Requiem For The Widowmaker

by Blackie Noir

  “Bad shit happens to good people. That’s a fact of life I learned to accept at an early age. I try not to take it personally. If I did, I wouldn’t have lasted on the job five weeks, much less five years. Scared? Certain situations, you bet your ass. But I’ve been taught to face my fears, meet them head on. It isn’t always easy, but I do it. You’ve got a good example on the video-tape. The job? Can I do it? Yeah, definitely. I can do it, and just as important, I still want to do it. Pin the gold shield on me Butch, you won’t regret it. You have my word.”

  Smiling, Butch leaned back in his chair, “Took you awhile, but that’s basically what I wanted to hear. We’re about done here, all I need to do is set up a date for the ceremony.”

  Nadine frowned, “Ceremony?”

  “Sure. You didn’t think I’d just whip out a couple of medals, a detective’s badge and toss them over the desk to you?”

  “A girl can hope.”

  “Sorry, the department needs its rituals, the mayor needs his photo-opps, and the citizenry needs its heroes.”

  “Shit.”

  Standing, Butch said, “You’ll get a formal notice in the mail with the date of the big event, but I’ll call you personally as soon as I know. We’ll also set up a final physical, to clear you for duty. Then we’ll discus your assignment. C’mon I’ll walk you out, Detective.”

  Chapter Seven

  Detective. Congratulations. Detective Nadine Kozok.

  Gold shield Nadine. Sitting, cowering, hiding in a toilet stall down the hall from Butch Ritter’s office.

  After fighting off a major attack of dry heaves, then wrapping her arms around her torso to control her shakes, Nadine wondered how quickly Ritter would rescind his bestowing of the gold shield if he could observe her present condition.

  Her present condition. Which was? Nadine wasn’t sure, panic attack? Anxiety attack? Was there a difference? Didn’t matter. What did matter, when these spells made an infrequent appearance they usually announced their pending onslaught with a variety of minor symptoms. Thankfully, Nadine had been able to heed these warnings, steel herself, and hang tough until Butch had concluded their meeting. She was good at faking it, years of practice saw to that.

  Striding, tall and proud, her pace measured, Nadine had moved down the hall. She’d made it to the ladies room and made her unhurried entry. Once inside, she’d streaked across the room, banged open the door to the furthest stall, then slammed and locked it behind her. Dizzy, her legs, now rubbery, finally betrayed her and she dropped down on the commode. Only then, semi-secure in the privacy of her temporary haven, did she allow herself to unravel.

  Fortunately, Nadine, the woman; the hard-driving, ass-kicking, straight shooting, iron-pumping, decorated police officer, didn’t get panic attacks. Unfortunately, Nadine’s alter-ego, little Nadie, the abused, oft-battered, perpetually terrorized child, did. Although these spells were constant companions to little Nadie, they never asserted themselves on the psyche of Nadine the woman. Nadine could face down her fears. She’d been tutored by experts.

  Years ago, to Vassily, “Pop, you ever get scared? I mean really scared?”

  “Everyday, darlin. Everyday.”

  “Of what Pop? What could possibly scare you?”

  His face, momentarily bathed in the fatigue of carrying the reminders of every blow ever struck and landed on it, radiated weariness as Vassily answered, “The world. The world, and just about everything in it.”

  Shaking her head, Nadine said, “Amazing. You sure could have fooled me. You ooze confidence. Positively radiate attitude.”

  “That’s the idea. Whenever the world gets too fearsome, well, I make it a point to get fearsome right back. Double-dose fearsome.”

  Suddenly animated, playing the clown, Vassily had bared his teeth, snarled, growled, “Fuck the world!”

  Laughing, Nadine said, “All right, all right. I’m asking an honest question. C’mon Pop, get serious.”

  Sobering, Vassily had answered, “Oh, but I am, child. Serious. Serious as death.”

  Taking Vassily’s advice to heart, Nadine had, over the years, honed her abilities to submerge the turmoil of confusion, fear, and doubt, beneath a surface tranquility. Tranquility provided by a display of calm, confident, competence buttressed by a restrained, but always ready, aggression.

  Making fear a friend, another addition to her repertoire. This, courtesy of her older step-brother, “Bad” Bill. In answer to Nadine’s query concerning fear as related to his profession, shortly after his first title fight, Bill had said, “Scared? Better believe it, Sis. Any boxer says he doesn’t experience fear is either a madman, a fool, or just plain full of shit. Fear’s a healthy thing, long as you don’t let it overwhelm you.”

  This was exactly what she needed to know. Leaning forward, rapt, Nadine said, “So? How do you do that? How do you keep your fear from overwhelming you?”

  “Keeping the wolves at bay? Sis, I’m gonna tell you something. Now, it may sound weird to you, but, you know that’s me anyway. Right?”

  “True, my love withstanding and all that, you are definitely strange enough to qualify for weird. Go ahead. Lay your weird trip on me.”

  Rolling his head on the sculpted column of his neck, shrugging thick shoulders, Bill’s eyes lasered in on Nadine’s, he said, “There is a moment. I’ve left the dressing room. Made it down the aisle and through the crowd. Up the steps, through the ropes, into the ring. Introductions are made, my robe comes off, center ring the ref gives us our instructions. We touch gloves, I go back to my corner, and my corner people split. I’m alone, looking out at the crowd. They’re screaming, sometimes for me, sometimes for the other dude, doesn’t matter.

  “Then, I turn. The roar is deafening, lights are blinding, I can barely make out my opponent, but, he’s there. There, waiting to lay whatever kind of mayhem on me he can. That, is the moment. The moment when fear slams a chokehold on me. I can’t breathe, my legs are jelly, and I realize I can’t do this. Not tonight, not ever again. I’m terrified, paralyzed. When that bell rings I will not be able to respond. I’ll be disgraced, through, finished as a fighter. Finished as a man. That moment, that is what it’s all about. I live for that fuckin moment.”

  Entranced, it took Nadine a moment to react. Frowning, she said, “That? You live for that moment? Sounds awful, how do you stand it? How do you make it through that moment to go on and fight?”

  “That’s the fucking point. I make it through. I go on. Go on to fight. Kick ass. Win. But, that moment, that is the defining moment. All my fears consolidated, bearing down on me simultaneously, threatening to overwhelm me. But I know something. Something special, big-time mojo.”

  “Shit. Lay it on me. Sounds like what I need, get a mojo working for me.”

  “I know that, impossible as it is to take that first step out of my corner, once I unglue my paralyzed foot from the canvas, start moving toward the center of the ring, it’s over. I’ve already won. Baby sister, I have just become invincible. Major mojo.”

  “I need to face my fears.”

  “No. You’ve got to take it a step further, embrace your fears.”

  “That which doesn’t kill me, makes me stronger.”

  Bill winked, “Nadine Nietzsche: has a nice ring to it.”

  Now, years later, Nadine could visualize her brother’s face on the stall’s door. His eyebrow, thick with a line of fresh pink scar tissue, frozen in the wink that had finalized his mini-seminar on courage. Obviously, Bill’s colloquium, along with Vassily’s tutorial, had taken. Nadine’s recent encounter with Chuey Medina offered ample proof.

  Yeah, Nadine could suck it up, get her shit together, weather just about any situation. But, what about little Nadie?

  Nadie, fragile as a frozen spider-web. Insubstantial as a wraith, and, wraithlike, just as likely to materialize without warning. Nadie, unexpectedly, floating to the surface like mist over a pond, leaving Nadine to sink to the depths, sustenance for whatever bottom-feeders lurked.


  Chapter Eight

  ‘Bad’ Bill Kozok’s ex-wife was stalking him. Sneaking up behind him. His eyes had caught her movement in the mirror. Dropping his bath-towel, Bill watched Carol’s progress. Soon as she realized he’d spotted her, Carol put some umph into her approach. Lot of umph. She became a hip-slinking, shoulder rotating, tiny-tity bouncing, big-eyed, gaunt-cheeked, parody of seduction.

  Thing was, parody was supposed to be funny. Bill wasn’t laughing. Maybe he wasn’t taking Carol’s runway strut totally serious, but part of him was. Fact was, said part was in the process of rising to give Carol’s performance a standing ovation.

  Bill blinked and she was gone. Correction, out of sight perhaps, but not gone. Definitely not gone. He couldn’t see her, but, better yet, he could feel her. The heat from her loins, pressed up against his ass. Hard stones of her nipples stabbing into his back. Then, two hands, snaking into view around his waist. Hands, high gloss rose colored nails glinting, briefly caressing his chiseled abdominals, then going their separate ways.

  Left hand, going north. Stopping, finding his nipple. Tweaking it. Right hand, sliding south. One digit momentarily exploring his navel, then joining its siblings, sliding ever lower to wrap around Bill’s scrotum and the base of his cock.

  Masking his gasp, Bill said, “We’re not gonna make it.”

  Carol’s head, even with Bill’s own at 5’11, appeared over his shoulder. Her vamping green sloe-eyes found Bill’s in the mirror. Lips brushing his ear, she purred, “We’re not?”

  “Shit. We’re gonna be late.”

  Tongue briefly flicking and licking at Bill’s ear, Carol growled, “You bet we are.”

  #

  Slithering through traffic, in precise imitation of its namesake, the Viper wended its way over the Desmond Bridge. Destination, parking grounds next to where the Queen Mary is berthed. Event, a banquet on board the grand old oceanliner. Occasion? Bill’s sister, Nadine Kozok, about to reap the rewards of her most recent, and most reckless endeavor.

  Big event for Nadine. Big event for Bill too. Hell, big event for the whole Kozok family. They were proud of the girl they all loved. When it came to Nadine the word adopted didn’t exist for the Kozoks. Nadine was family with a capitol F, end of story. Period. For all of his badass blustering bullshit, none was more emphatic about Nadine’s status than Vassily. Pop doted on the girl, didn’t try to hide it either. Bill loved him all the more for it.

  Talk about love, what was going on here with him and Carol? Was he crazy? Was she? Bill knew the answers to the latter two questions. Yes, and yes. Crazy, both of them. Did he give a fuck? No.

  Pushing further back into the leather of the Viper’s passenger seat he looked over at the woman he’d never stopped loving. How could he? Shit, just look at her. Carol had it all, didn’t make a big deal out of it though. Driving, moving, in and out, but smoothly. Constantly, effortlessly, shifting gears. Driving the Viper as it was meant to be driven. Her road skills, metaphor for her overall competence and self-sufficiency. Carol never failed to impress Bill, even when, fucking moron that he was, he’d dumped her.

  Jesus. Nobody could take a shot like Carol. Not Holyfield, not Gatti, nobody. She never even blinked when he told her they were through. Looked him in the eye, told him he was making a mistake, a big one. But, no hard feelings. She didn’t want the house, didn’t want his money.

  Her own words, “I watched you bleed for every penny you ever made baby. Sugar, I’d be nothing but a heartless thief if I went after it. Hell, I’m your attorney, wouldn’t be fair, it’d be like you going after me with your fists. Keep it, everything, and God bless. You stay in touch, unless you want to change lawyers.”

  The second she’d uttered those words, turned, and fast-walked away from him, Bill knew he’d fucked-up. Big time. He knew, but pride, ego, and stupidity had rendered him mute.

  Second chances didn’t come often in the ring. In life they were rarer still. Bill had been knocked around enough, in and out of the ring, to appreciate unexpected, sometimes undeserved, opportunities. Opportunities to rectify monumental blunders. He now was the recipient of such a golden opportunity. He wasn’t about to blow it.

  Feeling his eyes on her, Carol looked at him, pointed to the dashboard clock, grinned, and said, “Time to spare, baby. Piece of cake.”

  Bill laughed, “Yeah, for you and Roy maybe. Me, I’d still be stuck on the peninsular.”

  “You’re not quite that bad behind the wheel, it’s just that Roy and I, well, what can I say? We’re drivers. While we’re on the subject, we’ve got to add Nadine to our elite ranks. My God, I can still see that tape, damn. It scared me just to watch it.”

  “You should have seen Vassily. We caught it live. Man, I thought he’d have a heart attack. Hell, I could’ve lost my dad and my sister on the same night. I hope Nadine cuts this shit out, I don’t think us menfolk can handle her having those kind of adventures on a regular basis.”

  Carol frowned, “I know the feeling.”

  “You do?”

  “Don’t be obtuse.”

  “I’m not a lawyer, speak English.”

  “Fine. Don’t be a fucking idiot.”

  “Much better. Now, you said you knew the feeling . . .”

  “Your two fights with Leon Maxon. Horror shows. I don’t know how I survived them.”

  Bill laughed, “How you survived them? Shit. Check out this eyebrow, I’d need a calculator to count the stitches it took.”

  “How is it baby? I mean the eye itself, vision and all.”

  “Eye’s fine, I’m just not looking forward to getting hit on it again.”

  “Stop fighting Maxon.”

  “Not to worry. Maxon turned down an offer of three mil, for a third fight.”

  “Three million? Why would he do that?”

  “Doesn’t want any part of me. Hell, you saw both fights.”

  “Yes, I did. He almost killed you.”

  “Bullshit. First fight, I cleaned his fuckin clock. They called it a draw, he kept his title. Draw my ass. You were there, you heard the boos.”

  Downshifting, Carol hit the ramp for Shoreline Drive. Making her merge, she put her hand on Bill’s knee, said, “I heard the boos, I also saw the blood. Your blood.”

  “My curse, I’m a bleeder. Tissue paper for skin. Cost me the title in our second fight. I had him down three times, would’ve stopped him too, but the Doc took a look at my eye, almost passed out, stopped the fight. TKO for Maxon, tough shit for ‘Bad’ Bill.”

  Squeezing his knee, Carol said, “I’m so sorry baby.”

  Placing his hand over hers, Bill said, “Fuck it. Know what? You still want me to hang em up?”

  “I don’t have the right to ask that of you.”

  “You’re being evasive counselor.”

  “All right. You could quit. You’re solid financially. Your portfolio is an ass-kicker. If it had anything to do with me, yes. Yes, I’d like to see you get out.”

  “We used to talk about this, a lot.”

  “No, we used to fight about this, a lot.”

  Bill laughed, “All right, I’m through fighting.”

  “You mean with me?”

  “With you, and good news for all the top ten light-heavies out there, with them too.”

  “Am I reading this correctly, this has something to do with me?”

  “It has everything to do with you. That is, if you want it to.”

  “Look Bill, I never fully gave up on us. I still haven’t. But this won’t work if, two, three years from now, you start feeling unfulfilled. Feeling that you retired to soon, feeling that you would have wound up with a title if it hadn’t been for me showing up again.”

  “Not gonna happen.”

  Carol downshifted, braked lightly, and made the turn into the parking area adjoining the Queen Mary. Cruising the lot she found a spot, pulled in, shut down. Eyebrow cocked, turning to Bill, she said, “It’s not? Convince me.”

  “Look, I’
m through. I’m a shot fighter. Nobody knows it yet, but I do. Those two title shots against Maxon? I fought the greatest fights of my life, gave everything: heart, soul, everything fucking thing I had. Truth is, I don’t have another effort like that left in me.”

  “What if Maxon had agreed to a third bout?

  “That one I would have taken.”

  “Why, if you think you’re shot?”

  “Cause Maxon’s shot too. Not to mention, my end would’ve been two mil.”

  “If you’re right, and Maxon’s washed-up, then he’s smart enough to know it. Turning down three million, that can’t be easy.”

  “Easy enough for him. Dude’s a legend. Been pulling down superstar paydays for a decade. Me, only time I ever made major money was fighting him.”

  “So, with Maxon gone you would’ve been quitting even if our odd circumstances hadn’t of thrown us back together?”

  “Probably not. Probably would have kept on fighting, but stiffs, tomato cans. Would have kept on, knocking out turkeys, lying to myself every step of the way. Your coming along opened my eyes, to a lot of things. Mostly, I’ve still got a shot at a title.”

  Frowning, Carol said, “What title?”

  “Husband.”

  Shaking her head, laughing, Carol said, “You saying you want a rematch slugger?”

  “Damn right.”

  “Why should I give you one?”

  “Because this time, I’ll go the distance.”

  “You’re on.”

  #

  Vassily draped his hands over the top of the wheel, took a deep breath, followed the CHP cop’s approach in his sideview. Shit. He didn’t want a fuckin ticket, didn’t want to be late for Nadine’s big moment either. Should have listened to Roy, left earlier. Hell, should’ve listened to Roy and let him drive. But no, he had to drive the Vette. Today, of all days. Wondering if he’d ever grow up, thinking that this very encounter might be an excellent time to begin, he continued to monitor the cop’s progress.

  One good thing, the cop didn’t swagger. No John Wayne strut. Good sign, but, other side of the coin, the guy had unsnapped the restraining strap on his piece. All Vassily needed to do was focus. Concentrate on not getting pissed, and they’d be on their way in five minutes flat. Ticket or no ticket. Taking another deep breath, Vassily figured he had it together, he was cool. Then Roy’s voice broke his concentration.