“Sure, you bet,” Hank said, standing aside. “Come on in.”
Inside the little house, it was cramped and cluttered. The ugly brown and orange furniture looked as if it had been preserved in amber since 1974. There were a lot of magazines lying around and at first glance I thought they were gay porn. When I looked closer, I realized the half-naked men were fighting, not fucking. I recognized that big side of beef who’d knocked up Jenna Jameson and then allegedly knocked her around. In addition to the magazines, there were also a lot of scattered fight DVDs, dirty Tupperware containers, big plastic cups crusted with the dried-up remnants of protein shakes and a distressing number of empty orange prescription pill bottles. Hank was gathering up armloads of junk and dumping it all randomly into drawers and cabinets.
“I’d’ve straightened up if I knew...”
He paused and turned towards Cody, who stood in the center of the room with his fists clenched and shoulders shaking. He was fighting not to cry and losing. I looked down at the stained carpet, feeling nervous and uncomfortable. I felt bad for the kid but there wasn’t anything I could do about it. I couldn’t even figure out how I was supposed to feel about what had happened to Thick Vic.
“Hey, what’s all this about?” Hank asked, coming forward and slinging a huge, protective arm around Cody.
“Fucking bastards,” Cody stammered, his face crimson. “They... They...”
“Come on now,” Hank scolded softly, steering Cody over to the lumpy sofa. “You oughta watch your mouth in front of a lady.”
The idea of anyone watching their mouth around me was pretty hilarious. Guess Hank never saw my scene in Trash Talking Tramps. Still, I have to admit it was kind of charming.
He sat Cody down on the couch like a child with a skinned knee, surprisingly mother hen-ish for such an ugly brute.
“Why don’t you just sit still for a minute and take some deep breaths. Come on now, breathe. There you go.”
“They killed my dad,” Cody said all in a rush. “I just barely met him and they killed him. They tried to kill me too, but...”
“Tried to kill you?” Hank said, frowning. “Who tried to kill you?”
“I had the guy who did it, but I let him go,” Cody said, standing up and shaking off Hank’s comforting hand. “I had him, broke his fucking arm for him too, but when the shooting started, I...I got scared. I got scared and fucking let him go. Fuck!”
He flipped the cluttered coffee table up on its side, kicked it across the room and then took a wild swing at the wall, but Hank was on him in a heartbeat, holding him tight from behind and talking to him in low soothing tones. Cody fought against him at first, but eventually whatever Hank was saying started working and the kid nodded, sniffling and settling down.
“Okay now,” Hank said, guiding Cody back to the sofa. Hank fumbled around with various pill bottles until he found one that wasn’t empty and dumped a pair of tiny blue tablets into Cody’s hand. “Ain’t no point second-guessing your fight after the bell’s already rung. All you can do is work on being better next time. So why don’t you just relax for a little while and we can talk more about this later. I got the pay-per-view there on the Tivo. You wanna watch a little bit? Your boy Kenner sure was something in the main.”
Cody nodded and dry swallowed the pills. Hank set the coffee table back on its feet, put on the television and began messing around with several remotes. When he got the program he wanted to start playing, he put the remotes on the coffee table where Cody could reach them.
“Listen, Hank,” I said softly. “You need to call the cops.” I looked back at Cody. “And I can’t be here when they arrive.”
“Well,” Hank said. “Whatever issues you might have with the law are none of my business. But I can tell you right now there might be a problem or two with this plan of yours.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well for starters,” he said. “Ain’t got no phone service at the moment, on account of I forgot to pay the bill again.”
“Then you could give him a ride to the station.”
“No can do,” Hank replied. “Ain’t supposed to drive no more on account of my migraine headaches. Anyway, look at him.” He gestured towards Cody, already curled up and snoring on the couch. “Boy’s out cold. He ain’t going nowhere tonight. Not after what I gave him.”
“Do you have a car?” I asked.
“Got my old truck out back,” he said. “Reckon it still runs.”
“Then he can drive there himself in the morning,” I said. “Look, I promised I’d get him somewhere safe and here he is, so if I could just get cleaned up and out of this uniform, I’ll hit the road and be out of your hair.”
“You planning on going off alone on foot in the middle of the night?” he asked. He bent down over the sleeping boy and pulled Cody’s boots off his feet. “Ain’t nothing around for miles. Nothing that’d be open this time of the night, anyways.” He shook his head. “No, ma’am, I can’t let you do that. Ain’t safe.”
“I can take care of myself,” I said.
“I don’t doubt that for a minute,” he replied, setting the boots on the floor and tossing a ratty knitted blanket over Cody. “But just the same, I think you’d better stay put till sunup. Cody can drop you at the Greyhound station first thing.”
He was right. I was exhausted, shaken and in no shape for hiking. Or arguing.
“Can I get you a cold drink?” he asked. “What’d you say your name was again?”
“Angel,” I said, too exhausted to lie. “And yeah, that’d be great, thanks.”
“Ain’t got nothing but diet, so I hope that’ll do. I’m trying to cut weight.”
“That’s fine,” I said, wondering where he was planning on cutting weight from. He didn’t have an ounce of fat on him.
I followed him into the tiny kitchen. He handed me a supermarket-brand diet cola from out of the disproportionately enormous fridge and then began bustling around, tidying up.
“Go ahead and take a load off.” He motioned to a spindly aluminum chair with a torn vinyl cushion, the only one in the room. “I’m just gonna get this mess taken care of real quick. If I’da known company was coming I’da straightened up a bit.”
He seemed flustered, repeating himself. I wanted it to be because of me, but it was hard to be sure.
He started methodically washing a teetering stack of identical square Tupperware containers. I popped open the cola and was sucking in the tart carbonated rush of air around the mouth of the can when I noticed a revolver sitting on the kitchen table. The cylinder was open and beside it was a single bullet standing upright on its flat end like a tiny hardon. I was about to comment on that when Hank said, “You want to tell me what happened tonight?”
I sat down in the uncomfortable chair and filled him in. As I told the story, I started to think more and more about who those guys might have been. They didn’t seem interested in robbing the place, not that there was anything obviously worth robbing in the diner. They could have been after Duncan’s money or his guns—but if they’d known about the guns, they would have been much better prepared. On the other hand they were clearly coked up to eleven and even though Vic said he didn’t know them, I couldn’t rule out a connection with his drug dealing past. I shared some of these musings with Hank and he nodded his huge head, dunking another container into the suds.
“How long have you known Cody?” I asked to change the subject.
“Oh, around five years.” He frowned and looked up at the low ceiling like the answer might be up there. “Well, more like three I guess. I forget exactly.” He paused, then turned on the hot water in the sink. “About three years, I guess.”
“What’s he like?” I asked.
“Well, that boy’s got a chin on him,” Hank said. “Real heavy hands, hits like a Mack truck, but his stand up is still a little sloppy. His ground game ain’t half bad though, on account of his varsity wrestling background. His main problem is he gets frustrated way t
oo easy. If the fight don’t go the way he wants in the first round he gets all bent out of shape mentally and starts making mistakes. But you see that there’s just him being young. All that boy needs is a little growing up. The fight game’s a tough racket, and I ain’t just talking about the action inside the ring. Fight game can chew you up and spit you out the second you let your guard down. But with a good corner behind him, I think Cody’s got a real shot at the big time.”
I smiled and took another sip of my cheap pop. That guy sure could talk your ear off once you got him started, and Cody was apparently one of his favorite topics. Unfortunately, I had absolutely no idea what anything he had just said actually meant.
“So Cody’s a fighter?” I asked, hoping for a little more of an explanation.
Hank turned to me with a puzzled frown.
“Yeah,” he said. “Ain’t you?”
“I’m a lover, not a fighter,” I said but as soon as it was out, I realized it wasn’t exactly true anymore.
“I just figured,” Hank said. “On account of the way you hold your body, like you’re always ready for it. And that profile. You got a fighter’s nose.”
I never did get my nose fixed after it was broken. I guess you could say it was a fighter’s nose and I couldn’t help but take that as a compliment, coming from someone like Hank. But I could see it dawning very slowly on him that maybe there was another reason a woman might have a broken nose. He blushed again. There was something inexplicably sexy about seeing a tough guy like him blush so easily.
“I sure didn’t mean...” He picked up a Tupperware container and started drying it off with a striped dish towel. His hands were shaking a little. “I didn’t mean to bring up something that ain’t none of my business.” He looked down at his hands, then put the container away. “And I don’t want to make it sound like you ain’t pretty, because you are. I just don’t think sometimes before I speak. Sometimes?” He shook his head. “Most of the time, I reckon.”
“Forget it,” I told him.
“Yes ma’am,” Hank said, wiping his sudsy hands. “You wanna watch the fights?”
“Sure,” I said.
We went into the living room and I stood for a moment looking at Thick Vic’s kid. He was curled up on his side, conked out with the blanket more bunched up around him than covering him. Sleeping, he didn’t look anything like his father. I wondered what the hell I was doing here.
Hank offered me the remaining easy chair but I shook my head and I sat on the scratchy carpet with my back against the sofa. Hank lowered himself slowly, stiffly into the chair, leaning towards the television with his elbows on his knees. We watched the fights.
Two guys were bashing the crap out of each other inside a fenced-in ring. Then they were down on the mat, rolling around together. One guy was cut above the eye, bleeding. The audience was filled with celebrities and girls who looked like they were in the business, but I didn’t see Jenna. I tried to imagine Cody in there, fighting like that. I tried not to think about Vic.
I guess I nodded off, because I woke to Hank’s big calloused hand shaking my shoulder.
“Hey,” he said. “You fell asleep. Why don’t you go lay down proper. You look like you could use some rest.”
“What about you?” I asked when he led me into the bedroom and motioned towards the narrow single bed. “Where are you going to sleep?”
“I don’t sleep all that much anymore,” Hank said. “Seems like I spend most nights in my chair by the TV. You want a t-shirt or something to sleep in?”
“Sure,” I said. “Thanks.”
He handed me a folded-up black shirt from one of the drawers in a rickety dresser and then made himself scarce without another word. I wiggled out of my scratchy polyester waitress uniform, took off my bra but not my panties and pulled the shirt over my head. It was huge on me and featured the badly designed logo of a martial arts school.
I stood there for a minute, looking around a strange man’s bedroom. There was a small pile of dirty clothes in one corner. A cheap nightstand. More pill bottles. A modest stack of girlie magazines. The one on top was the latest Hustler. The exotic brunette on the cover was named Ruby Kahn and listed as “World Famous Asian Starlet of the Year.” I didn’t recognize her. Something about that fact made me feel a fleeting stab of lonely homesickness that was gone before I could get a handle on it.
It seemed pretty clear from the single bed and the fact that the smut was right out in the open that no women ever came into this room. I couldn’t help wondering why not. After all, with a body like his, there ought to be plenty of lonely housewives and fight groupies willing to overlook his ugly mug. But I was too exhausted to wonder for long so I just staggered over to the bed and collapsed in a heap. The sheets were pretty clean for a bachelor’s bed, with only the slightest hint of male sweat and unfamiliar cologne. I’d been sleeping in other people’s beds so much lately that I barely even noticed.
6.
I woke to fists banging on the door. For several terrifying seconds, I had no idea where I was. I put it together in quick flashes. A man’s bed, not Duncan’s. The extra large men’s t-shirt I was wearing. Hank. Cody. The shootout. It couldn’t be anything but trouble at the door.
“Hank,” a reedy male voice called. “You in there?”
I slipped into the living room and tiptoed over to the window beside the door. Cody was still out on the sofa, snoring softly. Hank was nowhere in sight. I peered out through the blinds and saw two men. Neither Mexican nor Croatian, but somehow that didn’t make me feel any better. The guy doing the knocking was short, squat and white, a horny toad in a cowboy hat. The other was a huge, deadeyed Native American whose neck was the same size as my waist.
Hank chose that moment to come jogging down the drive. He was wearing a strange silver plastic two-piece suit with tight, gathered wrists and ankles. He was so sweaty and red he looked like he had just stepped out of a hot shower. He slowed, limping slightly on his left leg and twisting his shoulders from side to side, then came to a stop and leaned against the porch railing, breathing heavily.
“What can I do for you boys?” he asked the two visitors, pulling off the plastic shirt and letting about a gallon of sweat pour out into the dust. Underneath the shirt was something that looked like a bulletproof vest with rows of narrow pockets holding flat metal weights.
The horny toad leaned close to Hank and spoke low, almost too low for me to hear.
“Trouble, Hank,” he said. “Looks like your boy Cody fucked up big time.”
“Fucked up how?” Hank asked with a worried frown.
“Never mind,” the man said. “All you need to know is that Mr. Lovell would like a word with him.” He looked at the door. “He’s not here now, is he?”
I pulled back from the window, heart beating way too hard and mind desperately working the angles. Even if there were any place to hide, it wasn’t like I could bodily drag Cody there without making any noise. I had my Sig in my backpack, plus a cute little compact Para Warthog, a gift from the late Duncan Schenk, and I was about to use one of them when I suddenly had a better idea. I pulled Hank’s t-shirt over my head, tossed it on the floor and opened the door.
“Hey, baby,” I said, standing there in the doorway in nothing but my thong panties. “You coming back to bed or what? Oh...!” I pretended to notice the two men and covered myself up with my arms, making sure to do a really lame job of it.
The horny toad took one look at my not-really-covered tits and started chuckling and elbowing his stoic buddy. Hank was staring at me dumbfounded with his mouth open. I hoped he wouldn’t blow it.
“Hank, you dog,” the horny toad said. “You just let us know if you see Cody, you hear?”
“Uh...will do,” Hank said. He looked back at me. “Now if you boys’ll excuse me.”
The two men walked away shaking their heads and Hank came inside the house, locking the door behind him.
He stood for a moment inside, looking shyly down at
his hands.
“I...” he said. “Maybe I oughta shower.” He frowned, looked at me and then back down at his hands. He was already so red from jogging in the plastic suit, I didn’t think it was possible for him to get any redder, but he managed. “I’m sorry, but ...we didn’t really...last night ...I mean...did we...?”
“Not yet,” I said with a wink and picked up his t-shirt off the floor, slipping it back over my head. “Trust me, honey, you don’t forget a woman like me.”
“Nah, of course not,” he said with a relieved laugh, like he had been genuinely worried he might have somehow missed something. “Of course not.”
“Who were those guys?” I asked.
He frowned. “Who?”
“Those guys just now,” I said. “The ones looking for Cody. Who were they?”
“Oh yeah, right,” Hank said. “Those are Mr. Lovell’s boys. Mr. Lovell’s the guy who co-owns the school where I teach. He books legit fights over at the Kikima Casino but he also runs some other, not-so-legit action south of the border.” He looked over at Cody asleep on the sofa and paused for a second with the weighted vest half off. “I guess you’d better wake him up. Looks like we got us some trouble.”
Hank headed off, presumably to shower, and I knelt down by the sofa to shake Cody awake. Nothing doing. The kid was dead to the world. I shook him harder and he rolled away from me, making an incoherent noise of protest.
“Cody,” I said. “Get up. Come on now.”
Eventually one bloodshot eye cracked open.
“Morning, gorgeous,” he said, giving me a lascivious up and down. “How was I last night? I can’t remember a thing.”
“Look, we got trouble, kid,” I said. “Some guy named Mr. Lovell sent a couple of guys looking for you.”
He sat up and rubbed a palm over his stubbled scalp, face suddenly serious.
“Lovell? But I...”
Hank came out of the bathroom then. He was clean-shaven, wearing loose-fitting knee-length shorts and no shirt. It was hard not to stare.
Hard Case Crime: Choke Hold Page 4