By the Balls

by Jim Pascoe

  Curtis and Jesse released the cocks at each other. Up they went, a good three feet high. They met violently in the air and came down together in a flurry of attacks.

  The beginning of this battle looked like the end of a pillow fight. Small white feathers filled the air like snow. People’s fists flew in the air. Cheers, shouts, yells, and whistles echoed through the sweltering air of the basement. I looked at my watch: four minutes past midnight.

  Maybe I should have realized this before, but all of a sudden, I didn’t like the place where I found myself standing. Pinned with an excitable mob in front of me and the cages to my back, I knew I had to find more open ground.

  I decided to move closer to Mathers, but when I looked over his way, he was gone.

  I scanned left and right. There was no sign of him.

  Even Beth had begun to retreat. Step by step she backed away from Yo-Yo. His whole body shook. His face turned an even brighter color of red. Sweat rained from his stringy hair. Beth didn’t notice any of this. She had her stare pinned somewhere else.

  I followed her line of sight. Her eyes landed on Lawton over at the drug tables. He looked more alert than ever.

  Then I noticed the yelling. Yo-Yo Harrington’s distinctively fat, whiny voice bounced off the walls at full volume. He shouted some choice words at Tyler, words that usually come out of sailors, truck drivers, and young rock stars.

  I asked Aubrey what the hell was going on. He fidgeted with more life in him than I had seen all evening as he attempted to describe the situation.

  “Man! The green leg had the yellow leg dead to rights, but now—as you can see—the yellow leg is down for the count. But now there’s trouble: the green leg won’t drag; he keeps running away. Now, the rules have it that he automatically loses, like when you sink the eightball out of turn in pool.” Aubrey pulled out a red handkerchief and swiped it across his brow. “But for some reason Tyler isn’t calling the fight. He’s making the green leg fight. It looks like Yo-Yo, loser that he is, actually bet money on the yellow leg. By all accounts, he should win this fight. But if Tyler keeps this up, I don’t know . . .”

  A strange notion nestled its way into my brain, and I had to ask: “The cock that’s running away, do you know the name of its owner—the guy who entered him in this fight?”

  Aubrey turned to Sven and Sven turned back to me.

  “Si, some guy named Blackie something.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I figured. Somehow that just seems to fit.”

  “Oh no, señor! No! No!” Sven cried out.

  I turned around to the worst-case scenario: Yo-Yo Harrington had pulled out his gun.

  Anytime this many gangsters gather together in the same place, you have a powder keg primed to blow. And Yo-Yo just lit the match.

  A garden of guns instantly sprouted and steel blossomed in nearly every bare fist. A chilling silence echoed through the basement. Everyone seemed frozen in place.

  Yo-Yo broke the spell. “Tyler!” he screamed as he pointed his snubnose .38 straight into Tyler’s masked face. “What’s got into you? Forget the rules or something? You call this fight right now!”

  Most of the other guns were pointed in Yo-Yo’s direction, but a few folks, probably the other fools who had also bet on the almost dead yellow leg, seemed to be on his side. When all the rage in this place erupted, there would be a bloodbath at the Friday-night cockfight.

  The time had come for me to exit, and fast. I fought through the crowd, making my way toward the rear door. I looked over my shoulder to see if the stand-off had progressed. Tyler didn’t speak; he just stood there calmly, his hands at his sides, staring at Yo-Yo through masked eyes as if daring him to shoot. Who was this guy?

  “Goddamnit!” Yo-Yo erupted and switched his aim from Tyler to the green leg hatch, which now strutted proudly about the ring. The gangster’s whole body shook with rage.

  He squeezed the trigger, and a roar boomed through the room.

  The powder keg exploded.

  At the last second, Stash Mulligan slapped Yo-Yo’s pistol hand, and instead of hitting the bird, the bullet ripped a hole in Jesse’s chest. The handler’s eyes opened up real wide. He looked down to see a rapidly spreading spot of blood flow across his T-shirt as his body began a slow tumble backward.

  As the unlucky pit hand’s body flopped into the dirt, the deafening roar of gunfire filled the room. I ducked down low, pulled out my Smith & Wesson Model 637, and made a mad dash for the safety of the rear exit. The last place I wanted to die was in a grungy basement in the middle of nowhere with a stray bullet buried in my back.

  I’d almost reached my goal when the weird albino-like fellow appeared out of nowhere right in front of me and just stopped. He stood with his back to me, just staring up at the ceiling. A small part of me wondered what he saw up there, but the rest of me just wanted to get out of the firefight. I shoved him aside, but he didn’t budge. I shoved again, more forcefully. Instead of getting out of my way, he turned toward me with clenched fists. I didn’t have time for this joker.

  This hadn’t been my idea of how to spend a relaxing Friday night. I’d been teased, used, and tormented, and now I found myself the target of what seemed like a thousand guns. Violence came easy, and before I knew what I was doing I gave this poor fellow two quick lefts across the jaw. That made him take a step backward, stunned and weaving. I gave him a third set of knuckles to the temple. He crumpled to the ground like someone had cut his feet out from underneath him.

  I ran past him and gained the safety of the shallow alcove of the back door. I didn’t know what my next move would be. Burning cordite filled my nostrils, and the brief cacophony of exploding guns had been replaced by the moans, screams, and whimpers of wounded men.

  I peeked out from my hiding spot and took a look around the chaos of the basement. It had turned into a massacre. A majority of the gangsters were sprawled on the dirt floor, which was now a muddy, blood-slicked morass. A few of these prone hoodlums still moved, and fewer still fired their guns at the handful of guys who still stood.

  Yo-Yo Harrington was among the apparent dead, his flabby body a blood-spattered mishmash of tortured flesh.

  The green-legged rooster that had started this mess jumped and squawked, occasionally attacking a wounded thug with vicious pecks and stabs from the knife on its leg.

  My eyes fell across my albino adversary. The right side of his face swelled nicely. I felt bad that my anger had gotten the best of me, but at least he was on the ground and out of the way of a bullet. I tried telling myself that even though I busted his face, I probably saved his life. It didn’t do much to make me feel any better.

  I didn’t see hide nor hair of Trout Mathers or Beth Hrubi among the dead or living.

  My sweep around the room continued to the drug tables, now overturned and riddled with bullet holes. Blackie Lawton popped up from behind one of the bullet-scarred shields and cracked a wide, devilish grin. Three other fellows stood up close beside him. All four peered around the room, then started to laugh and slap each other on the back. Suddenly Lawton whipped out his twin automatics and filled the bodies of his fellow survivors with bullets until his guns clicked empty. The poor guys didn’t stand a chance.

  After holstering his guns, Lawton opened two beat-up suitcases, then snapped them back shut and took a last look around. Again he flashed an evil grin, snatched up the luggage, and headed straight toward the rear exit.

  Straight toward me.

  I’m not normally a man hell-bent on revenge, but being pushed around all night had my dander up. I had most of this caper figured out, but I needed a few answers to get the whole story.

  These three crooks had conspired to steal a couple of suitcases full of dope. I had no problem understanding that. But why? Trout Mathers and Beth Hrubi weren’t around to answer. That left Blackie Lawton.

  I slipped out the back door into the cool early-morning air, flattened myself into the shadows of the wall, and waited.


  Lawton stumbled out the door seconds later, still carrying a suitcase in each hand. He glanced around frantically and cursed violently. He must not have seen what he was waiting for, so I thought I’d give him something else to worry about.

  “Hey, buddy,” I called, stepping from the shadows, my small .38 aimed at his chest.

  He whirled around and fixed his crazy eyes on me, huge pupils filling almost his entire eyeball. It didn’t take a doctor to know that he was wired to the gizzard.

  “Hey . . . the vacuum guy,” he clucked. “There’s a big mess inside, y’know. You might wanna go on in there and get cleanin’.”

  “The way I see it, all the cleaning that needs doing can be done right here.”

  “Yeah? Well, the way I see it, I gotta wonder what business a salesman’s got carrying a piece—and a woman’s piece at that.”

  “You never know when you might run into trouble,” I said. “Now why don’t we have a little chat.”

  “A chat? Whatta we got to chat about?”

  “The scam you’re trying to run.”

  “Scam?”

  “Come on, Blackie. I’m no idiot.”

  “Says you. You ain’t got the first clue about our plan.”

  “I got enough to know that you’re not the brains of the operation.”

  “Shows what you know. Who do ya think told Trout about this Flores shipment?”

  “Come on! Trout doesn’t deal in drugs.”

  “There’s no deal here. He just wanted to throw a monkey wrench into the Flores cashflow after Manny’s boys messed up his last score.”

  “Nothing like a little revenge. So how does Beth fit in?”

  “That gal sure got under your skin, huh? I don’t know nothin’ about her. She came with Trout.”

  “Where’s Trout now?”

  “Hell, I got no idea. All he cared about was messin’ up Flores’s Mexican Brown shipment, and I got the goods right here.” Lawton hefted the two cases slightly, emphasizing his point.

  “Well, why don’t you drop those and lay down on the ground there,” I suggested, pointing with the short barrel of my gun.

  “Sure thing. After all, you got the gun, clean-up man. That makes you the boss.”

  I just nodded as Lawton slowly set the cases on the ground and began sinking down to his knees. Quick as lightning, though, he was back up and reaching for his guns.

  “Hold it, pal,” I snarled, cocking my weapon for emphasis.

  Lawton’s hands stopped, still on his holstered pistols.

  “I think you’re out of ammo there, Blackie.”

  Lawton laughed, rolled to the left, and came up with his guns pointed right at me. When he squeezed the triggers, all we heard were twin hollow clicks.

  Lawton swore and threw his guns at me. I dodged them, then squeezed off a round in his direction, but my step to the side had thrown off my aim. I didn’t have time for another shot before Lawton’s bulk tackled me. He hit me low in the gut, and the wind blew right out of my chest. As I struggled to breathe, we slammed against the wall of the building, and my teeth rattled to their roots. Although it didn’t do wonders for my spine, at least it got some breath in my lungs.

  I didn’t have any desire to duke it out with a drugged-up hoodlum, and just as I got ready to smash Lawton on the back of his head with the butt of my pistol, I realized my hand was empty. I must have dropped my gun when we hit the wall. Time for a new plan.

  I clapped my hands over Lawton’s ears as hard as I could. He howled with pain and backed off, giving me time to breathe.

  “I’m gonna kill you,” he crowed.

  I didn’t waste my breath with needless banter.

  He rushed forward, throwing a heavy right fist at my head. He moved slowly and sloppily, so I had no trouble blocking it with my left forearm. The blow stung; had it connected with my head it would’ve hurt pretty good. I followed through with a solid right fist to the bridge of his nose. The crunch of fragmenting bone echoed through the night.

  He staggered backward, trying desperately to keep his footing. Blood poured freely from his fractured beak, staining his clothes red. He held his hands over his face and squawked with pain.

  Lawton may have been good at a lot of things, but an accomplished pugilist certainly didn’t make the list. His howling left him wide open.

  Unable to resist, I rushed forward and slammed a rapid left-right-left combo deep into his solar plexus. With a strangled cry he fell back further, still on his feet but weaving heavily. He could barely stand, so I stepped in and finished him off with a solid left across the jaw. I felt the punch all the way down my arm. I’d bet that Lawton felt it to his toes.

  He stood a moment, wobbling and squinting at me. Then his eyes rolled up into his head, and he toppled over backward. He went down hard.

  I rubbed my raw knuckles and wondered how I’d be getting home. I ran my hand through my hair, turned around, and walked over to where my hat had fallen.

  As I bent down to retrieve it, a solid punch pounded the base of my skull. My legs went out from under me and I fell, sprawling facedown in the dirt. A viselike grip held my hair and repeatedly slammed my face into the ground. Flashing lights danced woozily in front of my eyes.

  I pushed up with my arms in a desperate bid to roll over. I’d used up most of my energy, so every move I made now took twice the effort. I finally succeeded in getting myself off the ground, managing to throw off my assailant in the process.

  I scrabbled backward, crawling crab-like to get away from whoever had bushwhacked me.

  A battered and torn Blackie Lawton pounced on top of me and began pecking me in the face with his fist. Cold sweat dripped off his clammy skin and into my eyes. His fists moved fast and my hands were full trying to ward off his merciless blows. The night swam around me.

  He focused his attack on my head and didn’t really notice the rest of my body. I slipped my leg under him and gained enough leverage to flip him off me. I scrambled back to my feet as quickly as I could. It wasn’t quick enough.

  Before I could recover he was on me again, raining blows all over my body in a cocaine-fueled fury. He growled like a wild animal, pounding me in the face and chest. His blows soon overwhelmed me.

  A solid blow caught me square on the chin and sent me sprawling into a pile of old rags. I fumbled to get up, but my body had turned to rubber; my limbs wouldn’t do what I told them. Then I saw Lawton standing over me, pointing my own gun at my face.

  “Say goodnight,” he screeched.

  I stared down the barrel, cursing myself for having turned my back on the man. I knew better than that. What a stupid way to die.

  A loud, pulpy thud filled my ears.

  Lawton stood, looking at me, unmoving. Then he went cross-eyed and fell forward, my gun slipping from his fist.

  Right behind Lawton stood Aubrey Barnes, a three-foot two-by-four in his hands.

  “I was rootin’ for ya there, Ben, but ya weren’t doing too good near the end. Figured you could use a little help.”

  “Thanks. I appreciate it.”

  “No problem. I could tell you were a good sort of fella.”

  I chuckled and struggled to pull myself free of the rag pile.

  “You need some help gettin’ up?” Aubrey asked.

  “No, I’m almost there,” I answered, before my arms gave out on me and I collapsed back into the pile. “On second thought, maybe I could use a hand here.”

  Aubrey reached down and pulled me up. Once I got to my feet I’d be fine. I’d taken worse beatings and lived.

  “Thanks again,” I said, collecting my gun from the ground and slipping it into my holster.

  “Say, you know where I can get my hands on a little rope to tie this up?” I kicked Lawton in the ribs. He didn’t make a sound.

  “I’d like to say I got a length of baling twine on me, but I just don’t.” Aubrey tossed his makeshift club on a stack of boards piled against the side of a building.

  I frowned. A
fter what I’d been through I didn’t want Lawton waking up and walking away.

  “But, say, some of them rags might be just what ya need there.” Aubrey pointed at the pile of grease-stained rags I’d been laying in.

  A wide smile broke across my face. “You’re a good man, Barnes.”

  “Thanks,” he said, patting his hands on his pants pockets. “You just remember that when you to tell the cops what went on here. Be best if I didn’t make it into that conversation.”

  “No problem at all. As far as I’m concerned, we’ve never met.” I dug through the rag pile, selecting the thinnest strips I could find.

  “That’s right.” Aubrey pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his hip pocket and lit one. “’Sides, you’re gonna have enough trouble with that girlfriend of yours.”

  I dropped my rag selection on the ground by Lawton’s head. “What are you talking about?”

  “That girl you were with tonight.”

  “What about her?”

  “She’s Manny the Rose’s girl.”

  “What?”

  “Or at least she used to be. Word has it they’re on the outs.”

  “Oh man, what a night.”

  I got down to business and started binding Lawton’s limbs together with my best knot know-how.

  “You should be more careful, Ben. Women’ll get you into trouble.”

  He blew a long stream of smoke straight up into the night sky. “They’re bad for the health.”

  “This from a guy who knows, eh?” I replied.

  He turned and vanished into the night.

  I finished tying up Lawton; he wouldn’t be going anywhere when he came to.

  Aubrey’s lingering smoke smelled good, so I took a moment and lit a cigar while I tried to figure out what I would be doing next. That’s when I realized something was missing . . .

  “Hey, big boy.”

  I glanced up and saw Beth Hrubi leaning against a black MG, slim cigarette in one hand, car keys twirling around a finger of the other. She still looked like dynamite, only now I knew she was just as dangerous.

  “Looks like you handled yourself okay after all.”

  “Yeah, you know me. See a mess, clean it up.”