by Jack Tunney
FIGHT CARD MMA:
ROSIE THE RIPPER
ANOTHER
TWO-FISTED
FIGHT CARD TALE
JACK TUNNEY
FIGHT CARD MMA: ROSIE THE RIPPER
e-Book Edition – First Published January 2014
Copyright © 2014 Sam Hawken
Cover by Keith Birdsong
This is a work of fiction. Characters, corporations, institutions and organizations mentioned in this novel are either the product of the author's imagination or, if real, used fictitiously without any intent to describe actual conduct.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission from the publisher.
Fight Card, Fight Card Now, Fight Card MMA, Fight Card Romance, Fight Card Luchadores, Fight Card Sherlock Holmes, and the Fight Card logo © 2010 Paul Bishop and Mel Odom
FIGHT CARD MMA
ROSIE THE RIPPER
ROUND ONE
BALTIMORE, 2014
Rosie Bratton’s alarm sounded at four o’clock in the morning. Through the parted curtains at the living room window, predawn darkness settled across the city. A single streetlight cut a slash of orange across the floor, touching the corner of the couch where Rosie slept.
The entire apartment was cold because Rosie did not run the heat at night in order to save electricity. In sleep shorts and an oversized shirt, she got up and gathered the sheets and blanket off the couch, folding them into squares and putting them on the end where her feet went.
She switched on the television and then went to the thermostat to goose the temperature up to sixty degrees. The flickering glow of the Weather Channel suffused the little living room as the screen reeled off the forecast for the day – freezing in the morning and only forty in the afternoon. Light rain was expected.
On the way to the bathroom, she paused a moment at the door to the apartment’s only bedroom. It was small, like the rest of the place, but it was organized with a girl’s dresser and a double bed made with a pink and white comforter. A One Direction poster took up space on one wall, while another was a collage of photographs and drawings done by a child’s hand. No one slept in the room this morning.
Rosie showered, washed her hair, and stood in front of the sink blowing it out with a dryer. She was brunette, and her summer tan had not quite faded into mid-autumn paleness. When she was done, she stood on the scale and the numbers read 155 pounds. She was soft in the middle. Not fat, but it could go that way if she wasn’t careful. Too many nights eating in front of the television. She had never been much for exercise, work had always been enough.
Breakfast was a bowl of instant oatmeal and a cup of coffee, which she ate standing up in the apartment’s undersized kitchen. She put the bowl and the cup in the sink for later and got out the door by five-thirty.
Access to the second and third floors of the building came via a stairway in the back, which opened into an alley by a battered dumpster. The ground floor housed a check-cashing place, a convenience store, and a hair salon, yet somehow the trash always seemed to reek. Rosie came up the side of the building and out onto the street where her gray Corolla waited by the curb. The car was nearly as old as she was. Rosie was twenty-six.
It took three tries to get the engine going, and Rosie let it run while she used a scraper to get the frost off the windows. Eventually the heat blew inside and made an oasis of comfort in the bitter chill. The engine rattled when she gave it too much gas, but the car rolled and it never broke down so long as she babied it a little with trips to Jiffy Lube and the occasional new part. The Corolla’s odometer had rolled over at least once during its lifetime.
She drove until businesses and ramshackle apartment buildings broke out into ancient rowhouses and then to broader streets devoid of traffic at this early hour. When she saw the church, she slowed past the soccer field adjoining it and turned into the cramped parking lot where nearly a dozen cars had shoehorned themselves into place.
A light drizzle started and misted the air, rimming the illuminating lights with pinprick halos. Rosie bypassed the locked front doors of the old stone structure and walked around the side to where steps led down to a basement-level entrance gridded with metal mesh against vandals and thieves.
The church’s basement was as cold as her apartment and she did not take off her jacket. She passed a kitchen and then through an open door into a meeting area set with rows of folding chairs facing a podium. A plastic accordion wall came between the room and the kitchen, closing off the space behind the podium. A man Rosie knew as Jeremy was up and talking to the others assembled here.
She took a seat. Jeremy was mid-way through his story, but Rosie knew the contours of it already – he worked a difficult sales job and the pressure was enough to crack anyone if they didn’t have a release. He had two kids and a wife who didn’t talk to him much anymore. If it weren’t for the meetings, he would have no one to share his problems with. Rosie felt for him.
There was a table off to the side with a plastic coffee dispenser and cups and a single box of powdered doughnuts. Rosie didn’t get up to have any, but during Jeremy’s speech a guy named Lane went to pour himself a jolt. The church didn’t allow smoking, but the room still smelled of smoke. Some people could never obey the rules.
“And that’s why I’m here this morning,” Jeremy said. “I just needed to get some things off my chest. I appreciate all of you listening to me. It means a lot. Thanks.”
He sat down and Samantha, the church program coordinator, stood to lead the applause. Samantha was older and round and gray, but it gave her a motherly cast Rosie found appealing. At an hour like this one, facing the day, it was good to have a mother keeping watch, even if only for an hour. “Thank you, Jeremy,” Samantha said. “I know everyone here wishes you the best. We’re proud of you for coming to the meeting every day.”
Jeremy nodded, but kept silent.
Samantha’s eyes cast over the rest of them. Lilly and John and Philip and Eric. All the people Rosie knew well from this meeting and others. “Who’s next?” Samantha asked.
Rosie raised her hand. “I’ll go.”
Everyone clapped as she took the podium. Rosie looked out at them and put her hands flat on the cold wood in front of her. She cleared her throat. “Hi, everyone. I’m Rosie and I’m an alcoholic.”
ROUND 2
Her work was in the back of Berman’s, the grocery store off Shawan Road in Hunt Valley. Rosie had to drive half an hour north out of Baltimore to get there, but the traffic wasn’t too bad when she reported so early. She put her bag in the short locker work provided and used her own padlock. With her plastic nametag on and her pink golf shirt with the store logo on the front, she went to receiving and faced the first trucks of the day.
They made everyone wear back braces and non-slip shoes because the loads were heavy and spills were common. The trucks started in at seven in the morning and didn’t stop until three. Rosie worked with Nicole and Ruben in the receiving office, juggling paperwork between deliveries and never stopping for eight hours. A thirty-minute break went by so quickly it hardly seemed to happen at all.
The Martin’s bread truck was in when Nicole asked, “How’s Jess doing?” Nicole asked.
“She’s good,” Rosie said.
They rolled carts stacked high with rolls out of the back of the truck and into the receiving area. Ruben was already scanning the invoice. Every package had to be counted. Everything was always accounted for. “How old is she now, anyway?” Nicole asked.
“Seven last mont
h,” Rosie said.
“Wow. I didn’t realize she was seven already. When was the last time I saw her? She must have been four.”
Rosie nodded. “Something like that.”
Ruben began to count the shipment. Nicole rested against her cart waiting for her turn. The driver was inside where it was warm. Out here on the receiving platform it was cold and the real rain had finally come, cold and steady, though they were sheltered from it. “You never did tell me what happened with the court thing,” Nicole said.
Rosie silently wished Ruben would count faster. “No court yet,” she said. “We’re still talking.”
“Still? How much is that costing you?”
“I don’t really want to go into it,” Rosie said. “Is that okay? I just want to… work.”
“Sure, sure, fine,” Nicole said, though Rosie could tell it wasn’t. “You tell me when you’re ready. When there’s good news.”
“I will,” Rosie said.
The bread shipment was counted and the carts wheeled away. More trucks were coming in, backing up against the huge rubber bumpers at the edge of the platform. Roller doors went up and more things came out. Cases of cans and Styrofoam containers of frozen goods. Everything from tissues to vitamins came through here, five days a week, every week.
Rosie tried to do what she said she wanted to do. She thought about work and not about Jess or anything else. Still the image of her daughter came to her unbidden. Not a picture of a little girl huddled in a coat on a cold day, but one of a golden child awash in summer light picking out the fine strands of her hair and dappling her nose and cheeks with freckles. Rosie saw a park with spreading trees and a playground and heard the laughter of kids ringing out.
Cut it out, Rosie told herself. Enough.
The end of the shift came abruptly. The trucks stopped coming right on schedule and then there was nothing left except to strip off the back braces and head for the locker room to punch out. Rosie was quick to walk ahead of Nicole to avoid more talk. She didn’t want to deal with more talk.
When she got her bag from the locker she brought out a carefully folded blouse and a pair of slacks. She went into the ladies room and changed in the handicapped stall next to the baby-changing table. Afterward, she checked her reflection in the mirror to ensure there were no ugly wrinkles and she looked together.
Ruben called good-bye after her and Rosie waved. She made it to the parking lot fast and fired up the Corolla. She had forty-five minutes to get downtown and she did not have the advantage of driving on empty roads.
She drove just above the speed limit all the way into the city. Once she was inside the Outer Loop she jockeyed for the fastest lane of traffic while navigating the streets block by block. Baltimore was not a dense city, but the farther into the center one went, the more the flow of cars was snarled up by lights and signs and one-way driving, which could drive even a Charm City native crazy. Rosie knew she was getting closer almost by instinct, not because of anything she could see.
A stalled car a block from her destination brought everything to a painful standstill, and Rosie pounded the steering wheel in frustration. It took forever for a cop to make the scene and direct traffic around the obstacle. By then Rosie was running late. She made it to the parking garage almost fifteen minutes behind schedule and nearly forgot to bring her ticket with her for validation. She hurried to the elevators and down to the street, onto the sidewalk, and to the building next door with the clock chasing her.
The attorney’s office was on the sixth floor, enclosed behind glass doors and decorated with wood and marble. A receptionist with perfect hair and makeup took her name and told her to go to Conference Room C. Rosie went. Late and getting later.
Her lawyer, Dan Hobbs, waited outside the conference room with his briefcase in his hand. He made a supplicating gesture when he spotted her and they met halfway. “Where have you been?” he asked her.
“I’m sorry. It was traffic. There was a broken-down car and… you know, forget it. Let’s just go in.”
“It doesn’t look good, you being late,” her lawyer said.
Rosie smoothed the front of her blouse. “It’s okay. I’m ready.”
ROUND 3
The conference room was as richly appointed as the larger office, the walls paneled in deep-hued wood, and one side opening wide with floor-to-ceiling windows dotted with rain. Chris was there and his attorney, Mr. Davis, sitting at the long table dividing the center of the room. Davis stood up when Rosie entered. Chris stayed seated.
“We were worried about you,” Davis told Rosie.
“It’s crazy out there. The weather.”
“Of course. Have a seat.”
Rosie took the spot opposite Chris. He looked good, in a jacket without a tie, but still seeming dressier than Rosie. It was clear he’d lost weight, but he was defined in his clothes, not skinny. His wife would insist he still hit the gym every day even though she couldn’t. Diane was six months pregnant, and the last time Rosie saw her she looked like she was coming to term.
Rosie’s lawyer sat beside her and put his briefcase on the table. “Mr. Davis, I’ve brought some paperwork for you and your client to look over. It’s nothing we have to hash out today, but I want to keep it in mind.”
“Of course, Mr. Hobbs. We’re always glad for more paperwork,” Davis said, and he chuckled in a good-natured way. Humor never seemed to reach his eyes.
Rosie sat with her hands in her lap. She twisted the fingers of her left with those of her right, out of sight. “How is Jess?” she asked Chris.
“Very good. She got a part in the school play.”
“What part?” Rosie asked.
“I think she’s playing a head of broccoli.”
“That’s nice,” Rosie said, and then she felt stupid. Chris made her feel this way without even trying. She tried not to hate him for it. He was the father of their child.
“If it’s all right, I think we’d all like to get started,” Davis said.
Hobbs passed the papers over. Davis put them beside a neat stack of documents he placed on the glossy surface of the table. Rosie couldn’t read them upside down, but she had grown accustomed to seeing legal documents. There had been so many. “You’ve reviewed our petition?” Hobbs asked Davis.
“We have,” Davis said. “When did you intend to submit it to the court?”
“No sooner than tomorrow morning. It depends on what we discuss here.”
Davis selected a single sheet of paper from those in front of him and regarded it between thumb and forefinger like a biological specimen. “It’s your intention to ask the judge to grant Ms. Bratton the rights of custodial parent to Jess Milner, daughter of my client.”
“She’s our daughter,” Rosie said.
Davis smiled lightly. “Of course. She’s the child of you both. I’m sorry for the misstatement.”
Rosie twisted her fingers again and then again. “It’s all right,” she said.
Davis put the paper down and slid it across to Chris, who took it in front of him and looked it over while Rosie watched. There was coolness to the gesture, as if it had been well rehearsed. Maybe they had practiced the hand-off before she got there to make it seem like they were unconcerned, like Rosie’s petition was like a curiosity to be passed around. “I think we all know there is no way my client is going to agree to a change in custodial arrangements. Mr. Milner is the custodial parent and Ms. Bratton has generous visitation rights.”
“Every other weekend,” Rosie blurted out.
“I’m sorry?” Davis asked.
“It’s every other weekend. That’s not generous. I barely see her.”
Chris spoke quietly. “We can talk about letting you see her more often.”
“I want her home with me,” Rosie said.
Hobbs put a hand on her arm. “I think we can discuss this without things getting heated,” he said. “My client has concerns about her relationship with her daughter and visitation is inadequate. It’s
our contention Jessica would be better served by living with her mother.”
“How do you figure?” Chris asked.
“I’m her mother,” Rosie said.
“And I’m her father. What exactly do you bring to the table I don’t?”
Rosie opened her mouth, but Hobbs cut her off with a motion of his hand. “My client is an excellent parent and Jessica Milner is her only child. Mr. Milner and his wife are expecting a baby of their own.”
“So, I can only have one child in my home?” Chris asked.
“No,” Hobbs said. “What I’m saying is—”
“Why do you have to hold onto her?” Rosie asked. “You know she wants to live with me. She’s said so.”
“Jess is seven, Rosie. She has a different opinion about what she wants for lunch every five minutes. This isn’t the kind of decision she can be asked to make. Besides, we all know she’s better off staying away from you.”
Rosie froze. Davis’ eyes were on her and she felt Hobbs clutch her arm more tightly. She could not find words before they died on her tongue.
“What exactly is Mr. Milner trying to say?” Hobbs asked Davis.
“It’s no secret Ms. Bratton is an alcoholic,” Davis said.
“She’s in recovery. She has three sober years. It’s immaterial.”
Davis’ eyes were still humorless. “We think the judge will have a different opinion on the matter. It’s our position, in light of Ms. Bratton’s past history of substance abuse, it’s possible she could relapse, which is not a situation a young child should be in.”
Rosie found her voice. “You bastard,” she told Chris.
The words seemed to skid right off the planes of Chris’ face. He showed no sign Rosie had spoken at all. “It’s the truth, Rosie,” he said. “You’re an alcoholic and you aren’t a fit parent for our daughter.”