by Cameron Bane
The young guy shook his head. “Look, fella, whatever you do, just take it outside, huh?”
“Sure. No sense adding to the blood already on the floor.” I pointed at the stain I’d spotted earlier that day, right by the stool’s leg. “Is that some of Blakey’s doing as well?”
“Come on, man.” The waiter’s words were plaintive. “I need this job.”
I held up a placating hand. “I’ll be good. Promise.”
Right then I heard movement behind me, and I swiveled around to see.
Blakey and Chet were standing beside a table for two that held a college-age kid and his equally youthful date. Neither the boy nor his girl appeared to be a day over twenty, and both were studiously ignoring the two thugs hulking over them like turkey vultures.
“Looking good, Diane,” Blakey grated, blowing boozy breath. “But how is it you don’t seem to remember what I keep telling you? Didn’t I tell you I don’t like you hanging around with this guy? Didn’t I say that?” He turned his gaze on the boy. “Leave. Now.”
The kid hunched his shoulders and stared at the table, not answering.
Blakey glowered while Chet jiggled his fingers and bounced on the balls of his feet, jazzed and plainly ready for whatever. The bar’s noise level dropped by half as the patrons watched the drama unfold; the jukebox even picked that moment to finish its song.
Blakey reached down and clutched the back of the boy’s arm, his knuckles turning white with force. I’ll have to give him this, he didn’t cry out, but simply stared around the room, seeking help from any quarter. There didn’t seem to be any forthcoming.
As for me, I wasn’t ready to throw in. Yet.
Still bent low as he squeezed, Blakey’s voice was even. “You’re not listening to me, sweetcakes. I told you to leave. That wasn’t a request.”
Fighting back tears, the boy violently shook his head.
The girl, Diane, picked that moment to jump up. “Leave him alone, Blakey!” Her voice rasped raw, her cheeks wet and flushed with embarrassment and anger. “You’re bigger and older than Danny. Just leave us alone!”
“And you’re out of line, Diane. Again.” With that the older man’s left fist rocketed out, as quick as a mamba, and hooked the girl like a ball bat directly under her left eye.
The cracking sound of it was harsh, an obscenity of noise. Shrieking like she’d been shot, Diane fell, slamming to the floor with a crash. I balled my fists at the sight, but stayed mum, letting it play out. The boy, Danny, needed the chance to redeem himself.
And I guess finally he’d had enough. Leaping to his feet, red-faced and screaming with rage and shame, he faced his tormentor. To no avail. The creep effortlessly grabbed the kid by the front of his shirt and lifted, and still nobody in the bar moved a muscle to help.
Okay. Now I was ready.
“Hey, Blakey,” I said. He cranked his head my way, his eyes now alive and burning.
“You’re mighty tough with children, son.” My tone was deceptively breezy. “As John Wayne put it, how are you when they come a little bit bigger?”
Releasing the boy with a hard shove, Blakey favored me with a measured gaze. “You know, sport, I had the feeling the two of us weren’t done. Let’s just see.”
Grinning like a rhesus monkey, Chet bobbed his head at us both, going “a-hyuk-hyuk-hyuk” again. That could grow wearisome over time, I bet.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw Pop pick up a phone from beneath the bar. But that was all the consideration I could give him, because suddenly Blakey was right there, his fist flying toward my face at half the speed of light.
I danced away, barely managing to slip the punch, the patrons screeching their chairs back to give us more room. I noted their eyes were alight with pleasure, and I didn’t much blame them. In a small town, as they say, fun’s where you find it.
“Not bad.” I went into a defensive posture. “You’ve had some training.”
“Glad you approve.” Blakey’s next haymaker, a left hook, whistled past, missing my nose by inches.
“Just not good enough training, I’m afraid,” I said.
That was a lie. I could tell by the way he was pacing himself Blakey had been taught well by someone. But the liquor was making him cocky, exaggerating his moves and slowing him down. I hoped to capitalize on that. There’s training, and then there’s experience.
My tone was carrying. “Are you really sure you want some of this?”
“Yeah I do.” Blakey rotated his fist a quarter turn. “Marine Force Recon. And I’m about to wax your ass.”
Grunting again, he swung another heavy one at me. I pedaled back once more, only this time I stumbled over somebody’s outstretched foot. As I did Blakey’s ham-like fist grazed my left temple, nearly ripping the hair free. Glancing though it was, there was still enough force backing the blow to make sparks jump behind my eyes.
Regardless of the pain from my war injuries, my daily workouts had stayed constant. And that was good. But lately the only martial arts one-on-one sparring I’d done was with Seth, and he’d gone easy on me. And that was bad. Because from his tough, bullying manner, Blakey probably got involved in some real world dust-ups every week. In other words, unless I was very good or very lucky, this boy could clean my clock.
I didn’t plan on giving him that chance as I kept moving away, just out of his reach. I figured I’d make my own chance happen. Granny always told me it’s not the size of the dog in the fight, it’s the size of the fight in the dog.
“Marines?” I taunted. “That’s funny. I didn’t know the Corps took derelicts.”
That tore it, and with an explosive curse Blakey brought his right fist whizzing like a demon toward my sternum.
I knew what was about to happen. Blakey’s trick had been taught to me years ago by a friend, Gunnery Sergeant Paul Welling. Done right, the Marine had said, a punch like that can stop a man’s heart. Blakey really wasn’t a very nice person.
Twisting to my right, I nearly slipped the blow. But not quite. Instead of hitting my breastbone, his fist rebounded off my ribcage. Not fatal, but it hurt like a mother.
Blinking back the pain as I kept circling the other man, I dimly heard Chet hollering in the background. “Take him, Blakey! Kill that prick!”
I’d deal with him in a minute. Right then I had a bigger fish to fry. Nastier too.
And I knew just how to do it. One day in Ranger training the martial arts instructor had taught us all a little something outside the normal moves, a trick I planned to use right here, and right now.
“Jarhead.” My aspect was mocking. “That’s bullshit, Blakey.” Slowly windmilling my hands, I closely watched his eyes. They’d tell me when the time was right.
“You’re gonna wish it was bullshit.” My opponent was breathing heavily.
I pushed on. “Maybe you really were in the Crotch. Then again, maybe not. Maybe you’re a liar.” My hands still moved hypnotically. “Because a good fighter knows you should never—”
Blakey’s gaze flickered, and there it was. The moment.
My right fist dropped. As it did my left fist launched out and up, a heat seeking missile of flesh and bone, catching old Blakey right on the point of his chinny-chin-chin. A split-second later my right followed through, crashing like a slamming pile driver into his left ear, John Philip Sousa gone mad.
Blakey’s face went out of round and his glazed eyes rolled back in his head. With a hiss and a sigh he sank to the floor. I figured he’d regain consciousness somewhere around Arbor Day.
“—assume someone will finish speaking before he hits you,” I explained to his still form.
The bar rang with silence, the patrons stunned by Blakey’s defeat.
To my right came another crash. Whipping around I saw it was Chet flinging a chair at me. He wasn’t laughing now. I thrust the chair aside.
Then reaching in his jeans pocket Chet came out bearing a nasty weapon, one I hadn’t seen in years. A switchblade. Opening it with
a deadly snick, he feinted and lunged. I twisted away, and he missed. Barely.
Enough of this crap. Before he could set his feet for another swipe, I quickly snapped the fingers on my left hand, drawing Chet’s attention. Then lancing my right foot up and with everything I had, I kicked him squarely in the throat.
Chet gasped and dropped like a bad stock, the knife skittering free.
This deserves some clarification. Back in 1990, the night of my eighteenth birthday would prove seminal when my buddies and I decided to drive up to Newport, Kentucky, to spend some time cruising the full-nudity strip bars on Monmouth Street. It was great fun, but in the loud and drunken revelry somehow we got separated, and I found myself knocking back overpriced warm Rolling Rock beer in a bucket of blood joint called Moe’s. And it was at Moe’s that I met the man I mentioned a moment ago, Gunnery Sergeant Paul Welling.
Paul was a tall, lean Marine Corp drill instructor, on his first night home of a thirty-day leave, and just aching for trouble. As big as he was, I didn’t plan on giving him any. For some reason he took a shine to me, and we’d ended up sharing a small table at the room’s far end. It may have been that, like me, he was a Southerner (Atlanta born and bred), and liked my up-holler West Virginia accent.
At any rate we began by toasting one another’s hometowns, good health, and revered ancestors, gone but not forgotten. From there we lifted a glass or three to hot lead, cold steel, absent friends, good music, Ernest Tubb, Patsy Cline, Hank and Buddy and Jimi and Janis, all the good ones that had died too young, and the bad ones who maddeningly still hung on.
That prompted Paul into a new line of thinking. He started cursing commanding officers he’d served under, thick-skulled generals who’d commanded them, and horrific mothers-in-law who were worse than either (being single at the time, I had to take his word on that).
I’d lost count of the Seven-and-Sevens we’d downed when we moved into who of us was the more swell fella—“you are, Paul, by God”; “no you are, John, by God”—progressively becoming more raucous, and drawing muttered oaths from the other patrons.
That’s when I blearily realized we were the only men in the place who hadn’t been watching the skinny dried-up strippers grinding it out for pocket change up on the tiny stage. Even the three-piece live band (presumably live; with men that old, who could tell?) had stopped torturing Stormy Monday long enough to glare daggers at us.
“Ya know, soldier boys like you and your big punk make me sick,” a huge mountain of a man by the bar growled, a mug of beer clamped in his meaty fist.
His greasy tight jeans were graced with a heavy chain connecting his belt to his wallet in his back pocket, and stretched tight around his fleshy butt, while a straining-at-the-seams blue flannel shirt barely contained his barrel chest. Close-cropped red hair topped a seamed and surly face, and a dark green John Deere baseball cap perched on his ring-wormed head, completing the ensemble. If this guy wasn’t an over-the-road trucker, there ain’t a dog in Georgia.
Wordlessly Paul stood and made his way over to him, a lot steadier than I would have. Maybe he wasn’t as drunk as I thought.
“No.” His tone was even. “Here’s what’ll make you sick.”
With that, and to my utter amazement, he hawked up a shiny brown loogie and spit it right in the giant’s beer mug.
“What the hell—?” he yelped in disbelief, glancing down at the floater.
When he did, Paul sucker-smashed him in the face.
The Marine packed an incredible punch, blasting that man harder than I’d ever seen anyone hit. Like a bright crimson halo, blood from the trucker’s smashed nose sprayed out three feet, his eyes fluttering in their sockets like castanets. Then with a mighty crash he fell backwards to the floor, out, the sound putting me in mind of a barrel of machine tools falling down concrete stairs.
That started the party.
Remember the Westerns you watched as a kid, the ones with the huge fights in the saloon? This was kind of like that, but bigger. And louder. And with a lot more breaking glass.
Somewhere in there the Newport cops arrived in force, swinging their billy clubs like major leaguers before finally managing to break it up and hauling the lot of us to the pokey. Later that night when it came time to appear before the judge, Paul and I were the only ones without enough cash to pay the fine. And that’s how we ended up spending the entirety of his thirty-day leave as guests of the city.
But we spent the time well. While in lockup the sergeant, phlegmatic about his bad turn of luck, started training me in how to exercise for maximum results, far beyond what my high school football coach had shown me. He also agreed to teach me a few of the more arcane tricks he taught others in the Corps, including that little move I’d just used on the toady.
I kicked Chet’s knife away, and bent low. He continued clawing at his throat, gasping like a man with sawdust packed in his gullet. A few Time Out patrons looked our way, but nobody made a move toward us. Wonder why.
Still squatting and using his oily hair as a handle, I picked his head up off the floor, my voice low and very steady. “Chet, if you’re looking to die, I’m your man. And I know it hurts, but nothing permanent has been damaged. Yet. What I suggest is you go home, wrap a warm towel around your neck, and rethink your choice of friends. And one more thing.” I poked him hard with my index finger, punctuating each word with a jab on his chest. “Never. Ever. Hit. Women. Understand?”
Eyes filmed, he nodded.
“Oh yeah,” I added as I stood. “I don’t want to hear of you and Blakey planning some kind of half-assed revenge. Because next time I’ll crush your larynx.”
Chet finally managed to croak a reply. I was expecting him to say anything but what he did. “The hell’s a larynx?”
Shaking my head in wonder at the shallowness of Earth’s gene pool, I walked away.
As I approached the young couple, Danny stared at me, mouth agape and his brown eyes as round as a guppy’s. I nodded at him and his girl. She was coming to.
“Need some help?” My expression had softened. “She should get that eye checked out.”
“No, thanks. I got her.” He helped her sit up. “Blakey’s done this to her before.”
What a prince that man was. “Whatever,” I shrugged.
Red-faced with embarrassment, Danny pulled Diane, who was still groggy from Blakey’s hit, up from the floor. Then without a backward glance or by-your-leave, they fled.
Oh well. Go figure. Sitting back down on my barstool, tunelessly I started whistling The Wall between my teeth as I began waiting for the cops.
Chapter Sixteen
Police cars always smell the same. It doesn’t matter if they’re city or county, federal or state, big town or small, they all bear the unmistakable odors of fear, disruption, shame, and lies.
Plus every one of them retain, in whatever measure and regardless of the disinfectant used, the paired reeks of urine and vomit.
I know, because I now reposed handcuffed in the back seat of Sheriff Elgin Hardesty’s 2012 black and white Crown Victoria sedan, listening as he read me the riot act. He was almost a stereotype of the small-town lawman, a lanky, sixtyish guy with piercing blue eyes set into a weather-beaten face, and crowned with an old and sweat-stained Stetson.
The sheriff’s words barely registered as he rambled on because I already knew the script. I ought to; I’d inflicted it myself on scofflaws in the past. What was drawing my attention was the auto deodorant in the squad. Was it oil of citrus? Or more bleach-based? Whatever, it was failing miserably to do its job. The seat still stunk like billy hell.
“Mr. Fields.” Hardesty’s words were chiding, his cop eyes fixed on me in the rearview mirror, taking my measure. “Why is it I get the feeling I don’t have your full attention?”
“But you do,” I answered. That is, John Fields answered. That was the name on the EPA badge I’d showed the sheriff when he’d demanded some ID back in the bar. To be safe, I’d made a fake driver’s l
icense also. All I had to do now was to remember who I was as long as I was in Hardesty’s jurisdiction. “Sheriff, I’m hanging on your every word.”
“Hmm.” He squinted back at me through the steel mesh that divided the front seat from the back, eyes hard. “So you’re sticking with your story, are you? That you were just trying to come to the aid of Daniel Demaris and Diane Brooks, and that Blakey Sinclair threw the first punch?”
“That’s right. If you don’t believe me, ask the people there that saw it.”
“I did. Most of them are drunk, though, so their witness won’t carry a lot of weight with Judge Sanders. Not to mention most of them work where Blakey and Chet do, at GeneSys Technologies.”
I filed that away for later, under ‘important.’
The sheriff went on, “And since GeneSys is the biggest thing to hit this town since cable TV, obviously nobody wants to get on their bad side.”
“Obviously. So ask Jerry. Or Pop, or that young bartender.”
“Mark Fontana.”
“Yeah, him.”
“All three were serving customers,” Hardesty said, and then added, “So they claim. They told me they missed the whole thing. The only thing Pop Welles can recall is phoning dispatch.”
“That’s convenient. But I know one guy who can corroborate my story.”
The sheriff frowned. “Who?”
“Blakey Sinclair.”
He grunted a laugh. “Him. That joker’s still out. The doc’s saying he might be out for quite a while, too. What did you hit him with, a five-iron?”
“Nope. Just little old me.” I moved my butt around on the vinyl seat, trying to get some blood moving again. “So how about Chet? Or is he still out too?”
“No, he’s awake.” Hardesty’s reply was gruff. “And with what you did to his throat, he’s writing it down, blaming you. Not that he carries much weight with the judge either.” At that moment the car’s radio squawked. “Just a second, Mr. Fields,” the sheriff said off-hand, and he picked up the mike. “Yeah, Barry, what?”