Cooch

by Robert Cook

  “Sure!” Elliot said. “Any ‘druthers?”

  “You pick, I’ll buy.”

  “Deal. There’s a great sushi place that’s not too far.”

  Fifteen minutes later they sat in a booth at a Japanese restaurant named Hana, each sipping hot miso soup from black lacquer bowls held in two hands. No spoons.

  “Okay, what’s on your mind, Caitlin?” Brooks said.

  “Have you talked to Alex lately?”

  Elliot nodded. “I played squash with him yesterday morning, and then we had breakfast. Why?”

  “Did you win?”

  “Yeah, I won. I usually do.”

  “Why do you usually win?”

  “Alex is fairly new to the game. He tends to muscle the ball.”

  “Did he tell you about taking me to that biker bar the other night?”

  “Why don’t you just tell me what’s on your mind, Caitlin,” Elliot said. “You may recall that I don’t like to be quizzed about Alex.”

  She sat for a moment, phrasing in her mind. “I’d just like to get a better handle on him,” she said. “I don’t know, Brooks. Alex just seems so calm, so cautious. But there seems to be this underlying aura of menace—of ruthlessness. I can’t seem to put my finger on it. I thought that I had a beginning handle on him until the other night, but it looks as though I was wrong. He puzzles me enough to make me uncomfortable.”

  Elliot sat, waiting.

  “You’ve known me too long,” she said. O’Connor gave a faint smile and shrugged her shoulders almost imperceptibly. “But let’s just say that I’m curious. He says he’s interested in me. I’m trying to figure out if I’m interested in him. I just can’t get a handle on him. He seems like the kind of guy who would jump up, all macho, and embarrass the shit out of me if anyone said a cross word to me, and you know I just hate that bullshit. But we were in a nasty situation in a biker bar downtown the other night. I was pretty scared and really pissed too. I’ll spare you the details, but this fat pig was saying some strong shit to me, and Alex just sat there; he didn’t say a word. If the bouncers hadn’t shown up, it could have gotten ugly. Alex didn’t defend me; he didn’t tell the guy to back off. He just sat there like a wimp. Dumb—and probably terrified. I know I was.”

  She shifted in her chair, thinking.

  “Alex is not a coward, Caitlin,” Elliot said with an odd smile on his face. “He wouldn’t bring dishonor on your warrior clan. It’s even possible he could bring something to the table.

  “Caitlin, there’s something I just don’t get here,” Elliot said as he gazed at her still, closed face. “This just doesn’t sound like the Caitlin O’Connor I know. You could have broken the fat guy’s finger, but you didn’t. Your father once told me you got a brown belt in judo when you were thirteen and wanted boxing lessons too. He worried for a while about the way you got violent when you didn’t get what you wanted—anger management expense for him, wasn’t it?”

  “That shit!” O’Connor said, her eyes flashing. “He never told me he told you that. Anyway, that anger counselor was dumber than a fence post and tried to look up my skirt all the time. Jesus H. Christ, where do they find those idiots and give them a PhD?”

  “Remember me?” Elliot said quietly. “I’m the one who doesn’t get distracted easily. Give up on the defensive time warp, and let’s continue to discuss your relationship with the lovely and charming patrons at Choppers.”

  “Oh, fuck you, asshole,” Caitlin exploded loudly. The other Hana patrons turned to stare.

  “You had never been afraid before like that, had you? I mean really stark terrified,” Elliot said. “You lost your nerve because of it, because that much adrenaline was a new thing, and you had more than one potential assailant, all armed. Now you’re trying to rebuild your ego by laying the problem off on Alex. Jesus, Caitlin! I’d forgotten how self-centered you are—how driven by your view of yourself!”

  “Up your giggy, Elliot,” O’Connor whispered. “Take your tabletop psychoanalysis and put it where the sun don’t shine.”

  “And what would you like to discuss instead, my charming, articulate friend?”

  Caitlin leaned forward, her right hand extended toward him, long fingers curling repeatedly back in supplication. “Come on, Elliot—give! This is not about me, right now. What’s the story on Cuchulain? You know I wouldn’t ask lightly. This is embarrassing enough without me having to beg.”

  His mind was racing. She was tough to brush off. “What do you want to know? Alex is my best friend, and I’ve only known him as an adult. He’s honest, incredibly bright, even by your standards—a wonderful and loyal friend, and hardworking. There’s no one on the planet I respect more.”

  “I bare my soul and you give me platitudes—pablum!” she spat, while coolly thinking she never dreamed she would hear that kind of endorsement from Brooks F.T. Elliot IV, about anyone. Cuchulain suddenly became more interesting to her. She decided to take a different tack.

  “Brooks, Brooks—I’m lonely,” she said softly. “I’d like to have someone in my life. Someone presentable to take to the occasional charity ball, someone to take a vacation with, someone who just likes me for me and not what my press says I am. You know what it costs me to have this conversation with you; it’s just not the kind of thing I do.”

  “Yeah, I know it’s not.” Elliot sat for a few moments, sipping green tea, thinking. “Caitlin, you know I want to help, but I’m not going to act as Alex’s unauthorized biographer. Okay—if I’m going to answer the question, I’ll answer it short and straight, or I’ll decline to answer and take a pass on not just the subject, but the whole topic area. If you structure and phrase your questions carefully, I’ll answer them. Don’t ask me anything you could just as well ask him. Don’t game me.”

  She picked up a piece of raw tuna with her chopsticks, dunked it into a film of soy sauce in a ceramic saucer, and popped it into her mouth. Then she picked up her tea mug.

  “Okay, here goes,” she said, sipping. “Is he a wimp, or a wuss, or something dressed up like a wolf that isn’t a wolf?”

  “No,” Elliot said.

  “Is he a wolf?”

  “Pass,” he said.

  “Does he have the courage of his convictions and the willingness to defend them?”

  Brooks smiled. “Maybe more than anyone I’ve ever met.”

  “That’s interesting,” Caitlin said, sitting up a little. “Could be a little scary, though. Do I need to think or worry about that?”

  “Yes.”

  She gazed intently at Elliot. “Tell me about that.”

  “No, and the broad topic is off the air.”

  “Is he dangerous?”

  “Is he dangerous to you?” His eyebrows rose and he allowed a look of incredulity to flicker across his face. “Absolutely not.”

  “That wasn’t what I meant, and you know it!” she fumed.

  Elliot shook his head. “Broad topic’s gone. You’re winning. I’m giving you more than I said I would. This little interrogation is close to being over.”

  She held her hands up in surrender. “Okay, okay. Just a couple more. Do you want to hear the biker story?”

  “No. I already heard it from him.”

  “Really! Tell me what Alex said.”

  “No. Ask him.”

  O’Connor was fighting her temper, and losing. “Goddammit, Brooks, this just doesn’t compute. Why are you being this way? Jesus, remember me? I’ve known you for more than ten years, and we were sleeping together for three of them. I was a virgin when I met you, for Christ’s sake. You’re one of my best friends. Why won’t you help keep me from being hurt? You’ve managed to hurt my feelings a little, which I didn’t think you could do anymore.”

  Elliot started to speak, then stopped, groping for the right words. “I’m not comfortable with this conversation,” he said. “But I’m going to give this one more try, because even if you’re gaming me with the hurt feelings to get more information, I think you shou
ld probably know anyhow. You’re a good friend, and I want to help keep you from getting hurt.”

  Elliot leaned back in his chair and looked at the ceiling, then said softly, “First, I’m more loyal to him than I am to you, even though I very much like and respect you. You should take that feeling into consideration. I agree with you on the marriage and baby thing—probably wouldn’t have worked. I owe you big for that.

  “Second, Cuchulain is fully formed, intellectually and emotionally. He’s not your intellectual equal, but he’s in the neighborhood, and anyway, formed in a far different mold. He’s applied intelligence; you are pure.” He looked back down and smiled. “God, I could sell tickets to Mensa for a chance to listen in on the two of you if you ever get serious.

  “Third, you should avoid putting him into situations where he may have to react violently. The biker bar could have been ugly. He and I play by different rules than most people.”

  Caitlin looked thoughtful. “I’m going back down there. I just have to, and Cuchulain said he wanted to come along. Maybe I should just go without him.”

  “You should probably take him, my previous comments notwithstanding. He’s useful in places like that. I assume that drinking one beer and sitting for a few minutes in defiance will satisfy this unreasonable compulsion of yours to be the Irish Rambo.”

  She delicately raised her middle finger to Brooks as she screwed her face into a grimace. He laughed.

  “Look, Caitlin. You should give him a chance. This is a wonderful guy. He’ll try to keep from hurting you. He’ll try to deal with your ego and your intellect, and they are about equal in size. Dealing with them together is no day at the beach—I’ve been there.”

  “Oh, I see. I’m fucked up and he’s perfect?”

  “Don’t you pull that shit with me, Caitlin,” Elliot snapped. “You’re not perfect and neither is he. What I’m not going to do is go down that road with you—or for you.”

  New York

  Downtown

  ALEX and Caitlin were back in Choppers, once again in business clothes in a booth at the corner of the room. Billy was nowhere to be seen, and Caitlin had nearly finished her beer. The nachos proved nearly inedible. Bouncers converged on a bearded drunk who was standing behind a girl with his hands cupped over her breasts, pretending to dance as she fought and scratched at him over her shoulder.

  “This is disgusting,” Caitlin said. “I’m done proving whatever I was proving to myself. I’m going to the ladies room. I’ll see you outside.”

  Alex waved for the waitress as Caitlin slid from the booth and walked away. When she finally waddled over, he handed her thirty dollars, then turned to walk toward the restrooms and the exit. There was some sort of fuss at the door. As he got closer, it faded to the outside and he walked into the men’s room behind a biker in full black leather regalia. When he stepped back into the hallway, Caitlin was not there. He felt a faint tug of alarm. He pushed the door to the women’s room partly opened and said loudly, “Caitlin, you okay?” There was no answer. He stepped partway inside. There were two women at the sinks, but no Caitlin. He ducked to look under the toilet stall doors. No feet. He could feel the familiar sensation of adrenaline rushing into his body.

  “You looking for a tall blonde in a suit? A looker?” one of the women asked, as she glanced at him in the mirror.

  “Yes. You see her?” he said.

  “She left a couple of minutes ago with a bunch of bikers,” she said. “Didn’t seem real happy about it.”

  Alex spun and raced outside. The street was empty except for one Harley at the curb. Just then the biker from the john hurried out, pulling keys from his pocket and moving to his machine, a cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth.

  Alex walked over to the biker, and just as he looked up, Cuchulain grabbed the man’s nose between the knuckles of his index and middle fingers and twisted sharply, breaking it. He dropped his hand and snatched the cigarette from the man’s mouth, as he grabbed the front of his shirt, rushed him to the outside wall of the bar, and banged his back against the old bricks, hard.

  “Where did they take the girl?” Cuchulain demanded.

  The biker sprayed blood on him as he spoke. “Fuck you, asshole.”

  “I don’t have a lot of time,” Alex snarled. He pushed the lit end of the cigarette into the man’s cheek for a second, and the smell of burnt flesh filled the air. When the scream ended, he pushed the cigarette within an eighth inch of the biker’s eye, singeing the eyelashes from the lid. “You’ll be blind in ten seconds if you don’t tell me, then I’ll dig around in the sockets. Believe it.”

  The biker was suddenly aware that his feet were not touching the ground; he was being held in the air against the wall with one hand while the other held the cigarette. His cheek felt on fire and urine was burning down his right leg. He quickly blurted the address. Alex slapped him on the forehead with the heel of his hand, bouncing the biker’s head against the wall; the cigarette fluttered to the sidewalk.

  Cuchulain grabbed the keys from the hand of the falling, unconscious man and jumped onto the motorcycle, kicked it to life, and accelerated down the street, necktie flapping wildly behind him.

  The cooling motorcycle engines were still ticking when Alex jumped from the bike and ran to the door, just as a roar of approval and laughter went up from inside. A large man in a black T-shirt and dirty jeans stepped in front of him, blocking his way as he stuck a hand in Alex’s chest.

  “Beat it, asshole,” he said. “This is a private club.”

  Cuchulain grabbed the hand with his left, just below the wrist, then gave it a hard snap up and out, breaking the wrist, as he stepped under the raised arm and drove his right elbow down and back into the guard’s lower back, just above the belt on his right side, then again. Cuchulain reached down quickly, and pulled the man’s thighs back from just above the knees so that his face was driven to the pavement with a resounding thunk. As Cuchulain reached for the door, he snapped a kick into the man’s left ear. The door was unlocked and Cuchulain stepped inside. O’Connor was being held in a chair by two men, bare breasts exposed, while Billy, the leader, had his penis out from the fly of his dirty Levi’s, four inches from her terrified, furious face.

  “Hey, whoa!” Alex yelled.

  The room went quiet as heads snapped to see the intruder. Billy’s face lit up in a delighted grin.

  “Well, if ain’t the fuckin’ pansy. This is my lucky day! You can referee a gangbang—me first. You know, pick out who gets to fuck her next, make sure no one goes twice before everyone goes once, and all that shit. By tomorrow we’ll be starting to wear out, and might even give you a little. But first I want a little blowjob from Blondie. I sort of promised it to my buddy here,” he leered, pulling the foreskin up and back. “If she bites me, I’ll just knock her teeth out and try again.”

  “I don’t think so,” Alex said loudly. “That would be dumb. There will be cops everywhere, and you guys are in enough trouble already. For what?” He looked around at the gang, assessing them. He quickly settled on a small, wiry man with still eyes and a telltale easy balance. He knew the type.

  Cuchulain eased toward him and spoke again. “I’ll tell you what. You guys are supposed to be the baddest asses in New York. What if I arm wrestle two of you at once for the girl? If you win, you keep the girl and no cops. If I win, we walk. It would save you a ton of hassle with the cops. You know I can’t beat two of you, so why not? I gotta do something! Deal?”

  Ignoring the others, he looked steadily at the small, quiet man, who looked around and then said, “What if we all fuck her, beat the living shit out of you, and toss you both in an alley somewhere? We’ll just give you both some pills that Billy bought down in Mexico, where you can’t remember shit about what happened lately. What then? Cops? You won’t remember enough to make a decent witness.” The room was quiet as the other bikers turned to look at Alex.

  “No, slick. You get me,” Alex said coldly.

 
The small man felt a surge of recognition and imminent danger. The quiet eyes moved over Cuchulain again, assessing him, noting the familiar combat balance, feeling himself sink involuntarily into a defensive posture as cold hostility oozed from Cuchulain. The flesh on the outside edges of Cuchulain’s eyes began to bunch and extend, giving him the facial cast of a hooded cobra. Breath whistled loudly from his nostrils. The small man pulled up his right sleeve and bared a veined, muscular forearm. The distinctive beer can logo of the Navy Seals was tattooed on the inner arm, starting to fade, but unmistakable.

  “I used to be in the navy. The name’s Dodd. Do I know you?”

  Alex smiled coldly. “I need something from my right pocket, okay?”

  Dodd reached behind his vest and swung out a small, stainless steel automatic. He clicked the safety off, thumbed the hammer back, and pointed the pistol directly at Alex’s navel. “Do it very slowly.”

  Cuchulain reached slowly into his right trouser pocket and pulled out a half-dollar coin. He offered it to the small man.

  Dodd nodded in recognition, lowered the pistol, and said, “No. I heard about this. I just gotta see it.”

  Alex held the half-dollar in front of him, at eye height, showing it to the crowd. Then he positioned his thumb on the bottom of the coin and his middle and index finger on the top. He began to squeeze. As he increased the pressure, veins swelled across his hand, and the skin pad between his thumb and forefinger humped slowly up like a ragged tumor. The room was still, except for the noise of Cuchulain’s breathing.

  The coin began to bend, then slowly fold.

  Cuchulain’s hand was now quivering visibly, and his forearm had swollen to stretch tight his suit jacket sleeve. Then the coin folded in half.

  “Jeeesus Christ!” one of the bikers exclaimed softly.

  Cuchulain casually flipped the folded coin at Dodd’s right shoulder and shifted his weight toward him. The pistol came back up as Dodd snatched the coin out of the air with his left hand.