by Linda Ladd
At the rear of the first floor, they followed a passageway to a large room where a steaming hot tub flooded ripples of warm water over some fancy fake gray rocks into a large indoor heated swimming pool. The room was lofty and spacious with foggy windows across the back and smelled cloyingly of chlorine and steam and stale complimentary popcorn. Outside, there was an outdoor pool covered with a green vinyl tarp barely visible under a foot or two of snow. They passed a couple of young girls lying under some sunlamps. They smelled like coconut and Maui hotels. Bud grinned at them, and they responded with giggles, sitting up and giving him a better gander of their toned and scarcely covered adolescent bodies. She couldn’t condemn them for their nearly naked state. Black bought her the tiniest little scrap of a yellow string bikini once and loved for her to wear it, at least until he took it off, which was usually a mere matter of seconds. But she wasn’t complaining about that, either. Talk about ringing her bells. Thus was explained the giant diamond ring hidden on the sturdy chain around her neck, to be hastily slipped onto her left ring finger whenever Black was around and raising hell about it.
They took an enclosed, glass-windowed walkway to the convention center and immediately were inundated with the clang of hammers against steel and workmen shouting things like, Got it, man or Hold it tight or Hand me that hammer, dumbass. All of said ruckus echoed up high into the rafters of the nearly empty building. The convention center was one big room with one big cage made out of vinyl-covered chain-link fencing smack dab in the middle, fed by double runways on which the fighters no doubt made their spectacular entrances in hooded silk robes while clasping their hands over their heads. All of it was being dismantled, while other hired hands struggled to remove at least a hundred or so black folding chairs that surrounded it. Claire and Bud headed straight for the guy holding a clipboard and yelling nonstop at the other guys.
“Excuse me, sir,” Claire said when they reached him, not at all sure he deserved that moniker, judging by the way he was hurling profanities hither and fro.
“Yeah? Now what? What the hell do you want? Can’t you see I’m busy here?”
Claire gazed down at Mr. Skippy. He was a little guy, came to about her chin and real nervous acting despite his X-rated oratory skills. He moved from foot to foot while glaring at them, as if he couldn’t stand still to save his life or had to go to the bathroom really, really bad. He was breathing hard from all his highly dramatic cussing and power trip, poor tiny little dwarf of a guy. Maybe she ought to get him in a headlock so he could calm down and control his breathing. She fought the urge, having learned to be rather calm and collected around imbecilic jerks since her recent sojourn in a three-week coma. Then again, she hadn’t met Skippy Boy until now. He wore an old gray sweatshirt that said Semper Fi on the front. Yeah, right. He probably stole it from his hero older brother or his World War II great-grandpa. His denim jeans were well worn, too, and he sported a rather impressive sideways rainbow-shaped scar down his left cheek. Probably a broken beer bottle souvenir from his own fighting days or a girlfriend who didn’t like vulgar words or his Marine gramps who wanted his sweatshirt back. He had long and kinky white-blond hair, really kinky, probably ten on the corkscrew scale, much like the clowns in Stephen King’s scariest books or like her Aunt Helen’s old-fashioned floor mop circa 1952. His face looked a bit battered and worse for the wear, as if it had been hit lots of times in unfriendly fashion. So did his nose.
She held up her shiny deputy badge and gave him a good look at it. “We’re from the Canton County Sheriff’s Department, sir. We have some questions to ask you.”
That got his full-fledged, undying attention. He didn’t curse anymore, either. He must have felt guilty since the first words out of his mouth were: “Hey, we got all the necessary permits for these fights. I got the papers right here. We got it right this time, so why are you hasslin’ us like this?” He held up the clipboard and stabbed a disgruntled forefinger on the writing thereon.
“We’re here about a homicide, sir. We don’t really call it hassling. We prefer you didn’t, either.”
That threw him momentarily. “Here, at the Lake Inn? Somebody got killed in here? Wow, shit.”
It seemed he was fairly articulate when he had to be. “No, we found a body out at Ha Ha Tonka State Park.”
“What’s with the suspense, lady? Tell me who it was.”
Claire felt her teeth enjoying a cozy little clamp. Why did everybody they interviewed lately have to be such a damn smart-alecky jerk? It had to be the weather, days and days of freezing cold and annoying tons of snow. She and Bud were rather testy lately, too, and probably for the same reason. “I’m afraid the deceased was your winner here the other night. Guy by the name of Paulie Parker.”
Skippy staggered backwards as if Bud had shoved him in the chest. Claire tried to determine if that was a theatrical Skippy kinda stunt or the real thing. He stared at them, and for once, and lucky for them, he appeared speechless. “No way. Not Paulie. I don’t believe it. He’s friggin’ invincible.”
“Believe it,” said Bud, apparently not a sucker for the guy’s charm, either. Claire could just tell, something about the total absence of Bud’s usual charming smile perhaps. Then again, Skippy wasn’t one of Bud’s good-looking gal pals so that might explain his I-truly-despise-you-Skippy expression.
“No way,” he repeated again, shaking around his mop of kinky platinum curls.
Claire decided to let the idea percolate until he got used to it. He stared at her face for a long moment as if waiting for her to tell him she was just kidding, ha-ha, got you, and then at Bud, who frowned and nodded impatiently, ready to get on with other things. Kansas City awaited. If Claire knew Bud, and she did, his first stop in KC was going to be his favorite barbeque joint on the planet. Fiorella’s Jack Stack Barbeque was old and famous and located inside a really ancient building in Martin City, where customers had to walk through a virtual maze to be seated. It made Claire hungry just thinking about their smoked turkey and cheesy corn and baked beans. Apparently, Bud’s encouragement got through to Skippy. He sank down in the closest folding chair, still hugging the clipboard. “That’s just crazy, man. That kid’s great. He was just a great fighter, man. I just can’t believe this. Was it a head injury, or somethin’?”
“More like somethin’,” Bud said, really cutting Skippy no slack now.
Claire took over. “Can you get us a list of all the cage fighters in this area, Mr. Wainwright? Names and addresses and family members.”
“Yeah, sure, I can. I keep it up to date, too, because I’m the one who sets up the bouts around the lake. God, I still can’t believe that Paulie’s dead.”
“He was murdered,” she told him, watching his face closely for a guilty reaction. Despite his wont for dramatics, his initial astonished take looked real enough to her.
“No way, no way.”
She nodded. “’Fraid so. You know anybody on the circuit who had a beef with the victim?”
“Well, most of them resented him winnin’ everything all the time. He’s the current champion, been the champ for over a year. Everybody’s chasing his title.”
“Not anymore,” Bud said.
“It’s so hard to believe. Give me a second, will you? Jeez, you two are cold. Don’t you know that I’m gonna lose a lot of money if he’s not around to bring in the fans anymore.”
“Yeah, your concern is touching. Now back to my question. Anybody you know who might be interested in seeing Paulie Parker dead?”
“Well, I heard that he used to have some kinda deal going on over in St. Louis. You know, with some wiseguys over there. They got a couple of fighters on the circuit, too. But it was more than just the competition. Something to do with his wife. I dunno what. I keep my nose outta that sick shit.”
Claire said, “His wife told us that he was born around here. Do you know where?”
“A lot of these guys grew up around here, you know, out in the hills and hollows where they really play
rough. Lots of ’em out away from town. Lots of ’em are brothers or cousins, and stuff. You know, tag teams. Some of ’em are into wrestlin’, too. Up there, they have the bare fists, no holds barred, you know, real nasty stuff. I’ve even heard that a couple of times guys got killed in the ring.”
“Fighters died in the ring? Are you certain about that?”
“Well, I wasn’t there but I wouldn’t be surprised. They hold those kinda fights out in the boondocks, you know, in the middle of farm pastures and crap. But I’ve heard some of ’em were to the death, maybe not intentionally, but those guys just don’t know when to stop. They raise their kids like little gladiators. Brag about it, too, say they’re like those Spartan guys. You know, they teach ’em to be tough as nails and to never back down, no matter what. They beat ’em up if they won’t fight.”
Bud said, “The Spartans? Like in that movie 300?”
“Yeah, that’s exactly what I mean. Little kids used to fight out there, and I mean, five or six years old. And I hear they got knocked around pretty good, too. Of course, the circuit frowns on that now and makes sure the fighters know it. Probably doesn’t go on anymore.”
Claire had seen that movie about the Spartans, too, and read a book once about those male Greek idiots. Spartan warriors had been so intent on being the best fighters in the world that they abused and brutalized their little kids and made them into savage beasts. So, if that kind of thing was going on in her jurisdiction, she was going to ferret out every last one of them and make sure they regretted laying one finger on their children. “There are laws against abusing children. If you have knowledge of child abuse going on in this county or anywhere else, Mr. Wainwright, you had better tell us now or you’re going to end up rotting in jail with the rest of them.”
“Hey, don’t bring this stuff down on me. I just hear the rumors. That’s all I know about it. I’m bein’ open and honest and cooperating, and now you’re makin’ threats on me.”
“I’ll ask you one more time, Skippy. Do you have knowledge of any child being put into a fight cage?”
“No. But it wouldn’t hurt to check out the people that live out that way. I can point out the ones who come from that part of the county.”
“You do that. And make it quick. Just circle their names, if you will.”
“Okay, I got the list of those fighters right here. You can have this one. I’ll print out another one for me.”
“And you saw no openly antagonistic behavior toward Parker the night that the fight was held here?”
“No way. We don’t allow it. Usually, they just doctor up their own injuries down in the triage unit and the fighters collect their winnings and go on their way. It’s all very up and up, at least it is here at the Inn.”
“It better be, or we’ll shut this whole place down.” That was Bud, stealing her thunder.
“It is, I swear to God. Everything’s legit and by the letter of the law. We don’t cheat nobody outta nothin’. And we sure don’t never hurt any little kids. That’s just sick.”
“Yes, it is sick. Is there anything else you can tell us about Parker or anybody else on the circuit that we need to know?”
“I don’t know them all that well. They all got issues, sure, with each other. This is a violent sport. Paulie won a lot of belts, won the whole thing last year, made lots of dough.” He shrugged.
“Who was he here with on the night of the fight?”
“He was alone. He’s usually alone. Wasn’t never real friendly with the other guys, you know, not a jerk, or nothin’. He just did his own thing. A loner, I’d guess you’d say. Somebody said he liked to get home to his woman, was true blue to her, and all that crap. She’s supposed to be a real looker, but she never came out to any of his bouts, at least not that I’ve ever seen. I heard she never showed up to support him anywheres, that she was kinda like one of those people who were afraid to come out of their house. You know, whatcha call it?”
“Agoraphobic?”
“Yeah, that’s it. Don’t know if that’s true, though. Never laid eyes on the chick.”
“Go ahead. Circle any of those guys you think might be abusing children. Make sure you give me their addresses, too. That’s not going to go on around here. Trust me.”
“Okay. I’m with you on that. Man, the Punisher’s dead. Nobody’s gonna believe it. That’s gonna make some big waves around the circuit.”
It was gonna make big waves in lots of places, Claire thought. Places she didn’t particularly want to go but had to. Oh, well, that was the story of her life, now wasn’t it?
Blood Brothers
Unfortunately for Punk and Bones, Pa woke up and remembered what they had done to him. So he beat them both black and blue with his fists for crowning him with that bucket, and then doctored them up and told them that he was as proud as a peacock about the way they took him on and knocked him out. He said they were the bravest of all the brothers, even if they were the youngest and the smallest. He took them into town and let them pick out new camouflage compound bows at the Walmart Superstore. He said that they were both bad, bad to the bone, and he was proud to call them his sons. So that’s when Punk learned that strength and bullying and utter brutality meant success and admiration and reward. Afterward, he took that lesson to heart and followed it religiously. Bones already had done that, years ago, and he continued to excel, both in his father’s eyes and inside the ring. They didn’t plot to kill their father, either. After all, they were his favorites now.
By the time they reached their middle teens, they both were the undisputed champs of their division, usually number one and number two, both of them winning every match Pa set up for them. They put some of their opponents in the hospital with broken bones, especially Bones, who just loved to hear that sharp, brittle crack when a bone gave way. Also, and together as a tag team, they beat up their older brothers regularly and with a great deal of fatherly encouragement. Both learned to love the sound of shattering femurs and crackling phalanges under their hard blows or brutal foot stomps, that lovely loud pop that caused their opponents to scream and fall to the ground and writhe around before they gave up. They learned the names of all the human bones and where they were located and the best ways to break them. It had become their favorite thing, music to their ears, the feel of bones giving way under their fists, and it happened more often than not. That’s when they began to call their obsession “bone music.”
Once they even managed to break Pa’s arm, and the bone in his wrist popped out through the skin on the back of his hand and made him pass out from the pain. That was the last time they ever got to enjoy a tag-team thrashing upon him. But it felt very good to hurt him so badly. Bones wanted to break his other arm, too. Truth was, Bones wanted to just go ahead and kill him, but Punk held him back because he was their pa, after all, and he still liked them the best.
After that day and when Pa came home from the emergency room, he seemed a little bit afraid of them. He started showering them with gifts and let them do pretty much whatever they wanted. He still beat their brothers some, but not them. He knew better. Yeah, things were pretty damn good for Punk and Bones, and they pretty much had free rein to do whatever the hell they wanted to whoever the hell they wanted to do it to. Life was good, and they didn’t even have to kill their pa yet, either, which would give them a lot of explaining to do.
One particular day, in late November, they went hunting together for some wild turkeys to roast up for Sunday dinner. Their pa had acres of private land to hunt on, but there was one place on their property line that overlooked the widest part of the river and a spring-fed pond where turkeys came in to feed. So they both climbed high up in the tree stand that they’d built for bow hunting a couple of summers before. They got there at dawn and so it wasn’t long before they dozed off, tired from their long walk and a full night of spying on a lady who lived down the road and liked to undress right in front of her bedroom window. Bones had seen her do it once before, so after that the
y often crept up the side of her house and watched her take off her clothes. She was really something, too. Older than they were, but she still looked good naked. Bones wanted to climb into her window and do her, but Punk wouldn’t let him.
But something caused Punk to rouse up out of his light doze, and he realized that it was the musical sound of a girl’s voice. Surprised that a woman was anywhere nearby, he sat up and looked around and then finally spotted her across the property line in their neighbor’s big apple orchard. He could see her pretty well, and still hear her singing a song about flowers on the wall, or some such thing. So he focused his new rifle’s high-powered scope right on her and got her in the crosshairs, curious as to what she looked like up close. He hadn’t seen many girls his age anywhere. He and the brothers pretty much stayed on the farm or drove to the quick stop just down the road. She had her back to him while she was gathering up some apples and placing them in her long skirt. She was holding it up with both hands and making a cradle for the fruit. Her dress was white with little pink bouquets of flowers all over the fabric. He watched everything she did. He wasn’t used to watching any real live girls around his own age, except for that naked lady they spied on. In fact, he hadn’t been very close to any women at all. Pa wouldn’t let any of the boys date girls. He said it would take their minds off winning fights and make them weak and lazy.
But Punk had seen a lot of them on the Direct TV satellite dish that Pa had ordered with their last winnings, and he liked the short little skirts they wore and the low tops that showed him their titties and got him all turned on down in his britches. And he also knew that this new girl was out there standing on his ma’s family’s property, where he had lived for a while when he was a little kid, at least until she died, anyway. He didn’t remember much about those early years when he’d lived on the other side of that fence, but one thing for sure, he was very interested in that girl standing over there. He wondered what her name was and how old she was. She looked to be around his age, sixteen, maybe, like him. She had very white hair woven into one long braid that reached down all the way to her waist, and her dress was so long that it brushed the ground when she walked. He could see that she wore some kind of white socks and plain white Keds tennis shoes when she got on her tiptoes to pick an apple off a high branch.