Seconds later, patrons were retching, sending the janitors for more sawdust. But Malcolm remained fixed on the fight.
It took five more macabre minutes before the massacre was over and the body of Milkwood finally collapsed to a pasty lump on the floor for three whole seconds. The crowd muttered its shock. Kudor, body soaked with the bright blood of his enemy, gasped. His arms were quivering from effort, fists shaking. “Give me my fucking money,” he said, “And keep that…freakshow away from me.”
Lying on the floor, like a mass of quivering wounds, was Milkwood. The referee tucked a thin wad of bills into the ass pocket of his jeans, and two thugs in stained overalls grabbed what was left of him and dragged it out the service door, a ragged cough cackling out of Milkwood. “Damn,” said a raven-haired woman in an SS uniform. “He lived. The fat bastard cut me out of a kill bonus.” She sighed. “I hope I have better luck tomorrow.” She smiled, gave Malcolm a wink. “Hope you didn’t bet too much on the loser this time, Malcolm.”
Eva was the closest thing to a friend he had in the circuit, a scary WWII obsessed dyke that could hold her own against ninety percent of the circuit’s best shooters. Whatever she did in daylight, Malcolm didn’t know, but she’d been kind to him since he convinced her to bet on Hector Gomez back a year ago, before anyone knew he’d trained with those ex-KGB psychos in Delaware. “They’re not all losers, Eva. And, no, he didn’t break my bank. Say, have you ever seen him before?”
Eva laughed. “He looks like every sad sack of shit who comes to Naughty Craft for DP DVDs.”
A local trash queen with too much perfume and not enough make-up tugged on Eva’s arm. “You said this would be fun and I’m bored. Let’s go dancing!”
Eva kissed her hard while Malcolm glared at his shoes. “See you for the big show tomorrow. I hear the Maxim twins got stopped at the border. Those identical idiots had two fake passports, with different last names! See you then, kiddo.” Eva left and the crowd dissipated while Malcolm shuffled between them.
An itch in his memory got scratched. Maxim Twins…no way, hold the goddamn phone…Milkwood, you sneaky shit. I know who you are.
CHAPTER TWO
A WOOZY, SPINNEY FEELING swam inside the fading pain as Milkwood’s body tried to undo the damage done, like his body was being tossed and turned, limps flailing.
“Fuck, this asshole is heavy.”
“Quit bitching and pull your own weight.”
Classy fellows, Milkwood thought as they gripped each arm and dragged his belly across the stained concrete. They shuffled his carcass through wet garbage strewn across an alley that smelled both sick and sweet, the last vestiges of the St. Lawrence River’s cleansing breeze filling the alley.
Home sweet home.
“Shove open the lid,” said Righty.
Lefty grunted. “No way we can dead lift him in there. This guy’s a concrete tub.”
“If he’s not stuffed deep in the dump for tomorrow’s special pick up, Judge will feed our balls to Samson. And unlike you, I get laid. Now hurry up.” The metallic screech of the lid being thrust open reminded Milkwood of the garbage compactor scene in Star Wars, and he did not feel like being in the belly of the Death Star, but he hated to get up and move with witnesses. They freaked, and ran, and he hated running…but he hated dumpsters filled with ripe filth and dancing rice, otherwise known as maggots, even more.
God, he thought. It’s days like this I miss working at the bookstore. Instead of playing Motorhead to get people to leave at closing time, I’m acting like a corpse in a one-act play.
Lefty and Righty heaved him up and his shirt tore, slipping out of their grips. He bounced off the cracked pavement.
“Well, fuck me tender. Go on then, grab him.”
“No way. Fat fuck stays here. Let the rats chew him.”
“He goes in, or you do. Judge’s orders.”
“Threatening me, you Polish retard?”
“Not losing my balls because you’re a pussy.”
“Samson only eats fingers, you freak.”
Faaaantastic.
As the bones in Milkwood’s neck mended, and his jaw worked its way back into place with slick, gooey movements beneath his doughy skin, he wondered if he could get another degree, a useful one, doing correspondence or distance education. Maybe one of those matchbox degrees in gun repair. Because, sitting face first on the floor, a fistful of hundreds in his back pocket, his bullshit history degree would not help him out of his current job prospects. Maybe I should hang it up, he thought, give the circuit the finger, give up the punching bag paycheck.
Since the NYC circuit collapsed, the money had started to thin like a fat girl near prom, forcing Milkwood to the fringiest of fringes before the last good job was in the sad sack of shit called Kingston. The old home town. Hadn’t had his sneakers touch the limestone city since…
He grunted, thinking of the night it happened. What she did to him. He growled and a blade cut through night air.
“Fucker is still alive.”
“Fantastic.” Milkwood did a slow push up and received two cracked ribs that thankfully mended before he hit the ground. Both trashmen had shit-kicker boots. Steel toed.
“No way, the fucker wasn’t breathing.”
“Then why’d you kick him?”
“Shut up.”
Okay, Milkwood thought, round two. He pushed himself up and boots mashed him back down.
“Fuck him if he’s alive. He can roll his fat ass out of here on his own. Get up.”
Another hoof to the gut. I’m glad I can’t feel this shit, he thought, trying to avoid the rolling stock footage of his father being wailed on by babyfaces every Saturday, a phony wrestler taking a pretend beating three hundred days a year, always a thousand miles away and yet invading his TV every Saturday morning, playing a villain who couldn’t stand on his own two feet in a fair fight—
Hoof!
Never could take a real shot.
Crack! “Get up!”
Not like me.
“I said get up, meatbag!”
But Milkwood stayed down until their legs tired and their lungs wheezed and they scrambled for breath.
“Fuck this, drag him up,” said Lefty. “Make him stand so we can toss his hide out of here.”
They dug under his flabby arms and yanked him against the wall. Ah, hell, he thought. Let’s just walk out here on drunk legs and get on the next midnight bus out of here. Through the loose strands of his black hair, Milkwood sized them up. A memory flared.
Thomas Cody. That was Lefty. Jack Pulski. Righty. The two had gone from high school thugs to career shitheels without skipping a beat, he figured. They’d given him a few swirlies when they found out Dad was a wrestler. Flushing as his face smacked the water, chin shimmering with pain as shit stained water clogged his nose, double armlock tougher than Fort Knox’s front door. “C’mon, hero. Get out of the hold, just like Daddy, you know, unless he’s a phony. Why don’t you get out? You like the taste of piss?”
Looking at both of them, fifteen years later, angry hunger stirred in his damaged flesh, regeneration working itself up to his face like maggots facing for the finish line on his head.
Cody snorted. “If you’re breathing, we don’t need to trash you.”
“But we damn well better get a tip for carrying you outside,” Pulski said, knife out at his side. “Hand over the earnings.”
Milkwood wiped the matted, blood soaked strands of hair from his face. “I earned that money,” he said, but in his gummy mouth it just came out as “Eye worm mat lundy.”
Horror gave way to laughter on Cody and Pulski’s face. Pulski dropped his knife. “Shit, he’s retarded.”
“That explains a lot. Man, the Judge must have got his sense of humour at a garage sale. Figures he’d get a retard to face Kudor by blocking every punch with his face.”
“Eyem not wetawded!” burst past his mashed mouth, and he was just praying for his teeth to come in soon to stop the two fucks
from cackling at him, but they were always the last to grow back. Milkwood leaned against the concrete as their laughter ran over his wounded flesh like brine. Welcome home, he thought.
Only he wasn’t the kid in the flannel shirt getting swirlies. He wasn’t the kid getting wailed on because they thought he could fight, then getting wailed on because they all knew “The Marauder” Jack Mace was a phony, just some jerk who’d become smalltime famous for getting his ass kicked by steroid machines on Saturday morning TV.
I ain’t that kid now. Just tear them in half. Drink ’em dry. Do it fast enough and no one would notice. No one would miss these assholes. Not their parents. Not their employer. Not the bimbos that flocked to them like flies on shit. They were food in a stained wrapper.
His hands contracted into tiny fists as threatening as two overfilled balloons…
At the far end of the alley, people walked. Eyes were on them. And cold reason ran over him: No, don’t reveal yourself to these putzes. Can’t risk it, and besides, they probably taste like spoiled blood-orange juice.
Milkwood tore the thin strip of bills from his back pocket and handed it over to the greedy hands. “Here.”
“Fuck, I make more running dope for five minutes,” Cody said.
“Retard doesn’t know how bad he has it,” Pulski said, putting the knife away, because Milkwood was no threat. No threat at all.
They soon left him to the alley and Milkwood slumped back against the concrete wall besides the dumpster. He took out his real earnings. Not the freak show bonus the Judge had given him as a thank you for looking like a pound of shit ready for hammering. But the thousand for taking the beating that had been handed to him by one of the Judge’s scary looking daughters before he made his entrance, the one with hoop earrings and a Glock. Chandy? Cindy? There were two. Local legend had it that the morons who stole their virginity were left on their parent’s doorstep with no fingers and their genitals square in their jaw.
One thousand bucks to be beat on, insulted, laughed at, and hated. A fine wage for a punching bag whore. Finally, the fresh blood he’d sucked out of the crack dealer in the Heights worked its way back to his face. Soon their would be no wounds, no marks, and his pulpy face would be back to its big ugly, normal self. Then, on to the next two fisted rodeo. The next dumpster. The next round of cigarettes being burned into his skin, the next grand finale of glass being shattered against his hide, the stunning next adventure of having some anabolic nightmare with a black belt in jujitsu or muay Thai or some other martial art with no code that shitheels learn to hurt people and make themselves big, the Bruce Lee bullies of the world wailing on his hide for a thousand bucks a night.
For eternity.
“Faaaantastic.”
CHAPTER THREE
NO ONE WAS LEFT but the janitors—comparing teeth collected from the sawdust and debating who would buy them for the most cash on Craigslist—and Malcolm. Counting his winnings twice, and quickly, making sure he got his cool five hundred, despite the jackass Notebook Man trying to sneak some fat and freaky Canadian twenties amidst the greenbacks, Malcolm took his secret cut, shoved it in his sock, and hustled past the door leading to the stairs.
Two ugly girls with side arms were chewing Rip a new asshole right to his face. The big jock was sweating hard and shaking easy.
“You think this is a joke?” said the one with silver hoop earrings. “No cooler, bouncer, or jackass like you drinks on the job. House rules, motherfucker.”
Rip said “I’m not—” before the other one with big, messy platinum blond hair and dark roots, tore a flask from inside his vest.
“Calling my sister a liar, stumpy?” she said, pouring it out on his head. She stole a glance at Malcolm. “What the fuck is this, an all ages show? You let that little shit in here? How fucking drunk were you?”
Rye and fear dripped from Rip’s forehead, but between the drops he stared savage at Malcolm, all while the Judge’s daughters pounded him with insults, smacks, and threats. It was enough to make Malcolm feel bad for the idiot, but not enough to do anything about it. Malcolm ran up the stairs. So, Rip pissed off the Judge’s daughters, which means that, if even half the stuff he’d heard about Judge Sayers were true, Rip was in for a serious shitstorm. Tales of fingers fed to a dog the size of a schoolhouse were legend, and the Judge was feared for doing the cutting himself. Well, the chump had it coming.
Malcolm jumped the steps two at a time in case the storm hit the fan before he could get the hell out of this fringe city.
Outside the smoky warmth of the Iron Horse, the civilians and circuit players departed on foot or car into the wet April night. Rain had stopped, but every step in the dark gutter of these soggy suburbs was cold. Digging out the map he’d made in Troy, Malcolm figured it was about an hour’s walk to the hospital, where he’d blend into the Emergency room population and catch some Zs until morning. Then, it was off to the local library to kill time hunting for private eyes with decent fees. Rob had long ago given up hope of ever finding who took Mom, vanished at the Tri-County fair five years ago this October. Fact is, last time Malcolm brought it up, Rob had been so angry he’d not even touched him, just unchained a disgusted vocal attack. “Who fucking cares where she is? She ditched us, left me to raise you to chase some dick, the skank.”
“She wasn’t—”
“The fuck she wasn’t. I’m busting my ass keeping you out of protective service, and the thanks I get is you wanting to find that whore? If you ever bring her up again, that is it. You’re on your goddamn own. You won’t have me keeping you out of the government’s black hands.”
And it was true. Rob was a shit, but he’d kept him from being eaten by the system. Instead, he’d dragged them into the world of chop shops, and crooked landlords that didn’t ask questions about the teenager and the kid in the basement. Rob was convinced she’d run off with some asshole. “All chicks are the same, man. Mom was no different. She was looking for money and a way to get rid of us. She found a guy with a few bucks, put on the charm, and fucked us over, end of story.”
Not for Malcolm.
Rob had stopped being a kid the moment Mom vanished. He was the grown up, raising Malcom, protecting him, providing for him, and he was angry as hell about it. But he hadn’t been the last one to see Malcolm had. And he knew she wasn’t out there, tramping it up. No. He knew she was dead. So he wasn’t angry, he was determined, saving his money to hire a PI who would track down her killer.
That grey faced janitor at Wonderville fair.
April winds slapped him hard. He shivered, cursing the grifter who stole his coat at the Toronto bus station when he’d fallen asleep, using it as a blanket. Time to focus, he thought. Worry about the past another day. It was a long walk back to the ER.
First, though, there was Milkwood. Time to solve a mystery and maybe make some cash.
He hustled around the Iron Horse parking lot, where the service door dumped out its refuse in a thin alley. Behind a tall mesh fence, the ground sparkled wet with moonlight, a thin river of rain in its spine, leading past a dumpster where two legs poked out in familiar sneakers.
Malcolm smiled. If he was right, if it was who he thought it was, that signature might be worth some green on the souvenir circuit. Maybe more than he lost betting on this useless underdog. It was worth a shot.
He climbed the fence. Pain from Rob’s hammering burned into the strain of his muscles, and in the centre of Malcolm’s gut was a deep hunger that had not been fed since the sack lunch Rob had given him, that he’d devoured hours ago.
Suck it up, Slow Mo, Mom’s hard voice echoed in his head. But the cadence was fading, and he knew someday he’d lose it, like the image of her kind face but hard eyes that he tried to focus on each night to go to sleep. He growled and hoisted himself over, dropping hard on the shimmering blue asphalt.
Scattered papers, teeth, and chicken bones reminded Malcolm of the other alleys he’d run in Troy, NYC, and Boston, making bets for Rob. That steadied h
is fear as the briny stink of the dumpster grew. He approached the feet poking out across the wet floor.
Steady, he said. Steady. This could pay off. He tiptoed so he could see past the edge of the dumpster to the body lying on the wet floor.
There was Milkwood, a shirtless doughboy slumped with his back against the wall, pouring liquid from a large bucket down the front of his face. It dribbled down his naked belly and washed away dark blood and hanging skin. Through the watery screen he looked like a formless mass, but there was movement. Lots of it. Like brown ants marching across his face in all directions. Hypnotized, Malcolm watched until the bucket was empty and tossed.
With closed eyes Milkwood opened a large plastic grocery bag behind the dumpster, grabbed a fresh black T-shirt, and pulled it on. A few blinks and Milkwood’s eyes opened for good. A sour look revealed itself. But Malcolm had to stifle a scream when he saw the man’s face; there wasn’t even a bruise.
“If you bet on me,” Milkwood said, “that’s your own fault. I don’t hand out refunds.” He spoke as if he had a mouth full of cotton and he stank like old pennies.
“I…bet on Kudor,” Malcolm said, as calm as he could. “Well, for my brother.”
Milkwood ran his chubby dirt-stained fingers over his face, then flashed a cold look at Malcolm. “What you looking at?”
“Your face. You…” And through Milkwood’s hanging mouth Malcolm saw that the bashed-out teeth had been replaced. The pearl white of his new teeth came quickly into view against the dark, torn flesh. Milkwood shut it.
“You should be dead,” Malcolm blurted, “or staining an emergency room waiting area. But you look like you just woke—”
In a flash Milkwood was up, staring down the kid. “You saying I threw that fight? I ain’t a goddamn wrestler.” The anger over that last word was low and vicious. “I took every shot, fair and fucking square.”
Blood and Sawdust Page 2