by Paula Cox
Langston cleared his throat. “Mr. Hollis?”
“Hmm?”
“Were you okay during the fight? Obviously you took some hard blows toward the end, but would you describe your performance as ‘erratic’, like Mr. Easterling suggests?”
“Oh, come on!” said Dax. “What’s he bound to say?”
“I think he deserves a chance to respond,” replied Langston. “Observations and intuitions are one thing, but I’d like to hear from Mr. Hollis’s own point of view.”
The others nodded in agreement.
All Dax could think about was Tiana’s sweet, beautiful face, now bruised and probably bloodied. She’d refused to see him since it had happened, but they’d texted each other and talked briefly on the phone. From what he could gather, Hollis had done a serious number on her. Not life-threatening injuries, at least not this time. However, what would happen when he finally did snap? The way he’d attacked Dax that day outside the gym showed that this was a mad dog they were dealing with, and it wouldn’t take much for jealous rage to turn homicidal.
A guy cracking like that could do one of two things: implode or explode. Either way, he could easily take somebody else with him. And these assholes were waiting for him to admit he was cracking up? Hell, that was like waiting for dynamite to tell you it was getting toasty…
Toasty.
Dax recalled the last time he’d heard that word. It took him back to one of the hottest days he’d ever experienced, in the Helmand Valley, Afghanistan. His unit was out on patrol, tasked with ensuring no enemy militia broke through one of the more accessible passes in the region. A sandstorm the previous day had completely changed the landscape. It had driven sand into soft, deep drifts as high as small dunes in some places; elsewhere, it had raked the top layer of dust and dirt from the flat ground, exposing bedrock and, here and there, the tell-tale signs of land mines close to being unearthed.
The relentless humidity and the noonday sun were oppressive. The bomb disposal unit had passed through several hours before and had marked a safe route through this area; they’d removed many of the landmines and would return to finish the job when they’d completed a pressing mission near a friendly outpost to the north. Dax and his longtime buddy in the Corps, Monte Slattery, had just finished their turn on point duty, a nerve-shredding job in a place like this, and damn it, they needed another drink. A quart of ice-cold Danish beer would be best, but tepid water from their canteens would have to suffice.
“Son of a bitch. I’ll never badmouth the California desert again.” Monte poured some water onto his neck and rubbed it around. “This shit’s science fiction. You ever read Dune?”
Dax thought he might have seen a movie by that name, but he couldn’t remember much about it apart from Sting being in it—yeah, and the old priest from The Exorcist. “The planet with the giant worms?”
“That’s the one. A total desert planet. The inhabitants wear these special suits that recycle the fluids from their own bodies, so they always have enough to drink.”
“They drink their own sweat and piss? Nice.”
Willy and Segura, the next pair to take point, nudged Dax mid-drink, making him spill a little. “You ladies want an umbrella or something?” remarked Segura. Dax and Monte both flipped him off.
Then Willy, the tallest member of the unit at six foot five, suddenly bent over as if he was about to puke. But he didn’t. Instead, he tugged at his collar, stumbled forward a few steps, and then started stripping out of his gear in front of everyone. He’d always been a bit of an oddball, and was prone to delivering the odd practical joke in camp, but everyone knew that anytime he slapped on his gear and stepped out into the field, Willy was one of the best, most diligent Marines in the unit. He was an example for others to follow, partly because he was one of the longest-serving members of the Corps.
“I guess that’s one way to scare the natives,” quipped Monte.
One or two of the others wolf-whistled Willy, who finally stopped stripping near a skeletal-looking camel thorn tree. All he had on were his boxers and his boots. Segura asked him what the fuck he was doing.
“You guys…ain’t feeling it?” Willy rummaged through his gear and retrieved his sidearm. Eyes closed, facing the sun, he pretended to fire off a couple of rounds. “This is what toasty feels like, bitches. Boo-yah!” He seemed to be aiming his pretend shots at the sun.
Dax and Monte looked at each other. There was something very wrong with Sergeant Willy. Dax’s first thought was heatstroke. That had been known to send even the toughest hombres sliding off their crackers.
“You working on that tan there, Willy?” someone shouted ahead. “You always were a pasty motherfucker.”
“Willy!”
Dax, Monte, and Segura stepped aside for the unmistakable arrival of Captain Darnell, a West Point lifer who’d never achieved the rank he’d probably deserved on account of being too much at home in the field, on patrol. The guy loved this shit, lived for it. No way was he ever going to trade it in for a damned satrapy desk job, stuck indoors while he sent others out to have all the fun.
“Willy! What in the blue fucking flames of damnation are you doing? Get dressed. Right now, Marine! There are hostiles crawling all over this region. You want them to use your pasty-white ass for target practice, is that it?”
Willy leapt out from behind the trunk of the camel thorn tree, tried a sort of half-assed commando roll that left him in a heap. Then he crouched on all fours in the sand, holding his head high as though he was Tarzan. It was either the funniest thing Dax had ever seen or the scariest. How a guy as experienced and “together” as Willy could just flip out like this.
When Darnell went after him, Willy got to his feet and took off at lightning speed, bellowing and howling. The rest of the unit ran to try to keep up. They were laughing and egging him on. They didn’t want to miss a thing.
But everyone stopped dead at the cry of “Hostiles! Eleven o’clock!”
Dax froze, scanned the desert ahead for signs of Willy and Captain Darnell. They’d disappeared down a dusty incline ahead, not exactly in the minefield but close enough to it to be of concern. The next thing he saw was a black, robed figure approaching the two wayward Marines from their left. He appeared to be carrying something heavy.
The next thing he heard was the crack of an explosion.
Dax snapped upright in his seat at the conference table. He was shivering. He’d started to sweat all over, but not like he did during the worst flashbacks. No, this one had been less about the bangs and bullets and more about a sane man suddenly flipping his lid. Willy’s behavior had seemingly come from nowhere. But Dax now wondered, if he or the others had been paying closer attention, whether they might have spotted the warning signs. Could they have predicted Willy’s snapping like that, maybe done something about it before it happened? Told their C.O.?
It was all academic now. Only it wasn’t…not really. Something similar was happening right here in front of him. Another man was getting ready to snap. And instead of waiting for it to happen, there had to be something Dax could do to prevent it going off so…explosively.
He realized he’d missed the start of Thad Hollis’s account, but he quickly got the gist of what the guy was aiming for. Once again, Hollis was keeping his rage buttoned down, his mind on track. It was a pretty decent performance, and the stiffs seemed to be buying it…so far.
“So yeah, there’s a big difference between trying to recover after taking a few big hits, and Easterling’s assessment of my performance. We all have off days, especially when we’ve taken a few knocks. Easterling reckons the showboating was proof of some sort of mental breakdown, right? Just because I don’t normally do it? Well, that’s just dumb. I’d have tried anything to get myself back in gear. You heard the crowd’s reaction. They loved that shit. And it pumped me up, too. Unfortunately not enough, because I couldn’t get any momentum. Freitas just wouldn’t let me; dude really dug in, made it tough. By the end, I was o
ut on my feet, swinging and missing, yeah. But if you think that’s anything more than exhaustion, you’re seeing things. No, more than that, you’re seeing what you want to see.”
Hollis pointed at Dax. “That asshole hates me. Anyone can see that. Look at him: getting ready to tell y’all another pack of lies. He’s the one who needs his head examined!”
Langston leaned forward, clasped his hands on the tabletop. “Let me see if I’ve got this clear. You’re saying Mr. Easterling interrupted the fight because he has a personal beef with you?” He unclasped his hands, laid the palms flat. “I don’t follow, Mr. Hollis. Why would he stop the fight, with you in a probable losing position, if he was so much against you?”
Hollis narrowed his eyes at Dax. “To humiliate me. You heard everything he’s said. He wants the whole world to think he saved my life, that I actually needed saving. That’s how you stick it to a fighter you hate when you don’t have the guts to get in the ring and fight him yourself. You asked before: what did Easterling have to gain by jumping in like that? And I’m telling you: he’s got that hero complex so bad he has to invent scenarios to make himself look good. It’s fucking delusional. And at the same time, it makes me look bad. So, for a prick like that, it’s two birds with one stone. He makes out I had a mental breakdown, comes to my rescue all-chivalrous-like—yeah, whatever—and convinces y’all he’s this hoo-rah war hero saving the helpless. Like I said, if anyone needs a brain exam here it’s that asshole right there. You know I’m right.”
Each of the committee members scribbled a few notes on paper, while the stenographer glanced up at Thad. She stuck out her bottom lip just a fraction, perhaps unconsciously. Dax interpreted it as either incredulity or dislike—or maybe he just wanted another person in the room to have the same reaction as him. Hollis had spun his yarn in a surprising way. Not convincingly, but the guy had earned points for at least trying to be clever. Throwing Dax’s charge of mental incompetence back at him was a novel approach.
And no, the committee members wouldn’t swallow it. It didn’t stack up against the truth on any level. In suggesting Dax was delusional, with such feeble evidence to back up the claim, surely that in itself was further evidence that Thad Hollis was the delusional one here.
Or maybe, just maybe, they prepped him to say that…
Dax sat up, straightened his tie. He scanned the inscrutable faces of the IMMAF officials.
What if they’ve framed this whole thing as some sort of stalemate? I call him nuts; he calls me nuts. It’s my word against his, and they don’t take it any further.
Jesus, that makes sense. And it would be just like them.
With rumors of corruption hanging over them like a sword of Damocles, no way could they ever let this go further than this room. An official investigation? Maybe even a trial? With lawyers and witnesses and all sorts of accusations flying about—all going viral in the media? They couldn’t risk it, any of it.
They are under orders to bury this right here! Interesting.
“So it’s my word against his, right?” said Dax. “You’re obviously not looking at the fight footage. How about we both submit ourselves for a full psych evaluation, then? Hollis and me. If we’re both A-One, I’ll accept whatever decision the IMMAF makes. If not, then the IMMAF has to promise to take the appropriate action. If one of us is deemed unfit to fight, his license must be revoked and he must receive whatever medical treatment he needs. Oh, and one last thing, the evaluations have to be conducted by an impartial, independent party. Not that I don’t trust your organization, but…okay, I don’t trust your organization. I don’t trust your referees, ring officials, drug tests, doctors, fight managers, or your fighters. Especially not your fighters. Take that asshole over there. He’s a freaking poster child for all the juicers in professional sports because he’s been doing it for so long, he’s gotten away with it for so long. And how has he gotten away with it? Because your organization is so fucking corrupt it would topple like a house of cards if the bribes suddenly stopped being paid.”
He addressed the stenographer: “Did you get all that, sweetheart? You did? Good.” And to Langston: “All that can go viral. Trust me, I don’t give a shit. Or here’s a better scenario: you do the right thing and arrange for those tests. Then you investigate the ring official from that night, find out who forced him to keep the fight going for a KO or a tap out. Either I’m mistaken, or your guy was bought that night and I’m not mistaken.”
“I see where you’re coming from, Mr. Easterling,” replied Langston. “And believe me, we take all those sorts of accusations seriously. There is corruption in our sport, and we’re doing our best to eradicate it. But I won’t beat about the bush. My colleagues and I have watched the fight footage closely; we’ve also interviewed the ring officials, as well as some members of the press commentary teams who were ringside that night…”
“Which ones?” Dax retrieved a tiny black notebook with a pencil from his shirt pocket. “What are their names?”
“I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to give that information. It wasn’t a formal investigation; it was more of a…preliminary inquiry, to give us a better idea of what those spectators with professional knowledge—like yourself, Mr. Easterling—saw during the fight. What they perceived, based on Mr. Hollis’s performance, his conduct in the ring. And I’ll be frank: not one of them corroborated your version of what happened. Now, we’re not saying you were wrong, or that you didn’t have cause to do what you did, but so far, based on our initial inquiry, there doesn’t appear to be enough evidence to support a formal investigation into the conduct of our ring officials.”
“So you’re not giving me any names? I just have to take your word for everything you’ve just said?”
“Having heard from you both, it’s clear we’re at an impasse here,” said Langston. “And we would never force anyone to undertake psychological testing without their consent. So, gentlemen, is that something you’d both agree to? Mr. Easterling’s suggestion is problematic in that we can never know someone’s state of mind at a specific time in the past, but if you’re both willing to consent to an exam carried out by an independent third party, that might be the only way to address these allegations you’re both putting forward. Mr. Easterling?”
“Agreed.”
But he knew full well it was an empty promise. Hollis would never consent, and they knew it. So it was a way of making them appear impartial, even accommodating, while at the same time giving them license to do absolutely nothing. No tests. No formal investigation. They weren’t going to give Dax a goddamn thing.
“Mr. Hollis?”
“Agreed.”
Huh? Dax leaned in, certain that he was hearing things. A grasping paranoia came over him. These assholes were up to something. They’d cooked something up with Thad Hollis. This had all been figured out in advance, and at some point they were going to pull the rug out from under Dax and bury his dumb ass somehow. Otherwise it made no sense!
“On one condition…” Hollis interrupted Langston before he could proceed. Everyone looked across to the man with the head full of bad wiring. He was sweating more than ever. “Easterling apologizes. Then he gets down on his knees, right here, and kisses my ass crack.”
On the outside, Dax was calm under pressure; that shell would never falter unless he let it. Inside, however, he had no such control, not when he thought of Tiana, and what this prick had done to her, what he was still doing to her, and what he’d continue to do unless someone stopped him.
“Don’t know about that, Hollis, but I’m about two seconds from kicking your sick ass all over this fucking room. For what you did to Tiana.”
Hollis leapt to his feet, spilling his chair over. “Don’t ever say her name! Not you, you…”
“Can’t find the words, huh, Section Eight?”
“Stop calling me that!” Hollis pressed the heels of his palms hard against his temples. “You made her call me that. You! I know it was you. She’d never have turne
d on me if it wasn’t for you. Bastard.”
The others were too afraid to move from their seats. Dax knew he had his opponent right where he wanted him, on a knife’s edge, but also that this could get real ugly real quick if it carried on. The guy was in the grip of ’roid rage. He was ready for snapping altogether.
“How about we call it a day?” Dax suggested. “Guys? Langston?”
“I, um, I mean we—okay, yes, that might be best. I think we’re concluded here, gentlemen.”
At least they’d glimpsed the real Thad Hollis. If they hadn’t known how bad he was before, they knew it now. The tribunal had gone nowhere—nothing had been settled, no investigation had been promised—but they’d seen a part of what Dax had seen that night in the ring. That had to count for something.
“Concluded? You mean…the case is dropped? We’re done? We don’t have to come back?” Hollis, attempting to put his mental mask back on. Too late.
“We’re done for now,” Langston assured him.