Soul Standard

by Richard Thomas

  “Present company excluded?”

  “No.”

  Reiss adjusts his shirt as he sits. He laughs, points to my forehead. “Ash Wednesday.” I dab my head and come back with a spot of Victor’s blood. He then turns to the cooler. “You want to see her?”

  “You always were a PR whore, Reiss. Eager to share your deeds with the world.” Reiss dances through the combination on the cooler like he’s opened this thing in his sleep. I imagine less an organ cooler and more a tangible reflection of his own fetishes and obsessions. Cash has always had the same effect on him. The door eases open to reveal Mallory, strapped to a chair with a system of tubes and IV bags hung above her, each filled with eggplant purple. She’s a monster, pale and blue, skin glossed with frost and Juice, frothing from her mouth by the pressure of a full, distended gut.

  The fire poker leans against the fireplace, Victor’s blood glistening by the light of the flames. “Is she…”

  “Dead? Likely.”

  I reach for the poker. Victor’s blood, sticky like sap, welcomes my grip. I feign weakness, contorting my body to hide the weapon.

  “Why did you take her from the first floor?” I study her body for a sign of life. She’s fallen so quickly. I squeeze the iron poker.

  “Honestly, because you brought her to me. I trusted your guidance.” He leans closer to her, surveys his work. “I suppose it’s all your fault really, that she is where she is.” He coughs. “A waste of good Juice, I’d say,” and before he can turn back I stab the fire poker into his back, reopening the kidney wound. It’s everything I can do to move this boulder of a man into the cooler, but I do, and just as the door closes, as Reiss’s eyes widen with fear, Mallory’s open to slits. She parts her lips, the word “help” falling out, but the door clicks shut.

  I yank on the handle. I turn the dial. The metal remains defiant. I join the room in its sudden silence, leaning against the door, my head propped against the cold steel. I pound on the door and search for impossible report. And then a thump. Then two. Then three. Faint at first but louder the more I dig into the sound, the more I dissolve everything around me. The fireplace crackle dies away. The soft hush of ventilated air too gives way to the beat from within the safe. Perhaps it’s Reiss attempting escape. Perhaps he’s beating Mallory. The truth doesn’t matter. I’ve already decided it’s Mallory’s heart not giving up, just as mine never will.

  II.

  RED LIGHT DISTRICT

  WINTER

  Punhos Sagrados

  Rorschach splatters of blood and sweat cover the ring, gray teeth embedded in the canvas by fallen bodies and stomping feet. Light seeps down from a bare bulb over the ring. A ripple spreads through the crowd standing on dented steel benches, rocking on uneven folding chairs. Two glass bottles tumble into the ring. The man in black snatches them up, hurls them back at the crowd. There’s a shatter, then screaming. He shouts that his fights are fair fights, not resigning himself to the role of formality. It’s nice to see someone else believe in hope.

  The Indian shakes his arms loose, flexes his fingers, throws his neck left and right with an audible crack. He meets me in the center. He’s probably not even Indian, but from Guatemala, Colombia. Hell, maybe even came up over in the Ghost Town but found “The Indian” on a silk-screened fight poster brought in more bets.

  We bring forth our hands, showing there’s nothing but tape and blood, clap lightly. I lean forward. “You up, or you in?”

  He runs a hand over the scars crisscrossing his thick forehead, bounces from foot to foot. Another bottle skips across the canvas.

  “If you’re up, it’s truly been an honor.” I flex my fingers, feel the tape cup my knuckles. “But if you’re in, you better not fall until I say you’ve had enough.”

  He spits a thin stream of brown in an arc, steals a glance toward the ropes.

  “You go down before that, I’ll hit you until you see black.”

  A flick of the head and he says he’s up.

  I take a breath, exhale through my nose, and nod toward the man in his corner, his moneyman, his pimp.

  He shakes his head, takes my hand with a tenderness reserved for lovers and men of violence. “It’s been an honor to fight you.”

  Then he flattens my nose.

  I slide the blade under the tape on my left hand, slice away at the wrapping. Flecks of rust catch on the fabric and I can’t tell metal from blood. I angle the left side of my face down, use the open eye to make sure I don’t slice my arm down the center. The Indian led with his right, getting me to follow him over, then snuck in with a left hook that turned half the warehouse into red splotches shot through with yellow. The skin beneath the wrap is puckered and white. I clench my fingers, work the blood back through them, switch hands and start on my right.

  Chicken wire and two-by-fours separate the fighters’ quarters from one another. Wooden planks bolted to salvaged rebar pass for a bench in each plot. Decommissioned meat lockers store our effects. Around the bottom edge of the lockers lies a thin line of crust of something that could be described only as effluvia, and on taking to the street after a fight, we always seem to have a welcome party comprised of hungry dogs. At least we’re afforded quarters here. Hanging on the door handle is a wrench, sized to fit the pipe for drinking water jutting out the floor. Mismatched glasses from the surrounding bars sit atop the lockers.

  Caddy-corner to me, a mass of gristle and corn dust held together by overalls rubs the shoulders of a teenage boy. The old man’s corn-husk hair stands at assorted angles. His boy, Ezekiel, has the thick forehead of a veteran, though it’s been hardened by fourteen-hour days on an Outskirts farm rather than time spent ringside. His hands are pointed like shovels and could palm my face like a toy. Still, there’s something immature and undeveloped about his mouth, his nose. Despite being well over two hundred cock-diesel pounds of unadulterated muscle, he has the doe-eyed look of a teenager still looking for approval from Daddy. The title payout would sustain his farm for a healthy nine months, assuming they’re still accepting money out there. He’s got a right that could break down a reinforced door, and though I’d never admit it aloud, every time I see him fight I thank fuck it’s not me in there with him. I believe I could beat him, but am just as glad to never have to prove it.

  I swish water around my mouth, spit streaks of blood at the grate in the concrete floor. I press a thumb against my nostril and blow gently, clearing the fluid from my sinuses. Didn’t even see the punch coming.

  The Indian shuffles down the gutter between all the corrals. A length of rope keeps his left arm attached to his body, stabilizes the separated shoulder. Black thread crosses between the halves of his split lip. His eyes look washed in motor oil.

  I offer him a sip from my glass.

  He shakes his head.

  “Sorry about your shoulder.”

  “Bound to happen someday.”

  “If you hadn’t slipped back, I would’ve hit your solar plexus like I was aiming to.”

  He gives what seems to be a smile. Blood lines his teeth.

  Out in the warehouse, the crowd screams as a fighter enters. Ezekiel pops his shoulders back in the manner of the under-confident and overmatched. His father shouts in his face, slaps his cheeks to get his blood moving.

  “Old man should let him focus,” the Indian says.

  Ezekiel starts his journey to the ring, swinging his fists in compact hooks and jabs.

  “The privilege of youth.” I rip the last bit of wrapping from my hand, rub it into a ball and toss it aside. I pull out a small leather pouch from inside the fridge, unzip it, choose an eighteen-gauge needle. “Give me a hand?”

  The Indian flaps his useless limbs.

  “Right.” I lean over the grate, stretch the skin around my right eye between my fingers, and insert the needle. The room brightens, depth perception shoring itself as fluid drains.

  The Indian comes behind me, lays a hand on my shoulder. “Hope your hands are faster in the next fight
.”

  I return the blessing, press my fingers against my cheek and listen to the echoing crowd overtake his footsteps.

  Tug sits behind his desk picking dried fluid off his denim shirt. The tarnished cross glints in his nest of chest hair. I’ve always thought it was more a prop than a symbol of faith, something to make us trust his bookkeeping. Empty cans of soda, beans, and beer stand like sentinels guarding an invisible fortress. Stuck to the wall with nails is the bracket, crooked lines leading to two lines in the center of the butcher paper. Five bloodied men behind me, three empty spaces between me and fifty thousand. Three men who I’ll use to prove myself to myself.

  “You had him down in the third. Why not finish him off?”

  I shrug, say he rallied back well.

  “You come up against a fighter like Ezekiel, you might reconsider that.” He hands me a towel used to clean engines, points at the spot below his eyes. I feel a warm thread down my cheek, hot tacks in my nose when I inhale. “He only fought back because there was a fight to be had.”

  “I’m not going to attack him while he’s on the ground. There’s no point.”

  He flutters his hands like meaty butterflies. “Forgot you were the fighting bishop. My apologies, your holiness.”

  I start to say that I’m not a bishop, that I haven’t stepped foot inside a church in years except for a hot meal, but I swallow a knot of blood and mucus instead.

  “You want gas, grass, or ass?”

  “How much in paper?”

  Leaning back in his chair, he pops the latch on his briefcase, thumbs through some bills. “I could see you $600.”

  “You serious?”

  “Honesty is an unprofitable model, son.” He picks at his teeth with a folded bill. “You loosen the belt a notch, start getting wobbly, I might be able to place you some more bets. Hard to win against a man who won’t lose.”

  “It suits me fine.”

  “Anyway, you can get a little more if you’re looking for something else.”

  I tap my fingers on my thigh, quick-counting how much I have for Mona. Six hundred is a pittance after draining my own eye, but it’s closer to getting her well. I hold out my hand, flexing my fingers.

  Tug unsheathes bills. “Any of this going to Mister Reiss?”

  “If I’m not falling for myself, I’m sure as hell not falling for him.”

  “Just checking. Never know what a man does in the shadows.”

  “I’ve got a good idea what you do, and I couldn’t say it in mixed company.”

  This makes him smile. “You going to buy that Indian a drink with this, feeling so magnanimous like you do?”

  Faintly, filtered through his office walls, the crowd downstairs erupts. Doesn’t quite have the rabid timbre of gushing blood. I hope the boy found a good spot to leave that right.

  “Nah, heading home.” I peel off a bill, tell him to give it to my corner, then fold the rest in half, shove them in my pocket and sling my bag over my shoulder. “Got a long day tomorrow.”

  “Every day’s a long day, Bishop.” His laugh echoes as I’m walking out. “You should learn to enjoy yourself, or start hanging your chin out and let them win some money for once.”

  I open the door, start to turn and make a remark about his dick taking a fall, then forget it.

  The door shuts behind me. I shrug on my trenchcoat and hobble my way down the steps.

  The wind slices through the streets. I cinch my collar with one hand, hold my jacket together with the other. The chilling sweat on my back and thighs makes my skin prickle. My nose begins to numb, and that’s not such a bad thing. Head down, body hunched, I trudge toward my train stop.

  Three-story buildings cut a skyline like the bottom jaw of a dog who has bitten too many metal bumpers. Uneven peaks, crumbling valleys. A fire hydrant sits on the corner of Eighth and Holiday, an abstract ice sculpture blooming from the top. The thick bolt is frozen to the sidewalk. Mona would like the lines of the ice, appreciate the organic flow of it. Some things have no choice but to obey their instincts, though she’d explain it as the law of ratios rather than nature. Would’ve explained, rather. Before the attack. Before the miscarriage, the cleaning, the mania. She would’ve compared the soft curve of the ice to the slope between stomach and hip, the spot I’d kiss until she grabbed my hair and pulled me up to her. She’d say that there is a collective feeling that particular curve elicits, then, in her own work, undermine it with a series of violent angles to disorient the viewer. I’d tell her it’s the same as a flurry of rights that pushes the other guy back and finishes with a crescendo of left uppercut. Then she’d kiss my cheek and say I’m funny.

  Or something. Maybe I’m only projecting.

  Pink light burns through the night, contorted into a grotesque female caricature. The façade throbs with guitars drenched in dust and bathtub whiskey. Slurred shouts and clapping and a few screams of protest. Three buildings tacked over with boards sit next to the show bar, the weak streetlight glancing off watching eyes of the cutthroats, the addicts, and the dispossessed. Pasted up on the boards are half a dozen “Have you seen my child?” posters, each with a sketched rendering of children from three to fifteen. Bookending the squats is a curry house, radiating a saffron glow. Two spits of meat rotate in the front window, though whether it’s leg of lamb, puppy, or engorged rat is even money. I count cracks in the sidewalk, follow the spray-painted arrows. One is a hand-scrawled THIS WAY FOR A GOOD TIME. Another, THIS WAY TO HELL. I continue straight, listening for the rumble of an approaching train.

  I follow the overhead tracks past Seventh Avenue, try to avoid the ice. On the corner is the old Municipal Loan Corporation branch, the one where Mona and I tried to get money for some land in the Outskirts where she could have a studio next to a garden. A paper store took over the building after the bank closed down, seizing the opportunity for cheap rent. They figured that with all of the pulping chemicals, no one would notice the scent of boiling ammonia and piles of discarded batteries. They should’ve known that no one would care, that they’re actually contributing to the local economy.

  A thin shrill noise rings out, a train’s squeaking brakes but more fragile. I stop in the street, ears turned away from the wind. Bits of ice skip on my ear, melting and dripping inside. I stand, waiting to see if I’m punch-drunk or actually heard something. I lay my hand against the steel girder, checking for vibration, but it’s quiet.

  The noise rings out again, this time more guttural and definitely not a train. I start at a trot and try to locate the person. Deeper sounds now, a different person. Around the corner I imagine Mona on the ground, a man holding her purse and pointing while another kicks her; I hear afterbirth dripping, forming a puddle. Glass shatters and my knees scrape pavement. I hoist myself up, wipe my face and kick away the broken bottle, lean down into a full sprint. A thousand frozen knives slash at my face, slip down the back of my trench, nearly to my shorts.

  I round the corner and find the old theatre, two men standing over a woman, cornered down to her haunches. The Brick on the right swigs from a bottle, the other one circling closer, a length of pipe in his hand. Her voice rings out again, though it’s not terrified so much as threatening. The man with the pipe circles closer. I slow down, keep to the balls of my feet and stay quiet.

  The Brick has a wet laugh, more fat than alcohol. He steps forward and takes a knee to move eye-level with her, and my fist makes a dull thump when it connects with his face. She lashes out at his head when he falls, attacks him with her heels.

  The man with the pipe swings around to me. Metal kisses my shoulder and makes my bruises flash bright blue. He goes for the kill shot. I slip back, pepper his chest with two jabs, but he stumbles back and my hook flies past. His elbow catches my drained eye. A light blooms inside my head. I shake it away, throw a haymaker with the vague hope of connecting. He sucks wind as he rears back with the pipe, cueing up to separate my arm at the elbow. I throw my throbbing shoulder forward to shield the blow and h
e releases a wild scream. He collapses into a writhing pile, the back of his thigh steaming against the frozen sidewalk. Above us: rumbling. The coming train. The girl cups a stained blade in her palm. She says something to him in a language I don’t understand, and her voice gives me the faint vertigo of recognition.

  “I’m Marcel—”

  “Please don’t tell Sal.” She wipes the knife on my sleeve and scurries across the street. At the exit of the tracks’ stairwell, she flings a leg over the turnstile and throws herself up the stairs.

  I stand in the alcove, two moaning men at my feet. The one who had the pipe says he needs to get to the hospital, that he’s going to bleed out.

  “You shouldn’t have fucked with her.”

  A plastic bag blows past me. The Brick gurgles. I wipe fluid from my eye, step over the bleeding man, and hurry up the tracks.

  The train is a memory by the time I get there, the platform bare but for a small fire at the end. Two men huddle around it, gnawing flesh from the bones of some small animal roasting over the flame. A handful of shooting stars pass over the city. I fold myself into a corner, hide behind my collar, and wait for the next carriage.

  I can taste the bleach three doors down from our apartment. Rattling my keys in the lock, I clear my throat a dozen times before opening the door. Mona skitters around the living room, as if I set the film of our lives to the wrong speed. Polishing wooden sofa arms. Straightening picture frames. Dusting her sculptures that line the perimeter. Tending to the fig tree in the corner. The reflection off the kitchen tile is near blinding. I unscrew two lightbulbs in the fixture and only with the flicker of light, the electric snap of current change, does she turn to me.