The Hard Way

by TJ Vargo

  Then Angel stepped in and started punching. Nothing fast. Nothing hard. But everything hit. Two jabs to the face. A right to the kidney. A left hook to the jaw. Two rights to the body. The punches seemed slow to Cracker. Like every one of them could’ve been ducked or sidestepped, but for some reason, he couldn’t get out of the way. And he felt every one of them. His broken nose flared with pain from the first two punches to the face and the wind get knocked out of him with the last two shots to the body. The pace hypnotized him. Bang, bang, bang, bang, bang, bang—

  Enough.

  Cracker lunged, ripping a right hook at Angel’s head. But nothing was there. Another volley of punches rained down from every direction. Every shot found a home. The shots to the face blinded Cracker. The shots to the body stole his wind and turned his legs to rubber. He covered up and tried to weather the storm. None of the punches were hard. But they were deadly accurate. This Angel was a devil. And he was walking him down. Beating him to a pulp.

  Cracker covered up, backed up and took the blows, waiting. A man had to get close to finish things off. And Cracker could feel Angel, moving in a little closer with every punch.

  A punch to the throat.

  A little closer.

  A punch to the temple.

  A little closer.

  A punch to the kidney.

  A little too close.

  Cracker came out of his shell. He reached up and grabbed Angel’s head with both hands. He heard Angel curse as he pulled Angel’s head down and jumped, driving his right knee into Angel’s chin. This big old Indian-looking motherfucker knew he’d gotten too close. He knew he’d screwed up. But that’s the way it went when you got to fighting. You got your blood all up and started wading in, thinking you were king of the hill.

  The crack of Cracker’s knee on Angel’s chin—bone on bone— was harsh. Cracker watched Angel stagger. The lights in his eyes went out for a moment. Then he was back, struggling with everything he had to stay on his feet.

  Cracker kicked him in the balls. He’d heard a trainer once call a groin shot “old-school Kung Fu,” and for his money, it worked better than just about anything. Like now, for instance. Angel crumpled like a piano had been dropped on him.

  Cracker grabbed Angel’s ponytail, lifting his head off the floor.

  “No, no, no,” he said. “Don’t sleep yet. I ain’t finished. Not by a long shot.”

  He pulled Angel to his feet and pushed him against a wall. Angel pawed at him. Swung powder puff punches. Cracker stuck his chin out, let a couple shots land, then got in Angel’s face. He opened his mouth wide and screamed his rebel yell.

  Chapter Forty-Six

  The streetlamps gave Curtis a clear view of the Angel’s garage. He stood in the bed of the truck and surveyed the street, thinking he should bang on the back window of the cab and yell for the kid to drop him off in the alley, but it seemed quiet. None of Barry’s or Duck’s guys were hanging around. No strange cars were in sight. The only thing out of place was Angel’s Camaro parked by the front door. He looked at his watch. His dad was supposed to pick him up two hours ago, but there sat the Camaro. He knocked on the pickup’s back window.

  “This is good,” he said. The truck squeaked to a halt. He jumped into the street and walked to the driver’s side window, giving the teenage boy a fist bump. “Thanks for the ride,” he said.

  “Anytime. Thanks for the six pack,” said the kid.

  Curtis watched the truck drive away. He hiked the backpack on his shoulders and walked toward Angel’s garage with his head on a swivel. His eyes landed on the Camaro. Why would that be here? If his dad had gone on a bender, the car would be parked next to the Red Fox, Kosta’s or some other bar. Something was wrong. Halfway through the parking lot, he stopped. and pulled out his keys to the Camaro.

  He had the paintings. He had the keys. And the car was right here, waiting for him. He could drive away and check in with Julia and Angel later. Make sure that nothing had gone wrong.

  He put his head down and walked toward the Camaro, stepping around a puddle in the parking lot. The sweet, metallic smell of radiator fluid wafted over him. He walked to the driver’s side and stopped.

  The whole front end of the Camaro was smashed in. This car was going nowhere.

  Curtis fumed. His dad got wasted and cracked up the car. He was probably inside right now, sleeping it off.

  “And Angel’s probably driving around looking for me,” thought Curtis, shaking his head as he walked to the front door. He tried to turn the doorknob. It was locked. He knocked, waited, and knocked again. Footsteps thumped toward him. The door flew open.

  “Get in here,” Julia said, pulling him inside.

  He didn’t get a chance to say a word as she dragged him to the restroom. His dad hugged the toilet bowl, moaning. It smelled like someone poured a case of cheap vodka on the floor. Curtis took off his backpack.

  “How long’s he been like this?” he said.

  “I don’t know,” said Julia. “He crashed Angel’s car out front a couple hours after you left. There was an empty bottle of vodka with him. He’s been doing nothing but passing out and throwing up since. I tried to get some aspirin in him, but he can’t hold anything down. I don’t know what to do.”

  Curtis stood over his dad. “Little sick, huh?”

  His dad looked up. “I didin say nuffin,” he said, then dry heaved into the toilet.

  “And he keeps saying that,” said Julia. “‘I didn’t say nothing.’ Took the first couple hours before I figured it out. What does that mean?”

  Curtis backed out of rest room. He felt angry enough to burst into flame. His dad did it again.

  “It doesn’t mean anything. He’s drunk outta his mind,” he said, then shook his head. “Go make some coffee. I’ll throw him in the shower.”

  His dad could walk. Not perfectly, but he managed. Curtis put him in the shower, found a pair of Angel’s coveralls, hung them on the towel rack and sat on the toilet, watching to make sure his dad didn’t slip and kill himself. Once he got the money from Angel, he was taking Julia and leaving for good. This bullshit was over.

  After his dad was cleaned up, he led him into Angel’s office and shoved a hot cup of coffee in his hands. Then he went out in the hall, grabbed his backpack and went back into the office, closing the door. Julia eyed him from her seat on Angel’s desk, sipping coffee.

  “So where’s Angel? Driving around looking for me because of this asshole?” he said.

  His dad took a big gulp of his coffee. “I din’t… say anything,” he said, slowly and deliberately, his hands shaking.

  “No,” said Julia. She pushed the desk chair toward Curtis. “You should sit down, Curtis.”

  Curtis set the backpack on the floor. “Just tell me where I can find Angel. Let’s just get our money and get out of here.”

  “I did nah tell him anyfing,” said his dad.

  Curtis pointed at his dad. “Shut up.”

  “Sonny’s dead,” said Julia.

  Curtis straightened. “What?”

  “Me and Angel went to see him. He hung himself.”

  Curtis’s dad lowered his head. “No,” he moaned.

  “We just saw him yesterday,” said Curtis. “He was fine.”

  Julia put her coffee down and walked over to Curtis. She put her hands on his shoulders. “Are you okay?” she said.

  “It doesn’t make any sense,” said Curtis. “Why would he do that?”

  “He left a note,” said Julia.

  “I did nah tell him,” said Curtis’s dad. “Nuffffing.”

  “Stop it,” yelled Curtis, pointing at his father. He walked over and smacked the coffee mug out of his father’s hands, sending it flying against a wall.

  “I didn’t,” said his father.

  Curtis turned his back on him. “What did the note say?” he asked.

  Julia looked at the broken coffee cup. “I don’t know,” she said. “Angel read it. Then he dropped me off and said he h
ad to take care of something.”

  “Where did he go?”

  She shook her head. “He didn’t say. But he seemed different.”

  “Different how?”

  She took a deep breath and exhaled. “Like, worried. Or scared.”

  Tires squealed out front. An engine revved in the parking lot. Curtis looked at Julia. He mouthed, “Stay here,” and slipped out the door, closing it behind him.

  He crept through the garage. The engine revving stopped, but he could hear someone yell, “Now get the hell offa my truck,” which was followed by the sound of a thud. He peeked through the blinds. His blood went cold.

  Angel was lying on the parking lot behind a small pickup. He’d taken a bad beating. And there was a man on the bed of the pickup, struggling with Angel’s motorcycle. The man shoved it off the bed of his pickup next to Angel. The man straightened. Curtis stared at him.

  It was Joe Cracker Jones. He’d seen enough of him on the internet to know. All muscle and vein and sharp bone and bad haircut wrapped up in a squinty-eyed package. His nose was swollen and busted and his face was lumpy with bruises, but he didn’t move like he was hurt. He brimmed with power as he stared at the garage, seemingly straight through the blinds at Curtis.

  When Cracker finally looked away Curtis realized he hadn’t taken a breath. He pulled in a lungful of air, watching Cracker jump off the bed, get in his truck and drive away. The man did not waste time.

  Curtis looked at his hands. They were trembling. He tightened them into fists as he stood and walked outside, looking down the street. The brake lights on Cracker’s truck brightened three blocks away, then disappeared as the truck turned left. Curtis stared down the empty street. Maybe Cracker saw him. Maybe he was circling back right now. Curtis looked at Angel, then back down the street.

  Let him come.

  He went to Angel. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been cradling Angel’s head when Julia showed up. Angel’s face was smashed, his hands broken, his eyes swollen shut. Julia touched Curtis’s shoulder.

  “I called an ambulance,” she said.

  Curtis stroked Angel’s forehead. “You’re gonna be okay,” he said.

  Angel stirred. He opened one eye and reached for a piece of paper hanging halfway out of his pocket, trying to push it back in with his broken fingers. Curtis grabbed Angel’s wrist. “I’ll get it,” he said, pulling the paper out.

  “No,” Angel mumbled through swollen lips. “Don’t read it.”

  Curtis opened the note. When he got to the part that read, “One thing’s for sure, if Curtis fought, I’d still be here,” he knew. Cracker killed Sonny. He was doing what he said he would do, destroying the people Curtis cared about to make him fight.

  “He mayme drink. Tried to make me tell’m where you are. I said nuffin.”

  Curtis looked up at his father wavering on his feet.

  “Cracker made you drink?” said Curtis.

  “I don’t know. Sum hillwilly guy.”

  “Run Curtis,” mumbled Angel.

  A cold black mist dropped over Curtis. It sifted through his pores, filling him until he was heavy with it. He turned to Julia.

  “Hold Angel,” he said. He waited for her to sit and laid Angel’s head in her lap. He stood and she grabbed his hand.

  “Where are you going?”

  Curtis tried to pull away, but her grip tightened.

  “You promised we’d be honest with each other,” she said. “Why did Angel just tell you to run?”

  “There’s a guy after me,” he said. “He killed Sonny. He made my dad drink and he did this to Angel.”

  “Why?”

  “I beat the hell outta some guys,” said Curtis. “They were trying to set Sonny and Fitz up. I got involved and they put Sonny in a coma so I tracked them down and made them bleed. Now they’re after me.”

  The whine of the ambulance approached. Angel coughed, starting a trickle of blood from a nostril. Julia let go of Curtis’s hand and wiped Angel’s face with her shirt.

  “Then Angel’s right,” she said. “You should run.”

  Curtis stood. He looked down on her. “They’ll still come after me. They won’t stop.”

  He watched her face tighten. She looked down, gently cradling Angel’s head.

  Curtis sighed and stepped over to his father. “You did good, Dad,” he said, taking his father’s hand. His dad smiled, then lost his balance. Curtis caught him and held him. The smell of vodka was stifling, but he hugged him tight as he lowered him to the ground next to Julia.

  Then he walked over to Angel’s motorcycle and stood it upright. Straddling it, he looked at Julia. The ambulance siren whooped, drawing closer.

  “Take my dad and go to the hospital with Angel,” he said. “Stay in the lobby where other people are around. Don’t leave for nothing or nobody tonight.”

  Julia looked up. “Are you coming back?” she said.

  Curtis started the motorcycle and rolled next to her. “I’ll meet you here in the morning.” He brushed his hand through her hair. “I’m not running.”

  Her eyes darkened as she gripped his hand.

  “Then make sure they never bother you again,” she said.

  He leaned down and kissed her.

  “I’ll try,” he said. “I promise.”

  Curtis thought back to the note Cracker left in his apartment. He’d said to go to any bar in town and to ask for him. The Red Fox was as good as any. He parked Angel’s bike in front, walked in and pushed between a couple of guys sitting at the bar. One of them turned.

  “Watch what you’re—”

  Curtis glanced over. The guy shut up and stared at his beer. The bartender approached. Curtis recognized him from the night he’d beaten Duck and Artie bloody in the bathroom. Duck said his name was Mike.

  “What do you want?” said Mike.

  “Joe Cracker Jones said I could ask for him here.”

  The smile on the bartender’s face was not pretty. “Oh, yeah. That guy.” He grabbed the landline phone and dialed. Curtis noticed that big, ham-faced Mike never lost his smile as he talked and hung up.

  “He’s on his way,” said the bartender, wiping the bartop with a dishtowel. The dishtowel went over his shoulder as he stepped in front of Curtis. “I’m gonna like hearing about what he does to you.”

  Curtis punched him in the mouth. Bottles and glasses shattered as Mike reeled and fell. Curtis walked over to a booth. The bar was packed and everyone stared at him, but no one moved. He swept his gaze down the length of the bar. Everyone looked into their beer like it was turning to gold. He focused on the front door. Cracker showed up in under two minutes.

  Curtis watched him walk in. The squinty-eyed hillbilly was rangy. His arms and legs were long. That always worked to a fighter’s advantage. Reach cause all kinds of trouble. He had the neck of a bulldog. Again, a real benefit when it came to absorbing punches. His huge shoulders, deep chest and narrow midsection would give him leverage in a clinch. His blockhead belonged on a bigger man. Easy to hit, but it would be a bitch to break without a sledgehammer. And last but not least was his face. Flat and wide, with eyes set far back under a prominent brow. He sat across from Curtis and nodded. Curtis nodded back. The only part of him that didn’t look dangerous was his terrible haircut. It stuck out all over and looked patchy. He needed a better barber.

  “So Sonny boy got your attention, huh?” said Cracker, cracking his knuckles.

  Curtis looked at his hands. Long, thick fingers. White scars crisscrossed knuckles as big as jawbreakers. “Where do you want to do this?” said Curtis.

  Cracker didn’t smile. Curtis wasn’t sure he could. But his eyes widened and he leaned back.

  “You’re fast to the trigger, ain’t you?”

  “Fast as I need to be,” said Curtis.

  Cracker stood.

  “Well I’ll tell you what, I can’t wait. You just follow me, a’right? It ain’t far. We’ll be dancing in no time.”

  Curtis stood
and followed Cracker outside. He got on Angel’s motorcycle, trailing Cracker through neighborhoods into the shopping district. Just beyond the mall, Cracker took a left on Fourth Street. A little farther up the road, he pulled through the front gate of the old GM plant.

  Curtis pulled into the parking space next to Cracker. A few emergency lights glowed over the doors of the abandoned factory. Curtis looked at the sky. Stars twinkled. A few clouds floated by the moon. That was the same moon he and Julia had been naked under a couple nights ago. Maybe they should’ve run then.

  “Come on then,” said Cracker. “Ain’t no rest for the wicked. Let’s get this show on the road.”

  Curtis dropped his gaze to Cracker, who stood in front of an open door. He walked by Cracker into the dark interior of the factory. The door boomed shut, enveloping Curtis in total darkness. There was a click and light flooded the factory.

  “This way,” said Cracker, walking past him.

  Curtis followed Cracker, getting his bearings. The interior of the abandoned factory was super clean. The spotless concrete floor had blue, black and red lines running over it, outlining the routes of the old production line. A few pieces of machinery, old drill presses, hydraulic vises and the like, stood silent. The ceiling was three stories up. Huge panels of window panes were set high on the walls. During the day the sun would have no trouble finding its way inside. Curtis looked ahead. Dead square in the middle of the floor was the only big structure left in the factory. A huge tool crib. Two stories high and encased in rubber-coated black chain link. It was the size of a small house. Empty except for two steel staircases set in opposite corners that ran up to a second level. The floor of the second-level was see-through metal grate.

  “Should make for a good place to tangle, don’t you think?”

  Curtis looked at Cracker, who was walking backwards, staring at him.

  “That’s where we’re fighting?” said Curtis, pointing at the cage.

  Cracker bounced on his toes as he walked backwards. “No place to run once that door closes.”

  The comment started an echo in Curtis’s head. Of Angel saying he should run. A flutter of butterflies ran through his stomach. He thought about Angel’s busted face. His broken fingers.