by Graham Smith
Ms Rosenberg rises from her chair and slaps both hands on his desk, her chin jutting forward as she breathes stale cigarette smoke at him. ‘Where’re your balls man?’
‘In a security box where my ex-wives’ lawyers can’t get their hands on them.’ His face softens. ‘It’s a great column, possibly the best ever written for the Gazette. Certainly the best in my time. If I could afford to hire a bodyguard for you, I’d print it like a shot.’
‘Print it. I’ll get my own bodyguard.’
‘No way. I don’t trust you. Besides, don’t you spend all your money on cat food and cigarettes?’
Ms Rosenberg brandishes her cell at him for a moment then starts to scroll through her contacts list. When she finds Jake Boulder’s name she first presses the call button and then selects the speaker option.
When it goes to answerphone she scowls until she hears the beep. ‘Boulder, Rosenberg. I need a bodyguard and you’re the only man I trust to protect me. The Gazette will pay your check. Call me when you get this.’
‘I just told you the Gazette couldn’t afford a bodyguard.’
‘Boulder’s not a bodyguard. He’s smarter than anyone else who’s trying to find out who those killers are. I’m going home to feed my cats and then I’m going to book a room at the Holiday Inn. They have night porters so there’s no way anyone can get to me. Satisfied?’
67
Butch Augiers is sitting on the hood of his truck when I arrive at his place. He’s not alone. Jim-Bob and Freddie are loitering around him, as are a few more members of his family.
Most are holding beer cans and Freddie looks to be at least half-way into his cups.
I draw the Mustang alongside Butch’s truck and kill the engine. ‘Climb in, I’ll drive.’
Butch spits out a gob of tobacco juice as he clambers down. His finger is pointing at my car. ‘Ain’t no way your fancy low-slung car’s gonna git us where we’re going.’
I don’t like relying on him for a lift, but it doesn’t look as if I have a lot of choice in the matter.
Jim-Bob gives me a thorough looking over as I walk across to Butch’s truck. I’m not surprised he’s looking at me with puzzlement. I’m wearing an old pair of paint-splattered jeans and a vest top that’s seen better days. Win or lose tonight, there’s going to be blood spilled and possibly a roll in the dirt depending upon the rules. I don’t see the point in ruining decent clothes and, by looking more like a bum, I may just get my opponent to underestimate me. Every little advantage counts when fists are raised.
Butch twists a key in the ignition and the truck roars to life. Other family members pour into the other trucks and a small convoy forms with Butch in the lead.
As he navigates the back roads with care and familiarity, I ponder two things. Upmost in my mind is the fear I’m walking into a trap. Now I’ve been separated from my Mustang, I’m reliant on the Augiers for transport. Should they decide to exact a little payback for the other night, I’ll have no option but to stand and fight them.
While retreat isn’t a word or action I’m fond of, or use, it’s nice to have the choice. This situation has all the hallmarks of a set-up. I’m being driven into the middle of nowhere by people I’ve established an uneasy alliance with after kicking their asses.
Less of a concern and more of a puzzle is the voicemail I’d gotten from Ms Rosenberg. Try as I might, I can’t figure out why she thinks she needs a bodyguard. Regardless of her reasons, she’ll have to look elsewhere. I don’t fancy spending my days under siege from clouds of cigarette smoke and semi-toxic perfume.
I didn’t bother returning her call. It’s a task that can wait until I get home.
Butch slows to navigate a sharp corner. His truck may look like a beat up old wreck but the engine is sound and the suspension is doing an admirable job of coping with the rough tracks. The inside shows signs of wear and age but none of neglect.
‘You nervous?’
‘No.’ It’s a fib rather than a full-blown lie. I don’t admit weaknesses to myself, let alone other men. ‘Should I be?’
‘Hell no. You get nervous, you’ll get your ass whupped.’
My nerves are more about the possibility of a set-up than about the fight. I’ve fought too often to worry about catching a few blows. Adrenaline will get me through tonight and, if necessary, I’ll take some painkillers tomorrow when the pain has had time to corral its forces.
Before leaving my apartment, I spent an hour stretching various muscles to improve blood flow and suppleness. I also rehearsed a few combinations in a spot of shadow boxing to sharpen both mind and body.
‘So, what’re the rules then? Is it fists only, or is it just a straight-up fight?’
‘That depends on how Old Man Jones is feeling. He’ll tell you any rules before your fight starts.’
‘You’re such a font of information. It’s a wonder no one has asked you to become a teacher.’
Butch laughs at my sarcasm. ‘You maybe ain’t nervous, but you’re plenty keyed up. Take my advice, listen to what you’re told and make sure you hit first, hit hardest and hit most often. You do that, you’ll be okay.’
His advice is good. If I’d been asked to pass on some fighting wisdom, I’d have said much the same thing.
Another issue on my mind are the odds on me learning what I want to know. It seems improbable I’ll overhear a conversation where someone owns up to the murders. Those of us who are fighting may well be kept to one side.
On the other hand, knowing how men like to shake the hand of a winner, there’s every chance we’ll be feted and liquored up. If we are, I’m prepared to act the racist when I join conversations. I’ve been Alfonse’s friend long enough to have heard plenty of racial slurs. The hard part will be not showing my revulsion.
A full hour after leaving the Augiers’ place, we arrive at our destination. I can’t guess the exact location as there have been too many turns, and changes of both direction and speed, since we crossed the 191 and turned west. I figure we’re south of Ashley National Forest by about five to ten miles which means we’re about forty miles north west of Casperton. The fact I could be out by five miles in any direction doesn’t matter too much.
I’m here with no hope of back-up, no transport and a cell I’ve left charging in my car. Whatever happens tonight, I’ve got nothing but my wits and fists to get me out of tight spots.
I’ve faced worse situations. Those who can’t be reasoned with can always be pummelled. The only variable to cause me concern are the numbers I may be up against and the possibility they’ll be armed.
68
The track rounds a bluff, and I see a collection of trucks, pickups and a few panel vans. Groups of men stand around chatting. Their hands clutch beers, cigarettes and in the odd case a bottle of liquor.
Off to the right someone is standing behind a portable barbecue. The smell of grilled meat elicits a growl from my stomach. If it wasn’t for the impending fight and the fact I’ve retched up what little I’ve eaten today, I’d be over there like a shot.
‘Stick with me and don’t get smart with anyone. Let your fists do most of your talkin’. You’re here on my recommendation ’cause I figure you might learn something that’ll help you catch the men you’re hunting. Don’t go runnin’ your mouth off with your educated talk, you might well be the smartest man here, but lettin’ people know won’t help you none.’
I’m comfortable with his suggestion. Playing dumb and keeping quiet is part of my plan anyway.
A man with a rugged face and no hair comes across. ‘This your fighter, Butch?’
‘Yeah. This is Jake. How ya doin’ Connor, is your father here?’
Connor looks me over without speaking. I keep my features unconcerned and nonchalant. When the examination is over he points to a wizened old man.
‘He’s disappointed you’re not fighting. Your man better be good value.’ He jerks a thumb towards his father. ‘Go let him know you’re here.’
Neither of u
s speak as we walk over to the wizened man. He sees us coming and repeats his son’s evaluation of me.
‘Mr Jones, this is Jake. He’s the guy who’s takin’ the place you offered to me.’
Jones doesn’t speak. Perhaps he’s afraid the cigar will fall from his lips if he does.
A guy with a battered face stands at his side like a lieutenant. With a face like his, he’s more like the private who gets all the crappy jobs than someone of officer class. I guess he’s Freddie’s father: the man whose place I’m taking.
‘Hi.’ I offer a hand forward. ‘Thanks for letting me take part.’
Old Man Jones squints at my accent as he ignores my hand. ‘You English, boy?’
‘Scottish.’ I give him the benefit of the doubt. He has the look of a man who has never left the county, let alone the state. His face is etched with years of hard work and harder living. Despite this, his eyes are flint hard and brighter than the noon sun.
I reckon Old Man Jones is a tough, intelligent man who has battled all his life. The deference shown to him by Butch is part respect and part fear.
‘Scottish eh? Just as well, Butch. If you’d brought me an English pussy, we’d’ve had a need to be having words.’ He looks at me after glancing at his watch. ‘You get a thousand bucks for takin’ part. If you’re confident, you can bet on yourself. First fight’s at eight, rules’ll be explained then.’
I spend twenty minutes walking around, doing a series of muscle loosening exercises and stretches as I go. The movement gives me the chance to move among the vehicles with impunity. Of the three white panel vans present, two have scratches on their sides. None of them look recent, but I memorise their licence plates all the same.
A foghorn sounds and everyone starts to assemble around the pickup Old Man Jones has clambered into the back of. Beside him stand Connor and the battered man with an easel bearing a chalkboard.
Old Man Jones removes the cigar from his mouth and slugs from a beer can. ‘Gentlemen, you are here to see some fightin’ and some fightin’s what you’re gonna see. We’ve got us eight brawlers and we’re havin’ us a tournament. You can bet on each fighter and ev’ry ’dividual fight. The rules is, fighters can’t use no weapons. Fists, heads, elbows and feet is all they got. And that includes pounding another man’s head against any rocks. Other’n that, anythin’ goes. Only when a fighter concedes, or can’t get back to his feet, is the fight over.’
I try not to act surprised as he starts drawing names from a hat. I now face having up to three fights instead of one. The possibility of me escaping with a few minor cuts and bruises has all but disappeared. A few minutes ago I had a fifty-fifty chance of victory, I now have one in eight.
My name is read out fourth which means I’ll be able to at least watch one match before it’s my turn. Every little scrap of information will help.
Connor produces a stick of chalk and starts marking up odds. Because I’m a stranger, the odds on me winning this tournament aren’t what you’d call favourable. Again, me being an unknown quantity, they’re not making me a rank outsider either.
I walk up to Connor and pull the ten c-notes from my pocket. ‘Five hundred on me to win your tournament, and another five hundred on me in the first bout.’
He licks his lips as he scrawls out the bets on two slips of paper and throws a look to his father. Old Man Jones mumbles a few words and Connor halves the odds on me winning down to five-to-one.
Butch puts a couple hundred bucks on me to win the first fight but doesn’t look at me when placing the wager. Whether he’s backing me out of belief or a sense of duty isn’t important, failing to do so would have lessened him in Old Man Jones’s eyes.
I run myself through a few more stretches and out of interest check the odds for the guy I’m fighting. He’s the second favourite.
69
My opponent stands before me. And over me if the truth be told. He’s a big guy known simply as Crusher. There’s something about his bovine face which makes me suspect the nickname wasn’t earned because of his crushing intelligence.
He gives me a toothless grin filled with confidence in his superior size and strength. If I’m supposed to be intimidated, it doesn’t work. His downfall will be a lack of mobility and speed.
After watching the first bout I know what’s expected. The first two fighters had flown at each other with a flurry of blows lacking in direction. Noses and lips were bloodied before a telling punch was landed. Even then, the eventual winner had taken four wild swings to finish his opponent when one should have sufficed.
Crusher advances with a huge blow. I dance to one side and throw a punch into his bulging gut as I duck under his arms.
He grunts, but wheels to face me undeterred by the blow. Again, he launches himself forward hoping I’m stupid enough to get ensnared by his arms.
I’m not.
This time I duck without throwing the punch to his gut. Instead I stay outside his arms and deliver a vicious elbow to his face when he wheels to face me. Before he can recover his wits, I whirl behind him and stamp on the back of his right knee.
Him going down to one knee gives me the opportunity to rain a few hard punches to the side of his head. I don’t expect him to be beaten like this, but every punch I land weakens his spirit.
To escape my punches, he rolls himself forward and spins until he’s crouched in the position of a linebacker. I wait for him to charge at me.
He doesn’t. He’s learned I’m too fast and too wise to get caught that way.
When I don’t advance on him, he straightens and waves me forward.
I raise my hands and creep forward a pace or two. I’m up on my toes, ready to dance away from his longer reach.
Crusher apes me by raising his hands so we’re matched like a couple of boxers. His left hand snakes out, but it’s a range finder and falls short by a good foot. I bat it inwards and deliver a hard blow to his kidneys as I wheel behind him.
He spins faster and throws his right elbow at my face. My still raised left catches the blow, but there’s enough force in it to send me staggering back.
I don’t have time to recover my balance before Crusher swings a wild left at me. Rather than let it connect and do its intended damage, I throw myself to the ground. Even as I’m falling, I’m dropping my left hand into a position of support and lashing my right foot in a wide arc.
I connect with the side of Crusher’s knee as planned. That’s as far as the plan works though. The minimal time to build up speed or power, and the lack of rigidity from connecting with the top of my foot, rather than the toe of my boot which carries the support of the sole, means the kick’s impact suffers a dramatic lessening.
Crusher stands over me and roars as he swings his foot back. With no time for defence, I roll away from him as quick as I can.
His toes catch my spinning body and deliver a hard kick to the side of my chest. The fact I’m moving away from him prevents any ribs from breaking, but I still yelp at the pain. Encouraged, he throws the other foot towards my head.
I block it with both hands, but the impact pushes me backwards. I feel the exposed skin on my back tearing on the coarse rocks beneath me.
My hands now grasp Crusher’s ankle as he changes his tactics and tries to stamp on my head. The more weight he puts behind his foot, the harder it is to prevent him making contact.
With both hands occupied, the only weapon I have is my feet. He’s too close to my head for me to reach him with my boots, so I shift the thrust in my hands from upwards to sideways forcing his foot past my head so he’s momentarily off balance.
I release his foot and throw a punch upwards between his outstretched legs. While he’s doubled over and cursing, I wriggle free and scramble to my feet.
We straighten at the same time. I’m less injured, fitter and quicker than he is. My uppercut hits his chin as his hands release his balls.
Crusher wobbles but doesn’t go down. I repeat the blow with a little more venom. I’ve no
problem with knocking him out, but I don’t see the point in breaking his jaw. There’s no glory for me in gratuitous brutality.
The second uppercut does its job. He topples forward into an untidy heap. His only movement the rise and fall of his back as he breathes.
70
Connor scowls as he gives me a sheaf of notes. I’ve made a five grand profit which isn’t bad for a few minutes work.
One grand goes back in my pocket to replace my original stake. The other four and a half I give back to Connor. The odds on me winning, either the tournament or my next bout, have shortened to three-to-one.
The extra money isn’t something I’m interested in. The laying down of a challenge is my primary intent in gambling. I want them to know I intend to win. Sometimes you have to push a rock over to see what crawls out from underneath.
I watch the next two fights with Butch. One is a bloody, drawn out battle that leaves even the winner looking like he lost. The second is over in three seconds. The winner pulls off some weird handstand arrangement and delivers a roundhouse kick to the side of his opponent’s head.
My next fight is against the guy who won the fight before mine. His face is swollen from the damage caused in his first bout, and his left eye is one decent punch from closing.
As tempting as it is to target the damaged eye, I don’t want to risk blinding him. For me the point is to win, not maim. The crowd can get their kicks from the others; I’ve no intention of causing lasting damage.
We’ve both seen each other fight and know what to expect. He’s a brawler whereas I’m a counter attacker. Or at least that’s what he thinks.
To confound his expectations, I step forward and follow a left jab with a swinging right. He ducks back to avoid the jab which leaves his gut wide open. My fist connects with his solar plexus and removes every last trace of breath from his body.