by Jeremy Brown
“Not nearly enough.”
Carrasco said, “Many of Exu’s people were hurt, killed, sure. But they were not wasted. On the fifth day the guards broke through. They had armor and shields and automatic weapons, sure. What a mess they made. Even the prisoners who surrendered, they killed. They shot me here.”
He touched a finger to his pelvis.
“And when I could not fight back, they dragged me to a hallway with bars for a ceiling, so things and people thrown from above do not land on others walking. The guards had brought a rope just for this thing. They hung me from the bars and shot me again, here.”
He pointed to his stomach.
“They moved along to kill more prisoners, leaving one man behind so no one could help me. I died for a while, sure. But Exu found me on the other side and wanted me to live. He came back with me, into Carandiru, into my body hanging from the bars. That was when Malhar saved me.”
Malhar’s eyes were half-closed, seeing it all again. He’d stopped chewing out of reverence.
I said, “What was he in for? Eating slaves?”
Carrasco smiled. “No, you don’t see it yet. He was the guard.”
I kept my face flat. “You got saved by a guard?”
Carrasco said, “He felt the presence of Exu. There was a reason he was left there with me.”
“Yeah, to pull down on your feet until your neck snapped.”
“Maybe. But he did not. Even then he had his hammer. The guards did not like to carry guns most normal days, sure, because it tempted the prisoners to attack them and steal the weapons. Malhar and his hammer were feared very much. So no one questioned him when he cut me down and carried me out. I rode away from Carandiru in the back of a prison vehicle, just like how I arrived. Malhar took me to the Axila da Serpente, where Exu’s followers were many. They did what they could to put my body together.”
“In the dark?”
He sniffed. “It does not matter what my body looks like. What it can do. Exu is not limited by these things.”
“Prove it. Let’s go.”
Carrasco tapped the end of his walking stick on the pavement a few times, took a few deep breaths.
I said, “I’m calling bullshit. Look at you. You want your people to believe you’re above all this, leaving it up to the spirits. And it pisses you off, because now you can’t lose your temper anymore.”
He wagged a finger at me. “Not my people. Exu’s. And yes, it is a struggle, thank you for noticing.”
“So what are we waiting for?”
“I am sitting here with you, telling you these things out of respect for the spirits. They think you are making foolish choices because you are ignorant.”
I squinted. “Are any of these spirits named Gil?”
“They want you to know what I am. What you are opposing when you fight me. So you can make a wise choice.”
“Oh, I’ve known what you are since Marcela first said your name.”
“Ah, so Exu is working through her already. This makes him happy.”
“No, she told me what you’re doing, and I immediately knew you were a crazy sack of shit. And the best way to handle you is to stomp your head until you go away. One way or another.”
He nodded. “And this has not changed?”
“Only because Malhar’s head got added. Which is nice, because I can clunk the two together. Save my shoes.”
Carrasco sprang forward, much faster than I thought possible in his condition. “Do you know what I am doing, you fucking idiot?” Spittle flew from his mouth. “I am offering you another choice. Go. Leave and never come back.”
Behind us, Malhar held his breath.
I said, “Wait. Is it you offering, or Exu?”
He sat back, smoothed the front of his shirt. “Exu, of course. The spirit of the crossroads.”
“Whoever it is, you’re not trying to give me a choice. You’re trying to scare me.”
“If you are not scared, you don’t have a brain.”
“I’m terrified. Terrified of what will happen to Marcela if I leave. Terrified of living the rest of my life knowing I could have helped and ran away instead.”
Carrasco’s mouth twisted. “And for yourself? There is no fear?”
“Plenty of it. But I have a tolerance. Because here’s the thing—I’ve had mortal fear many, many times. Each time, I beat it. And I made damn sure the source of that fear never came back.”
Carrasco stared at me. I pictured that bulging, blood-filled sac of an eye behind the sunglasses. The eye of Exu. Malhar’s breathing picked up speed.
The phone buzzed on the concrete again.
And again.
The screen lit up with two new messages.
Carrasco leaned over it.
I kept my voice steady. “See? Like I said, all alone.”
Three more dropped into the queue. The vibration sounded like a box of angry hornets.
Carrasco picked the phone up. The screen reflected in his black lenses.
He nodded once and whispered something to Malhar, who started around the far side of the bench.
I stood up as the mortal fear closed in.
Malhar came around the corner. I squared up, feet spread and arms loose.
Don’t punch him in the head. You’ll break a hand.
Knees and elbows then.
Don’t pull him into a clinch. He looks like a biter.
Check. Knees and elbows while going backward.
Malhar stopped at the corner of the bench and eased a hand under Carrasco’s right arm. Carrasco stood, most of his weight on the walking stick. He tilted and twisted his neck, the bones and tendons grinding like broken glass. A push-kick would crumple him like a sheet of newspaper.
I considered it. Might leave Malhar torn for a nanosecond—help his master or attack me—a tiny hesitation that would allow me to crush his larynx. Or at least dent his groin.
A dark SUV with bars on the front grille slid to the curb and stopped. The driver—a skinny guy in cargo shorts and a tank top with an M4 shorty hanging across his chest—got out and opened the back door.
Resisting the urge to glance around for Rubin and his men, I said, “We finally going?”
If they’d been made, would they bolt, leave me to fend for myself? Or rush in, roll up Carrasco and his men in an attempt at damage control? Either way, all I cared about was what Carrasco would do to Marcela and her family.
He took a careful step toward the SUV with Malhar’s help. “I say yes, it is time.”
I moved forward and tried to see inside the SUV. It was pitch-black, the interior lights covered or broken. Eye Patch could be in there, waiting to put a bullet in the back of my head as soon as the door shut. Whether Rubin had been burned or not, he’d better be on his way to the Axila.
Carrasco grabbed the open door for support, looked over his shoulder at me. “But Exu says it is not. You still have some choices to make, sure.”
Malhar closed the door, scowled at me and walked around the back of the SUV. The driver got in and pulled away and left me there, flooded with adrenaline and ready for battle.
Trouble was, the only person close enough to fight was me.
I called Rubin.
He picked up mid-ring. “That was exciting, no?”
“Marcela?”
“My team just checked in. All quiet.”
“You still here?”
“Of course.”
“Nobody saw you?”
“Nobody,” Rubin said. “And stop looking around. We are not hiding in the bushes or sitting in cars behind newspapers.”
“You trailing Carrasco back to the Axila?”
“Eh, to the outskirts. If we get too close, things get awkward. Bullets. What are you going to do?”
“Sleep.”
“Thank God. I will leave a team here to watch the hotel. The rest of us are going home. I think tomorrow is going to be a big day for us.”
“You? I’ll be looking over both shoulders for
Carrasco while I’m getting locked in a cage with Aviso.”
“Yes, and I have to keep up with you. It’s like . . . hm.”
“What?”
Rubin said, “It just hit me, Carrasco might be delaying on purpose.”
“Yeah, he’s pulling the ‘Exu says’ bullshit, stringing me along until he thinks the time is right.”
“Yes, but I think he already knows what the right time will be. But not for the Coluna.”
“The hell you saying?”
“My friend, when you are locked in the cage with Aviso, anyone watching over you will have to be there too. That means me, my teams.”
My stomach tightened.
Rubin said, “If Carrasco is going to attack the Arcoverdes, go after Marcela, that is when he will do it.”
“Shit.”
“But she will be at the arena with you, yes? To watch Jairo fight, then you. So we can watch over everyone.”
I thought about Antonio. Pictured him bringing Jairo back to the prep room after his fight, packing up their gear and leaving while I’m warming up for Aviso.
Taking Marcela with him, keeping her away from me.
Would she go?
No. Nobody could tell her what to do.
But why start a feud with the man who raised her when I was going back to Vegas on Sunday?
Back to Vegas, without her.
I could see it. She’d kiss me on the cheek, tell me good luck, she was going to talk with her uncle about us, about who was in charge of her life.
Set him straight.
She didn’t want to watch me get hurt anyway, fighting Aviso.
Then she’d walk away, not seeing the pain worse than any punch or submission could cause.
“You still there?”
“Yeah.”
“Marcela will be with you at the arena, yes?”
I didn’t have an answer.
I staggered through the hotel in a daze, looking for an angle to keep everyone outside the cage safe while I was inside putting Aviso in danger.
I’d told Rubin, “If she leaves the arena, you go with her.”
“No, sorry. My priority is Carrasco and his favela. Even if they go after her, we will take the Axila. We are attached to you, like it or not.”
I sagged into the corner of the elevator.
One of the most important aspects of training is recovery. Recovery comes during sleep, when the body and central nervous system get repaired from the trauma and exertion of training. They rebuild, come back a little stronger, adapt to the stress.
Because of this, smart fighters protect their sleep like a piece of homemade cake in prison.
We compartmentalize everything, keep it separate from sleep.
Nothing gets through the walls to upset it.
I slipped through the hotel room door and eased it shut. Gil’s snoring didn’t waver. I kicked the weight of the day off with my shoes. Pushed the earbuds in and rolled the volume down to a whisper. The mantras tried to teach me secrets while I shoved everything into compartments.
Carrasco, Malhar, the Coluna.
Aviso, Eddie, Antonio.
Marcela.
She stayed free.
She wasn’t weight.
She was air.
I hit the pillow face-first and breathed in her scent, let it push everything else away and pull me into quicksand sleep.
I dreamt of walking down the hallway to fight Aviso. The Warrior cameraman backpedaled in front of me, two red candles mounted above his camera as spotlights.
The wax ran over his lens. He grinned behind the eyepiece and kept going. “Doesn’t matter anyway, right?”
I passed Jairo. He was slumped against the wall, legs outstretched, his face a meaty mess of blood and swollen flesh.
I asked him, “Did you win?”
He opened his mouth to speak and a closed fist emerged. It dropped a handful of teeth into his lap and slid back in. Jairo sobbed and began counting the teeth.
I turned the corner toward the double doors that opened on the arena, the crowd, the cage, and stopped. A snake’s open mouth filled the doorway. Its fangs hung like stalactites from the top of the frame. The tongue flickered out, big as a fire hose, dancing and searching for me.
Somewhere beyond it, the crowd chanted, “Vai morrer! Vai morrer!”
Antonio slapped me on the back. “Go. This is what you wanted.”
Gil stood behind him and covered his mouth, stifling a laugh.
The cameraman backed into the snake’s mouth and kept going. The two candles grew dim, disappeared.
“Wait,” Antonio said. He casually reached out and bent both of my forearms the wrong way, breaking my elbows with the ease he’d use to brush crumbs off a table. “Now go.”
I took a step toward the snake’s mouth. “Where is Marcela?”
Antonio tried to keep a straight face. “Where do you think?”
He turned to Gil and they collapsed into each other, giggling.
“Vai morrer! Vai morrer!”
The snake’s tongue brushed against my leg. It jumped, excited, the forks exploring my skin like antennae as I walked forward. The throat swallowed all light ten feet in. I stared into the darkness and pressed my broken left arm against one of the fangs, trying to straighten it out.
The fang swayed to the side like a wind chime. I pulled my eyes from the throat and saw the fang was Carrasco’s walking stick, hanging from the snake’s gums by threads of skin. Venom coursed down its length and dripped, pooling around my bare feet.
“Vai morrer! Vai morrer!”
I turned one last time.
Antonio and Gil were gone.
A ring of red candles burned where they had been. In the center was a hangman’s noose made of long black hair. Marcela’s hair, I knew. Wisps of it floated above the candles, flared, curled, and died.
I stepped into the snake’s mouth and it slammed shut behind me.
I pushed off the bed and blinked sweat out of my eyes.
Gil stood inside the door, one foot hovering in mid-step. “I tried to be quiet.”
“What’s happening? Where’s Marcela?”
“Easy. She’s fine, at the arena with Antonio and Jairo. I came to get you.”
“Why?” I stared at the clock, got tired of waiting for it to make sense. It said I’d slept until three o’clock in the afternoon.
“You need to shower, get ready.”
“For what?”
“Woody, it’s time to fight.”
14
The arena was beginning to hum with activity, small groups of people pulled into the funnel-shaped entrance. Within an hour it would be a flood.
The cab took Gil and me around back. Texts from Rubin let me know he and his men were on-site and there was no sign of Carrasco so far, but I didn’t need any Aviso fans spitting at me before I was awake enough to duck. We showed our tags to the security guard, who wrinkled his nose but let us in anyway.
“Go Aviso.”
“Go to hell,” I said.
Keeping up with Gil’s short legs was a trial. My feet were heavy, scuffing along the concrete floor.
Gil peeked back. “You okay?”
“I think I slept too much.”
“No such thing.”
I shook my head to clear it, turned a corner, and ran into a Warrior camera crew. They sprang into action, lights cooking and cable wranglers poised.
The cameraman kept his eyes on the screen. “Woody, we’re getting footage of fighters walking in. We’ll play it back on the screens and pay-per-view feed right before your fight. Everybody boos, it’s great. So look determined, yeah? But not at the camera, look over my shoulder, past me.”
They started backing up and we followed into the long hallway outside the prep rooms.
My dream crashed to the front of my head. The cameraman, the hallway. I remembered Jairo sitting in his own blood, Gil tittering about some private gag between him and Antonio.
The candles, Marcel
a’s hair noose.
And ahead, around the corner, the snake mouth.
Waiting.
“Woody, more determined,” the cameraman said. “You look like you’re going to the dentist, not a fight. Can you do Blue Steel?”
The dream had been so real, and it felt like I’d slept for days. Sitting with Carrasco on the bench even seemed like a dream, the details foggy, slippery.
I ran through it again—had he dosed me with something?
He’d never touched me. Neither had Malhar. The only thing . . .
I pulled my phone out and sniffed it.
The cameraman said, “Um.”
I held the phone out to Gil. “Does that smell like something?”
He gave it a wary eye. “My first guess would be a phone.”
“No, like herbs or incense. A potion.”
“A potion?”
I sniffed it again. “What does LSD smell like?”
The cameraman said, “Can we do this again?”
“Sorry,” Gil said. “We’re going to work.”
He pulled me through the door of our prep room and closed it behind us.
“What the fuck was that about? LSD?”
“I don’t know. I don’t feel right.”
Gil looked me over with a frown. “Well, we’re here now. We’ll start getting loose in a bit. Just take a seat, lie down. Whatever you have to do to relax.”
I nodded. Glanced up and noticed there were other people in the room.
On a couch in the back right corner, Jairo sat in a sweaty green gi. He was pale, breathing hard, and looked like he was waiting for his turn in front of the firing squad.
Marcela had an arm around him, patting his knee. She shot me a worried look, went back to whispering and soothing. The dancing, smiling, laughing Marcela from the club was gone.
Antonio stood in the middle of the room, hands behind his back. He looked like the firing squad.
“Relax,” I said. “Right.”
Gil and I took the space on the left side of the room, where Jairo and I had sparred and sprawled the day before to get him back on the destroyer’s path.
Between then and now he’d stepped on a landmine.
I said, “How you feeling, Jairo?”
“Don’t talk to him,” Antonio said. “And do not look at Marcela.”