by TJ Vargo
As they reached the cage, Cracker stopped and pulled out a cell phone. Curtis surveyed the cage while Cracker made a call. When Cracker was finished with his phone conversation he sat, pulled off a shoe and looked up.
“Get yourself ready—they’ll be here soon,” Cracker said, taking his other shoe off.
Curtis sat and untied his shoes.
“You ever cage fight?” said Cracker.
Curtis pulled his shoes and socks off. “No.”
“I have,” said Cracker. “It’s for girls.” He laid flat on his back, unbuttoned his jeans and pulled them off. “Best fighting’s what we’re gonna do. Takes as long as it takes, no ref, only one person walks out. It’s clean.” Cracker stood and slipped out of his tee shirt. The only clothing he wore was a pair of black lycra, mid-thigh fighting shorts.
“Sounds fun,” said Curtis, sliding out of his pants and tee shirt. He stood and pulled up his shorts, which were the same as Cracker’s, only gray.
“Oh, you’ll like it,” said Cracker. “No rounds. No bell. Nothing to stop you. It’s just goes on and on until it’s done. More real, know what I mean?”
“Do I look like a fucking moron?” said Curtis.
“I don’t know,” said Cracker, folding his jeans and his shirt. He placed them on top of his boots and looked at Curtis. “You came here to fight me, didn’t ya?”
Curtis held Cracker’s stare. Cracker started talking again.
“You know, I once ran into this Chinese fella. A defrocked hard core Kung Fu priest straight from one of them secret temples. You never think there is such a thing until you run flat into it. But it’s true, I can guaranfuckingtee you that. That boy did all kinds of things to mess with me. It was an exciting display of the fighting arts, let me tell you. Went on for hours. But that’s the thing. Nobody ever thinks it’ll last that long. They think one way or another someone’s gonna give up. Oh, please stop. It hurts too much. You know? They can’t comprehend the possibility that someone may actually like the pain. Be that’s me. I like pain, see? So I’ll give you a little hint that’ll put you one step ahead of that Chinese boy—and that’s that it don’t bother me none if you want to go long or short with this. Either way, no matter how hard you try, I will still be chugging along, and eventually, you’ll wonder what in the hell you ever did to God to end up in a locked cage with me. I know that’ll happen because that’s what they told me the Chinese fella said right before I screamed in his face, ripped his ears off, shoved ‘em down his throat and choked him with them.” Cracker tapped the side of his nose and nodded at Curtis. “Word to the wise,” he said.
Curtis took a deep breath and exhaled. He cocked his head and stared at Cracker. “I ain’t Chinese, I shit on Kung Fu, and there ain’t gonna be nothing left of you when I’m done, so shove your story up your ass,” he said, then tapped the side of his nose. “Word to the fucking lunatic hillbilly.”
Cracker flinched. A blink and a stiffening of his neck. But he covered it up quick, drilling holes in Curtis with his beady eyes.
“Guess I got myself a fight then,” he said.
The front door of the factory banged open. Curtis watched Duck and Barry come in and walk toward the cage.
“It’s showtime,” said Cracker. He opened the cage door. “After you,” he said, extending his arm through the door.
Curtis walked into the cage. He took a deep breath, trying to focus. A loud rattling broke his concentration. Cracker was inside the cage, shaking the door to make sure it was locked. Cracker turned and held up a finger.
“Hold your water while I talk to Mr. Duck.”
Cracker laced his fingers through the chain-link, yelling across the empty factory floor toward Duck and Barry. Curtis thought he looked like a great white ape hanging on a fence. Except an ape didn’t yell about money. Curtis watched Barry pull one stack of cash and then another from a red gym bag, holding them high as he approached. Then Cracker went on a long ramble about how Duck and Barry were here to enjoy the show, but not interfere, and what he would do to them if they got involved. Curtis tuned it out. He thought back to everything he knew about fighting. All the years he wrestled. The street fights he, Sonny and Fitz got into. The sparring sessions with Angel. All the dirty boxing his dad taught him. How to stay relaxed when fighting. And out of all of it, one thing stuck out. Angel grinning at him after their last sparring session and saying, “Sometimes it’s okay to wear the black hat.”
He looked at Cracker, jabbering away at Duck and Barry. He emptied his lungs and shook his arms. Okay. It was black hat time.
He ran at Cracker and smashed an elbow behind his ear before the hillbilly could turn. The chain-link bowed from the weight of Cracker being driven into it. Then the cage recoiled, throwing Curtis and Cracker. Curtis hit the floor and rolled clear. Cracker was down, but still conscious, pushing up on all fours. The chain-link cushioned the blow. Curtis rushed in and kicked the back of Cracker’s head. Cracker’s face hit the concrete. Curtis thought about driving his heel into the back of Cracker’s neck to snap his spine, but if he missed, he’d break his foot on the concrete. He jumped on Cracker’s back and wrapped his forearm around Cracker’s throat.
Cracker’s nose bled like a faucet and the blood made everything slippery. Curtis struggled to slip his arm under his chin. He was close. An inch away from locking it in, but Cracker kept tucking his chin. Curtis dug deep, trying to crowbar his wrist under Cracker’s chin. Cracker grabbed his arm, holding him off. He was slippery as an eel, buying time to shake the cobwebs loose. And Curtis could feel him getting stronger with every passing second.
Being on the floor with this hillbilly when he regained his marbles seemed like a supremely bad idea. Curtis eased up on his choke hold, readying himself to jump to his feet. Cracker grabbed his arm and pulled it under his chin.
“Where you going? Choke me out,” said Cracker.
It didn’t matter who you were. Big. Strong. Crazy. Didn’t matter. Once that choke hold was locked in, you were going to sleep. But Cracker was inviting him to choke him out. Why would he do that?
Curtis tightened the choke, deciding to oblige. Then he felt Cracker’s hips shift.
In one quick motion Cracker spun his body until he was facing Curtis. He locked his legs around Curtis’s midsection and looked up, blood streaming from his nose. He looked calm. Almost pleased.
“You’re in a world a hurt,” he said, then began banging punches into Curtis’s ribs and kidneys.
Curtis gripped the back of Cracker’s neck with both hands and buried his face against Cracker’s chest, feeling the heavy shots pummel his body.
There was no upside to this position. If he let go of Cracker’s neck and raised his head to fight back, the punches that were digging into his ribs would find his face, along with an elbow or two. And Cracker would keep it up until there was nothing to do but roll to his back. With Cracker on top of him, the end wouldn’t be far. There was only one way.
Curtis braced his hands on the floor and sat back on his heels, pulling Cracker into his lap. He held onto Cracker as he stood, letting Cracker punch away at his ribs. Then he threw himself to the floor, slamming Cracker’s back on the concrete.
The jolt reverberated through Cracker. He went limp for a moment. Curtis pushed off and rolled away. He came to his feet, breathing hard, adrenaline pumping.
The sight of Cracker, already on his feet, was disturbing. The man’s nose was dripping blood, but he wasn’t even breathing hard as he lifted his fists and moved forward. Curtis didn’t back away, but he didn’t meet him either. He circled and slid to one side, then the other, staying on his toes. As he circled, he saw Duck and Barry, hanging on the outside of the cage. Duck pointed through the chain link at Cracker.
“Look at you,” yelled Duck. “You’re supposed to be killing him, not the other way around.”
Cracker reached back, grabbed Duck’s finger and broke it. He kept his eyes on Curtis as he pressed forward.
“How you doi
ng?” he said, looking at Curtis while Duck wailed. “You look tired.”
Curtis inhaled deep through his nose and breathed out through his mouth, bouncing away as Cracker feinted forward. “Not looking too good yourself,” he said.
Cracker wiped a hand over his nose. He licked the blood off his fingers. “I’m just getting warmed up.”
Curtis smiled. He darted in, threw a quick head and body combination and slipped Cracker’s lunging counter punch. And he kept it up, falling into a rhythm. For all the bluster of this hillbilly maniac, he found that Cracker couldn’t contend with bang-bang, in-and-out speed. So Curtis worked him over, pounding him with jabs, crosses and hooks. Knifing leg kicks into his thighs. He put on a clinic, showing Cracker the devastating effects of speed. But the pace was withering. The damage to Cracker’s face, legs and body piled up, but Curtis’s hands were throbbing. His lungs burned. And although bloodied and bruised, Cracker never slowed. He stayed right in front of Curtis, taking his punishment just to land a body shot here and there.
Trying to slow Cracker down, Curtis stuck two jabs in his face. Fatigue slowed his reaction to Cracker’s counter hook to the body. It caught him flush on the short ribs, bending him double. Curtis stumbled back, sidestepping Cracker’s bullrush. He managed it, but just barely. One of his calves cramped and he stretched it. Sweat stung his eyes as he started to bounce and circle again. He wiped a forearm across his face, watching Cracker plod forward. This was getting ridiculous. It felt like he was dancing in sand. A memory of his dad floated through his consciousness.
He was fifteen, practicing combinations on the heavy bag in the garage, following his dad’s instructions. Jab, jab, kick. Jab, jab, knee to the groin. Hook to the body, hook to the head. Denting the bag with a vicious elbow. He was fast. A whirlwind. And then his dad threw a towel at him, said to sit down and told him that he fought like Jersey Joe Walcott. Not a ton of power, but fast and vicious. His dad explained how people that fought Joe got picked apart until they crumbled. That is until Joe met Rocky Marciano. According to his dad, Joe dropped Marciano in the first round, then stayed out of Marciano’s range and tattooed him for thirteen rounds. Joe was too slick for Marciano. But Marciano was a bull, taking three punches to deliver one. He worked the body. And the punishment he delivered eventually slowed Jersey Joe down until that thirteenth round, when Marciano landed a right that put Joe on his knees. And that was where Joe stayed, one arm draped over the ropes while they counted him out. He didn’t get up for a long time after that punch.
Curtis remembered his dad slapping him on the back and saying, “So here’s the deal. If you’re gonna fight like Jersey Joe, remember one thing—don’t ever fight Marciano.” Curtis looked across the cage at Cracker, still plodding relentlessly forward.
Damn.
A seed of fear planted in his chest. If this was just a fight, it wouldn’t be so bad. But this was for keeps. And he was fighting Marciano.
Cracker rushed in, feinting a left to Curtis’s head. Curtis stepped in to meet him and looped an overhand right to Cracker’s jaw. It connected with a crack. Cracker’s uppercut to his midsection came out of nowhere. Curtis felt a spear of pain deep inside him. Cracker dove in to grab his legs. Curtis sprawled, using his weight to drive Cracker to the ground, then jumped clear and circled away, coughing. That punch hurt. He coughed again and wiped his mouth. Blood shined on his hand.
“And it begins,” said Cracker, rising to his feet, nodding at the blood on Curtis’s hand.
Curtis ran scenarios through his head, trying to come up with something he could use. Cracker had nearly finished him on the ground. Standing with him was no better. Punches bloodied him, but didn’t seem to hurt him. There wasn’t any in-between here. The only option seemed to be Angel’s advice. Run. Buy time. And try to outlast this thing that looked like a man, but fought like a machine.
He almost got caught twice over the next hour. The first time he was sticking, jabbing and moving, trying to stay away from Cracker’s body shots that had him coughing blood. So tired he didn’t realize Cracker was steering him against the cage. And once he was there, Cracker rushed him, wrapped his arms around him and lifted. Curtis was off the ground, bracing for a slam on the concrete when Cracker slipped in a smear of blood and sweat. He lost his grip and Curtis pulled free.
The second time was bad. Cracker’s body shots had taken their toll. Curtis could feel blood rattling in his lungs. Every time Cracker got close, Curtis threw a combination and then dropped his guard to block the inevitable body shot. Then Cracker got cute. He faked to the body and went to the head. The punch rocked Curtis. Warning lights flashed. Curtis went into overdrive and stood toe-to-toe with Cracker, trading punches. Although that first head shot by Cracker was the hardest punch of the flurry, Cracker caught three for every one he landed after that. The crazy hillbilly even backed up under the barrage, but Curtis couldn’t keep up the effort. He was so tired.
Cracker kept pressing him, never giving him a moment’s rest. The dance in Curtis’s step faded to nothing. Sliding flat-footed was all he had left. He watched Cracker, searching for a hole in his game. Up to this point, he’d used everything he’d ever learned. The clean and the dirty, like kicking Cracker in the balls, chopping him in the throat, and poking him in the eyes. Nothing stopped him. A groin kick drew a grunt out of him, but that was about it. Cracker’s face was a mess, with his left eye all puffed up, but it was a fool’s bargain to go for that eye. To get to it, Curtis had to step in close enough for Cracker to land his body shots, and he wasn’t sure he could take one more. Curtis coughed and spit. Bright red blood spattered on the cold concrete. One more punch to his body might finish him. He searched through all the advice he’d ever been given about fighting. There was nothing left. He’d used it all. Nothing but a memory of Angel comparing Cracker to the man-eating jaguar in Somalia, advising Curtis to run. He licked his lips, tasting his blood as Cracker closed on him.
Cracker lunged in. Curtis dropped his hands to cover his ribs. Something hard and heavy caught him on the side of the head.
As he was falling, Curtis saw the blur of Cracker’s foot sweep past his face. Cracker caught him with a head kick. Curtis’s skull bounced off the concrete. Then he saw two Crackers, both bloody-faced and dripping with sweat, standing over him. He tried to move, but every part of him was short circuited. A high-pitched ringing filled his head. He watched Cracker and thought about Angel’s story of the jaguar attacking the hunter. The two images of Cracker turned to one, then shifted back to two as Cracker straddled him, placing his knees on either side of his chest.
Curtis closed an eye, turning Cracker’s two faces into one, watching as Cracker opened his mouth. Curtis flexed his fingers and stared into Cracker’s mouth, feeling the air vibrate with his rebel yell.
Curtis wondered if this was what the hunter felt like when the jaguar opened its mouth for the kill.
Chapter Forty-Seven
Julia rolled up both paintings and slid them back in their tubes. She looked at the young, unshaven man in the suit and tie. He was handsome beyond belief, but he’d been eyeing her up and down like he owned her since he walked in. And now he was staring at the tubes holding the paintings.
“So now you’ve seen them,” she said, taking a seat in front of Angel’s computer. She brought up the website for Angel’s bank, typed in his username and password and looked up. “Now transfer the money.”
“Where’s Angel?” the man said. “He said he was going to be here.” He smiled and walked over to the tubes on Angel’s desk.
“Don’t touch those,” said Julia.
The man tucked the tubes under his arm. “Tell you what, I’ll settle up with Angel later.”
Julia stood. She was a foot shorter than the man, but she grabbed his tie and pulled until he was face-to-face with her. She talked through clenched teeth.
“Put those down and don’t touch them again until you pay what you owe.”
She let go of his tie, her
eyes blazing. The man straightened his tie and eyed her. Julia felt her stomach knot as he stared, but she stared daggers right back. The man chewed the inside of his lip. He put the tubes down and took out his phone.
“I got the paintings,” he said, sneering at Julia. “Do the transfer.”
She turned toward the computer. It took a tense minute, but the numbers finally appeared. Three hundred grand. She picked up the tubes and handed them over.
“Nice doing business with you,” she said, smiling. She followed him through the garage to the parking lot and watched him get into his glossy black Rolls Royce. The car backed out, cinders crunching under its tires, then rolled quietly down the street through the yellow-gray of the approaching dawn.
Julia leaned against the door, exhausted. She had been up all night at the hospital, waiting to hear about Angel, watching over Curtis’s dad and worrying about Curtis. That was the worst, worrying about Curtis. She went back inside the garage. Angel had been nip and tuck for a while last night. Something about a clot. But he’d come through. Curtis’s dad was hungover to the point of death, but after they got back he’d fallen into a fitful sleep in the back seat of an old pale yellow Monte Carlo in the garage. Curtis said he’d be back by sunrise. It wouldn’t be long before she’d know if he’d meet that promise. Just enough time to take a shower, brush her teeth and get ready to leave, because one thing was certain.
If Curtis didn’t show, she had to run.
Before he’d lost consciousness in the ambulance, Angel made her promise to leave if Curtis didn’t make it back. To take a hundred grand out of the account, get in Angel’s work truck and drive so far away no one would ever find her. She walked downstairs to the bathroom, turned on the shower, stripped and stepped under the hot water.
Her hair dripped as she walked out to the parking lot, holding a cup of coffee. She was barefoot, wearing jeans and an old oil-stained work shirt she’d found in Angel’s office. The coffee steamed, matching the steam coming off the scrub grass beyond the rusted chain link fence across the street. The sun was on the horizon. She couldn’t hold off anymore. It was time to go. She sipped her coffee, dumped the rest on the ground and went inside, grabbing the keys to Angel’s work truck.