of the words. All he can do is stare at Rollo, seeing him staring back. Both men hold tight their stoic expressions, but it’s more to obscure the tempest of conflicting emotion swirling beneath their skin than to intimidate. Red makes a gesture that seems to indicate he’s done.
Neck and Rollo put their hands out to bump knuckles.
“It’s the job of us thinking people not to be on the side of the executioners.” Rollo nods toward the crowd.
“Wouldn’t we be the executioners and they the galley?”
“I only told you I read Camus.” Rollo says the name with a long s. “I never said I understood him.”
“You read Camus, but not joke books?”
Rollo shrugs. “It’s Baltimore, brother.”
“Fair enough.”
“Don’t you dare fall,” Rollo says.
Red Fabian whistles, raises his hand then drops it.
“Fight!”
ROUND SIXTEEN
A full ten seconds passes before either man can summon the courage to throw a shot at their friend. Even when Neck finally does, it’s just an exploratory jab and glances off Rollo’s shoulder. He doesn’t even have to deke to slip it. Neck follows with two more jabs, each stronger than the next, but not enough to knock even Henry down. He takes two steps to the side and barely manages to miss a hard right cross from Rollo.