Bullets, Teeth, & Fists 2

by Jason Beech

  I clock off, usher our last customers off the premises, help lock the building. I should ask a couple other referees to escort me back to my car – safety in numbers and all that – but I can’t see the arse anymore.

  “See you later, lads,” I say to two of my colleagues.

  “See you, Fraser.”

  I watch them drive off, then head for my car. I refuse to take a beating. Or worse, die a bachelor. I straighten my back, keep my head raised – like I mean business. My Renault is untouched by anything other than weather. I kneel on the front seat and fiddle with the steering wheel, hear footsteps, climb out and plant my feet a foot apart for ballast. I’m going to take a hit. Come on: give me a big purple bruise. I reach into the car, take hold. I turn my face into a punch that knocks me back into my motor. Fire sears my senses. I worry about my chances of recovery. A dozen or so blinks clear my vision. I’m glad I stay on my feet, relieved I keep my grip, happy I have proof to show why I needed to defend myself. I hear Billy step in for the next punch. I swing the wheel-lock two-handed, hear his cheek collapse. Wince at the splinter sound. The follow-through is quick enough to smash his nose to the right. He falls, rolls on his back, hands to his face. Grunts stretch to squeals and back again. The darkness oozes between his fingers. I grab his boots and drag him onto the pavement. I wouldn’t want him to get killed by a passing car.

  I shake my head. What is his life is missing to ruin a perfect game of football? I throw the red card I should have shown him earlier on his writhing frame.

  I grab it back – it’s a cheesy flourish and it’ll point the finger right at me.

  The Other Woman

  Carly tingled as Jim took her hand. Linked his fingers between hers and rushed by the heaving bar. Carly smiled until she turned to see his head down to avoid the throng. She guessed he'd have turned up his collar, if he could, and tilted the brim of a trilby to cover his eyes, if he had one.

  She owled her neck to the people who burst from the bar’s seams. Its windows had been thrown wide, and balcony railings kept punters from tumbling out. The speakers pounded some generic lyrics into the street like a sewage leak.

  A woman, blonde with Eiffel Tower legs, watched them from the upper floor behind balcony railings, a smirk behind the rim of her wine glass. The woman hula-hooped her hips to the music. Those child-rearing thighs aimed at Carly. The woman backed into the folds of drinkers, fondlers, and grinders.

  Carly avoided each crack in the pavement, a childhood habit she'd carried into adulthood. Hard to do when she wore platforms. His fingers held hers tight, sweaty but rigid as dead bones. She squeezed – told him it's okay, you can tell me in your own time. But a couple of minutes passed without a word and her fingers turned to stone. On any other romantic night their handholding would have included playful tickles of each other's palms, an occasional passionate squeeze, and a pull into the other’s body.

  “So …” He fumbled for a topic. “That holiday we were talking about.”

  His eyes wandered around hers without any penetration, like a bug circled her face.

  “The one we decided we couldn't afford?”

  “Well, maybe we can …”

  His voice trailed down a path she knew led back to the blonde. She imagined him grind into her, his tongue in places Carly expected were exclusive to herself.

  “I looked at the figures.” She shouldered her images away the best she could. “We can't do it.”

  He nodded too quick, easy to accept her analysis – because they'd already agreed. The bastard had just tried to throw her off the scent. Instead, her nose filled with the other woman’s.

  “Let me call a taxi, these shoes are killing me.”

  “Your brother?”

  “Sure, why not. He needs the business.”

  His forehead creased and he searched up and down the road as if her sibling lied in wait. “Jump on my back. I'll give you a ride.”

  She laughed. Dragged memories of how they got together back into her present.

  “I'm Jim,” he'd said. “Your future husband.” Once she'd got over the urge to make his nose a pancake, she allowed him to buy her a drink. Only if she could buy him the next few. That took him by surprise, but she enjoyed how his wide eyes slipped into an open smile which invited her right in.

  She jumped on his back and reached over to whip her hand across his arse. He neighed up the street past clubbers and drunken couples just like them. Some meatheads shouted “knobhead” at him. All of them single, she had no doubt. They wore t-shirts with necks that dropped low to show their pecs, but not low enough to reveal their cocktail sausage penises. Made her hold him tighter.

  They collapsed onto a wooden bench beneath an uplit sycamore tree. The night’s warm breeze filled his shirt, did its best to lift her thigh-length skirt higher.

  She danced her fingers on his arm. “Are you mine?”

  “Since the moment you said yes.”

  That smile got her. She'd gone to college. Nodded along to critical thinking seminars. Learned how you could speak truth to power and spot manipulation a mile off. But we're all animals. That smile made her drop her clothes all over a bedroom floor.

  She called for that taxi. Put a curvy leg across his, slipped a hand between buttons in his shirt, let her fingertips electrify his flesh. He talked about business. She gave his toned chest a little nip to shut him up and dragged him from the bench.

  “Are you ready for another drink?” He pulled at her to follow him to the bar down the road.

  “No. I'm enjoying the night air too much. Let's walk. I'll listen to you tell me how much you love me.”

  His brow didn't work so well when she asked him to do such things. Not the way she wanted them to work, anyway. They didn't spread like they would with a smile, but instead squeezed into a v-shape.

  His honeyed words dropped to the ground and flapped like clubbed seals. She held his arm tight like they had plucked her strings. That blonde in the bar. A pang of self-consciousness made her run a hand through her dark curls. She resisted the temptation to cup her boobs. Snorted at how only the window railings held blondies tits from spilling into the street.

  They arrived back at the bar. He’d not noticed how she’d led them back. She kissed him hard. Had to press against his concrete lips. She opened her eyes. His remained open. Like lip-locking a mannequin. Up on the balcony the blonde watched. Jim had his back to the woman so he couldn’t see the blonde bob her head up and down over her tight fist.

  The taxi arrived. “Here we go.” She let go of his arm.

  He opened the door, nodded for her to go first – ladies first and all that.

  “Get in, you daft sod.”

  He shrugged, jumped in, opened his palms to her, all question marks, when she stayed outside and slammed the door shut.

  “Brother.” She nodded to the driver through the open window.

  “Sis.” Broad shoulders. Pecs like a bull’s, wrapped in a proper-necked t-shirt.

  “He cheated on me. You know the score.”

  The doors thudded, locks activated. Jim’s hands flattened against the window, his face a molten mess. She swivelled to find the other woman.

  Invisible Man

  My boss, Jones, calls me over and tells me I need to pull my fucking finger out and clear tables quicker. He never had any of this slack shit when in the marines.

  “When nature calls, I need to do something about it,” I tell him. I can’t picture him in a marine uniform.

  He blinks twice, maybe thinks I violated a health and safety law, and thrusts a new cloth in my hand to go with the disinfectant spray I hang from a finger.

  “Well, I hope you washed your hands, amigo. Table five needs cleaning.”

  I glance over and almost drop everything. I tighten, brittle enough to smash to pieces if even this slight girl with blonde hair brushes me as she passes by.

  The man at table five taps the table top with a credit card, as he would chop the shit he deals. He hasn't s
een me yet. Or pretends he hasn't. I'm used to people not seeing me in this job.

  The shithead wears those glasses which I'm not sure are for bad eyesight or if the wearer is just sensitive to light. Maybe he watches me behind those shades, though he concentrates on the table top.

  “Well?” Jones says.

  I act the humble Latino and bow my head amongst the rich college kids. I can't help check out their smooth hands and innocent faces. What a life to have mom and dad back you up with such ease, to walk these Princeton streets with all the swagger of an easy passage.

  My hands, never mind all the soap and water I scrub these tables with, are still rough from farm work wayyyy south of the border. They're still strong. Firm enough to wrap around this man’s neck and hold through all the wriggle he could manage.

  I'm a few feet from table five when David, his eyes still on the imaginary cocaine, says, “Rivaldo … you took some finding.”

  I pretend I don't get English. I nod and smile. Acquiescent to the white man. His white teeth beam beneath the strip lights and his tan wouldn’t look out of place in an orange grove. A dagger of hair stabs down his high forehead.

  “Rivaldo …” He extends the last vowel like he enjoys my cheek.

  I spray his table and work my elbow. Concentrate on the sauce congealed on the surface. I nod again. Mock-understand him like I don't really know a word he says. But I learn fast. Taught myself the Anglo tongue pretty quick once I crawled over the border, cracked and almost mad from dehydration.

  “We have your family.”

  I scrub faster and harder. Grease from the kitchen attacks my nostrils. I work the cloth in circular mode until I realize he has forced me to show my agitation. I stand straight. I stand about five or six inches short of his full height, but I can glare him down to my size. The used cutlery which litters the table is plastic and wouldn't penetrate his eyeballs. My finger plays with the spray’s trigger. His stupid glasses would protect his eyes. He must notice how my nostrils flare like a bull’s, pulled wide by a ring towards crazy.

  “Don't try anything stupid.”

  “What have you done with them?”

  I think of Maria, her lips always apart like temptation, though it's only because she can't breathe through her nose. How she talks with a hand on my shoulder as if she thinks I can only concentrate through her touch. My sweet daughter running barefoot through the house, lungs full of her grandmother’s bedtime lullabies.

  “They are safe. For now.”

  “For now? What does that mean?”

  The man frowns his mock-sympathy, but it only dumps coal on my fire.

  “You can't range-out from the radar, Rivaldo – you know the rules. You put your own family in danger by thinking you can avoid your duties. You owe us for the passage.”

  I plant my fists on the table as I glare at this chicken-slither of a man. “You didn't get me over the border. None of your people did any good, despite your damn fee. I made it over myself, and nearly died doing so, you …”

  David concentrates on the table’s new soapy smear pattern, his eyebrows as sharp as the hair. “What am I, Rivaldo, but your guardian angel. I am here to save you and your family.”

  “How?”

  “We’ll give you a second chance. You kill a man.” He tapped a beat with the credit card. “Let's make it easy for you – kill your boss.”

  I squeeze my eyes for fear they'll fall out. I check the boss out, sly, so he can't tell we're talking about him. Good God, I burn with shame. “Is he …?”

  “He is an innocent man. Utterly innocent. Just a regular Joe, working hard to make ends meet.”

  I could plant potatoes in the boss’ furrowed brow. He sticks two fingers up and claps across the restaurant. As if I am a monkey. As if my low wage makes me low value.

  “When do you need?”

  “No time like the present.” David taps his watch.

  “Now?”

  “Clearly not in everyone's view. But, yes – now. Think of your wife. Your child.”

  “Then what?”

  “My white Honda CRV is on 2nd Street. Find me. Let me finish this falafel, first.”

  One of our waiters pushes me aside with his contempt. Every whomp of my heart bounces me to the kitchen, where I clean my cloths and change my bucket water.

  “Did you clean table two?” My boss pierces me with those squinty eyes. His bald dome flashes his warning red.

  I shake my head, no. He invites me into his tiny office, not much more than a closet. The slanted wall forces me to bow to this pumpkin head. He sits down at his desk, so tight a man could not spread his legs to air his balls. I scan for a weapon. Something heavy and blunt, or with a sharp end. He’s the type to own a letter opener. I could slice his throat with that. I imagine him as nothing more than a pig, a small sacrifice to save my Maria and little girl, Rosa.

  “Rivaldo …” He sighs, as if what he's about to say will hurt him more than me. “You're starting to lose focus, maybe pride, in your work …”

  His words make me lose focus. A shake of his head, a clasp of his hands, a rub of his chin. I get his gist – I am an illegal and so should be grateful for this wondrous opportunity.

  I measure the table – its material is cheap – I could lift and smash it over his head. No, not with this sloped wall. I'd bring the ceiling down first.

  “Do you have anything to say?”

  I shake my head and stare at my feet. That usually works.

  “Nothing? At all?”

  The wire from his little radio to the wall socket snakes and shimmers. Wags like a puppy tail. I shake my head again and he scrapes the chair, all indignant as he stands. His head bobs, he mutters about my ingratitude at the few dollars an hour – no share of the tips – he pays me. I grab at the wire as he shifts towards the door. The radio swings into the wall as I pull the plug from the socket. I'm quick. Before he realizes what's happened I have the wire round his neck. I pull hard before words, or any noise, can spill from his mouth and flood the joint. He's heavier than I judged and when he bucks I'm almost head over heels and through the wall. The music outside, mixed with the general hustle and bustle, must muffle the noise. We're on the floor. I wrap my legs round his waist as he tries to slot his fingers between wire and throat. My sweat drips on his face. He manages to propel some croaks in what little gap he has in his throat. I strain and gawp at the picture that must have fallen from his table. A little boy. My girl’s age. A sob footballs up in my throat so that I must look like one of those toads. I let go. Back away. Hug myself. Want to hug Jones. He writhes on the floor, gulps at the air. Rubs at his throat. His head is a big red balloon. He makes it to his hands and knees. Coughs phlegm over the floor. Snot gloops from his nose. My eyes feel unmoored. I pat at them to make sure they haven't rolled across the floor.

  His breath steadies. His chest is up and down like my hopes. He lifts his boiled lobster head – his white, gummy oyster eyes bulge.

  “What the …?” His voice rips from beneath the Earth’s crust.

  “Jones, I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry. I didn't mean … I am in trouble.”

  “Trouble? You're not fucking kidding.” He coughs out his words. Growls to clear the choke which still pins him to all fours on the floor.

  “There's a man outside. Table five. He … he demanded I kill you, to keep my family all safe. I-I-I couldn't do it. Even though you treat me so badly.”

  He stares at the floor. Those coughs must cheese-grate his throat to flappy shreds. He pulls himself into his desk chair and slumps. Stares at me through fat eyelids. “What man?”

  “That man – the one why I stood doing nothing for so long. He's threatening my family back home. He says his people have them. I know these people. They kill.”

  Jones’ belly bagpipes up and down. His voice comes out like the instrument’s warm-up. “Tell him to come round the back. Tell him you did the job.”

  “He might have gone. He said I should meet him by his white Honda on
ce I … finish the job.”

  “Check, you fucking moron. Check.”

  I scramble to my feet and bounce off the wall from lack of balance. Objects sway left and right from my view like they want to escape my dangerous hands. I let out that breath I've held tight in my chest. Sneak a glance down the little corridor and through the busy tables. I see him through the bustle of a family who seat themselves at the table in front of him. David’s face is down at his phone, though he still wears his sunglasses, so his eyes might have lazered on me already.

  I retreat back inside the office. “He's still here.”

  “Change of plan, Rivaldo. Go out to the back yard and sit in a corner. Rock back and forth and cry.”

  “Sir, what –?”

  “Act, man, act.”

  “Why?”

  “Don't question me, Rivaldo. Do as I tell you. For once.”

  I nod, annoyed he always uses my name in a sentence. That, or amigo. Maybe white is right, though he's still very red. I sneak out the back, but leave a little gap in the door to see through. I hear, above the music, the waiters shout orders, the white noise chatter from customers, Jones clear his throat. He sounds like my hands are still round his neck. The block of lard finally squeezes out the office and heads for David. The butter mountain has a new authority I have the urge to follow. His shoulders are up, his head lowered, a bull in full charge at a red cape.

  David slides the sunglasses down his nose and even from here I can see his eyes wobble in surprise. He thought I could kill Jones? He thought he would never see this man in front of him? My hand shakes. The tremor hits a vein in my arm and pulses every muscle on the way to my mouth. My teeth rattle. David stands. He's about the same size as Jones, height-wise. Could fit three of him into my boss width-wise. His head turns to the door I tremble behind and he steps my way. I backpedal to a corner of the courtyard. There’s one window which overlooks the square, and that’s high up. I won’t need to act – I can't control the earthquake which runs through my frame. I wrap around myself and blink at the roofs which shadow this back courtyard. They lean in so far I cower at how they must topple on my head. The door swings open and David towers above me. Shakes his head. Tuts. Jones follows him out.