Out Cold ddm-3

by Tom Schreck

  "Let's go stop this. This place stands for something special," I said.

  We walked, but just below a trot. We saw the crowd ahead of us and the tubas in the back row of the marching band. There were thousands of people following the band, singing along and pumping their fists. The sun had set and it was chaotic and very difficult to watch and see anything except a sea of people. We caught up with the band and walked along the middle of the pack. Karl broke away and jumped up on statue of Moses holding one finger in the air next to the library.

  "Duffy! Duffy!" I heard him scream through the band's rendition of something called 'On Down the Line!'

  I ran to the statue.

  "He's here, I just saw him." He pointed into a sea of people dressed in green and blue and gold. "He's wearing a green 'Irish' shirt," Karl climbed down off the statue.

  "That helps," I said.

  Karl didn't listen, instead sprinted all out in the direction he pointed. Al and I followed along no idea what Karl planned. The band and the mass of people had marched around the basketball arena called the Joyce Center and headed inside for the pep rally. Karl ran to the entrance and stood on a sawhorse, used as a barricade. He looked back and forth, trying to spot Newstom. The band marched right into the arena. A quick glance told me it was filled with crazed Irish fans waiting for the pep rally to begin. I tried to follow behind the band, but a security guard asked for a ticket and wouldn't let me through.

  "You need a ticket for a pep rally?"

  "Yes sir," he said. Al disagreed and ran right between the big guys legs. You could hear him barking over 'Cheer, Cheer for Old Notre Dame.' Without a word I took off after him while the cop seemed confused by the sight of a short legged Irish fan. Karl jumped off the barricade and ran with me, as we searched for Al in the crowd.

  Coach Weis stood at the microphone and the crowd went nuts. We ran up on the top level by the bleachers where the students stood. I saw Al whip around a corner and cut through one of the tunnel-like entrances to the concourse. Al barked like crazy and I could see him though he was about 20 yards ahead of us. Suddenly Al took a sharp right turn into one of the arena's men's rooms.

  Karl and I caught up with Al, who stood in front of a long row of urinals barking at nothing. I looked up and down. With the exception of a guy in the last stall, there was no one in there.

  I could see the guy standing, like he had just finished taking a crap and he pulled up his jeans.

  A knapsack dropped to the floor of the stall with a loud metal clang.

  Karl and I looked at each other. Karl nodded at me and I moved quietly over to the stall. I took a deep breath and threw all my weight into the stall door.

  The door banged off the wall violently, grazing something and slamming into the tile. A short squatty Asian guy wearing black jeans, army boots, and a camouflage jacket stood there fastening his jeans. I rushed him and pushed him up against the wall over the toilet. I had taken him by surprise with his hands down.

  I was in close with him, but I put as much as I could into a hook to his body. My fist slammed into something firm, but I had too much adrenaline going through me and I doubled the hook up to his head. He went down awkwardly between the toilet and the stall wall. I jumped down hard with my knee on the guy's chest and again hit something firm. I didn't pay attention and threw a right hand across the Asian kid's face. The Notre Dame fight song blasted across the bathroom tile in a weird distorted way. I barely heard the shouting behind me. Then I felt a couple of sets of arms pull me off the kid.

  "Stop or I'll shoot!" the guy standing above me said. I was on my back now, with a cop's knee in my chest, his partner's service revolver pointed at my head.

  "Check his bag, check his bag-he's got ammunition!" The one cop kicked the bag over to the guy holding the gun. With one hand holding the gun on me, he zipped open the knapsack. Cans of Spam, chicken spread, and Vienna sausages soup spilled out.

  "It's canned food for the soldiers' night at the pep rally, asshole," the cop kneeling on my chest said.

  30

  Jail really kind of sucks.

  Jail on the weekend of a gigantic college football game sucks more.

  First, I was stuck in a holding cell with a dozen guys, half of them dressed in green, the others in blue and gold, or as I came to learn from one especially adamant Michigan fan, maize and blue. His commitment impressed me. The fact he barfed regurgitated beer and some sort of pork product right after making his point impressed me less.

  On Friday night these drunk Notre Dame and Michigan fans almost seemed as though they had a good time. It was as if getting arrested at a pep rally and fighting with opposing fans made one the ultimate athletic supporter. By Saturday, when they awoke hung over, not at the game, and facing felony charges, they all seemed far less jovial.

  I got charged with assault. When they ran my name through whatever computers they run things through, they noticed I was licensed as a professional fighter. Somehow that upped the ante of my charges to something-something assault with a deadly weapon. Apparently, if you've fought competitively, and then hit someone with your hands, then you used a weapon. If they charging me with assault with a deadly weapon, they had obviously not looked at my record as a pro fighter. Of course, there probably aren't charges known as assault with a light jab and weak cross.

  Fortunately, Karl didn't get charged and he had custody of Al. I had no idea where they were, but I knew Al was in good hands. Al might be wearing a Notre Dame helmet and rubber gloves on his paws, but he was probably safe. That was about the only thing I was reasonably sure of, and the fact jail sucked. At one point I got ushered into a small court room, which by the way looked nothing like the court room Sam Waterson worked on in every episode of Law and Order. This one had a lot of battleship grey paint, cheap wood paneling, and it smelled like the stuff they spray on puke in grade school.

  They arraigned me and set bail at $10,000, which didn't exactly put me in Margaret Stewart status, but it might as well have because I had fourteen bucks in my pocket. Compared to Karl, that made me Donald Trump.

  I had one of those little boxes of Cheerios for breakfast, with milk that tasted pretty close to spoiled. Lunch was a bologna sandwich with one slice of bologna and bad brown mustard. Dinner was supposed to be spaghetti with meat sauce, but it tasted more like lumpy ketchup over egg noodles. Now, thirty-six hours in jail didn't exactly make me Nelson Mandela or some hardened guy from Goodfellas, but I could see why violence happened in penitentiaries. The jail consisted of ten cells on the first floor, that I was on, and I don't know how many on the other floor. Three cells down one black guy sang bad rap songs about 20 hours a day. Next to him was a middleaged man who cried a lot, and right next to me was a fat Michigan hooligan with bad gas. I had delusions of making a shank out of my commissary plastic fork and making myself king of the cell block. It's amazing what you'll do when you're sleep deprived.

  At 10:30 Sunday night a middle aged, balding guard with leathery skin and a look of utter existential indifference came to my cell and turned the key.

  "Dombrowski, you got bail. Stop at the desk and complete the paper work," he said.

  "Huh? Who made bail?"

  "Stop at the desk," he said. I got the impression this guy liked an economy of words.

  I filled out a form and signed the bottom without really taking the time to read it. I got a copy of it and several pages of directions. I headed through the door that brought me back into the public area. I was a free man. Standing in front of me was Dr. Rudy.

  "Hey Rudy! What are you doing here?" I couldn't help smiling ear to ear.

  "Oh, I'm a Big Notre Dame fan. C'mon asshole, let's go; we got a flight to catch." He turned without looking at me or saying anything else.

  "Where's Karl and Al?"

  "Your brothers-in-arms? Your militia? Or should I say the other avengers?"

  "Hey Rudy-"

  "Hey Rudy, my ass. They left yesterday morning after that nut-job called me. They
're driving your El Dorado back to Crawford. They're probably there by now."

  "Wow, so you came all the way out here to make sure I was okay and get me out of jail?"

  Rudy didn't say anything, just shook his head. He drove north toward Chicago and O'Hare Airport. He handed me a ticket when we returned the rental car and we sat in silence at the gate waiting for the flight to Albany. It was after take-off; actually after the captain had turned off the seat belts lamp, that he said something.

  "Kid, you gotta listen to me." He wiped the sweat off his forehead with one of those undersized cocktail napkins.

  "Remember when I told you you might have some damage…"

  "Rudy, I don't think-"

  "You're showing the signs of a guy who has some impairment." 'Impairment' sounded clinical and told me he was trying to make a point. "Kid, you're showing the exact signs of someone who has been damaged."

  "What are you talking about?"

  "The main thing is you're taking what Karl says as gospel. For crissakes, he's your patient. You know he's paranoidschizophrenic and you drive a thousand miles and beat some math student with a knapsack full of canned goods because Karl says he's trying to bring down the free world! C'mon!"

  "It's not like you think."

  "Oh, fuck you, Duff. The guy wears a football helmet and rubber gloves, believes the government is fattening our food and thinks doctors are tracking them on their car's GPS systems."

  "It's not-"

  "Part of what you got messed up in your head tells you it makes sense. Look, I've known you for years, and probably know you as good as anyone. I'm telling you that you're in trouble and you've got to get it together."

  "Rudy-"

  "I mean, stay at home, walk that fat fuckin' dog and watch Elvis movies. I don't give a shit what you do, but don't be chasing bad guys with Karl because you're going to get hurt, or I probably should say hurt worse."

  I decided to keep my mouth shut the rest of the ride home.

  31

  I could hear a loud pound…no, it was more like a pumping sound. The flow of blood, my heart racing, and a loud marching band. The band was playing something faster and louder and it was out of control. As the tempo shot through the roof so did my heartbeat.

  It was the Notre Dame Marching Band and they were going faster and faster, but it was also inside my head at the same time. The force sped up my heart and my thoughts raced. There were thousands of crazed people in green running and singing, but they were doing it with rage and they just kept on. The band and the throng following it all turned into the Asian kid, whose eyes burned red with fire. Without any warning, they all began to bleed — spurting blood from their eyes, screaming, bleeding, and screaming. The band kept playing louder and faster while the blood kept pouring. Something wet and scratchy came across my eyes. I woke up, panting, covered in sweat. Al was right in front of me.

  "I figured they'd come back after this weekend." My vision broadened. Karl stood right behind Al. I shook my head, just like an actor would in the movies when they come out of a nightmare. It looks stupid in the movies and it didn't help me in any way.

  "When did you guys get back?"

  "Just in time to catch you screaming in your sleep."

  "What the hell happened at Notre Dame after they arrested me?"

  "Well, for starters, Michigan kicked their ass, but Al and I had a good time at the tailgaters."

  "Karl!"

  "That's okay, we found Newstrom there. Or should I say he found us."

  "Karl-it's been a hell of a weekend; don't speak in riddles now." I got out of bed and headed to the kitchen to make the coffee. Al sat on the back of the chair doing surveillance on the sparrows.

  "I'll fill you in on Newstrom in a minute. I gotta tell you about the puppy mill. That's a whole mess of injustice going on there." Karl started to get animated. Though Newstrom's schemes seemingly had to do with war, billions of dollars and the killing of innocent people, I knew enough not to interrupt Karl's train of thought.

  "Go ahead, Karl."

  "Me and Al broke into the place on the way back from ND. They probably have 40 hounds in their under deplorable conditions. Tied up, dog shit everywhere, many of them over-fed and it's all set up to produce puppies for profit," Karl got so excited he had to wipe the spit from his lips with the back of his hand.

  "Karl, look, I'm all about the dogs, but we have to be realistic. This is a business for some people-like it or not."

  "Man, Duff, you had to see the place. The dogs had their names stitched on their collars. I felt like I got to know them personally, even after just a few minutes with them." Karl's eyes got real wide.

  "Take it easy. Karl, take it easy," I hoped he would chill out a little.

  "There was a beautiful basset girl named Sadie; she just looked at me with those big eyes, and I felt sick. There was a guy right next to her in a cage named Arthur, and he really wanted out."

  "Karl…" He wasn't even close to stopping.

  "There was also Louie. Man, what a character he was. There was Lola Love, and you know what? She couldn't bark because her vocal chords looked screwed up like someone had kicked her." Karl shook his head and gritted his teeth.

  "Karl, look, just…"

  "Then there were these two best friends in one cage. One was a tri-color and the other was more white. They were Blake and Sherlock."

  "Karl, focus," I said.

  "There was one named Maui, another one named Sally, and there was even one named Guffy, and they were really happy and wanted to play even though they were in cages."

  "Karl, please…" He was a runaway train.

  "There was even this strange Maltese/Pom mix; A tiny little thing named Tedward."

  "That's not the worst of it." Karl got real quiet.

  "Huh?"

  "Al's mom is there."

  "What the fuck are you talking about?"

  "He ran right to her cage-skipped about 35 others and went ballistic when he saw her-crying, howling, trying to get in the cage."

  "Karl, I don't-"

  "She's pregnant again, Duff. Those bastards just get the females pregnant twice a year, have them give birth, sell the puppies, and eventually discard the mothers. That's how this shit works." Karl paced back and forth.

  "How the hell can you tell if it's Al's mom. Karl you're getting way out there."

  "Her cage had 'Gladys' written above it. It had a list of the fathers. The way I figured it 'Vernon' must've been Al's father."

  "C'mon!"

  "Call whoever you got Al from and ask him to look at the papers and it will say. As sick as this place is, they have to file AKC papers to get the dogs registered. Otherwise their price drops."

  Al was originally owned by the Nation of Islam. He had been trained as a bomb sniffing dog and a man-trailer, but they gave him away because he kept pissing and farting all over the place. A client of mine named Walanda had adopted him and when she went to jail for 60 days, I took Al. Walanda got murdered in jail and Al and I became life partners. A buddy of mine named Jamal, who I knew from the gym, knew the whole story. He was in the Nation back then, didn't box any more, and worked at McDonough High. I rang him up on his cell phone.

  "This is Jamal."

  "Jamal, it's Duff."

  "The great white hope. I seen you made the papers for your football game antics. Man, Duff, you gotta stop gettin' hit on the head, my man." Jamal had tendency to say what was on his mind.

  "Yeah, yeah. Look I got an Al question."

  "Man, Duff, he's a dog. You're always calling me with Al questions."

  "You remember where you guys got him?"

  "You guys'? Duff, I left the Nation years ago."

  "Sorry J, You know what I mean."

  "They got him just west of here. I forgot the town's name. It was just outside of Syracuse."

  "Johnsville?"

  "That's it. Some funk ass country folk had a whole hound dog production line. Kind of fucked up, to be honest with you
. They almost wouldn't sell him to us 'cause we were of color, as you liberal whiteys like to say."

  "Look Jamal, this is going to sound like a really crazy question.

  "

  "Duff…those are the only kind you got."

  "Do you know or do you have papers that tell you about Al's parents."

  "You won't believe it, but I do. Typical cracker ass lineage for a hound dog. They must've thought they were all sorts of clever."

  "What was it?"

  "Well my short-legged friend was originally named after the hero to all you white folk-or at least the ones with some soul."

  "What the hell are you talking about?"

  "'Ol Al was born E-L–V-I-S. And you know the Nation had that changed before they got out of that big 'ol gate at that farm." I didn't say anything. I couldn't.

  "Duff, you there?"

  "Yeah, yeah. So let me guess. Al's parents were Gladys and Vernon."

  "There you go."

  I thanked Jamal and sat down hard on the couch. Maybe I was going crazy.

  "I was right wasn't I?" Karl said. He got out of his chair again and started pacing. "We got to stop those bastards." I began to think he was right. Now, I knew I was going crazy.

  "Karl-"

  "I also found out the guy who owns the place is Luther Campbell," Karl said.

  "So?"

  "Luther Campbell is a right wing nut. He's Rush Limbaugh on crack. His followers are para-military 'Give-America-back-to Americans' types. Here's an article on him from some ultraconservative newsletter." He handed me a cheaply produced newsletter featuring Campbell on the cover, in front of a flag, posing with his hunting rifle.

  "So you got a Republican raising hounds. I'm not sure he's broken any laws Karl."

  "Duff, you gotta open your eyes, man."

  "Karl, can we get back on our original conversation/"

  "All right, all right. Let me tell you about Newstrom." Karl stopped his pacing almost for what seemed like dramatic effect.

  "Go ahead," I exhaled. It was all getting a little hard to follow, but I figured I might as well hear all of it.